LETTER XVII
THE MARCH NORTH
NEAR JOHANNESBURG, _May 31_, 1900.
"_May 1st_, 1900.--The long-looked, long-waited for moment has come at
last. We march from Bloemfontein on a glorious autumn morning, in fresh
cool air and the sky cloudless. Forty miles off Thaba Nchu, that hill of
ill omen, might be ten, so bold and clear it stands up above the lower
ranges. The level plain between the island hills is streaked with gauzy
mist.
"North of Bloemfontein we get into a pretty, uneven country with several
level-topped kopjes set end to end like dominoes, and thickets of grey
mimosas clustering in the hollows. The great column is moving forward on
our left. Big ambulance waggons, with huge white covers nodding one
behind the other, high above the press; the naval twelve-pounders, with
ten-oxen teams and sailors swinging merrily alongside; infantry marching
with the indescribable regular undulation of masses of drilled men,
reminding one of the ripple of a centipede's legs; field artillery,
horse artillery, transport waggons, more infantry, more guns--they
stretch in a long, dark river right across the plain.
"Now a halt is called. The men drop on one knee where they stand, or
hitch up their knapsacks to ease their tired shoulders. Then on again,
guns jolting, men sweating, marching at ease, with helmets on wrong side
first to shelter their eyes, and rifles with butt-ends over shoulders.
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