And beside and through
them the long convoys of the different units, in heavy masses, come
groaning and creaking along, the oxen sweating, the dust whirling, the
naked Kaffirs yelling, and the long whips going like pistol-shots. The
whole thing suggests more a national migration than the march of an
army. And ever on the horizon hang new clouds of dust, and on distant
slopes the scattered advance guards of new columns dribble into view. I
fancy the Huns or the Goths, in one of their vast tribal invasions, may
have moved like this. Or you might liken us to the dusty pilgrims on
some great caravan route with Pretoria for our Mecca.
We crossed the Vaal at Lindiquies Drift, being now on the west flank,
and met the Boers the day before yesterday two miles from here on the
West Rand. The fight was a sharp one. They were in a strong position on
some ridges, not steep, but with good cover among stones and rocks. We
came at them from the west, having made a circuit. Our advance was
hidden by the rolling of the ground, but the enemy guessed it, and sent
a few shells at a venture, which came screaming along and buried
themselves in the ground without doing much damage that I could see
beyond knocking a Cape cart to pieces. By 2 P.M. we had crawled up the
valley side and got several batteries of artillery where they could
shell the Boer position.
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