The two great "cow-guns," so called from the
long teams of oxen that drag them, were hauled up the slope. The enemy
got an inkling of our intention now, and his shells began to fall more
adjacent. Then our fire began. It was difficult to see clearly. The dry
grass of the veldt, which is always catching fire, was burning between
us and the Boers; long lines of low smouldering fire, eating their way
slowly along, and sending volumes of smoke drifting downward, obscuring
the view. Half the ground was all black and charred where the fire had
been; the rest white, dry grass. The Boer position was only about two
miles from our ridge; a long shallow hollow of bare ground, without bush
or rock, or any sort of cover on it, except a few anthills, separating
us from them. Our field-batteries opened, and then the great five-inch
cow-guns roared out. We ourselves were close to these with Hamilton (we
are acting as his bodyguard), and with the other officers I crept up to
the ridge and lay among the stones watching the whole show. After a shot
or two all our guns got the range, a mere stone's throw for the great
five-inchers. Their shrapnel burst along the rise, and we could see the
hail of bullets after each explosion dusting the ground along the top
where the Boers lay. The enemy answered very intermittently, mostly from
their Long Tom far back, which our big guns kept feeling for.
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