[Footnote 2: That we played a small part in the extensive
operations, culminating in what is known as the Battle of
Diamond Hill, was only known to most of us four or five
months later.]
PIENAARSPOORT.
_Friday, June 15th, (?) 1900._
_Dolce far niente._ I am not certain about the spelling, or quite
positive about its interpretation, but it means something comfortable, I
am sure. And that is just what I am at present. I have lost the scanty
notes on which I try to base my periodical literary outbursts, and which
assist me to retain some hazy notion of the date and day of the week, so
both you at home and I out here ought to feel "for this relief much
thanks!" And the reason for all this contentment and satisfaction is
this. We were shifted from our last camping ground yesterday afternoon,
and have arrived here. We are here for two or three days at the least.
That is as far as we can gather, and we "just do" hear a lot. This means
a bit of rest from the everlasting early _reveille_, saddling up,
packing up kit, and so forth. So behold me on the veldt, leaning against
my saddle in my shirt sleeves, taking things easy, after having dined
well on a loaf of bread well covered with tinned butter obtained at a
store some miles back owing to my having to fall out of the ranks on
account of a broken girth (hem!) on our march hither. The bread a Scotch
farmer, and tenant of Sammy Marks, gave me yesterday. Of course you must
have noted how the principal topic with us is grub, and probably felt
contempt for us, still I assure you it is the great Army question. When
you meet a man out here, usually the first question is "What sort of
grub are you having?" Then, after another remark or so, "Seen much
fighting?" Or, again, on asking a man what sort of a general Buller is,
for instance, the reply comes pat, "A grand man--he looks after your
rations. Feeds you well!" Still, it must be admitted it looks rather
amusing to see a big, bearded man expectantly awaiting his share of
condensed milk or sugar to spread on a piece of biscuit. As regards
fighting, we have been shelled over a bit lately. I think it was last
Monday I had to go and see if there was anybody in a small house some
distance opposite a range of kopjes occupied by the enemy. I had to kick
in the door, and hitch my horse to a tree. Nobody was in the house; but
the firing got very warm while I was making my visit. On Tuesday one of
our patrols was ambushed, and only one man returned with the news. Later
the officer in command of the troop came in with a corporal, and we
heard that one fellow had been severely wounded and several horses lost.
The rest eventually straggled in. All had tales of marvellous escapes to
tell, some had laid low in a river up to their necks in water for many
hours, others in the long grass. Yesterday we heard that the Boers
confessed to three killed and three or four wounded, and as our man is
progressing favourably I don't think their ambush was a great success,
especially as they opened fire at a hundred yards or less, a fact which
does not speak highly for their marksmanship.
Referring to grass, it is truly wonderful how inconspicuous our khaki is
amidst rocks or grass. Riding along on Monday last I almost rode slap
over some Guardsmen who were halted and lying or sitting in the grass. I
only became aware of their presence when about ten yards from them. And
they all want to get home again--
"'Ome, and friends so dear, Jennie,
'Anging round the yard,
All the way from Fratton,
Down to Portsmouth 'Ard."
Nearly every other sentence one hears out here begins with "When I get
home----." Had one of the Guardsmen been inclined to assist me with a
rhyme to the tune of "Mandalay," he might have sinned thuswise:
I'm learnin' 'ere in Afriky wot the bloomin' poet tells,
If you've 'eard the song of "'Ome, sweet 'Ome," you won't 'eed nothin'
else.
No, you won't 'eed nothin' else
But the English hills and dells,
And the cosy house or cottage where the lovin' family dwells.
On the road to London Town,
Home of great and small renown,
Where the bright lights gleam and glitter on the rich and on the poor.
Oh! the lights of London Town,
And the strollin' up and down,
Where the fog rolls over everything and the mighty city's roar.
Ship me home towards that city, where the best live with the worst,
Where there are "Blue Ribbon" Armies, but a man _can_ quench a thirst.
This, by the way, might allude to Lord Roberts' order, by which all the
bars are closed wherever the troops go. When I went into Pretoria not a
bar was open.
"'E's rather down on drink
Is Father Bobs."
It is quite on the cards that we may be disbanded soon. The war is
generally regarded as almost over, and candidates for the Military
Police Force, which is being organised for the Transvaal and Orange Free
State, are being sought for amongst the various Yeomanry Companies out
here, the conditions being an optional three months' service, ten
shillings a day pay and all found. About fifty of our company have
volunteered, and may go into Pretoria any day now. These fifty have been
supplied with the best horses we have amongst us, and we have not many
now, my horse "Juggernaut," being one of the horses which had to be
handed to the future _slops_, as the candidates are now being
disrespectfully termed. This being the case, my future movements will be
in the manner called "a foot slog" behind the ox-waggons.