I tie it on to my saddle, and feel apologetic towards my long-suffering horse. The great gun roars and roars and the malignant spouts of smoke rise on the farthest hill.
A line of infantry in very open order comes past the great guns, and I advance a little way with them. They are Scots Guards. The first line goes forward, the second is halted and lying down.
“That’s right! Show where you are!” cries the second line, derisively. I seem to have missed the point, but the young officer in the first line is very angry.
“Hold your tongues!” he shouts, with his red face looking over his shoulder. “Too many orders. No one gives orders but me.” His men lie down. The sun is sinking low, and it is evident that the contemplated infantry assault will not come off. One of the great naval shells passes high over our heads. It is the sound of a distant train in a tunnel.
A man canters past with a stretcher over his shoulder. His bay horse lollops along, but the stretcher makes him look very top-heavy. He passes the guns and the infantry, and rides on along the edge of a maize field. He is half a mile out now, heading for the kopje. Every instant I expect to see him drop from his horse. Then he vanishes in a dip of the ground.
After a time the stretcher appears again.
This time two men are carrying it, and the horseman rides beside. I have bandages in my pocket, so I ride forward also.
“Has a surgeon seen him?”
“No, sir.” They lay the man down. There is a handkerchief over his face.
“Where is it?”