“Yes, sir, that’ll be their game. They’ll make for that patch of wood and rocks in front, occupy it, and force us to make a what-you-may-call-it.”
“Détour?” said Dickenson.
“That’s it, sir.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson thoughtfully; “they’ll be able—mounted—to make it before we can.”
But the major seemed to think differently, for he sent fresh men on to hurry the convoy, his intention being to occupy the rough patch of a few acres in extent, hoping to keep the enemy at bay from there till the promised help came from Groenfontein.
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently when Dickenson joined him for a few minutes to receive fresh orders. “It’s distant, and we shall be without water; but it must be done. They must not even stampede the cattle.”
“The major says the cattle must be saved, sergeant,” said Dickenson as he doubled and rejoined his little company.
“Does he, sir?” said the sergeant cheerfully. “Very well, sir, then we must do it. Beg pardon, sir; might be as well for you to go on and say a few words to the lads to cheer them up.”
“They’re doing wonderfully well, sergeant.”
“That’s true, sir; but we want ’em to do better. They don’t see the worst of it. It’s all very well to appeal to a soldier’s heart and his honour, and that sort of thing; but this is a special time.”