On Saturday, Whiteing waltzed gaily up and paid me a visit, having got leave into Pretoria from Rietfontein, where he had been left with other men, all minus noble quadrupeds, and on Sunday another old comrade, the Great Boleno, darkened the door of our tent and brightened me with the light of his presence. He had been one of Clements' orderlies for the last two months, and had accompanied the general into Pretoria, and succeeded in securing a good civil berth in the town.
From these I learnt the fortunes of the battalion up to date. Briefly, after I left them they were some time at Rietfontein; then at Buffalspoort, where they did delightful guards, pickets, and early morning standing to horses; after which those possessed of horses went on to Rustenburg, I believe, where they now are, the horseless ones going back into Rietfontein.
So now the Seventh Battalion of Imperial Yeomanry, like many others, is spread well over the face of the land.[8] Some of the fellows are home; some on their way thither; some in this hospital, some in others; some are in the police; some in civil employment; some with sick horses at Rietfontein; some in a detail camp at Elandsfontein (near Johannesburg); some with the battalion, at Rustenburg; and some, alas, are not.
Whiteing gave me a vivid description of his journey into Pretoria on one of the steam-sappers running between that town and Rietfontein; they are known as the Pretoria-Rietfontein expresses. As he put it, they stop for nothing, over rocks, through spruits and dongas, squelch over one of French's milestones here and there, the ponderous iron horse snorted on its wild career till its destination was reached.[Back to Contents]
The Irish Fusilier's Ambition.
Though I am well off for literature of all sorts (my locker is a scandal), I don't seem to be able to settle down to anything like a quiet, enjoyable read at all. Tommy Atkins never seems to realise that one cannot carry on a conversation and read a book simultaneously, or write a letter.
"Oh for a booke and a shadie nooke,
Eyther indoore or out;
With the grene leaves whysperynge overheade,
Or the streete cryes all about.
Where I maie reade all at mine ease,
Both of the newe and olde;
For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke,
Is better to me than golde."