The next day, the 10th, they fought the battle of Spytfontein.  All I remember of it was some shells of the Boers falling into the long river of convoy which stretched in front of me in an endless line, and the huge bullock and mule waggons wheeling left and right and coming back across the veldt, with long bamboo whips swaying and niggers uttering diabolical screams and yells.  We lost a good many men, but did fairly well in the end, as our infantry got into the enemy among some hills, where there were not supposed to be any enemy at all, and cut them up a good deal.

The following day I made the march on a bullock-waggon, which is really a very fine and imposing way of getting along.  Your team of twenty strong oxen, in a long two-by-two file, have a most grand appearance, their great backs straining and the chain between taut as a bar, and the view you get over the field from your lofty perch among the piled-up kits and sacks is most commanding.  There used to be an old print at home of Darius at the head of the Persian host “o’erlooking all the war” from the summit of some stately chariot or other, which much reminded me of my present position.  I managed to mount my pony to ride into Bloemfontein, which we did on the 13th, and am now quite well.

This morning I sent you a wire to tell you that I had got my commission, thinking thereby to impress you with the importance of the event.  The past five months of trooper life have not passed unpleasantly.  There have been the inconveniences and hardships of the moment, “les petites miseres de la vie militaire,” which sound trifling enough, but are rather a tax on one’s endurance sometimes.  The life of a trooper, and especially of a scout, is often a sort of struggle for existence in small ways.  You have to care for and tend your pony, supplement his meagre ration by a few mealies or a bundle of forage, bought or begged from some farm and carried miles into camp; watch his going out and coming in from grazing; clean him when you can, and have an eye always to his interests.  Your life and work depend so entirely on your pony that this soon becomes an instinct with you.  Then there are your own wants to be supplied.  You will be half starved often if you can’t raise something to put in your pocket—­eggs from a Kaffir, or a fowl, or a loaf of bread.  Then there is the cooking question.  Wood is scarce; unless you or your pal have an eye to this, you may go supperless for want of a fire.  Another scarcity is water.  Very likely there will be none nearer than a mile from camp, and this means a weary tramp after a long day.  Then what about your bedding?  You can carry only a blanket or greatcoat on your horse, so that, when you are away from your convoy, which is often enough, you have not much covering, and if it comes on to rain you have a poor time of it.  Of clothes, too, you have only what you ride in.  If wet, they dry on you; and few and far between are your chances of washing them.  All these things sound and are trifles.  A man would think little of them in a sporting expedition in the Himalayas; but after a long time the monotony tells.  The heat tells.  You are sometimes “a bit slack,” and at those times the cooking of your wretched morsel of flesh, or the struggle for a drop of pea-soup coloured water becomes irksome.