to make an important arrest, but don't.
We took up a position on a kopje opposite to the right of the Nek, and
for a few hours had a rare easy time. Divesting ourselves of our tunics,
belts, bandoliers and other top hamper, we lounged about in our
shirt-sleeves, smoking and dozing, only rousing ourselves a bit later
when the double-rapping reports of the Mausers over the way told us that
our scouts were being fired on. Soon the R.H.A. came into action, and
were quickly followed by the banging of the cow-guns. It was most
interesting to see where the shells struck, and how soon the kopjes and
Nek opposite became blackened, smoking rock and earth, and the spiteful
Mausers ceased from troubling. Meanwhile, the infantry, Berks and A. and
S. Highlanders, advanced and the Nek was ours, and the Boers, De Wet's
rearguard--vamoosed. Then we all marched through the Nek, which was a
wonderful position, and possible of being held after the manner of
Thermopolae. Our Sussex farrier-sergeant was shot in the arm. Going
through the Nek we passed three graves by the roadside--graves of Royal
Fusiliers who had died of wounds and enteric during B.-P.'s occupation
of the place a short time previous. A soldier's grave out here is a
simple matter, a rude cross of wood made from a biscuit case, with a
roughly-carved name, or perhaps merely a little pile of stones, and
that is all, save that far away one heart at least is aching dully and
finds but empty solace in the _pro patria_ sentiment. When one passes
these silent reminders of the possibilities of war, it is impossible to
suppress the thought "It might have been me!" But more often than not
any such morbid reflections are effaced by the sight of a house and the
chances of loot. Which reminds me that we ravaged with fire and sword a
good deal in the vicinity of Rustenburg, numerous houses being set
a-fire by authority--in most cases the reason being because the owner of
the domicile had broken his oath of allegiance and was out again
fighting us. We reached Rustenburg at about six o'clock, and had to go
on outlying picket on a terribly-high kopje, known as Flag Staff Hill,
at once. So just as it became dark--tired and tea-less, with overcoats
and bundles of blankets--a little band of wearied, cussing Empire
builders set out on their solitary vigil, with none of your
"Won't-come-home-till-morning" jollity about them. Oh, that thrice, nay
seventy-times-seven, execrated hill! Up it we stumbled