mbulance. Unluckily we had two nights of pouring rain, and as I had
left behind my blanket and had only my Boer mackintosh (with the red
lining), I fared very badly and got drenched both nights and very cold.
This brought on something which the doctor described as "not real
dysentery." However, whatever it was (or wasn't), it made me as weak as
a baby, and I was transferred to our ambulance, in which I lay,
comfortable enough, but only vaguely conscious of my surroundings.

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 grazi