mainly on
the rear, as the difficulty of retiring is usually greater than
advancing; _i.e.,_ if the advance guard gets pressed, all they have to
do is to sit tight and the natural advance of the column will bring them
up supports. But when the rear guard gets engaged, the advance of the
main column tends to leave it stranded; it is bound to keep on retiring
to avoid this, and retiring under fire is a difficult and dangerous job.
The Boers, who have an instinctive knowledge how to make themselves most
disagreeable, of course know all about this susceptibility of a
rearguard, and there are always sure to be a number of them sniffing
about in that direction. "Where are you to-day?" "Rearguard." "Oh!
_Good-bye, then!_" was the farewell given to a rearguard officer this
morning.

On the other hand, the advance is of course the most exciting. You make
a dash for a kopje, probably uncertain if it is held or not. The
clucking of the old Mausers at long range warns you that it is, and a
few bullets kick the dust up. The squadron swing to the right to flank
the kopje, and the fire gets hotter and the whistle of bullets sharper
and closer. Suddenly the welcome report of a gun, followed by a second
one, sounds behind you, and next instant the rush of the quick-coming
shells is heard overhead. Then the squadron goes headlong for the kopje.
The ponies tear along, mad with excitement, their hoofs thundering on
the hard ground. The men grip their loaded carbines with their right
hands; not one that won't be first if he can. There go the shells! There
is a little shout of approval; one bursts right among the rocks on the
top of the kopje in a puff of white smoke; the other half-way down,
raising a great cloud of dust. The Mauser fire ceases as if by magic,
and the next instant the racing squadron has reached the rise. Down jump
the riders and clamber up over the stones. Yonder the enemy go, bundling
along a rough track not 500 yards away, half seen through whirling dust.
The men fling themselves down, some tearing a handful of cartridges from
their bandoliers to have handy, and settle their carbines on the rocks.
Crack! goes the first shot, and at the sound, as at a signal, the covey
of fleeing Boers shakes out and scatters over the veldt. The fire
quickens rapidly as the carbines come into action. Every Boer as he
rides off, you can see through the glasses, is pursued and attended by
little dust tufts that tell where the bullets strike