and realising what is coming, our squadrons very prudently pull up and wait for the guns.  They haven’t long to wait.  I always love to see the guns come up.  Over stones and rocks and bushes, six strong horses at the gallop, the drivers lashing the off horses, the guns jumping and rumbling and swinging; then the yell, “Action front,” and round come the teams with a splendid sweep; next instant they are cast off and jingle to the rear, and the little venomous guns are left crouching like toads, looking towards the enemy; the gunners are upon them before they are at a standstill (everything happens simultaneously); there is an instant’s pause while the barrel rises, and then comes the naked spurt of fire, no smoke, and the officer steps clear of the dust and glues his glasses to his eyes as the shell screams on its way.  Within ten minutes of our first viewing the enemy, half a battery had got into action near our kopje, and was bombarding the first hill along the enemy’s flank.

Two or three of the Boer waggons, the last of the line, had been abandoned when their retreat was first discovered.  These we took possession of, and with them two Dutchmen and some coloured boys, one of whom had been driver to a field-cornet of Cronje’s.  From him we learnt that Cronje had definitely abandoned the whole Magersfontein position, that this was the tail of his force going through, and that consequently there was nothing to be feared from a rear attack.  Chester Master wrote a hasty despatch to this effect to Kitchener and gave it to me, after which I had a most amusing ride through our lines from the extreme left to the extreme right, where Kitchener was.  First by our batteries, thundering and smoking (the enemy only had one gun in action that I saw, but I must say it did very well, feeling for the range with two short shots, and after that getting well into our guns every time), and then on through the Mounted Infantry, who kept on charging and retiring, until finally after three miles’ ride I came to the far right, where Kitchener and the big naval gun sat together in state on the top of a small kopje strewn with black shining rocks.  Here I gave in my despatch, “From Captain Chester Master, left front, sir,” and the best military salute I have yet mastered (inclined to go into fits of laughter at the absurdity of the whole thing all the time), and the great man, with his sullen eye, sitting among his black rocks all alone, reads it and asks me a question or two, and vouchsafes to tell me that the information is “very important,” which I suppose meant that he had not been certain whether he was in contact with the middle or extreme tail of the enemy’s force.  Various officers of the staff come up and I tell them all I know.  I am very hungry and parched with thirst, but I know I shall get nothing out of these fellows.  However, my luck holds.  Under some thorn-trees below I spy the flat hats of the sailors, and under the lee of an ammunition waggon hard by a group of officers.  All is well.  Five minutes later I am pledging them in a whisky and sparklet, and sitting down to such a breakfast as I have not tasted for weeks.  God bless all sailors, say I!