surf on Bombay Island in the great monsoon--one roar without
intermission, yet full of pulsation.

I think it was midday when we drew up at last on a siding, where a
French general waited with some French and British officers. Colonel
Kirby left the train and spoke with the general, and then gave the
order for us to detrain at once; and we did so very swiftly, men,
and horses, and baggage. Many of us were men of more than one
campaign, able to judge by this and by that how sorely we were
needed. We knew what it means when the reenforcements look fit for
the work in hand. The French general came and shook hands again with
Colonel Kirby, and saluted us all most impressively.

We were spared all the business of caring for our own baggage and
sent away at once. With a French staff officer to guide us, we rode
away at once toward the sound of firing--at a walk, because within
reasonable limits the farther our horses might be allowed to walk
now the better they would be able to gallop with us later.

We rode along a road between straight trees, most of them scarred by
shell-fire. There were shell-holes in the road, some of which had
been filled with the first material handy, but some had to be
avoided. We saw no dead bodies, nor even dead horses, although
smashed gun-carriages and limbers and broken wagons were everywhere.

To our right and left was flat country, divided by low hedges and
the same tall straight trees; but far away in front was a forest,
whose top just rose above the sky-line. As we rode toward that we
could see the shells bursting near it.