Britannia
At the Fancy Dress Ball on board the belle of the ship appeared as Britannia. The only incongruity was the helmet, whose peak did not agree with the wearer’s nose: the hat had therefore to be reversed, and the back–peak was bent for additional comfort.
Now was the best part of the voyage as far as climate went—bright, breezy days and deep blue sea, and the ship just ripping along—perfection.
15th to 18th May.—Athletic sports, tableaux, concerts, and the fancy dress ball, and our dinner–party to the captain.
The ball was interesting in showing the diverse taste of diverse nationalities. Four Frenchmen and one lady so prettily and well got up. The British officer, save in one or two instances (of which, alas! I wasn’t one), could not rise to anything more original than uniform. An ingenious young lady put us all to shame appearing as Britannia, “helmet, shield, and pitchfork too,” all complete. (Nose and helmet didn’t hit it off,—at least—yes—the nose did hit it (the helmet) off, and the hat had to be worn the wrong way round to allow more room.)
19th May.—At 4 a. m. I awake with an uncanny feeling. All is silence and darkness. The screw has stopped, the ship lies like a log, the only sound is the plashing of the water pouring from the engine, and occasionally sharp footsteps overhead.
And, looking from my port, I see, looming dark against the stars, the long, flat top of grand old Table Mountain—its base a haze from which electric lights gleam out and shine along the water.
A busy day. No news except that Sir Frederick had gone on up to Mafeking, and I was now to follow.
General Goodenough inspected our troops upon the wharf among the Cape carts, niggers, cargo, trollies (drawn by the little Arab–looking horses), and the Cape Town dust. The troops go off by train to Wynberg Camp to await Sir Frederick’s orders.