Among the leaders are Micky MacFarlane, erstwhile the dandy lancer, now a bearded buccaneer and good soldier all the time; Selous, the famous hunter–pioneer of Matabeleland; Napier and Spreckley, the light–hearted blade, who is nevertheless possessed of profound and business–like capacity; Beal, Laing, and Robertson, cool, level–headed Scotsmen with a military training; George Grey, “Charlie” White, and Maurice Gifford, for whom rough miners and impetuous cowboys work like well–broken hounds.
Indeed, the Volunteer troops seem to have thoroughly adapted themselves to the routine of soldiering, as well as to the more exciting demands of the field of action.
Night guards, daily standing to arms before sunrise, patrols, and other uncongenial duties are all carried out with greatest regularity; but the following amusing account of a morning patrol—which appeared in the Matabele Times this week—shows some of the drawbacks under which they carry on their work:—
“Standing to arms at 4 a. m. is not in itself a joy, but its cruelty is accentuated when the troop orderly takes that opportunity of informing you that you are to leave the laager at 5.30 and go on patrol to Matabele Wilson’s, in company of three other unfortunates, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the road be clear travelling.
“On the occasion of which I write this was my fate, and our little party, with noses that needed constant attention with a handkerchief, and numbed fingers clasping cold rifles, stood shivering outside the stable gates, viewing life despondently and swearing at the remount staff. All things, pleasant and otherwise, have an end, and at last, in response to frequent knocks, the gate opened, and we followed a depressed–looking official to where four alleged horses, with drooping heads and downcast mien, disconsolately champed the half–ton of rusty iron which South Africans call a bit, and dreamed of oats. Each man chose a horse, and with the assistance of sundry stable–boys induced him to leave his empty manger and move wearily out into the street. Here great care was necessary in mounting, as it was yet to be ascertained whether the crocks could stand up straight under the weight of a rider, but at last we fell in, and by dint of spur and rein reached the laager.
“The corporal in charge of the patrol then went to wake up the orderly officer and get his orders, and my horse edged sideways towards the windmill; he wanted something to lean against. By and by out comes the corporal, we awakened our mounts, and started. ‘Our orders are to go out to Wilson’s and meet a patrol from the Khami River, then return to town,’ and ‘You’re not to gallop all the way,’ added the corporal. We at once said we wouldn’t, and just then one of the horses fell down in endeavouring to step over a gutter. We dismounted and put the turn–out on its feet again, and proceeded.
“Just past the Dutch laager some one said, ‘By Jove, the laager smells peculiar.’ Another man said, ‘Yes; the big laager is just the same.’ We passed a bush and struck the source of the odour, a dead ox; and promptly apologised to the laagers.
“All went well for a mile or so, and the corporal says, ‘Let’s have a trot.’ We rammed in the spurs and shook the reins; one horse started a feeble lolloping trot which he maintained for at least twenty yards before he fell down; two horses shook their heads and whisked their tails, but took no further notice of the appeal for more speed; and the fourth, a grey, with fine prominent points, stopped dead short. We all passed a few remarks about the gentlemen who had selected the horses for duty, and resumed our wonted ‘crawl march.’
“More rinderpest, and my horse made a movement as if to lean against the smell, but it was too strong for him, and he moved on, to prevent being knocked over. On passing dead horses and cattle we used to draw in a long breath and endeavour to spur up a trot that would carry us out of range, before we were again compelled to breathe or ‘bust,’ but our horses used generally to land us in the middle of the stink and then pull up. You would see a man get black in the face trying to hold his breath, and at last have to burst out and refill his lungs with the very richest of the odour.