I had had warning that it might come, by telegraph from Sir Frederick Carrington, who had that day arrived in England from Gibraltar en route to South Africa. He was about to have command of troops in Matabeleland operating against the rebels there. His telegram had reached me at Belfast on Friday afternoon, when we were burying a poor chap in my squadron who had been killed by a fall from his horse. I had a car in waiting, changed my kit, packed up some odds and ends, arranged about disposal of my horses, dogs, and furniture, and just caught the five something train which got me up to town by next day morning. At midday the General sailed for South Africa, but his orders were that I should follow by next ship; so, after seeing him off, I had several days in which to kick my heels and live in constant dread of being run over, or otherwise prevented from going after all. But fortune favoured me.
2nd May.—Embarked at Southampton in the Tantallon Castle (Captain Duncan) for Cape Town. On board were 480 of the finest mounted infantry that man could wish to see, under Colonel Alderson; also several other “details.” Then, besides the troops, the usual crowd of passengers, 200 of them—German Jews, Cape Dutch, young clerks, etc., going out to seek their fortunes in El Dorado. (You don’t want details, do you, of this, my fourth voyage to the Cape?)
4th May.—Perfect weather, palatial ship, and fast. Delightful cabin all to myself. Best of company. Poorish food, and a very good time all round.
6th May.—Madeira. You know. Breakfast WITH FRUIT at Reid’s Hotel. The flowers and gardens. Scramble up on horses to the convent, up the long, steep, cobbled roads, and the grand toboggan down again in sliding cars. How I would like to live there for—a day! Then back on board, and off to sea by eleven. Deck loaded up with Madeira chairs and fruit skins.
8th May.—Daily parades, inspection of troop decks, tugs of war, concerts on deck, and gradual increase in personal girth from sheer over–eating and dozing.
Our only exercise is parade for officers at seven every morning in pyjamas, under a sergeant–instructor, who puts us through most fiendish exercises for an hour, and leaves us there for dead.
We just revive in time to put the men through the same course in their turn, stripped to the waist, so that they have dry shirts to put on afterwards. “Knees up!” I’d like to kill him who invented it—but it does us all a power of good.
10th to 13th May.—Hot and muggy off the coast of Africa from Cape de Verd to Sierra Leone, though out of sight of land. Not many weeks since I was here, homeward bound from Ashanti—same old oily sea, with rolling swell, and steamy, hot horizon.
14th May.—A passenger, who so far had spoken little except to ask for “another whisky,” found dead in bed this morning, and buried overboard. Poor chap! He had opened a conversation with me the night before, and seemed a well–intentioned, gentle soul, although a drunken bore.