Of course all this was precious poor repartee or wit, especially in cold print. But given the circumstances—a jovial reunion coming close upon vivid recollections of peril and storm—now a setting of peace and serenity and happiness—and Christmas Day—and it is obvious to anyone not possessed of a churlish soul that very little makes towards fun and jollity and mirth. And this held good here.
The rising, a far more formidable affair than the home public ever seems to have realised, and of which this narrative only deals with in its earlier stages, had been very effectually quelled, through the bravery and devotion of Colonial troops and the high efficiency and personnel of Colonial officers; and that without the aid of a single Imperial soldier. As such the campaign stands unique in the annals of South African warfare. The pluck displayed in several fierce battles, the splendid grit and endurance, never failing, under every difficulty, in hard and almost unnegotiable country, has been in evidence before in such warfare, but never more so than during this last campaign in Natal.
Well it was over now, but in it Hyland Thornhill as we have said, had borne his full share, and that with distinction. Elvesdon, as a Civil servant, had perforce taken no active part in the subsequent operations, but indirectly, ever at his post during that wearing anxious time he had borne his share in it by smoothing down many a difficulty—in the matter of facilitating supplies, and so forth, for those who had; so much so that his superiors were led to re-consider their first impressions to the effect that he had rather muddled the situation in the matter of Babatyana. Anyhow, here he was, still at Kwabulazi, and with him the faithful Prior.
“Please—one man want to see master. He say he Zulu nigger.”
The interruption came from Thornhill’s Indian cook. There was a laugh, and Hyland fairly roared.
“I’ll swear he never said that, Ramasam,” said the latter, “Who is he?”
But before the other could answer a tall figure strode up and halted in front of them, uttering a sonorous hail.
“Whau! Manamandhla!” cried Hyland. “This is good, good to meet again here, for I think the last time we looked on each other’s faces was among the rocks and bushes of the Mome. Here is tywala that I don’t suppose you ever drank before,” creaming up a large tumbler with champagne, and handing it to the new arrival.
“That have I never, Ugwala,” said the Zulu with a smile, after a good pull at the sparkling beverage. “How a man—an impi—could fight if doctored with such múti as this, say in the Nkandhla!”