Plenty of cold delicacies had been provided for the picnic, but the Port George women had vowed that after so long a fast from nice meals every one should have a real hot Christmas dinner. So the ovens were prepared for rounds of beef, many chickens, mince pies, custards, and cakes. We found that they had arranged and allotted all the tasks among themselves, but they had included Mrs Rookwood amongst them, at which she could not conceal her pride and gratitude. But me they told to go away and play and incidentally to mind Mrs Marriott and keep an eye on the children. So we romped with the children first, then roamed about exploring the rocky kopjes, digging out fern roots for home planting, gathering flowers and looking at the Bushmen drawings of which there were several under the overhanging ledges of the biggest rock. Queer looking things they were—the men drawn like skeletons with all their ribs and bones showing, driving long, lean cattle that had the bodies of cows and the heads of horses, or shooting wild buck with bows and arrows. They say these drawings which are often seen in Mashonaland have been there for centuries, preserved and kept fresh because they are sheltered under the eaves of the rocks from sun and rain.
Chapter Thirteen.
Defeat Calls.
“Do we think Victory great? And so it is.
But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped,
That Defeat is great, and Death and Dismay are great!”
At twelve o’clock Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair and a number of men who had not been able to get away any earlier arrived, and the children went off to hail them and help get them some refreshment.
Mrs Marriott and I sat down under one of the great rocks on a lounge of cool moss, glad to get out of the grilling sunshine for a while. It was not long before we began to speak of what was uppermost in our minds—our men at the front. I said:
“I don’t know what your husband will say to you looking so fragile. I shall have to feed you up and make you plump before he arrives.”
Impulsively she leaned towards me and took hold of my hands. Her face was suffused with colour.