I will say again, here, as I have said elsewhere once before, that though we underwent more danger than many of the soldiers (who were not sent, as we were, into every battle), and though we endured hardships sufficient to break many strong men, we correspondents had this advantage over the rest—that, no matter how light was the marching-kit ordered for the troops, we were usually followed by our carts, and when these came up with us, we had abundance—and some luxuries.
It was my good fortune to be able to replenish the larder of one regiment more than once when, between battles, it entertained a general or the Commander-in-Chief. We in Roberts's and Methuen's army, were never criticised for living as well as we could, but there is a story current in army and war correspondent circles to the effect that the hero of Omdurman severely rebuked certain correspondents for living on a scale which provoked the envy of the officers, and demoralised them. One correspondent of the little mess that was thus criticised—a man who drank very little himself—is said to have utilised one camel solely to carry the champagne with which he entertained his friends among the officers. I do not say what I might have done had this story been told me earlier, but, as it was, I had no camel, and the champagne that kind friends sent me from England never reached me.
My stores consisted of poultry in tins, puddings, jams (how good those Cape jams are, by the way; they should have a great sale in all civilised parts), tinned vegetables, bully beef and bullier tongue and ham, preserved fruits, biscuits, figs, cigarettes, cigars, and a little most evanescent whisky.
But to get back to the streets of soldier-burdened Bloemfontein; how surely, as we assembled in the corner by the office, did the soldiers recognise their poet and friend. He looked at all of them in general, but all of them stared at him in particular. They passed the word from rank to rank, "There's Rudyard Kipling!" and then marched on, leaving their eyes on his face while their bodies passed along, until it looked as if they must dislocate their necks before they had their fill of seeing him.
He was like a comrade when he talked to a private, and talk to them he did. Jack tar, Colonial, regular, and Pathan, he talked to all alike.
"How are you getting on? Is your camp all right? Near here? Where was your last fight?" So he both introduced himself and set them talking and at ease—all in a breath.
But, as I have said, "Tommy" is inscrutable. I stepped one day into a German tobacconist's across the street from, and farther along than, the Club, and found it packed by soldiers who were being served by an insolent German with a portrait of ex-President Steyn in his coat lapel.
"Take that picture out of your button-hole," said I. "What do you mean by wearing a thing like that when you are under British rule, and have been both protected and generously treated?"
"I vill vear vot I shoose," said he.
I made a mental promise to see that he did not wear that emblem much longer, and then turning to the soldiers I said, "Men, did you not see what this man is wearing? Why do you spend your money on a man whose sympathies are with the Boers? Give his shop the cold shoulder, and he will soon see that he is making a mistake."