You might as well know how our friend Reginald Kavanagh was dressed when he mounted his camel for the desert ride. Picture him then in a loose red flannel tunic, corduroy knee-breeches, serge leggings, white pith helmet with a puggaree round it. Over his shoulder he wore a bandolier belt with sockets for fifty cartridges, and a rifle pocket, in which the butt of the rifle was secured. The bandolier made him look something like a mediaeval musketeer; or might have reminded an admirer of Dumas’ wonderful story—and who is not?—of Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
The Naval Brigade was also mounted on camels, and it was great fun to see them start. The camel has been called the ship of the desert, but that was by a poet, who thought rightly enough that he said a pretty thing, but who did not mean it literally. Jack did.
“How this craft does roll!” cried one.
“Hard a port, Bill, or you’ll foul me.”
“What d’ye come across my bows for, then?”
“Can’t help it; this here won’t answer the helm. Port, will you!”
“Port it is.”
“Mind, messmate, your camel’s going to founder, I think.”
But the warning came too late; the beast dropped on its knees, and Jack went flying over his hideous head.
Love of adventure and excitement is one thing, patient endurance is another. You want to combine the two to get good soldiers, and Englishmen hitherto have done pretty well. So did these, only after a certain number of hours’ march they were less jocular and more vicious. When they got to the first wells, where they expected to have a rest, being by that time pretty well baked, the supply of water was found to be so scarce that they had to push on at once; but they did it for the most part in silence.