Perhaps the march past of the united relief columns was the most unique and imposing ceremony ever performed within the confines of such a “chicken-run.” Here, in this tiny compass, the whole empire veritably met together—South Africans, Australians, Canadians, English, Scots, and Irishmen, Indians, Cape Boys—all following one another, unit after unit, like some quaint scenic procession of the nations. There were the bronzed colonels—Baden-Powell, and Mahon, and Plumer, now household names throughout the world—accompanied by their staffs, the élite of the embattled array. There were the glorious 12-pounders—M Battery of the Royal Horse Artillery, whose every limber looked dear to the eyes that long had been strained in eagerness for their coming—and their guardians, the helmeted band of staunch and sturdy gunners, who carried the voice of Empire far and wide—there were the plumed and mettlesome Colonials, very fighting-cocks at the sniff of war—there was the lion rampant in the form of the Union Brigade (the picked portions of it from the Royal Fusiliers, Royal Scots, Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and Royal Irish Fusiliers), a right regal company, the very sight of which in common times would have caused the heart of Britons to throb, and which now sent the cup of patriotic rapture brimming over. Cheers or tears? Shouts or sobs? It was a “toss”-up which would supersede the other, and amid the stupendous fracas even the dauntless hero of this unparalleled, soul-stirring outburst turned aside that none should view the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.
The painter, when he depicted Agamemnon in the hour of sublime sacrifice, drew a veil over the features of the chief. He judged the supreme moment of human exultation too sanctified for common gaze. Even so must we draw the veil of silence over this supreme moment in the life of the saviour of Mafeking ... the soundless epic is the more sonorous.
The parade over, addresses were presented and the usual formalities gone through. The gratitude of the town for the relief—the appreciation of the magnificent work done by Colonel Baden-Powell, and the stupendous energy of the succouring forces, were all dilated on and thanks returned. A hailstorm of cheers then broke out—cheers for Queen and country, for Baden-Powell, Mahon, Plumer, Colonel Rhodes, Major Karri Davies; in fact, every one cheered every one else, for all were too deserving, too heroic, to overlook the deserts and heroism of those who had imperilled their lives over and over again to maintain the prestige of their native land. So passed the day, and at night chums and comrades gathered together and jested and laughed, and told yarns of skirmish and sortie and surprise, till they sank to sleep in their greatcoats and blankets, fairly worn out with their eleven days and nights of boot and saddle.
On the 19th, the garrison assembled for a last, a solemn function. A great thanksgiving and memorial service was held at the cemetery, and all bade a last farewell to those who had shared with them the tribulations of the siege without reaping the harvest of honour their hands had sown.
At the close of the impressive ceremony three volleys were fired over the noble dead who had given their lives to attain the great end, and then an effort was made to sing the National Anthem, but the notes were quavering with the emotion which these hitherto fearless men now feared might unman them.
Finally Colonel Baden-Powell—a little abruptly to cover the touching nature of his farewell—addressed the garrison:—
“We have been a happy family during the siege. The time has now come for breaking up. When we were first invested I said to you, ‘Sit tight and shoot straight.’ The garrison has sat tight and shot straight, with the present glorious result. Many nice things have been said about me at home, but it is an easy thing to be the figurehead of a ship. The garrison has been the rigging and sails of the good ship Mafeking, and has brought her safely through her stormy cruise.”
He then thanked the ladies, beginning with the matron of the hospital, whose pluck and devotion could not be sufficiently extolled. Turning to the Protectorate Regiment, he said:—
“To you I need say nothing. Your roll of dead and wounded tells its own tale.”
Shaking hands with Colonel Hore he thanked him for the assistance he had given him, and to the artillery, under Major Panzera and Lieutenant Daniel, he said:—