Chichester was a man of blunt speech, and most of the stories told of him illustrate this roughness. Sir Edward ordered, on one occasion, the captain of one of the transports lying in Cape Town docks to move his ship out, in order to make room for another. The captain did not want to go, and raised difficulties. “He had not his steam up—could not possibly change quarters that night.” Sir Edward remarked, “Give him an hour, and if he is not out by then, we will shift him.”
The hour elapsed without a move being made. Then, at a signal, two Government tugs shot out, ran alongside, and in twenty minutes the steamer was had out and anchored in the bay.
Into his room at Cape Town one day burst a Volunteer colonel, swelling with importance. “Who are you, sir?” asked Sir Edward.
“I am Colonel Blank,” was the reply, given with much pomposity.
“Oh, indeed, is that all?” said Sir Edward. “I thought at least you were an admiral.”
He was busy writing in his office on the quay on another occasion, and took no notice of a ponderous person waiting impatiently.
“Will you please to attend to me?” the man asked at length.
Sir Edward looked up and inquired, “Have you bought these docks, sir?”
“Most certainly not. I do not know what you mean.”