I really am capitally equipped, and if you were like me, young, I should like to have you with me. God knows but it will be cold before we get back. This Grahamstown itself is the coldest place in Africa. The moment you are five miles from it, the climate is much milder. Not a tree near it, scarcely a bush, and such bleak cold-looking hills you cannot conceive, as cold as the Pyrenees—where you rather roughed it than otherwise in the old paved tent. Do you remember when old Billy Mein, 52nd, used to come and drink with me grog made of very bad rum? We were not so nice then as to have brandy.
I have desired you have a Grahamstown journal sent you, and I beg you not to believe more than one-half of the alarming lies that will be published in it. This place ought to be called “Necessity,” for it is the mother of invention.
Adios, alma mia di mi corazon. You have a good long letter this time.
Enrique.
Camp near Willshire, 25th March.
Up at four; sing out to cook for coffee; “Minni” (sergeant of the escort), “feed horses”; “Japps, rouse up the escort”; “Up saddle, camp.” Marched as soon as light into a nice bivouac. I have a most beautiful bush, and a still better one for His Excellency, and one between us both for Kittie. Capital breakfast; cows give lots of milk. Secretaries all at work building me a hut. Twenty men on fatigue building one for His Excellency, who has not yet arrived.
Nine o’clock. “Escort, up saddle”; “Japps, order Pompey for me and Minni’s horse for Captain Jervis. We are going to look for a new line of road.” Return to camp at one, having chalked out my road and sent a hundred men with Jervis to repair it. Report of five Kafirs prowling about the camp. Their spoor discovered back over the Keiskamma. Learn that His Excellency is not to leave Grahamstown for a day or two. Much mortified; I have built him a noble hut. Have a most capital hut myself, just completed, and wish una vieja muger que se llama Juana was within it.
Just received a report that some cattle are seen on the other side of the river. “Japps! a horse and my escort.” “Ah, ah, sir!” Up saddle and off.
Just come back. I fancy I see some, and send out a patrol of 50 men under Field-Commandant Lindé, Swellendam Burghers. The finest old fellow upwards of 70 I ever saw, except my poor old Padre. Just such a game old fellow as he is. Order dinner. Bruintjes (you must be acquainted with him); Painter and Minni you know; all these are occasionally called in my delicate voice. Our conversation is now beginning. “Well, Bruintjes, what’s for dinner?” “Some skin beef I can for soup mak.” (“Don’t make such a jaw, men; I can’t hear what my cook says.”) “Some pampoose too, sar, what master bring from Kafirland. Leetle onion, sar; a leg mutton for rost, sar; some bock what left yesterday, sar, what the Boers send master for hash; dat plenty, sar.” “Yes, by G—d, plenty, Bruintjes. Well, good fellow, mind, coffee ready directly after dinner, then you shall have your grog. Keep me waiting, no grog. Japps, what the devil are those loose horses doing here about my hut?” Japps, in a voice something between thunder and the croak of a frog, roars out, “Heigh, you d—d Boers! You take way your horse from Coronel.” The prospect of a good dinner makes me think I am dirty. “Painter, lay out my dressing things, lots of water, and a clean shirt.” A glorious splash, the water as cool as possible, the day not being so hot as yesterday. I think in a day or so it may rain. All the better for our grass. The cow-boy, “Black Jim.” “Well, Jim, what do you want?” “Kraal to be made for master’s cows.” “Very well, Jim; but make a kraal for the calves too.” “Yah, Mynheer.” “Or no grog.” “Yah, Mynheer.” “Now, be off.”
“Field-Commandant Dreyer wishes to speak with you, sir,” says the orderly sergeant. “Well, Dreyer, why the devil won’t you come in? What a ceremonious humbug!” “Coronel was busy write.” “Oh, you be d—d, and come in sit. Well, vaar is the Kafir?” “I canno say, meinheer. Coronel must loup into Kafirland.” “How can I, Dreyer? I must wait for the Governor.” “Well, where is the Governor? He must come; my mans is tired for ‘nix mak.’”[258] “Can’t help it, Dreyer.”