“Well, Sandford, what do you want? Paddie Balfour, and be whipped to you, don’t make such a noise. Japps, send this order to Commandants Lindé and Dreyer.” “Yas, sar.”
Sandford. “Colonel, I want an escort for empty waggons to Grahamstown.” “How many?” “Twenty-two.” “By Heavens, we shall eat up all our stores, lying idling here: I will order an escort. Let them make haste back, and lots of rice and spirits, mind.” “We are getting very short of beef too, sir.” “Damnation, I hear nothing but bad news. Orderly, tell Greyling and Nel” (two capital Boers) “to come to me immediately. I will get meat, Sandford. Any more bad news?” “No, sir, plenty of stores as yet.” “Well, Ford, did you bleed them?” “No, the camp is very healthy, and the wounded at Fort Willshire are all doing well.” “Send for Adair. Order an escort for Sandford’s waggons. Ford, come and dine with me, and be off now, I am busy. Well, Greyling and Nel, where are the bullocks and sheep?” “I know no tings, sar.” “The devil you don’t. Be off both of you immediately beyond Fort Beaufort. Bring me 40,000 sheep.” “Nay, Mynheer.” “Well, go and bring me as many bullocks and sheep as I shall give you an order for, when I and the commissary have made our calculations. Here, Andrews” (the Dutch secretary), “make out passports and authorities for all persons to aid and assist Greyling and Nel to go to Beaufort for sheep. Well, sir, what do you want?” (A great fat stupid-looking Boer standing at the hut door.) “Mynheer, mi vrouw——” “Andrews, what the devil does he want?” “To go home, sir, or to have his gun mended.” “No, sir” (in a very low voice); “I want to go to my vrouw, but by G—d I can’t.” “No more shall you. Go to your camp, and be ready to shoot Kafirs. Here, bugler, sound the grog-horn.” Then such a hurrah! “Almost dinner-time, Painter?” “No, sir, only five.” “You are wrong.” “No, sir, I am right.” “You, sir, why do you contradict me? It is six by my appetite. Well, Hallifax, what is going on in Fort Willshire?” “Fort Harry, sir, will be finished in a day or two.” (A little post he has established as a look-out, and named after me.[259]) “Wounded doing well.” “Are you going to stay and dine?” “With great pleasure.” “Southey” (captain of Guides), “let this way-post be sent to Captain Jervis, who knows where to place it at the turn-off of the new road.” “Well, Bagot, what is it?” (He commands a battalion of Hottentots.) “Shall I post any additional sentries to-night?” “Why?” “Five Kafirs were about the camp.” “I care not a —— if 5000 were around my camp. I will post my own picquets, ah! and sentries too—or vedettes, as I call them; ah! and take good care of our camp too. Five Kafirs shan’t take us, be assured.”
Well, old woman, this is a little specimen of one of my days in camp; so that you may readily conceive what a holiday a ride is. But all this is good fun enough, compared to the quill-driving in Grahamstown.
What shall I do to-morrow? Think of old Juana. Yes, because I do nothing else, I believe; although all the fellows wonder what the devil I am made of. I am here, there, and everywhere. No party do I ever send out but in two seconds I am amongst them; when they look grave I sing (beautifully, as you know), and the Boers laugh at my gaiety beyond everything. A young, big, fat Dutchman has just come to my tent door, saying that he has no blanket, and that it is very wet. What is he to do? “Go to the devil, and warm yourself, you spoony. Make a fire, sir, and sing over it. I have given you grog. Why, I never had a blanket campaigning for ten years. You want pluck, sir. Be off.” This is the way I go on almost day and night.
Night scene. “Hallo, sentry.” “Sir.” “What the devil are the dogs making such a noise about?” “Don’t know, sir; they always make a noise.” “Are the horses right?” “Yes, sir.” “What horse is that, biting himself so?” “That horse is master’s old horse, what carries the canteen.” Then sleep. In an hour, “What horses are those I hear moving?” “Some escort with letters for Coronel.” Out with a lucifer: light candles. Sometimes the letters are worthy a candle, oftener cock-and-bull stories. Lie down and sleep again. “Sentry, near daylight?” “No, sir, moon.” “I wish the dogs were at the devil.” “Make too plenty noise, sir.” Sleep. Soon after, awake, look at my watch. “Hallo, bugler, blow the rouse; Japps, feed; Bruintjes, coffee. Painter!” “Coming, sir!” “Where are the straps to my trousers?” “Under your ’ead, sir.” “Why, what an ass you are! Leave them in my boots. You, Jim, where’s the milk?” “Here, Mynheer.” “Balfour, where are you?” “Coming, sir.” “Why, the shadow in your tent makes you look like the knave of clubs.”...
Adios, hija. Tu fiel, fiel,
Enrique.
Camp on the Debe Flats,
8 o’clock on the night of the 1st April, Tom Fool’s Day.
We are now pretty well collected, and Master is quite ready for anything. He is really a perfect soldier in the field, and to hear him laugh when I blow up the fellows in Dutch (that is, my Dutch)! But his delight is to dine and breakfast with me, particularly the latter. Our breakfast to-day was really perfection.