On Tuesday, August the 22nd, we were advance guard through the bush
veldt, and shortly after starting, _Bete Noire_, who had gradually been
failing, gave out, so behold me, alone to all intents and purposes,
bushed. Of course I immediately took careful bearings, and assuming that
we should not be changing direction, slowly marched straight ahead.
After going a considerable distance I got on to a small track, and
finally, what might be termed by courtesy, a road, and was carefully
studying it when one of our sergeants and a staff officer rode up. I
told the latter that my horse was done, and the noble steed bore out my
statement by collapsing under me as I spoke. The officer advised me to
wait for the main body and lead my horse on after them, which I did,
dragging him along for about a dozen weary miles, till I reached the
camp at dark, just in time to participate in a lovely outlying picket.
The next morning, having reported the case to the sergeant-major, he
told me to lead the horse from the camp with the convoy, and instructed
the farrier-sergeant to shoot him a little way out. So, having put my
saddle on our waggon and asked the farrier if he had been told about the
shooting, I proceeded to drag the poor beggar along. After toiling
forward some considerable distance, I looked around for the man whose
duty it was to shoot him, but could see him nowhere. So on I pushed,
inquiring of everybody, "Where is the Farrier-Sergeant?" I lagged behind
for him, and then toiled, perspiring and ankle deep in dust, ahead for
him, but found him not. Even during the mid-day halt I could not find
him, and as the beast had fallen once, I was getting sick of it.
Everybody I accosted advised me to shoot the brute myself, the same as
other fellows did in most of the Colonial corps, so at length, to cut
this part of the story short, giving up all hope of being relieved of my
burden by the farrier-sergeant, who somewhere was ambling along
comfortably on a good horse--having again had the sorry steed fall--I
led him aside from the track of the convoy and ended his South African
career with my revolver. Alas, _Bete Noire!_ Had we but understood one
another better the parting would have been a sad one. The case being
otherwise, I felt, it must be admitted, no regret whatever. And now the
interesting part of the episode begins. Hearing my shots (I am sorry to
say I fired more than once in accomplishing my fell deed) the
farrier-sergeant galloped up. "Who gave you permission to shoot this
horse?" "Nobody; I couldn't find you, and couldn't lug the brute any
further." "I shall report you." "I don't care." Then followed high
words, involving bitter personalities and we parted. After tramping a
good dozen miles further, I arrived at our camp in the dark, and had the
luck to find our lines soon. To an interested and sympathetic group of
comrades I related in full my adventures. Our sergeant-major, who is a
very good sort, was telling me that it would be all right, when the
regimental sergeant-major came up and told me that he must put me under
arrest for shooting my horse without permission, destroying Government
property (Article 301754, Par. 703, or something like that). There was
none of the pomp about the affair which I should have liked to see--no
chains, no fixed bayonets, or loaded rifles. Our sergeant-major, without
even removing his pipe, said "Ross, you are a prisoner," and I replied
"Righto," and proceeded to inquire when the autocrats of the cook-house
would have tea ready. A few days later, I was brought before the
beak--the officer in command of our squadron. "Quick march. Halt, left
turn. Salute." This being done, the case was stated. The
farrier-sergeant told the requisite number of lies. I denied them, but
of course admitted shooting the beggar. Dirty, unwashed, unkempt,
unshaven, ragged wretch that I looked, I daresay on a charge of
double-murder, bigamy and suicide, I should have fared ill. The captain
gave me what I suppose was a severe reprimand, told me that probably in
Pretoria I should have to pay something, and said he would have to take
away my stripe, so down it went, "reduced to the ranks." "Salute! Right
turn," etc. Thus, did your humble servant lose the Field Marshal's baton
which he had so long been carrying in his haversack. Alas, how are the
mighty fallen! Tell it in Hastings and whisper it in St. Leonards if you
will, like that dear old reprobate Mulvaney, "I was a corp'ril wanst,
but aftherwards I was rejooced," _Vive l'Armee! Vive la Yeomanrie!_ All
the fellows were intensely sympathetic, and indeed, one or two
particular friends seemed far more aggrieved than myself. I ripped off
my stripe at once, and tossed it in our bivouac fire, and joined the
small legion of ex-lance corporals of the Sussex Squadron (five in
number).
[Illustration: Some of "the pomp & circumstance of Glorious War."]
"Or ever the blooming war was done,
Or I had ceased to roam;
I was a slave in Africa,
And you were a toff at home."
Hullo! When it comes to poetry it is time to conclude.
P.S.--My costume is holier than ever. Still, I find every cloud has a
silver lining (though my garments possess none of any kind,
unfortunately). The great advantage of the present state of one's
clothes is this, if you want to scratch yourself--and out here on the
warpath one occasionally does--say it's your arm, you need not trouble
to take your tunic off; you simply put your hand through the nearest
hole or rent, and there you are; if it's your leg you do the same, and
thus a lot of trouble is saved.