[Illustration: "Mails up for the Devons, Dorset & Fifes! None for the
Sussex!!!" (Please observe the Sussex men on the right.)]
Friday, October 5th. We marched into Commando Nek this morning, and are
now camped here (when I use the word "camped," I hope you do not think I
mean tents and such-like luxurious paraphernalia, because I don't). Our
lines have by no means fallen in a pleasant place, being on dusty ground
by the side of the road which goes through the Nek, along which for the
last two hours about half-a dozen miles of convoy has been proceeding
_en route_ for Rustenburg, and what with the yelling of the black man
and (a hundred-times-removed) brother--I allude to the blooming
niggers--the lowing of the oxen, and the dust--well, "it ain't all
lavender," neither is it conducive to letter-writing or good temper. But
to own up, the above would not trouble us a bit, if we had only received
our mails, which we have not. I had been looking forward to a fine batch
and relying on getting them with a faith which would have removed
kopjes, and now I am disappointed. The bitterness of the whole thing is
that some one has blundered, for the Fifes in front have theirs, and the
Rough Riders behind have theirs, but we, the Composite Squadron, are
without ours. _Donnerwetter und Potztausand!_ There, I had intended
writing and telling you how much I am really enjoying myself, of the
beauties of the veldt, its pretty little flowers, the multi-coloured
butterflies and insects, the glorious open-air life we are leading and
a' that; and here I am like a bear with a sore head, grumbling,
grumbling, grumbling. And now the companion of my shelter and sharer of
my mealie pap--I call him _Coeur de Lion_ (I don't mind him having the
heart of a lion, but I object to him having its appetite)--is growling,
and wanting to know "when the Yeomanry are going home. We came out for a
crisis, and if the authorities call this a crisis may he be--" etc.,
etc., as he certainly will. I have tried to pacify him with the
following offering of the muse--but failed:--
"Great Bugs of State. Imperial Bugs,
The time grows heavy on our hands;
Are the recruiting sergeants dead?
Does khaki fail, or martial bands?
Oh, teach the vagrant how to ride,
The orphan boy to meet the foe;
May Heaven melt your stony hearts,
To let the foolish Yeoman go."
[Illustration: I'kona.]
Being under the impression that I have not made any direct reference to
the nigger, of whom, of course, one sees a great deal, I will here give
you my condensed opinion of this being. Left in his true state, he is, I
believe, unobjectionable, but we have spoilt him. Our fellows have been
too familiar with him in camp and on the march, and you know what
familiarity breeds. He has sat or stood idle and watched with
indifference we white men in khaki doing work he should have been set to
do (I have borne huge sacks and other burdens, and cursed the officers,
who have not made use of the niggers standing idly by). He has had the
satisfaction of knowing that while he is earning three or four shillings
a day, Thomas Atkins is earning thirteen pence. The general result is
that he has become deucedly independent and occasionally confoundedly
cheeky. As a remedy, I would suggest at the conclusion of this war--that
is, assuming it does conclude--97 per cent. of the niggers employed by
the British Government be jolly well kicked and then set in bondage for
half-a-dozen years, more if their case requires it.
Our horses are nearly all done. Mine is very lame in its hind legs. As
far as horseflesh goes, he is the least objectionable brute I have had,
though his ignorance and lack of appreciation of kindness is appalling.
We have drawn horseshoes for five weeks, so it does not look like
returning to Pretoria just yet. If we had drawn horses it would have
been more to the purpose. We are having tea now, and have just drawn our
biscuits for the next 24 hours. They number four thinnish ones, and
represent three-quarter rations. Even as regards biscuits, one learns a
good deal out here. I myself know four kinds of biscuits, all as like as
any of Spratt's gold medal ones in appearance, but varying greatly in
taste, and consequently, popularity.