_Wednesday, February 6th, 1901._
Another week has rolled away; a week's march nearer home anyway, and
like the great MacMahon, I am here and here I sticks. The most thrilling
event of the past seven days has been the sudden and unexpected
reception of mails, after having abandoned all hope, and a parcel which
arrived in Pretoria for me during the first week in September.
I was interested to read in an enclosed note that my aunt hoped I should
be home to spend Christmas with her. By-the-bye, people have been
awfully good in sending me invitations to weddings, funerals, and
christenings. In August last I was the recipient of a dainty invitation
to the wedding of a friend. The sad event was to take place in June. I
didn't go. The latest was a cream-laid affair, from another quarter, on
which I was requested in letters of gold to honour certain near and dear
relatives with my presence at the christening of their firstborn. As the
affair was to take place in December, and I received the pressing
invitation at the end of January--I was again unable to be present at
another interesting ceremony. I have also received several invitations
to Terpsichorean revels. My R.S.V.P. has been curtly to the effect that
"Mr. P.T.R. is not dancing this season."
As regards deaths and funerals, I have seen and attended more than
enough of them out here. At this present moment a friend, a New
Zealander, is in parlous plight. He was shot in the right shoulder, the
wound soon healed, but the arm was almost useless, so the massage fiend
here used to come and give him terrible gip. Then doctor No. 3 came
along, said he had been treated wrongly, that the artery was severed,
etc., and operated on him. The operation itself was successful, but as
regards other matters, it is touch and go with him, his arm is black up
to a little above the elbow, in places it is ebony, and, I understand,
amputation, if the worse comes to the worst, is almost out of the
question. So, with others, I go in to keep him cheered up, and chaff him
over the champagne and other luxuries he is on, suggesting what a lovely
black eye his ebony right mawler might give a fellow, and feeling all
the time a strong inclination to do a sob. He is such a rattling fine
fellow, indeed, all the Colonials I have met are.[9]
[Footnote 9: Since my return I have heard from "Scotty," as
we used to call him. He wrote from his home in New Zealand,
his right arm had been successfully amputated, and he was
getting accustomed to its loss.]
Last night we had an open-air concert; the best part of it, as is often
the case at such affairs, appeared to be the refreshments which were
provided for the officers and artists. The talent was really not of a
high order, being supplied from Pretoria.
The chairman, who introduced the performers and announced the items,
affording us most entertainment, usually, unconsciously, he being a
long-winded individual, and invariably commencing his remarks with
"Er-hem! Ladies and gentleman, a great Greek philosopher once said"--or
"There is an old proverb." He essayed to give us "The dear Homeland,"
but being interrupted in one of his most ambitious vocal flights by a
giddy young officer (and a gentleman) throwing a bundle of music and a
bunch of vegetables at him, hastily finished his song, and in a
dignified voice requested us to conclude the proceedings by singing "God
Save the Quing." This was the first time I had sung the National Anthem,
since the death of our Queen, and I felt, as no doubt everybody has
experienced, a most peculiar feeling on singing the words, "God Save the
King."
Then to bed, but not to sleep, for that is a difficult matter here--so I
laid and chatted with a trooper of Roberts' Horse, the latest occupant
of the next bed to me. He is, or rather was, a schoolmaster, wears
spectacles and is grey-headed; what induced him to join in this little
game heaven, and he, only know. In the midst of a discussion on the
Afrikander Bond and the South African League, the night sister came in
and imperiously bade us be silent and go to sleep. So the grey-headed
schoolmaster and my humble self, like guilty children, became silent,
and serenaded by the ubiquitous mosquito wooed sweet Morpheus.
Thursday, February 7th. Last night it rained steadily nearly all night;
and it has just recommenced. It is quite an agreeable change to see a
leaden sky and hear the rain softly pattering on the tent roof, after
many days of sweltering, dazzling heat, _when one is in a comfortable
tent_. But it makes me think of and wish for a comfortable room at home,
a good book, pipe, and an easy chair, the prospect outside beautifully
dreary and rainy, a fire in front of me and my slippered feet on the
library mantelpiece.
A rather amusing incident occurred just now. One of the Devon Yeomanry
who went up to the tent which is our post-office, on the off-chance of
getting a letter, to his great astonishment got one. He came back eyeing
the address suspiciously, and remarking, "It's tracts, I'm thinkin." His
conjecture turned out correct. It appears that a certain thoughtful and
religious society at home looks down the lists of the wounded and, now
and again, sends some of the worst cases tracts. The title of one of the
pamphlets was, "I've got my ticket," which amused us immensely, for to
get one's ticket means to be booked for home. Another title was "The
finger of God"--this to a man who has had an explosive bullet through
his forearm seems rather rough.
I fear my letters are becoming dreadfully reminiscent and anecdotal, but
adventures and wanderings are not for the man who loafs in hospital.
Wednesday, February 13th. I am all _kiff_ (military for "right"). This
morning we had a mild joke with a new night orderly. As you may be
aware, it is this gentleman's duty to wash all the bad bed patients.
When he came in soon after _reveille_ and asked if there were any bed
patients to be washed, we all feebly replied, "Yes, all of us," and he
had ablutionised three before he discovered the deception, when he
anathematised us all.
News is more rigorously suppressed than ever, and undoubtedly it is the
right thing to do. Everybody is of this opinion, for the _friendly_
Dutch in Pretoria and elsewhere used to know far too much.