In the Ranks of the C.I.V. | Page 5

same set a pleasant folly is to wear a
different coat every day.
"The saloon-deck is less interesting, because less variegated; but here is

a note or too. Caps are usually cerise, trimmed with blue passementerie.
To be really smart, the moustache must be waxed and curled upwards
in corkscrew fashion. In the best Irish circles beards are occasionally
worn, but it requires much individual distinction to carry off this daring
innovation. And now, dear, I must say good-bye; but before I close my
letter, here is a novel and piquant recipe for Breakfast curry: Catch
some of yesterday's Irish stew, thoroughly disinfect, and dye to a warm
khaki colour. Smoke slowly for six hours, and serve to taste.
"Your affectionate,
"NESTA."
* * * * *
Here is Williams on the wings of prophecy:--
OUR ARRIVAL IN CAPETOWN.
(With Apologies to "Ouida.")
"It was sunset in Table Bay--Phoebus' last lingering rays were
empurpling the beetling crags of Table Mountain's snowy peak--the
great ship Montfort, big with the hopes of an Empire (on which the sun
never sets), was gliding majestically to her moorings. Countless craft,
manned by lissome blacks or tawny Hottentots, instantly shot forth
from the crowded quays, and surged in picturesque disorder round the
great hull, scarred by the ordure of ten score pure Arab chargers. 'Who
goes there?' cried the ever-watchful sentry on the ship, as he ran out the
ready-primed Vickers-Maxim from the port-hole. 'Speak, or I fire ten
shots a minute.' 'God save the Queen,' was the ready response sent up
from a thousand throats. 'Pass, friends,' said the sentry, as he unhitched
the port companion-ladder. In a twinkling the snowy deck of the great
transport was swarming with the dusky figures of the native bearers,
who swiftly transferred the cargo from the groaning hold into the
nimble bum-boats, and carried the large-limbed Anglo-Saxon heroes
into luxurious barges, stuffed with cushions soft enough to satisfy the
most jaded voluptuary. At shore, a sight awaited them calculated to stir

every instinct of patriotism in their noble bosoms. On a richly chased
ebon throne sat the viceroy in person, clad in all the panoply of power.
A delicate edge of starched white linen, a sight which had not met their
eyes for many a weary week, peeped from beneath his gaudier
accoutrements; the vice-regal diadem, blazing with the recovered
Kimberley diamond, encircled his brow, while his finely chiselled hand
grasped the great sword of state. Around him were gathered a dazzling
bevy of all the wit and beauty of South Africa; great chieftains from the
fabled East, Zulus, Matabeles, Limpopos and Umslopogaas, clad in
gorgeous scarlet feathers gave piquancy to the proud throng. Most of
England's wit and manhood scintillated in the sunlight, while British
matrons and England's fairest maids lit up with looks of proud affection;
bosoms heaved in sympathetic unison with the measured tramp of the
ammunition boots; bright eyes caught a sympathetic fire from the
clanking spurs of the corporal rough-rider, while the bombardier in
command of the composite squadron of artillery, horse-marines, and
ambulance, could hardly pick his way through the heaps of rose leaves
scattered before him by lily-white hands. But the scene was quickly
changed, as if by enchantment. At a touch of the button by the viceroy's
youngest child, an urchin of three, thousands of Boer prisoners, heavily
laden with chains, brought forward tables groaning with every
conceivable dainty. The heroes set to with famished jaws, and after the
coffee, each negligently lit up his priceless cigar with a bank-note, with
the careless and open-handed improvidence so charming and so
characteristic of their profession. But suddenly their ease was rudely
broken. A single drum-tap made known to all that the enemy was at the
gates. In a moment the commander had thrown away three parts of his
costly cigar, had sprung to his feet, and with the heart of a lion and the
voice of a dove, had shouted the magical battle-cry, 'Attention!' Then
with a yell of stern resolve, and the answering cry of 'Stand easy, boys,'
the whole squadron, gunners and adjutants, ambulance and
bombardiers, yeomen and gentlemen farmers, marched forth into the
night.
"That very night the bloody battle was fought which sealed the fate of
the Transvaal--and the dashing colour-sergeant nailed England's proud
banner on the citadel of Pretoria."

* * * * *
About once every week, it was my turn for stable-guard at night,
consisting of two-hour spells, separated by four hours' rest. The drivers
did this duty, while the gunners mounted guard over the magazines. On
this subject I quote some nocturnal reflections from my diary:--"Horses
at night get very hungry, and have an annoying habit of eating one
another's head-ropes reciprocally. When this happens you find chains if
you can, and then they eat