London to Ladysmith via Pretoria | Page 2

arranged his
luggage, and resigned himself to the voyage.
What an odious affair is a modern sea journey! In ancient times there
were greater discomforts and perils; but they were recognised. A man
took ship prepared for the worst. Nowadays he expects the best as a
matter of course, and is, therefore, disappointed. Besides, how slowly
we travel! In the sixteenth century nobody minded taking five months
to get anywhere. But a fortnight is a large slice out of the nineteenth
century; and the child of civilisation, long petted by Science,
impatiently complains to his indulgent guardian of all delay in travel,
and petulantly calls on her to complete her task and finally eliminate
the factor of distance from human calculations. A fortnight is a long
time in modern life. It is also a long time in modern war--especially at
the beginning. To be without news for a fortnight at any time is
annoying. To be without news for a fortnight now is a torture. And this
voyage lasts more than a fortnight! At the very outset of our enterprise
we are compelled to practise Mr. Morley's policy of patience.

We left London amid rumours of all kinds. The Metropolis was
shrouded in a fog of credulous uncertainty, broken only by the sinister
gleam of the placarded lie or the croak of the newsman. Terrible
disasters had occurred and had been contradicted; great battles were
raging--unconfirmed; and beneath all this froth the tide of war was
really flowing, and no man could shut his eyes to grave possibilities.
Then the ship sailed, and all was silence--a heaving silence. But
Madeira was scarcely four days' journey. There we should find the
answers to many questions. At Madeira, however, we learned nothing,
but nothing, though satisfactory, is very hard to understand. Why did
they declare war if they had nothing up their sleeves? Why are they
wasting time now? Such were the questions. Then we sailed again, and
again silence shut down, this time, however, on a more even keel.
Speculation arises out of ignorance. Many and various are the
predictions as to what will be the state of the game when we shall have
come to anchor in Table Bay. Forecasts range from the capture of
Pretoria by Sir George White and the confinement of President Kruger
in the deepest level beneath the Johannesburg Exchange, on the one
hand, to the surrender of Cape Town to the Boers, the proclamation of
Mr. Schreiner as King of South Africa, and a fall of two points in Rand
Mines on the other. Between these wild extremes all shades of opinion
are represented. Only one possibility is unanimously excluded--an
inconclusive peace. There are on board officers who travelled this road
eighteen years ago with Lord Roberts, and reached Cape Town only to
return by the next boat. But no one anticipates such a result this time.
Monotony is the characteristic of a modern voyage, and who shall
describe it? The lover of realism might suggest that writing the same
paragraph over and over again would enable the reader to experience its
weariness, if he were truly desirous of so doing. But I hesitate to take
such a course, and trust that some of these lines even once repeated
may convey some inkling of the dulness of the days. Monotony of
view--for we live at the centre of a complete circle of sea and sky;
monotony of food--for all things taste the same on board ship;
monotony of existence--for each day is but a barren repetition of the
last; all fall to the lot of the passenger on great waters. It were

malevolent to try to bring the realisation home to others. Yet all earthly
evils have their compensations, and even monotony is not without its
secret joy. For a time we drop out of the larger world, with its interests
and its obligations, and become the independent citizens of a tiny
State:--a Utopian State where few toil and none go hungry--bounded on
all sides by the sea and vassal only to the winds and waves. Here
during a period which is too long while it lasts, too short when it is over,
we may placidly reflect on the busy world that lies behind and the
tumult that is before us. The journalists read books about South Africa;
the politician--were the affair still in the domain of words--might
examine the justice of the quarrel. The Headquarter Staff pore over
maps or calculate the sizes of camps and entrenchments; and in the
meantime the great ship lurches steadily forward on her course,
carrying to the south at seventeen miles an hour schemes and intentions
of war.
But let me record the incidents rather than their absence. One day the
first shoal of flying fish is seen--a flight of