London to Ladysmith via Pretoria | Page 4

and the laws of health.'
But if they will, invent a system of inoculation against bullet wounds I
will hasten to submit myself.
Yesterday we passed a homeward-bound liner, who made great efforts
to signal to us, but as she was a Union boat the captain refused to go
near enough to read the flags, and we still remain ignorant of the state
of the war. If the great lines of steamships to the Cape were to compete
against each other, as do those of the Atlantic, by increasing their
speeds, by lowering their rates, by improving the food and
accommodation, no one would complain, but it is difficult to see how
the public can be the gainers by the silly antagonism I have described.
However, the end is drawing very near, and since we have had a safe
and prosperous journey criticism may well waive the opportunity. Yet
there are few among the travellers who will not experience a keen
feeling of relief in exchanging the pettiness, the monotony, and the
isolation of the voyage for the activity of great enterprise and the
interest of real affairs: a relief which may, perhaps, be shared by the

reader of these letters. Yet if he has found the account of a dull voyage
dull, he should not complain; for is not that successful realism?
October 29.
News at last! This morning we sighted a sail--a large homeward-bound
steamer, spreading her canvas to catch the trades, and with who should
say what tidings on board. We crowded the decks, and from every point
of view telescopes, field glasses, and cameras were directed towards
the stranger. She passed us at scarcely two hundred yards, and as she
did so her crew and company, giving three hearty cheers, displayed a
long black board, on which was written in white paint: 'Boers defeated;
three battles; Penn Symons killed.' There was a little gasp of excitement.
Everyone stepped back from the bulwarks. Those who had not seen ran
eagerly up to ask what had happened. A dozen groups were formed, a
hum of conversation arose, and meanwhile the vessels separated--for
the pace of each was swift--and in a few moments the homeward bound
lay far in our wake.
What does it mean--this scrap of intelligence which tells so much and
leaves so much untold? To-morrow night we shall know all. This at
least is certain: there has been fierce fighting in Natal, and, under
Heaven, we have held our own: perhaps more. 'Boers defeated.' Let us
thank God for that. The brave garrisons have repelled the invaders. The
luck has turned at last. The crisis is over, and the army now on the seas
may move with measured strides to effect a final settlement that is both
wise and just. In that short message eighteen years of heartburnings are
healed. The abandoned colonist, the shamed soldier, the 'cowardly
Englishman,' the white flag, the 'How about Majuba?'--all gone for ever.
At last--'the Boers defeated.' Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
So Sir Penn Symons is killed! Well, no one would have laid down his
life more gladly in such a cause. Twenty years ago the merest chance
saved him from the massacre at Isandhlwana, and Death promoted him
in an afternoon from subaltern to senior captain. Thenceforward his rise
was rapid. He commanded the First Division of the Tirah
Expeditionary Force among the mountains with prudent skill. His
brigades had no misfortunes: his rearguards came safely into camp. In

the spring of 1898, when the army lay around Fort Jumrood, looking
forward to a fresh campaign, I used often to meet him. Everyone talked
of Symons, of his energy, of his jokes, of his enthusiasm. It was
Symons who had built a racecourse on the stony plain; who had
organised the Jumrood Spring Meeting; who won the principal event
himself, to the delight of the private soldiers, with whom he was
intensely popular; who, moreover, was to be first and foremost if the
war with the tribes broke out again; and who was entrusted with much
of the negotiations with their jirgas. Dinner with Symons in the mud
tower of Jumrood Fort was an experience. The memory of many tales
of sport and war remains. At the end the General would drink the old
Peninsular toasts: 'Our Men,' 'Our Women,' 'Our Religion,' 'Our
Swords,' 'Ourselves,' 'Sweethearts and Wives,' and 'Absent
Friends'--one for every night in the week. The night when I dined the
toast was 'Our Men.' May the State in her necessities find others like
him!
CHAPTER II
THE STATE OF THE GAME
Cape Town: November 1, 1899.
The long-drawn voyage came to an end at last. On the afternoon of
October 30 we sighted land, and looking westward I perceived what
looked like a dark wave of water breaking the