A Yeoman's Letters Part 11

For wounds by bullet or the knife, Obtained in peace or deadly strife; For broken heads or sprained toes, And myriad other sorts of woes, For that incurable disease "Fed up" or "tired of C.I.V.'s."

For pom-pom fever, Mauseritis, The toothache or the loafert.i.tis.

For broken heart or broken nose, For every sickness science knows.

All these and ev'ry other ill, Are cured by that well-known Pill; 'Tis made on earth with pow'rs divine, I sing in praise of Number Nine.

To expatiate further upon the famous "No. 9 Pill" would be absurd, as it is as great an inst.i.tution of the British Army out here as the 4.7 or pom-pom.

We are still suffering (worse than ever) from a paucity of news and a superabundance of rumours; indeed the supply of the latter far exceeds the demand, and budding fictionists eclipse themselves daily. Had the Psalmist lived in these days, I feel sure he would hardly have contented himself with the gentle statement that "all men are liars," but have indulged in language far more emphatic. Still as far as we are concerned, the Boers can beat the most brilliant efforts of our own fellows any day.

We have a lot of Regulars in this hospital, and it is amusing at times, and at others rather irritating, to hear some of their criticisms of the Yeomanry. I recently heard some of them (good fellows) chaffing merrily over certain Yeomanry (a very small number), who were concerned in an unfortunate affair some time ago, totally ignoring the fact that a large number of Regular Infantry and Mounted Infantry were also equally involved. Again the Cavalry may make a mistake, and they have made a few, but we don't hear much about their incapacity, but let the Yeomanry commit a similar error, and we hear about it, I can tell you. I venture these few remarks in common fairness to the Yeomanry, my temperature being quite normal, as I fancy they have often been used as a b.u.t.t where others would have done as well.

The explanation, it appears, is this. A corps of new Yeomanry is being formed, who are to receive five shillings a day; we also, of the original Yeomanry, are to receive the same at the expiration of a year's service, having up till then been paid the regular cavalry pay, for which we enlisted. Naturally, Thomas A. feels exceedingly wroth at "blooming ammychewers" receiving such remuneration, and to use his own metaphor, "chews the fat" accordingly. His position and feelings remind me very strongly of the poor soldier in "The Tin Gee-Gee!"

Then that little tin soldier he sobbed and sighed, So I patted his little tin head, "What vexes your little tin soul?" said I, And this is what he said: "I've been on this stall a very long time, And I'm marked '1/3' as you see, While just above my head he's marked '5 bob,'

Is a bloke in the Yeoman-ree.

Now he hasn't any service and he hasn't got no drill, And I'm better far than he, Then why mark us at fifteen pence, And five bob the Yeoman-ree?"

etc. etc. etc.

I am very sorry for poor friend Thomas.

On Wednesday (the 23rd) we heard the sad news that our Queen was dead. It came as quite a blow to us, and even now seems hardly credible; we had only heard the previous day of her serious condition. All through the Hospital everyone seems to be experiencing a personal bereavement. I overheard a Tommy remark, in a subdued tone full of respect, when he was told the news, "Well she done her jewty." And I am sure it summed up his and our feelings very accurately. A man has also told me of the death of Captain McLean, at Krugersdorp, which is very sad; he always looked so fit. Mr. Cory is now captain of our squadron and the only Suss.e.x Yeomanry officer in South Africa.[]

"Long live the King!"

January 30th, 1901.

You will soon begin to think that I am a permanent boarder at this place; indeed, I almost feel so myself now; though as a matter of fact I am expecting to be marked out any hour-the sooner the better, for the enforced inactivity is by no means free from monotony, not to mention headaches, toothaches, and sleepless nights, from which one seldom suffers on the veldt. I have found out a dodge for obtaining a better night's sleep than is one's usual lot, and that is a good pitched pillow fight before turning in. Of course, it is advisable not to be caught by the night sister.

Last night we had a terrific storm, and had to stand by the poles and tent walls for a long time. The wind, hail and rain were tremendous, and in spite of our tents all being on sloping ground, with trenches a foot deep around them, we got a bit of moisture in as it was.

On Monday, His Majesty King Edward VII., was proclaimed in Pretoria, a salute of guns fired from the Artillery barracks, and all flags temporarily mast-headed, and back to you good folks at home we sent echoing our loyal sentiment, "G.o.d save the King."

On Sat.u.r.day, Whiteing waltzed gaily up and paid me a visit, having got leave into Pretoria from Rietfontein, where he had been left with other men, all minus n.o.ble quadrupeds, and on Sunday another old comrade, the Great Boleno, darkened the door of our tent and brightened me with the light of his presence. He had been one of Clements' orderlies for the last two months, and had accompanied the general into Pretoria, and succeeded in securing a good civil berth in the town.

From these I learnt the fortunes of the battalion up to date. Briefly, after I left them they were some time at Rietfontein; then at Buffalspoort, where they did delightful guards, pickets, and early morning standing to horses; after which those possessed of horses went on to Rustenburg, I believe, where they now are, the horseless ones going back into Rietfontein.

So now the Seventh Battalion of Imperial Yeomanry, like many others, is spread well over the face of the land.[8] Some of the fellows are home; some on their way thither; some in this hospital, some in others; some are in the police; some in civil employment; some with sick horses at Rietfontein; some in a detail camp at Elandsfontein (near Johannesburg); some with the battalion, at Rustenburg; and some, alas, are not.

Whiteing gave me a vivid description of his journey into Pretoria on one of the steam-sappers running between that town and Rietfontein; they are known as the Pretoria-Rietfontein expresses. As he put it, they stop for nothing, over rocks, through spruits and dongas, squelch over one of French's milestones here and there, the ponderous iron horse snorted on its wild career till its destination was reached.[]

The Irish Fusilier's Ambition.

Though I am well off for literature of all sorts (my locker is a scandal), I don't seem to be able to settle down to anything like a quiet, enjoyable read at all. Tommy Atkins never seems to realise that one cannot carry on a conversation and read a book simultaneously, or write a letter.

"Oh for a booke and a shadie nooke, Eyther indoore or out; With the grene leaves whysperynge overheade, Or the streete cryes all about.

Where I maie reade all at mine ease, Both of the newe and olde; For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke, Is better to me than golde."

Thus the olde songe. And the kopjes are gazing stonily at me through the tent door; a man two beds off is squirming and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. under the ma.s.sage treatment of a powerful khaki ma.s.seur; doctors, sisters, orderlies, and runners come and go; a triangular duel between three patients on the usual subject-the superior merits of their respective regiments-is in full swing; and the realisation of the foregoing rhyme seems afar off.

I, however, am not the only man with yearnings for a different state of affairs. Private Patrick McLaughlan, of the Inniskilling Fusiliers, occupying the bed on my right, has his. He often tells us his ideal of happiness, a "pub" corner with half-a-dozen pint pots containing ambrosial "four 'arf" before him, and a well-seasoned old clay three inches long filled with black Irish twist.

The other day I ventured to Omarise his ideal of the earthly paradise thus:

A pipe of blackish hue for smoking fit, Some good ould Irish twist to put in it; Six pints of beer in a hostel snug, And there, a king in Paradise, I'd sit.

His only comment was a vast expectoration.

By-the-way, my friend, Patrick, relates a good loot tale which befell his regiment in the Free State. They camped one day within easy distance of a store, kept by the usual gentleman of Hebrew extraction. Pat and his comrades made a rush for the place and collared all of the condensed milk, for which the merchant charged (or attempted to) a shilling per tin. About five men, early arrivals, paid; then in the scramble which ensued the rest omitted to do likewise. On returning to camp and opening the tins the milk appeared peculiar, and the regimental aesculapius hearing of it, inspected the tins, p.r.o.nounced them bad, and told the men to take them back to the store and get their money refunded, which they did. Of course, the gentle Hebrew protested vehemently, but Tommy, with the medical officer's word behind him, soon persuaded him to do what he was told. Patrick was six shillings to the good over this transaction. And I daresay the wily Israelite regretted having had such a large stock of milk, though presumably he had hoped to rob the Philistines, not, as the case proved, to be doubly done by them.[]

"War without End."

(An Interlude.)

He came up to me and handed me a photograph. I took it, and beheld a being clad in a new khaki uniform and obviously conscious of the fact. An empty bandolier crossed his extended chest diagonally. His slouch hat was well tilted to the right, with the chin strap arranged just under the lower lip. The putties were immaculately entwined around his legs-in short the tout ensemble was decidedly smart and soldier-like. His right hand rested lightly on a Sheraton table; in the immediate background was a portion of a low ornamental garden wall, in the distance was a ruin princ.i.p.ally composed of Ionic columns in various positions-presumably the devastating work of the warrior in the foreground, "Look on that," he said bitterly, and as I returned it, "and on this, the backbone of the British Army," smiting his manly breast. I looked, and in the bronzed, unshaven face and raggedly-apparelled figure before me, recognised a certain semblance to him of the photograph. I smiled sympathetically. "As it was," quoth he, "now and ever shall be, war without end." I turned to go, but was not fated to escape so easily. He held me with his bloodshot eyes, and perforce I stayed. With upraised voice he declaimed thus:

THE PSALM OF STRIFE.

(Being what the Yeoman said to the Psalmist.)

Tell me not in ceaseless rumours That we soon are going home, Just to cure our bitter humours, While upon the veldt we roam.

War is real, and war is earnest, And Pretoria warn't the goal, Out thou cam'st, but when returnest Is not known to any soul.

Forward, fighting, smoking, chewing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, And arriving-just too late.

I fled.[]

Invitations-and a Concert.

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 Terpsich.o.r.ean 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 ma.s.sage 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]

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 "G.o.d 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, "G.o.d 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 t.i.tle 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 t.i.tle was "The finger of G.o.d"-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.