The train was carrying philanthropic
gentlemen in charge of stores of champagne and marmalade for the
besieged city.
They did not want it to be relieved until they were
there to substitute pate de foie gras for horseflesh. And there were
officers, too, who wanted a "look in," and who had been kept waiting
at Cape Town for commissions, gladdening the guests of the Mount
Nelson Hotel the while with their new khaki and gaiters, and there
were Tommies who wanted "Relief of Ladysmith" on the claps of their
medals, as they had seen "Relief of Lucknow" on the medals of the
Chelsea pensioners. And there was a correspondent who had journeyed
15,000 miles to see Ladysmith relieved, and who was apparently going
to miss that sight, after five weeks of travel, by a margin of five
hours.
We all growled "That's good," as we had done for the last two weeks
every time we had heard it was relieved, but our tone was not
enthusiastic. And when the captain of the Natal Carbineers said, "I
am afraid the good news is too premature," we all said, hopefully, we
were afraid it was.
We had seen nothing yet that was like real war. That night at
Pietermaritzburg the officers at the hotel were in mess-jackets, the
officers' wives in dinner-gowns. It was like Shepheard's Hotel, at
the top of the season. But only six hours after that dinner, as we
looked out of the car-windows, we saw galloping across the high
grass, like men who had lost their way, and silhouetted black against
the red sunrise, countless horsemen scouting ahead of our train, and
guarding it against the fate of the armored one lying wrecked at
Chieveley.
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