Our Water-Casks Had
To Be Guarded, For In Their Extremity The Horses Could Smell The Water,
And Even Went So Far As To Pull Out The Wooden Bung, With Their Teeth!
Warden, The Small Pony, Was A Special Offender In This Respect.
It is
quite startling to wake suddenly in the night and find a gaunt,
ghost-like horse standing over one, slowly shaking his head from side to
side, mournfully clanging his bell as if tolling for his own death.
Then
at other times one heard the three bells sounding further and further
off. This meant a hasty putting on of boots and wakening a mate to stir
up the fire and make it blaze; then, following the sound through the
darkness, one came up with the deserters, shuffling along in single file,
with heads to the ground, turning neither to right or left, just
travelling straight away in any direction as fast as their hobbles
allowed. Heaven knows how far they might go in a night unless stopped in
time and dragged back to camp. Indeed blankets do not mean sleep, with
dry horses in the camp!
On the 10th The Monk, our best horse, fell, and was dead in a minute - run
down like a clock. The other two followed slowly behind. Presently. a
salt-lake [This I named Lake Breaden], enclosed by sandhills, barred our
way - a cheerful sight indeed! Hung up in its treacherous bogs, with
nearly empty tanks, dying horses and tired camels, what chance had we?
Speculation of this kind must not be indulged in; time enough to cry out
when the troubles come.
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