The Cape and the Kaffirs: A Diary of Five Years' Residence in KaffirlandWard, Mrs.
History
The Cape and the Kaffirs: A Diary of Five Years' Residence in Kaffirland
Ward, Mrs.
South Africa -- History -- Frontier Wars, 1811-1878
Comparative quiet and much order now reigned in the camp. Every tent
became more clearly defined as the evening advanced, and the sky formed
a darker background for the moon, the stars, and the refulgent comet.
Round the fires were assembled groups of soldiers, women resting
themselves, as they called it, poor creatures, with babies on their
knees,--Hottentots playing their rude violins, and merry voices joining
in the chorus, led by neighbouring singers. Sounds of mirth issued from
the tents of others; and the steam of savoury soup gave evidence of the
proximity of the mess-tent and the talents of "little Paddy Farrell,"--
the incomparable cook. Dinner there was always late, the officers never
sitting down to solace themselves with good cheer till their men had
been well cared for, and their different positions established for the
night. Now and then the brazen tongue of a bugle intruded its call upon
the stillness of the hour, and helped to disperse the groups gathered
round the fire for a time, till the duty to which it had summoned them
being done, they either returned to the social circle they had left, or
secured a corner in a tent "licensed to hold fifteen inside" to sleep
in. Gradually, the voices of the singers became mute; the feeble cries
of sleepy infants superseded the monotonous tones of the Hottentot
fiddles. Snoring "matches" seemed to be "got up," as it were, between
sundry waggon-drivers and their neighbours, they having their mats
spread under the waggons; the peals of laughter among the revellers
became less frequent, and at length ceased altogether. The fires grew
dim, and the moon and her companions in the sky alone lit up the scene;
tents were closed and the sound of the last bugle died away in the
hushed night air, leaving all silent, peaceful, and at rest.
Although only fifteen miles from Port Elizabeth, I had been led to
expect that I should hear the distant cry of the jackal, and the howl of
the wolf; but, in spite of the bed being spread upon nothing but grass,
in spite of the more than "whispers of the night breeze" which would be
heard from under the flap of the tent, I never slept so soundly in my
life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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