Disembarking is not a pleasant pastime, especially when 150 men have had three weeks in a ship during which to lose and mix up their belongings. But the order to clear out and make room for another ship was given, and had to be obeyed in a hurry. So we said good-bye to the ‘Lindula.’ Poor thing, she had done her best for us, though in her we lost four of our chargers and two transport ponies, a big proportion of our total of 180 animals, but nothing like the number that died on some other ships. A transport lying near us with Imperial Yeomanry lost 39 out of 450 in a three weeks’ voyage—nearly all from pneumonia. Our orders were to proceed to Maitland Camp, some four miles to the north of Cape Town, and thither we marched, leading the horses, which of course were hardly in a fit state to ride. However, the walk seemed to do them good, and after a week in camp, with good feeding and gentle exercise, they picked up condition rapidly. The men have little that is good to say of Maitland Camp. It is a place stale, flat, unprofitable, and altogether accursed. When we arrived the wind blew a hurricane, and setting up the tents was a task to try a Stoic. Once they were up the sand crept in at every crevice and lay thickly on everything, especially butter and food of every sort. Men went to sleep, or tried to, with the feeling that the bit of the earth on which they lay must surely be swept into the next world ere morning broke. But day dawned and we were still in Maitland Camp, with the rain pouring in torrents and turning the sand and earth into mud puddings, which clogged and wetted and dirtied every scrap that belonged to us. However, the third day recompensed us, for the sun shone hot and bright, and a gentle breeze wafted delicious scents from the woods of eucalyptus and fir trees all around. Boys came to us with delicious grapes, great bunches weighing one to two pounds apiece, each grape being as large as a pigeon’s egg and as full of juice and flavour as fruit can be. Of Cape Town we saw very little, but liked that little much; only the price of things is terrible, and it seems much more serious parting with shillings than with rupees. Lumsden’s Horse had many eyes for the beautiful, and while declining to play the part of Paris in deciding on rival charms, they wax eloquent when their theme is the sex which, as one gallant trooper says, has done much to make this world the habitable place it is. In Cape Town the ladies are charming to look at. They dress just as they do at home in summer, and their cheeks are rosy, and they are altogether delightful to look upon. But still it matters little whether the cheeks be pale or rosy, we are all ready to back our ladies of India against any in the wide world for kindness and every other feminine attribute.