'Tween Snow and Fire: A Tale of the Last Kafir WarMitford, Bertram
History
'Tween Snow and Fire: A Tale of the Last Kafir War
Mitford, Bertram
South Africa -- History -- Frontier Wars, 1811-1878 -- Fiction
"Oh! A dismal jest and worthy the day and the hour," rejoined the
other, lifting a corner of the sail to peer out. It was still pitch
dark and raining as heavily as ever. "We can't make a fire at any
price--that means no coffee. Is there any grog left, Hoste?"
"Not a drop."
"H'm! That's bad. What is there in the way of provender?"
"Nothing."
"That's worse. Gcalekaland, even, is of considerable account in the
world's economy. It is a prime corner of the said orb wherein to learn
the art of `doing without.'"
The two, meanwhile, had been preparing vigorously for their expedition,
which was a three days patrol. By the light of a tiny travelling lamp,
which Eustace always had with him when possible, guns were carefully
examined and rubbed over with an oil-rag; cartridges were unearthed from
cunning waterproof wrappers and stowed away in belts and pockets where
they would be all-ready for use; and a few more simple preparations--
simple because everything was kept in a state of readiness--were made.
Then our two friends emerged from the narrow, kennel-like and withal
leaky structure which had sheltered them the night through.
Except those who were to constitute the patrol, scarcely anybody was
astir in the camp of the Kaffrarian Rangers that dark, rainy morning.
All who could were enjoying a comfortable sleep warmly rolled up in
their blankets, as men who are uncertain of their next night's rest will
do--and the prospect looked cheerless enough as the dawn lightened. A
faint streak in the eastern sky was slowly widening, but elsewhere not a
break in the clouds, and the continual drip, drip, of the rain, mingled
with the subdued tones of the men's voices, as they adjusted bit and
stirrup and strapped their supplies in blanket and holster. Three days'
rations were issued, and with plenty of ammunition, and in high spirits
the prevailing wetness notwithstanding, the men were ready to set forth.
"This won't last. By ten o'clock there won't be a cloud in the sky,"
said the commander of the corps, a grizzled veteran, elected to that
post by the unanimous vote of his men. In keeping with his habitual and
untiring energy, which caused his followers often to wonder when he ever
did sleep, he had been up and astir long before any of them. And now he
bade them good-bye, and, the patrol having mounted, they filed out of
camp, the rain running in streams down the men's waterproofs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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