It has always been a source of wonder to me why so many people change their religion, for, although I have never had the time, opportunity, or perhaps the inclination, to study theology in any part of its ramifications, and have never even read the Thirty-Nine Articles which caused the fancy religionists not only to desert their Church, but has now enabled them, through their co-operation with rebels, atheists, socialists and a gang of men who, so long as they can hang on to power, are ready to play any dishonourable game, to gratify their rancorous spite in looting the said Church, my astonishment still remains. Yet very many people of all classes are frequently chucking up the faith of their fathers and joining another. No doubt some of these are actuated by sincere religious convictions, but I think the majority of them are prompted by the desire in some way to better themselves in this life. For instance, to remove an obstacle that prevents them from making an advantageous marriage, to succeed to property, to advance themselves in society or to make money. Still, there are plenty of people who swap their fire insurance policy for other motives, not even so respectable as the few I have enumerated, and one sinner told me that, having been a very bad hat during early manhood, he had joined the R.C. Church as he had been assured that by doing so he had cleaned his slate of the accumulation of his past sins and had thereby choused Old Nick. This may or may not have been the case, but anyhow he was very ready to contract fresh obligations with the Old Gentleman, as before we parted he managed to swindle me out of a fiver; so that after mature consideration I came to the conclusion that he was not a brand that was likely to be snatched from the burning, thanks to his change of religion, but was still a very bad hat indeed.
Now anyone can understand, although he may not admire, a man who, prompted by greed, love or interest, changes his mode of worship. But the man who I am going to yarn to you about was not an individual of this class, and, moreover, although he was most charitably disposed, and always ready to plank down a cheque for any good purpose, yet as a rule he did not pan out on religious matters at all, and knew as much about dogma as a chimpanzee does about snowballing. But let me start the yarn from the beginning.
During the latter eighties, when I was adjutant of the D.F.H., and was located at De Toits Pan, there lived on the same diamond diggings a man who carried on the trade of baker, and whom I shall designate by his Boer name of Davy. Now Davy had begun life as a ship’s baker, and having followed the sea for many years had drifted up to the diamond fields in the early times, had started in at his trade and had prospered exceedingly, so that when I knew him he was a rich man, and justly very popular with the diggers. In person he was of medium height, thick-set, with great rounded shoulders, on which was stuck, for he had not much neck to boast of, a huge round head that, owing perhaps to the effects of early piety, was as devoid of hair as a Little Englander is of patriotism. As regards manners, he was rather brusque, and until he came to know you was a bit repellent, and was totally uneducated. But he was a white man right through, and many a score of women and children would have had to go hungry to roost, during hard times, had good old Davy cut off supplying bread, although the betting might be decidedly against his ever pouching a single ticky (threepenny piece) of their money. Now, this old worthy, who as a rule never attended any Gospel Mill, and was as devoid of theologic controversy as one of his loaves of bread, nevertheless, whenever he indulged in an occasional burst always developed the idiosyncrasy that he must change his religion, and would promptly set to work to do so. What faith he had been brought up in originally (if any) I know not, and I doubt if he knew himself, but he tried all there were on the diamond fields (and owing to the polyglot crowd located on the diggings there were many), with the exception of the Hebrew, from which ancient cult Davy shied, as he always affirmed there was an obstacle in the way, which required to be removed before he could become a proselyte in the Synagogue.
Well, one fine day shortly after Davy had exhausted the last available religion, De Toits Pan was invaded by a commercial traveller in a brand-new fancy faith, the name of which I forget, but it was one freshly imported from America, and was guaranteed to be something quite new, slick and up-to-date. In fact, its votaries might reckon on a first-class ticket up to heaven, without any detention at the custom-house, while, provided they subscribed liberally, they might even expect to be transmitted there in a private fiery balloon. Now I never knew the ritual of the band of brothers, as they called themselves, but I knew it was necessary for a recruit, upon his initiation, to be soused over head and ears in water, which was meant to typify that all past sins would be washed away, although I guess it would have taken more than one ducking in cold water to have made an impression on the case-hardened iniquities of some of the converts who joined the movement. Yes, by gad! it would have required scalding water, soft soap, soda, and a wire scrubbing-brush to have shifted their moral delinquencies. Still, if the tubbing did not purify their immortal souls, it had a salutary effect on their hides, so we can pass that part of the performance as O.K.
Now, this missionary, spiritual bagman, or call him what you like, was at the first go-off of his raid very successful, doing a great business and roping in very many proselytes, so many, in fact it made the sky-pilots in the older established firms buck up, and look askance. He laboured, however, under one very great disadvantage—viz. there was no building in De Toits Pan procurable, large enough to contain the necessary water tank, so that until one could be built the numerous recruits had to be taken on the Sunday to the Modder River, and be ducked therein. Well, just as the new movement was in the hey-day of its popularity, good old Davy went on one of his rare jamborees, and, faute de mieux, at once fell into line, signed on as a brother, and on the following day (Sunday) went to the Modder River with a number of other neophytes, male and female, to undergo their preliminary water cure. Now it chanced that, on the same Sunday evening, I happened to be chatting in the De Toits Pan club, when all of a sudden in dashed Davy in a great state of perturbation. Rushing up to the bar he demanded a double-headed whisky straight, which he swallowed like an oyster, then promptly held out his glass for another supply.
“Hullo, Davy,” quoth one of those present, “you seem to be gulping down the cratur with unction. I thought you would have been nursing your new religious doctrines at this time of night.”
Davy answered him not, but with a growl ordered the barman to refill his glass.
“Why, Davy, what’s the matter?” queried another. “What have they been doing to you to capsize you in this fashion, and why don’t you take water with your pongello?”
“Water, indeed,” snarled Davy. “I sha’n’t want no water for another month.” And he made a motion to the barman to pass the bottle.
“Here, ease up, Davy,” said I. “You’ve had enough. Leave the whisky alone, and come over here. Sit down and tell us how you got on this afternoon at the washing fête.”
“Whoi,” grumbled the old fellow, whom, it seemed, the third nobbler had somewhat pacified, as he took the offered chair and proceeded to light his pipe, “I didn’t get on at all, and this new-fangled religion ain’t worth a cuss. ’Tain’t one as any man with any common-sense ’ud cotton to, and as for the sky-pilot, he’s jist as hignorant as a howl.”
“Well, well, tell us all about it. Did you imbibe the faith?”
“Faith, be d——d!” he growled. “I didn’t imbibe nothing except a gallon or two of Modder River water.” And he expectorated with disgust. However, after he had been smoothed down a bit, and had had another tot, he bucked up and related his tribulations as follows:—
“You see, boys,” said he, “I went down to the Modder River this afternoon, with a large party of other converts. The shepherd, as ’e calls his blooming self, ’e comes along too, and brings two or three of the sharps as ’elps ’im. Well, when we got there we finds a couple of tents pitched: one for the ladies, and one for us men, to take off our duds in. Well, after a bit, one of the sharps, he comes to me, and sez he: ‘Brother, we’s going to commence along with you.’ So ’e shows me into the tent, and sez he: ‘Brother, remove your gaudy ’abiliments and put on this ’ere garb of simplicity.’ And with that ’e ’ands me a sort of a nightgown which came to about me knees. As soon as I was togged out, feelin’ a bit ashamed of meself rigged out like that, he leads me down to the river bank and there was the shepherd, as ’e calls hisself, long, thin, herring-gutted devil, standing up to his middle in the water. ‘Enter, brother,’ he sings out to me, ‘and ’ave your manifold sins swabbed away.’ I wades in and whin I reaches ’im the water took me up to the chin. He begins his palaver, and before I knowed where I was ’e puts his two hands on me shoulders and ducks me bloomin ’ead under. He fair took me by surprise ’e did, or I’d ’ave took an extra breath of air. As it was, I lost me footin’, and ’ad to struggle to come up. Me old skull-cap comes off and I got me ’ead above water, but no sooner did ’e see me old bald pate appear than he shoved it down agin, and kep’ on a-doing so until I was near drownded. Should ’ave bin, I believe, ’ad I not managed to giv’ ’im a punch in the bread-basket which shut ’im hup like a pair of scissors, and then I scrambles out and runs to the tent nigh water-logged. Presently along ’e comes, and sez ’e to me, sez ’e: ‘Brother, wherefore did you assault me while in the water?’ And I sez to ’im: ‘You ain’t no brother of mine. What for did yer try to drown me?’ ‘Brother,’ sez ’e, ‘I knew not you was so bald, and when yer ’ead appeared above the surface of the river I laboured under the delusion it was another portion of yer hanatomy, and so as to prevent what might ’ave become an indecent hexhibition I pressed it hunder agin and continued to do so.’ ‘Well,’ sez I, ‘yer religion may be a darned foine one, and yer may be a darned foine shepherd, but whin yer don’t know the difference between a conwert’s bows and ’is starnpost ’tain’t no religion for me, and I ’ud scorn to belong to it or own yer as a brother or shepherd, so ye and yer ’ole gang can go to h——.’ And with that I left ’im and came ’ome as fast as I could git.”
Now although I think that on this one occasion old Davy’s plea, like himself, was a good un, and that he, under the aforementioned circumstances, was fully justified in doubting the bona fides of this fancy religion through the lack of acumen and also the gross ignorance on the part of the shepherd, still, as one swallow does not make a summer, this one legitimate case of perversion does not, in my eyes, justify the large number of people who chop or change their faith and are always thronging to hear some half-crazy tub-thumper, be he a long-haired, red-nosed revivalist, unctuous Mormon or any other hypocritical expounder of a new cult.
Yes, I’ve had the honour and pleasure of serving in the same outfit as H.M. bluejackets, and I will maintain that the British sailor is second to none either as a fighting man or love-maker, the only man, in my unbiassed opinion, to equal him in the above pursuits being the Irish soldier. Now Jack and Pat both keenly appreciate a bit of fun and devilment, but I think, in pursuit of divarsion, Jack must be assigned the cake, as during his hours of relaxation, while at liberty, on shore, he frequently displays a bit of originality in his pranks that, in fairness I must confess, land him ahead of my dear, reckless, light-hearted countrymen. During the New Zealand wars the Maoris called the Naval Brigade Te Ngati Jacks, and they insisted that they belonged to a different people from the remainder of H.M. forces; for you never could convince the old-time Maori warrior that the loose-clad, rollicking, gallant sailor was of the same blood as the tight-buttoned-up, stiff and more stolid, though equally brave, soldier. This erroneous idea was, I think, also in a great measure due to the fantastic capers Jack cut while enjoying his well-earned liberty on shore, during which treasured moments he strove to cram into twenty-four hours all the fun, and also as many of the minor vices, as he could manage to indulge in, and I am only doing him justice when I state he usually succeeded in participating in as much devilment during those few hours as would satisfy an ordinary healthy Tommy for a year.
Times, customs and manners have greatly altered since 1870, and although there can be no doubt that, changed as in many respects our fleet men are from the sailors of the past generation, still the same courage and devotion exists in our present-day, highly trained, splendid naval seamen as ever instigated the grand old hearts of oak, who boxed yards about, pulled on bits of string called halyards, braces, etc.; and, totally ignorant of electricity, cursed steam. Moreover, there has been a great change for the better in the conduct and sobriety of our ever-popular and much-loved bluejackets when ashore on short leave.
Settlers, old identities, in colonial seaport towns, will, I am sure, endorse what I have written above, for although during the forty years I lived in the colonies I never heard of one of H.M. bluejackets committing a crime, still some of their sprees were rather alarming to nervous people, while they shocked the puritanical, hypocritical humbugs, of whom there is always a superfluity wherever the Union Jack flies. For these cattle, being able to indulge in their pet vices sub rosa, or else being too narrowminded to make allowance for the festive pranks of high-spirited men, let loose for a few short hours after being cooped up on board ship for months at a stretch, where they have been subjected to the most severe discipline in the world, hold up hands in horror at poor Jack’s frolics, and call the brave fellow, whose mess tins they are not worthy to swab out, a drunken, profligate sailor-man, unfit to be at large in this world, and sure to be damned in the next. Yet many of Jack’s sprees were most diverting to the looker-on, as he would frequently introduce into his frolics some originality that, simple in itself, and most probably quite unpremeditated, still compelled anyone with the smallest spark of humour in his composition to thoroughly appreciate. I am now going to spin you a yarn about one bluejacket’s spree that, if it does not amuse you, at all events afforded myself and some of my comrades, just down from the frontier, a hearty laugh. The scene was Wellington, New Zealand, the date somewhere about the end of 1871, when, the long war having burnt itself out, and the sharp fighting having smouldered itself away to the ordinary frontier defence work, myself and a few of my comrades had, for the first time for nearly six years, the chance of returning for a period to civilisation and enjoying such comforts and luxuries as were at that time to be obtained in the capital of New Zealand. This we were doing with a relish only to be enjoyed by men who have for years been living, or rather enduring, a hard bush life, utterly debarred from the ordinary pleasures of society, and the refinement of ladies’ companionship.
We were doing ourselves well, and going very strong, when the fun was enhanced by the arrival of a squadron of H.M. ships, with whose officers we fraternised, notwithstanding the fact that they ran us very close, if they did not quite cut us out, in the favour of the fair New Zealand ladies, for both officers and men of H.M. Royal Navy are as hard to contend against in the rosy lists of love as they are to beat in the ruddy game of war. No matter if there may have been a trifle of jealousy between us in those days it did not matter a row of pins, and we all enjoyed rattling good times. But hold hard, I am off the trail of my yarn, and so must try back. Well, the squadron anchored, squared yards, and, after the ships had been put into apple-pie order, in due course of time, leave was given to the crews, and the starboard watches came ashore to enjoy themselves for twenty-four hours. This they did; and my word they made the town of Wellington lively, opening the eyes and elevating the hands of the unco guid in a way that, to such lost sinners as ourselves, was most exhilarating. In those days, I know not if such be the case now, every sailor had the fixed conviction that he was a perfect master of equitation, and no sooner did he get ashore than he yearned to ride a horse, or, failing to obtain one, a mule, a donkey, a cow or even a goat came not amiss. Some four-footed beast must be obtained by hook or by crook, or, if saddle animals were quite unobtainable, then he must drive or be driven. Well, the starbowlins came ashore and painted the town a vivid red, and the streets soon became full of bluejackets, mounted on every description of animal, some of the poor beasts having to carry double, while now and again you would see some cart-horse, very long in the back, ridden by three laughing, shouting sailors, the whole of the cavalcades galloping and sidling up and down the main roads cheered to the echo by their admiring messmates, while the riders, with their bell-bottomed slacks rucked up above the knees, their elbows square with their ears, and a rein, or as Jack termed it a yoke-line, in either hand, held on like grim death to a dead nigger. Yet numerous were the falls and collisions that took place, and it appeared to be fully understood that, should a rider be pipped, his loose horse and empty saddle should be the lawful prize of the lucky shipmate who first captured them, and sometimes you could see half-a-dozen or more Jacks trying to board the said prize from both sides and ends of the unfortunate quadruped at one and the same time. Many of the horses could and did buck a bit, but this did not seem to daunt Jack one iota; in fact, buck-jumping appeared to rather enhance the value of the mount, and I saw some wonderful and determined attempts to stick on viciously bucking animals, the rider hanging on manfully by gullet plate and cantle, yea, you might say with teeth and toe-nails, yelling, “Whoa, whoa, you——!” at the top of his gamut, while his admiring comrades howled their applause, every man-jack of them anxious to try his luck the moment the temporary horseman should be grassed. Of course it must be remembered that all of these men had been accustomed to jockey the yard-arm of a plunging ship, and as Jack is by nature and training utterly fearless, I should have bet my bottom dollar that any one of them would have unhesitatingly tried to have ridden Old Nick himself, had he chanced to have come along on four legs. Here I’m off the right spoor of my yarn again, so must circle and pick it up.
It was on the afternoon of the said day, a number of us were gathered together in the billiard-room of the club, when a tremendous cheer from the crowded street caused us to make for the verandah, to see what had caused such an uproar. And this is what we spotted. But mark time, as I must digress again for a moment.
Years before Cobb & Co. introduced into New Zealand their American coaches some speculative settler had imported one of the original London omnibuses, a vehicle of great length, on which the top passengers sat back to back, with their knees up to their chins on what was known as knife-boards, and gained these perches by crawling up perpendicular iron ladders fastened to either side of the door. A more unsuitable trap could not have been invented for New Zealand roads, so that shortly after its arrival it was stowed away and forgotten by the general public. Its owner, however, was a cute fellow, for hearing of the probable invasion of sailors, he had the old ramshackle caravan made roadworthy, horsed it, and, on the landing of Jack, promptly chartered it to a large party of them, so that it was the sudden appearance of this prehistoric tramcar, rumbling along the street, that had evoked the burst of applause which had attracted our attention.
Truly Jack had rigged and fitted out the old shandrydan handsomely, as flags, streamers and wreaths decorated it wherever it was possible to make them fast. Nor was she indifferently manned, as even musicians had been provided, for, perched along the driver’s footboard, two more than half drunk fiddlers and a half-section of equally intoxicated fifers sawed and blew for all they were worth. The coachman sat on the usual raised seat in the centre of the fore cross-bench, and on either side of him lolled two huge quartermasters who, cigar in mouth and arms crossed, tried to appear quite at their ease and preterhumanly sober. The roof of the vehicle was overcrowded with brawny bluejackets all rollicking drunk, who demonstrated their good will to the passers-by and the laughing spectators in the windows by holding out to them bottles of liquor, while at the same time they exchanged badinage of a saline nature with their messmates thronging the side-walks. The inside of the old omnibus was occupied by only two men, who ostentatiously sniffed at and frequently tasted huge bottles of make-believe medicine, while at intervals they exhibited to the onlookers grotesque imitations of surgical instruments, and, in case it required any further explanation as to what the interior of the vehicle was intended to represent, over the windows and doors were chalked such notices as—Sick-bay, Dead-house, Boozers-locker, etc. All this was funny enough, but although the appearance of the old rattle-trap somewhat surprised us, still there was nothing, after all, extraordinary in its existence, nor in its festive crew, and we should merely have laughed and forgotten the circumstance had we not spotted, the moment it came abreast of us, a wondrous appendage to the vehicle itself, for at the tail-end over the door protruded two stout poles, from which was suspended a large-sized stable wheelbarrow. Now what in the name of Comus could Jack want with a wheelbarrow? Its presence roused our curiosity, so that we at once made for the stables, where our horses were carefully locked up, mounted and followed the festive show that had taken the road towards the Hut (a small village a short distance along the sea coast from Wellington and a very pretty drive). Our journey in search of knowledge was not to take us far, for we had only just caught up to the slowly moving caravan when, as it turned a sharp corner, one of the crew, rather more drunk than the others, lost his balance, tumbled off the top and landed on the road, which fortunately for him was at this spot heavy sand, with a concussion that would have killed or seriously maimed any sober landlubber. In a moment a shout of “Man overboard” was raised and a stentorian voice howled out: “Hard down with your helm, back the main yard, heave to,” and in almost the same breath: “Pipe away the jolly-boat.” Out rang a shrill pipe: “Jolly-boats away,” and in a second down was lowered the wheelbarrow, down slid two men, and before even a woman could get breath for a squeal, or any of the horrified spectators could gather round the unfortunate, who lay on the road striking out with his arms and legs as if swimming, they ran the wheelbarrow up to him, dumped him in, ran him back to the door of the sick-bay, into which he was promptly hauled and administered to by the attendants. “Hook on and hoist jolly-boat” was the next order, the crew of which, disdaining the use of ladders, scrambled up the side, and the wheelbarrow was run up and made fast. Then came the order, “Square away the main yard,” the coachman whipped up his horses and away they went before the gaping populace could remember or make use of a single pious ejaculation. Now this was very funny, and we all enjoyed a hearty laugh, but Jack was far from the end of his farcical frolic, as there was, not far ahead, a house, half inn, half farm, owned by a fine, bluff old sea-dog who had himself served as bos’n in the Royal Navy, and as they were sure to halt—I beg pardon, heave to—there, thither, expecting more fun, we determined to follow them, and were not sorry we did so, as no sooner were they abreast of the house, which was situated a few feet from the roadway, than H.M.S. Shandrydan was again skilfully hove to, the jolly-boat was lowered and manned, and the strident voice sang out: “Pipe all hands ashore to lay in wood and water.”
Then as a combined movement took place to vacate the roof: “Vast heaving, you thirsty swabs; see the sick-bay cleared first, the fiddlers and idlers, and then the rest of you take your blooming turn.”
The order was carried out to the letter, each man as he got into the barrow being run up to and shot out on to the verandah, every one of them on recovering his feet touching his cap to the host, who stood beside the open door, and saluting him with the words: “Come on board, sir.” We had seen enough, so cantered gaily back to the club, myself thinking how extremely useful the jolly-boat would be later on, always provided the crew of it were teetotallers, in assisting their messmates to their quarters when H.M.S. Shandrydan had finished her cruise and her gallant crew’s back teeth were awash with their potations. Yes, the idea of carting along the wheelbarrow was not only humorous but it demonstrated profound forethought on the part of the Jacks, and I maintain that no soldier in the world, not even my beloved countrymen, would ever have the nous to devise such a whimsical, and at the same time provident, entertainment, so I therefore declare that her late Majesty’s bluejackets were the first in devilment as they ran the Irish Tommy neck and neck in war. “Here’s good luck to the crowd of them!”
“Whin a man’s that cross and crabbed that his sowle’s as black as paint,
An’ his contrary conversation wud petrify a saint,
And he will ate mate on fast days, an scornes the praste as well,
Ould Nick will soon be after him, to escort him straight to (the guard room).”
Quin.
Years ago I was soldiering in South Africa, and at that time owned a few horses, my own private property and nothing to do with the Government. I used to race a bit in a small way, just for the sport, and it became necessary for me to employ a groom who must be my own private servant.
Now grooms were hard to get, especially at the price I could afford to pay, and I did not want a man of the sundowner stamp. One evening my servant came to me and informed me that a man had come into camp who was looking out for a job and he thought he would do. On my asking him why he thought he would do (for Quin, though an Irishman, was, wonderful to relate, no horseman and had no knowledge of horses) replied: “The man is an Irishman, a small man, a knowledgeable man, and also a townie of my own.” So I decided to see him, and Mike O’Leary was ushered in. Directly I saw him I seemed to know him, but for a time could not place him, till at last it flashed through my mind he must be Charles Lever’s Corney Delaney come to life again, or at all events the creature in front of me must be a descendant of his. Not that the dress was similar, for my man wore breeches and boots, both of which wanted renewing, but the head, the face, the cross, crabbed expression and the general appearance were exactly like the immortal Corney as depicted by Phiz in “Jack Hinton.” He was a tough, wiry little fellow, showing, as we say out in the colonies, the marks of the Whalaby.
He stood rigidly to attention, after glancing at myself and belongings with a sneering grin that would have excited the envy of Satan himself. So I opened fire with the remark: “You are an old soldier.”
“I am,” quoth he; “and served in the 57th, God bless them! They wor a rigimint you could be proud of, not a tearing lot of divils the likes of what you’ve got here. Bad scran to them! it’s neither soldiers or peelers they be.”
“Well, well,” I said, “leave the men alone. I want a groom. Are you one?”
“It’s a lot of grooms you do be wanting, judging by the look of your troop horses,” he snarled.
“Leave the troop horses alone. I want a man as my own private servant. Do you want work of that sort?”
“I may take you on trial,” he rejoined, “for did I not serve under your honourable father, Sir George Brown, in the Crimee.”
Now Sir George Brown was not my father, nor any relation to me, but Mike O’Leary would have it so, and Sir George was trotted out of his grave and thrown in my teeth as long as Mike lived. Well, he was not a promising lot, but I was so hard up for a man, and the horses wanted so much looking after, that I took him on. As a groom he was perfect; never have I seen a man his equal. The horses took to him, and he was devoted to them. But, by the Lord Harry! he was a blister to everyone else on the station. How he had ever been enlisted in the 57th the Lord only knows, and how he had ever existed in the regiment is a mystery to me to this day. His tongue was as sharp as a double-edged sword, and as bitter as gall, but the little fiend could fight like a gamecock, and was as hard as iron, so that when his remarks were resented he was always ready to back his words up with his hands, until at last most of the troopers were only too glad to leave Mike alone.
As regards myself, he showed me neither deference nor respect, would never say Sir when addressing me, and would openly and audibly criticise my riding, my personal appearance, my drill, and my dress, and none of these to my credit. Poor Sir George was also brought to the fore every day, and the difference between us as to morals, manners, sport, or anything else that might be on the tapis, was pointed out and expatiated upon, and never in my favour. The little beast became quite obnoxious to me, but he did so well by the horses that I could not part with him, and came at last to look on him as a trial sent by Providence to humiliate me, and as a punishment for my sins; so I was bound to accept him as such, and put up with him.
Well, things went on like this till one day, when I came in from a long patrol, I found Quin on the sick list and that Mike O’Leary had installed himself in his place as servant. Now if I had wanted him to come and look after me, nothing on earth would have made him come, but as he knew he was the last man on the station whose presence I desired in my rooms, of course there he was and there he evidently intended to stick. In vain I told him he would be overworked looking after both myself and the horses.
“Sure, and don’t I know that?” he snarled. “It’s little thanks I’ll get from the likes of you, who spends your money on debauchery and blaggardism, and pays your servants, who works their fingers to the bone, as little as ye can; but I knows my duty to your honourable father, God rest his sowle, and while that useless baste Quin is skulking, I’ll be here to see you to bed when you come home drunk every night.”
What was to be done? I though matters over, and at last determined to attack Mike on his only weak spot. Mike I knew to be a rigid R.C., but he was also saturated with superstitions. He had all those of the usual Irish peasant, and a good many more of his own.
He firmly believed in witches, ghosts and fairies, good and bad, and was convinced that the devil himself was frequently knocking around looking for someone to transport to tropical regions.
As to his religion, Mike was very devout, with one exception—he would eat meat on Fridays. “Fast, is it?” he would say. “A soldier may ate his rations.”
“But you are not a soldier now, Mike.”
“Well, and whose fault is that now? Did not I put my pride in my pocket and offer to join your blackguards, and did not that T.S.M. tell me I was too small? Bad luck to the lout! Was I not fighting in the Crimee with your honourable father before he was breeched? It’s little the likes of him is fit to be T.S.M., but what can you expect when the captain ought to be at skule learning manners! It’s little of an officer you’ll ever make.” Exit Mike, with a well-directed boot after him.
It was an uphill job, but I worked and worked away at him. I even persuaded the good Father de Rohan to go for him and preach abstinence to him, and even threaten him with pains and penalties if he did not put the muzzle on. But no good. Then I began to pretend that the rooms were haunted, and that rather fetched him, but yet, though he was uncomfortable, it did not quite hit the right spot.
At last Fortune played into my hands. A lieutenant who had been away on long leave rejoined and was sent up to my station. He was a very tall, thin man, very dark, with straight features, large eyebrows and moustache, and Mike had never seen him before. The first night he joined we were talking over our pipes, after dinner, when he mentioned a very swell fancy-dress ball he had been to. At once I asked him in what character he had gone. Of course he replied: “Mephistopheles.” Had he brought his dress out with him? Yes, he had it in his kit. Would he do me a very great favour? Why, certainly. Then I told him about my incubus, Mike, and I earnestly requested him to put his dress on the next night and play the devil for Mike’s benefit. Of course he was only too delighted to assist, and the plot was duly laid.
That night I went to my quarters. There was Mike, with his usual pleasant remarks and sneer.
I stopped short and said sternly: “You have been smoking.”
“Begorra I’ve not,” said he.
“Then you have been lighting those beastly sulphur matches.”
“I’ve not,” said he.
I walked over to the dressing-table, looked in the glass, then started back, and let out at him.
“Have done with your fooling tricks. How dare you grin over my shoulder like that?”
“I did not,” he replied.
“If it was not you it must have been the devil then,” I said sternly. “And I don’t wonder at it, when such a cross-grained ugly beggar as you sits in my quarters alone at this time of night. Take care, Mike,” I said impressively; “take care. Remember what Father de Rohan told you. If you will eat meat on Friday, and will quarrel and insult everyone, the devil will be after you in earnest.
“What’s that?” I cried, looking hard past him. “Get out of this, Mike; the company you keep here when I’m out is not safe for a Christian man.”
He turned very white, was evidently very uncomfortable, crossed himself over and over again, and bolted.
Next morning he brought two sticks, when he came to my room, which he crossed on the fire hearth, and when he turned up at night-time he had evidently been to the canteen, for he was pot-valiant and I could see he had a bottle with him.
“I suppose you will be afraid to stay in the rooms alone,” I said, as I left for dinner.
“I will not,” said he; but I saw the blue funk rising in him. It was a Friday.
“Did you eat meat to-day?” I asked.
“I did that,” he replied, “and I will.”
“Well, God help you,” I said. “It’s great danger you are in this night.”
It was midnight when the lieutenant, fully got up in a most perfect fancy dress, and looking his part to perfection, appeared in the mess hut. In his hand he carried a few inches of time fuse, and also a huge fork, known in the service as the tormentor. The cook uses it to take the men’s meat out of the boilers. We all crept up to my quarters, which consisted of a hut with two rooms in it, in the front one of which was the victim. To light the fuse and pass it under the door was the work of a moment, then to open the latter and step in took no longer. Mike, who had been absorbing courage from the bottle, had fallen asleep, but was waked up by a prod from the tormentor. He woke with a growl of rage, that changed into a yell of consternation, when he saw the terrific figure regarding him through the sulphury smoke of the fuse.
“Mike O’Leary,” said a deep voice, “I’ve come for you.”
Poor Mike, who had fallen back open-mouthed, with the sweat of fear trickling off him, whimpered: “Oh no, good Mr Devil; wait for the master.”
“No,” thundered the voice; “it’s you I want, not your good, kind master, who’s been a friend to you, and who you sneer at, insult and deride, and who, Protestant as he is, tries to stop your greedy sin of eating meat on fast days. Come on!”
And he made a pass at Mike with the tormentor, which Mike dodged by going over backwards, chair and all.
“I’ll never cheek him again, by this, and by that, I won’t!” yelled Mike, as he got another prod in a fleshy part, “and I’ll never touch meat again, I won’t.” But at that he fainted. He soon came round, and was on his knees telling his beads when we entered the room, as if we were going to have a parting smoke before turning in.
“What the deuce have you been up to, Mike?” I said. “Who has been here? What is the cause of this awful smell, and what have you been making such a row about?”
“O holy Mary! sor,” whined Mike; “he’s been here.”
“Who the devil has been here, you drunken blackguard?” I shouted.
“Oh, dear sor, oh, kind sor, don’t spake disrespectfully of the Ould Gentleman; shure he’s been here, and has just left. Oh, sor; I’ll repent, I will. For God’s sake send for the holy father. What will I do? What will I do?”
We got him to his quarters at last, and next morning Mike was a changed man. Although still by nature cross-grained, yet a more respectful servant or a better comrade could not be found on a month’s trek, and he stayed with me till he died, two years afterwards, regretted by everyone who knew him. R.I.P.
In very many parts of the world, which on the map are painted red and collectively called the British Empire, there are huge tracts of country covered with forests of all sorts, which are known to the inhabitants of the different colonies by various names, and these have exacted a heavy toll of human life from the venturesome traveller, prospector, hunter, or others, who have entered their recesses on their own business or pleasure. If the scrub of Australia, the bush of New Zealand, the forests of Canada, and the wilds of Africa could only be examined with a microscope, the remains of thousands of men would be discovered who, having been bushed (i.e. lost in the forest), have died of hunger, thirst or exhaustion, and whose remains, unfound, have wasted away until only a few mouldering bones, some tattered rags, and a few fragments of rusty metal remain to tell the tale and act as a warning to others. I have on two occasions been the finder of the remains of men who have been lost. One on the Taupo plains, who disappeared and who, although he was missed and looked for, was not found until three years after his disappearance, when I, quite by chance, stumbled on the poor chap’s bones, which were identified by a glass eye. The other case was the bones of a white man I found while shooting in South Africa. Who or what he had been never transpired. That he had been a white man was evident, but when or how he had been lost I never found out. I remember well that after I had searched the vicinity for anything that could have been used as a clue to his identity, I stood over the poor bones and moralised. This poor chap must have belonged to someone in the world who cared for him. Yet here he lay nameless, and unknown, his bones to be buried, as soon as my hunting boys with knife and tomahawk could scoop out a hole, by a man who was a perfect stranger to him, or, for all I knew to the contrary, we might have been comrades in two or three wars, or have hobnobbed together scores of times. However, there, under a tree, his bones lie, and I have no doubt that all marks of his grave, even the cross I cut out on the tree, to mark the spot, have long ago disappeared, and yet it is quite possible to this day there are people hoping and wondering if he will turn up. In the colonies men disappear very rapidly, and they are not readily missed. So they do in this great wilderness, London, whose hidden mysteries far and away outnumber all the frontier mysteries of the British Empire put together, but yet somehow the picture of a man lost in the bush, dying, alone, of starvation, thirst and exhaustion seems, if not so pathetic, at least more romantic than the scores of hungry, ragged and homeless creatures who wander about the Embankment, or the slums of the mighty city. Very many times during my life on the frontiers of the various colonies in which I have served I have been called on to assist in the search for a missing man; sometimes we have been successful, and have found our man alive, sometimes we have found him dead, and often we have searched in vain, the poor chap having disappeared, as if taken from earth in a chariot of fire. I could fill a book with yarns of cases of people being lost and found, and of being lost and not found, but the most wonderful case I know of is that of a young colonial, who was lost for forty days, yet was found alive, and who I believe to be still living.
In 1891 I had taken command of the De Beer’s Company Expedition to Mashonaland, consisting of sixty white men, forty colonial boys (natives), and eighteen waggons. The above I was to conduct from Kimberley to Salisbury, a trek of about 1300 miles. It was no joke. Very many of my men were quite raw hands, and just after we had left Kimberley the heaviest rains ever known in South Africa came on, so that the rivers became flooded, the swamps impassable, and the roads, such as they were, so rotten that the heavily laden waggons sank to their bed plates every few minutes.
However, I at last passed Tuli, and proceeded some eighteen miles on the Umzinguani River, where I determined to halt for a fortnight, so as to rest and recuperate my worn-out oxen. In Tuli the O.C. of the B.S.A. Police had told me that some days before I reached that place a man had been lost from some waggons that had been outspanned at the Umzinguani River. Up to date he had not been heard of, so he requested me to make a careful search and try to discover any trace of the missing man. I promised to do so, and asked for all the particulars. The man was a Colonial of Dutch descent, who was acting as orderly to some Dominican Nursing Sisters en route to Salisbury. They had outspanned across the river, in the early morning. After breakfast the man had taken his rifle, had entered the bush on the down-river side of the road, to try and shoot a buck for fresh meat, but had never returned. The waggons had waited three days for him, and then trekked on. I also ascertained that some twelve miles farther on the road was crossed by a big creek, that ran into the river some miles below the drift. This being the case, I failed to see how a colonial man, provided he kept his head, could be lost, as the area in which the occurrence happened was surrounded on all sides by good landmarks. It was in fact an irregular triangle, bounded on one side by the river, on another by the creek, and on the third by the road. Provided he struck the road, he had only to turn to his left to reach the outspan. If he struck the river he would only have to follow it up and find his waggons, and if he came across the creek he would only have to follow it to the road or river. This seems easy enough; but, as an old and experienced scout, I knew there were fifty sorts of trouble that might have happened to him, or he might have been guilty of a score of follies, all inexcusable but all committed frequently, even by old hands. He had gone away without his coat, that we knew; he might also have gone without matches—this was quite likely—and probably with only two or three rounds of ammunition. It was a very bad lion country: he might have tackled one and got the worst of the encounter; he might have been hurt by a wounded buck, sprained his ankle, broken his leg or otherwise hurt himself. It is folly, a man going shooting alone in a South African bush. Anything may happen in a moment, and then a man by himself is helpless and unable to send for assistance. We reached the Umzinguani River at daylight, crossed the drift and outspanned. After breakfast I collected the men, explained my plans to them and drew them a rough map of the area over which our search was to be made. I selected seventy men, black and white, for the job, and my plan was to extend these men some ten or twelve yards apart and, keeping our right on the river’s bank, to move down in line till we came to the spot where the creek ran into the river. Then, if we found no trace or spoor of him, to swing round and return to the road, taking, of course, a new line parallel to, and touching, the first one; and to enable us to do this correctly I ordered the man on the left flank to blaze the trees on his line, so that we should know we were not going over the same ground twice, nor leave a gap between the lines of search.
I had plenty of old hands among my men, both black and white, and on reaching the junction of the river and creek I was certain the work had been done thoroughly, although nothing had been found. At the junction I found a lot of Dutchmen, some twenty in number, who were outspanned there. They were trek riders, who, after delivering their loads in Salisbury, had hauled off the road and camped for the purpose of resting their oxen and shooting big game to make biltong. They had heard nothing of the lost man, but insisted on helping me to look for him. That afternoon we searched the new line of country back to the road, the right-hand man blazing the trees en route, but found nothing except game and lion spoor. The next day we started from where we had left off and took a new line, the left-hand man blazing the trees, while the right-flank man worked down the line of the previous afternoon. I did not rush the men, as I had no hopes of finding the poor fellow alive, but yet I hoped to find his rifle—a lion could not eat that—or some trace of him, so I told the men to search carefully and not hurry. I had two bugles with me, and the men shouting to one another, so as to keep in touch, made plenty of noise, that the poor chap must have heard if alive. The bush was an open one, with little undergrowth, so we had a good chance of finding anything out of the common.
We kept up this search ten days, until I was convinced every bit of ground in the triangle had been prospected; but we found absolutely nothing. Then we said good-bye to the Dutchmen and continued our journey. Some weeks afterwards a post cart passed me going to Salisbury and the corporal in charge of it told me a wonderful tale. The Dutchmen had remained at their camp some time after my departure, and the day before they moved off one of them, while out shooting, had found a white man concealed in an ant-bear hole. He was stark naked, and in a dreadfully emaciated condition, the nails torn off his hands and his teeth actually worn down to his gums. He was quite mad, but the Dutchman carried him to his waggon, and trekked into Tuli; where he was taken into the hospital, and with careful nursing restored to reason and health.
He afterwards came up to Salisbury, where I was staff officer. I knew him well, and held frequent conversations with him regarding his woeful experiences. His story is a very short one. He had left the waggons after breakfast for a stroll, with his rifle, three cartridges and no matches. All at once it dawned on him he was lost, so he started running (a fatal mistake), and remembers no more. Up to the time he was found, quite close to the Dutchman’s camp, over forty days had elapsed. How he had lived he had no idea. The state of his hands and teeth showed he must have grubbed roots and gnawed them; but he must have obtained water from either the creek or river, and, mad as he was, one of them should have guided him to safety.
Again, how did he escape my search and that of other parties who had looked for him? What became of his rifle, boots and clothes? And, above all, why did not a lion skoff him? To these and heaps of other queries I can only say that truth is stranger than fiction, that I have told the yarn as it happened, and can’t answer conundrums. In the above yarn I have told you that the lost man began to run, and have noted it was a fatal mistake. Yes, it is a fatal mistake to begin to run when you discover you are lost, for I can assure you that it is not a difficult matter for even an old and experienced scout to lose himself, if he lets his mind and attention wander. But now I will spin you a yarn about one of my men who was lost on the same trek to Mashonaland.
This man was a fine, strapping fellow about thirty years of age. He was a well-educated mechanic, a good athlete and football-player, but a new chum in the bush and at frontier work. We were at the time trekking along the Limpopo River, a very bad bit of country indeed, and I had given my men warning not to leave the waggons.