Our busy days passed quickly, and on the ninth of the month a lovely, still blue day, I ran up to look at the Grand Canary in sight on the starboard bow, and far to the westward the Peak of Teneriffe, its snowy cone flushed pink in the morning sun, above a bank of cloud.  All was blotted out in two hours of stable squalors, but at midday we were anchored off Las Palmas (white houses backed by arid hills), the ill-fated Denton Grange lying stranded on the rocks, coal barges alongside, donkey engines chattering on deck, and a swarm of bum-boats round our sides, filled with tempting heaps of fruit, cigars, and tobacco.  Baskets were slung up on deck, and they drove a roaring trade.  A little vague news filtered down to the troop-deck; Ladysmith unrelieved, but Buller across the Tugela, and some foggy rumour about 120,000 more men being wanted.  The Battery also received a four-footed recruit in the shape of a little grey monkey, the gift of the Oxfordshire Yeomanry.  He was at once invested with the rank of Bombardier, and followed all our fortunes in camp and march and action till our return home.  That day was a pleasant break in the monotony, and also signalized my release from the office of stableman.  We were off again at six; an exquisite night it was, a big moon in the zenith, the evening star burning steadily over the dim, receding island.  We finished with a sing-song on deck, a crooning, desultory performance, with sleepy choruses, and a homely beer-bottle passing from mouth to mouth.

Then came the tropics and the heat, and the steamy doldrums, when the stable-deck was an “Inferno,” and exercising the horses like a tread-mill in a Turkish bath, and stall-cleaning an unspeakable business.  Yet the hard work kept us in fit condition, and gave zest to the intervals of rest.

At this time many of us used to sling our hammocks on deck, for down in the teeming troop-deck it was suffocating.  It was delicious to lie in the cool night air, with only the stars above, and your feet almost overhanging the heaving sea, where it rustled away from the vessel’s sides.  At dawn you would see through sleepy eyes an exquisite sky, colouring for sunrise, and just at reveille the golden rim would rise out of a still sea swimming and shimmering in pink and opal.

Here is the diary of a Sunday:—­

“February 11.—­Reveille at six.  Delicious bathe in the sail-bath.  Church parade at ten; great cleaning and brushing up for it.  Short service, read by the Major, and two hymns.  Then a long lazy lie on deck with Williams, learning Dutch from a distracting grammar by a pompous old pedant.  Pronunciation maddening, and the explanations made it worse.  Long afternoon, too, doing the same.  No exercising; just water, feed, and a little grooming at 4.30, then work over for the day.  Kept the ship lively combing my roan’s mane; thought he would jump into the engine-room.  By the way, yesterday, when waiting for his hay coming down the line, his impatience caused him to jump half over the breast-bar, bursting one head rope; an extraordinary feat in view of the narrowness and lowness of his stall.  He hung in a nasty position for a minute, and then we got him to struggle back.  Another horse died in the night, and another very sick.