CHAPTER X

PUTTING OUT FIRE

A Brevet-Colonelcy was conferred upon Baden-Powell for his work on the Gold Coast,—­he was then eight-and-thirty,—­and in the same year he was back at regimental work in Ireland.  Hardworking as ever, and keen on making his men practical soldiers, B.-P. was settling down to what is called the dull part of soldiering when the gods, in the shape of the heads of the War Office, again interfered with the even tenor of his way.  A telegram from Sir Frederick Carrington arrived at Belfast towards the end of April telling our hero that there was to be fighting in Matabeleland, and that there would be room for him on the staff.  B.-P. was attending that day the funeral of a man in his squadron who had been killed by a fall from his horse, and after the service he rushed back to barracks, changed his kit, arranged about selling his horses, dogs, and furniture, and just when the English world sits down to its most excellent meal of the day, that oasis of the afternoon desert, he was in a train rushing as fast as an Irish train can rush towards the steamer that sailed for England.

At twelve o’clock next day B.-P. was saying good-bye to Sir Frederick Carrington, who sailed before him, and that done he spent a few miserable days in constant dread that he would be bowled over by a hansom, or catch scarlet fever, and thus be prevented from sharing in the hardships and glory of a campaign.  But nothing contrary happened to him, and after affectionate farewells to his family he embarked for Cape Town on board the Tantallon Castle on 2nd May.  One of his first labours was to begin an illustrated diary for his mother’s delectation, a diary that was afterwards published by Messrs. Methuen in book form under the title of “The Matabele Campaign—­1896.”  The keeping of this diary had its good uses for B.-P.; in what manner he explains in the preface, addressed to his mother,—­“Firstly, because the pleasures of new impressions are doubled if they are shared with some appreciative friend (and you are always more than appreciative).  Secondly, because it has served as a kind of short talk with you every day.”  That is the way in which British soldiers go forth to war.

The voyage was uneventful.  Drill in pyjamas every morning prevented B.-P. from putting on flesh, and that drill, especially “Knees Up!” seems to have been of a pretty severe kind, for it draws from Baden-Powell the exclamation, “I’d like to kill him who invented it—­but it does us all a power of good.”  That is the saying of the old soldier.  In the barrack-room it is considered the right thing to grumble, or “grouse” as it is called, while one is working hardest.  Thus the man with a jack-boot on his left arm and a polishing brush in his right hand—­going like lightning,—­the sweat running down his red face, is the man who swears he ain’t goin’ to bother about his blooming boots any more, dashed if he is; and after the brushing proceeds to “bone” them violently.  The first part of B.-P.’s exclamation reminds me of a friend who says that ever since he arrived at years of discretion he has been searching for the man who invented work on purpose to murder him.  He is, of course, the hardest of hard workers.