brilliant scene of enlistment before the Lord Mayor, and the abrupt
change one raw January morning from the ease and freedom of civilian
life, to the rigours and serfdom of a soldier's. There followed a
month of constant hard work, riding-drill, gun-drill, stable work, and
every sort of manual labour, until the last details of the
mobilization were complete, uniforms and kit received, the guns packed
and despatched; and all that remained was to ride our horses to the
Albert Docks; for our ship, the _Montfort_, was to sail at mid-day.

Hardships had begun in earnest, for we had thirteen miles to ride in
the falling snow, and our hands and feet were frozen. As we filed
through the silent streets, an occasional knot of night-birds gave us
a thin cheer, and once a policeman rushed at me, and wrung my hand,
with a fervent "Safe home again!" Whitechapel was reached soon enough,
but the Commercial Road, and the line of docks, seemed infinite.

However, at six we had reached the ship, and lined up into a great
shed, where we took off and gave up saddles and head-collars, put on
canvas head-stalls, and then enjoyed an excellent breakfast, provided
by some unknown benefactor. Next we embarked the horses by matted
gangways (it took six men to heave my roan on board), and ranged them
down below in their narrow stalls on the stable-deck. Thence we
crowded still further down to the troop-deck--one large low-roofed
room, edged with rows of mess-tables. My entire personal accommodation
was a single iron hook in a beam. This was my wardrobe, chest of
drawers, and an integral part of my bed; for from it swung the
hammock. We were packed almost as thickly as the horses; and that is
saying a great deal. The morning was spent in fatigue duties of all
sorts, from which we snatched furtive moments with our friends on the
crowded quay. For hours a stream of horses and mules poured up the