of desert sand. The actual conflict of civilized with savage forces
was responsible for the loss of very few men. The sun was our arch
enemy!

To break the monotony, we tried whatever sport was possible in the
sand. The national game, cricket, came in for a trial, but was more
laughter-provoking than recreative: a bundle of rags tightly rolled up
in a sphere served as a ball, and pieces of boards of old
packing-cases served as bats and wickets. Leapfrog and the
three-cornered game of "cat" were favourite pastimes, but nothing
broke the monotony. It was depressing, and it was not an unusual sight
to see men weeping from homesickness--utterly unable to keep back the
tears. There were attempts at suicide also, and men eagerly sought
opportunity to endanger themselves. Actual fighting on the desert was
to us the greatest possible godsend, for it meant either death or
relief from the game of waiting.

Despite the fact that the love of Gordon had brought me there, I was
not enamoured of the way in which the campaign was carried on. Of
course, when in actual conflict, I wanted this black horde wiped off
the face of the earth; but when I saw boys and girls, ranging from six
to ten years of age, approaching the phalanx of British bayonets with
their little assagais ready to do battle, I was thrilled with
admiration for them. Some of our officers described this as
fanaticism, and I remember a discussion that took place between two of
them as to whether it was fanaticism or courage, and a unique
experiment was tried. We had with us always a contingent of friendly
natives, and in order to test the question, one of them was to bare
his back (for a shilling) and an officer applied to it, with all his
strength, a horsewhip. I saw the black man's body writhe for an