ight the two ships steamed slowly to the north. Mac landed
horse-picket, and for four hours he paced a length of the boat-deck up
and down past fifty horses' heads, while the wind howled mournfully in
the rigging and the ship swayed easily to the swell. Morning broke,
with a dull sky, a dull sea and many miserable troopers. Towards
midday they were joined by two vessels from the south with the Otago
troops, and in the middle of the afternoon the whole four hove to in
Cook Strait, awaiting the four transports from Wellington. But
contrary orders came, and so, entering Wellington Harbour, they dropped
anchor towards evening. A gale came down in gusts from the hills
around, bringing furious squalls of rain; and Mac, in heavy oilskins,
again paced the boat-deck. Dawn broke grey and drear, and the troops
were in the depths of depression. It was not the ill weather which
distressed them, but at the eleventh hour, in the middle of the night,
a picket boat had brought unwelcome despatches and now all hope was
gone, all faith lost. "Owing to unforeseen circumstances, the
transports will not at present sail, and orders for disembarkation will
be issued in due course." So ran the death sentence.

Most of the infantry remained on the transports, but the other branches
of the service mournfully disembarked and trekked to the few more or
less level places amid Wellington's hills, where they pitched camps.
The Wellington Mounteds found a home on Trentham racecourse, and passed
a fortnight there, riding along the valley roads and manoeuvring over
the steep hills. It was not so bad either, for day after day passed
with glorious sunshine and cooling breeze, and the city was in reach by
a weary train. There was a grand review which no one particularly
enjoyed, and Mac least of all, for he had an attack of influenza. All
the long day he rode with a dizzy, aching head; and one of Wellington's
very own tearing gales, which whirled upwards great clouds of yellow
dust, served not at all to cool his heated brow. And when, late at
night, he spread out his straw and lay down, the long day seemed to
have been a vague, bad dream. But the fever had gone when morning
came, which proves that there are more ways than one of curing
influenza.

He had cut short the career of the same disease at Awapuni Camp when
out on an extensive movement one night near Feilding. His officer had
given him a goodly nip of strong Scotch whisky and had adv