He had his sword, his field blanket, his trunk, and the tin
despatch boxes that held his papers. From these, like a conjurer, he
would draw souvenirs of all the world. From the embrace of faded
letters, he would unfold old photographs, daguerrotypes, and
miniatures of fair women and adventurous men: women who now
are queens in exile, men who, lifted on waves of absinthe, still,
across a _cafe_ table, tell how they will win back a crown.
Once in a written document the general did me the honor to
appoint me his literary executor, but as he is young, and as healthy
as myself, it never may be my lot to perform such an unwelcome
duty. And to-day all one can write of him is what the world can
read in "Under Fourteen Flags," and some of the "foot-notes to
history" which I have copied from his scrap-book. This scrap-book
is a wonderful volume, but owing to "political" and other reasons,
for the present, of the many clippings from newspapers it contains
there are only a few I am at liberty to print. And from them it is
difficult to make a choice. To sketch in a few thousand words a
career that had developed under Eighteen Flags is in its very
wealth embarrassing.
Here is one story, as told by the scrap-book, of an expedition that
failed. That it failed was due to a British Cabinet Minister; for had
Lord Derby possessed the imagination of the Soldier of Fortune,
his Majesty's dominions might now be the richer by many
thousands of square miles and many thousands of black subjects.
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