CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
TELLS OF SOME OF THE TRIALS, UNCERTAINTIES, DANGERS, AND DISASTERS OFWAR.
Uncertain moonlight, with a multitude of cloudlets drifting slowlyacross the sky so as to reveal, veil, partially obscure, or sometimestotally blot out the orb of night, may be a somewhat romantic, but isnot a desirable, state of things in an enemy's country, especially whenthat enemy is prowling among the bushes.
But such was the state of things one very sultry night when our herofound himself standing in the open alone, and with thoughts of a variedand not wholly agreeable nature for his companions.
He was on sentry duty.
It was intensely dark when the clouds partially veiled the moon, for shewas juvenile at the time--in her first quarter; and when the veil waspartially removed, the desert, for it was little better, assumed anindistinct and ghostly-grey appearance.
Sombre thoughts naturally filled the mind of our young soldier as hestood there, alert, watchful, with weapons ready, ears open to theslightest sound, and eyes glancing sharply at the perplexing shadowsthat chased each other over the ground like wanton Soudanese at play.His faculties were intensely strung at what may well be styled"attention," and riveted on that desert land to which Fate--as he calledhis own conduct--had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysteriousspirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenesof childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usuallypleasant retrospect. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightlyreproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination hereturned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasantermemories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of theSoldiers' Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy withnewspaper and illustrated magazine, while the sweet sound of familiarmusic came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, orrather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker,were engaged with songs of praise.
Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping at his ribs. Anobject seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonetwas lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. Theshadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush--that was all; yet itwas strange how very like to a real object it seemed to hishighly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him thatnothing to cause alarm was visible.
Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stoodthere in body, but in mind he had again deserted his post. Yet not toso great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria,and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physicalheat--that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen tothe utmost attainable height--but a glow of soul. He became heroic! Heremembered Marion's burning words, and resolved that Duty shouldhenceforth be his guiding-star!
Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Somethingwithin him became suddenly active, and whispered, "How about your dutyto parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time inPortsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home,but you didn't. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. Youmight have done it several times since you landed in this country, butyou haven't. You know quite well that you have not fully repented evenyet!"
While the whispering was going on, the active fancy of the youth saw thelovely face of Marion looking at him with mournful interest, as it hadbeen the face of an angel, and then there came to his memory words whichhad been spoken to him that very day by his earnest friend Stevenson themarine: "No man can fully do his duty to his fellows until he has begunto do his duty to God."
The words had not been used in reference to himself but in connectionwith a discussion as to the motives generally which influence men. Butthe words were made use of by the Spirit as arrows to pierce the youth'sheart.
"Guilty!" he exclaimed aloud, and almost involuntary followed, "Godforgive me!"
Again the watchful ear distinguished unwonted sounds, and the sharpeye--wonderfully sharpened by frequent danger--perceived objects inmotion on the plain. This time the objects were real. They approached.It was "the rounds" who visited the sentries six times during eachnight.
In another part of the ground, at a considerable distance from the spotwhere our hero mounted guard, stood a youthful soldier, also on guard,and thinking, no doubt, of home. He was much too young for service insuch a climate--almost a boy. He was a ruddy, healthy lad, with plentyof courage and high spirit, who was willing to encounter anythingcheerfully, so long as, in so doing, he could serve his Queen andcountry. But he was careless of his own comfort and safety. Severaltimes he had been found fault with for going out in the sun without hiswhite helmet. Miles had taken a fancy to the lad, and had spokenseriously, but very kindly, to him that very day about the folly ofexposing himself in a way that had already cost so many men their lives.
But young Lewis laughed good-naturedly, and said that he was too toughto be killed by the sun.
The suffocating heat of that night told upon him, however, severely--tough though he was or supposed himself to be--while he kept his lonelywatch on the sandy plain.
Presently a dark figure was seen approaching. The sentinel at oncechallenged, and brought his rifle to the "ready." The man, who was anative, gave the password all right, and made some apparentlycommonplace remark as he passed, which, coupled with his easy manner andthe correct countersign, threw the young soldier off his guard.Suddenly a long sharp knife gleamed in the faint light and was drawnacross the body of Lewis before he could raise a hand to defend himself.He fell instantly, mortally wounded, with his entrails cut open. Atthe same moment the tramp of the rounds was heard, and the native glidedback into the darkness from which he had so recently emerged.
When the soldiers came to the post they found the poor young soldierdying. He was able to tell what had occurred while they were makingpreparations to carry him away, but when they reached the fort theyfound that his brief career had ended.
A damp was cast on the spirits of the men of his company when theylearned next day what had occurred, for the lad had been a greatfavourite; but soldiers in time of war are too much accustomed to lookupon death in every form to be deeply or for long affected by incidentsof the kind. Only the comrades who had become unusually attached tothis poor youth mourned his death as if he had been a brother in theflesh as well as in the ranks.
"He was a good lad," said Sergeant Gilroy, as they kept watch on theroof of the fort that night. "Since we came here he has never missedwriting to his mother a single mail. It is true, being an amiable lad,and easily led through his affections, he had given way to drink to someextent, but no later than yesterday I prevailed upon him to join ourtemperance band--"
"What? become a Blue Light!" exclaimed Sutherland, with something of asneer in his tone.
"Ah, comrade; and I hope to live to see you join our band also, andbecome one of the bluest lights among us," returned the sergeantgood-humouredly.
"Never!" replied Sutherland, with emphasis; "you'll never live to seethat."
"Perhaps not, but if I don't live to see it some one else will,"rejoined the sergeant, laying his hand gently on the man's shoulder.
"Is that you again? It's wishin' I am that I had you in ould Ireland,"growled Corporal Flynn, referring to Osman Digna, whose men had openedfire on the neighbouring fort, and again roused the whole garrison."Slape is out o' the question wi' such a muskitos buzzin' about. Badluck to 'ee!"
"What good would it do to send him to Ireland?" asked Simkin, as heyawned, rolled over, and, like the rest of his comrades, loaded hisrifle.
"Why, man, don't ye see, av he was in ould Ireland he couldn't bedisturbin' our night's rest here. Moreover, they'd make a dacent man of'im there in no time. It's always the way; if an English blackguardgoes over to Ireland he's almost sure to return home more or less of agintleman. That's why I've always advised you to go over, boy. An'maybe if Osman wint he'd--Hall
o!"
A flash of light and whistling of bullets overhead effectually stoppedthe Irishman's discourse. Not that he was at all alarmed by thefamiliar incident, but being a change of subject it became moreabsorbingly interesting than the conversation, besides necessitatingsome active precautions.
The firing seemed to indicate an attack in several places along the lineof defence. At one of the posts called the New House the attack wasvery sharp. The enemy could not have been much, if at all, over threehundred yards distant in the shelter of three large pits. Of course thefire was vigorously returned. A colonel and major were there on theredoubt, with powerful field-glasses, and directed the men where to fireuntil the General himself appeared on the scene and took command. Onthe left, from Quarantine Island, the Royal Engineers kept up a heavycross-fire, and on the right they were helped by a fort which was mannedby Egyptian troops. From these three points a heavy fire was kept up,and continued till six o'clock in the morning.
By that time, the enemy having been finally driven out of the pits, aparty was sent across to see what execution had been done. It waswonderfully little, considering the amount of ammunition and energyexpended. In the first pit one man was found dead; a bullet had enteredhis forehead and come out at the back of his head. Moving him a littleon one side they found another man under him, shot in the same way. Allround the pit inside were large pools of blood, but no bodies, for thenatives invariably dragged or carried away their dead when that waspossible. In the other two pits large pools of blood were also found,but no bodies. Beyond them, however, one man was discovered shotthrough the heart. He had evidently been dragged along the sand, butthe tremendous fire of the defenders had compelled the enemy to drophim. Still further on they found twelve more corpses which had beendragged a short way and then left.
Close to these they observed that the sand had been disturbed, and onturning it up found that a dozen of bodies had been hastily buriedthere. Altogether they calculated that at least fifty of the enemy hadbeen killed on that occasion--a calculation which was curiously verifiedby the friendly tribes asking permission to bury the dead according tothe Soudanese custom. This was granted, of course, and thus the exactnumber killed was ascertained, but how many had been wounded no onecould tell.
"Fifty desolated homes!" remarked one of the men, when the number ofkilled was announced at mess that day. He was a cynical, sour-visagedman, who had just come out of hospital after a pretty severe illness."Fifty widows, may-hap," he continued, "to say nothin' o' child'n--thatare just as fond o' husbands an' fathers as _ours_ are!"
"Why, Jack Hall, if these are your sentiments you should never haveenlisted," cried Simkin, with a laugh.
"I 'listed when I was drunk," returned Hall savagely.
"Och, then, it sarves ye right!" said Flynn. "Even a pig would beashamed to do anythin' whin it was in liquor."
The corporal's remark prevented the conversation taking a lugubriousturn, to the satisfaction of a few of the men who could not endure tolook at anything from a serious point of view.
"What's the use," one of them asked, "of pullin' a long face over whatyou can't change? Here we are, boys, to kill or be killed. My creedis, `Take things as they come, and be jolly!' It won't mend matters tothink about wives and child'n."
"Won't it?" cried Armstrong, looking up with a bright expression from asheet of paper, on which he had just been writing. "Here am I writin'home to _my_ wife--in a hurry too, for I've only just heard that wordhas been passed, the mail for England goes to-day. I'm warned for guardto-night, too; an' if the night takes after the day we're in for achance o' suffocation, to say nothing o' insects--as you all know. Now,won't it mend matters that I've got a dear girl over the sea to thinkabout, and to say `God bless her, body and soul?'"
"No doubt," retorted the take-things-as-they-come-and-be-jolly man,"but--but--"
"But," cried Hall, coming promptly to his rescue, "have not theSoudanese got wives an' children as well as us?"
"I daresay they have--some of 'em."
"Well, does the thought of your respective wives an' children preventyour shooting or sticking each other when you get the chance?"
"Of course it don't!" returned Armstrong, with a laugh as he resumed hispencil. "What would be the use o' comin' here if we didn't do that?But I haven't time to argue with you just now, Hall. All I know is thatit's my duty to write to my wife, an' I won't let the chance slip whenI've got it."
"Bah!" exclaimed the cynic, relighting his pipe, which in the heat ofdebate he had allowed to go out.
Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by theconversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though theirhands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was MilesMilton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word_Duty_, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote adistinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word ofexcuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. Inshort, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was--Guilty! and ofcourse this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He hadforgiveness--though he knew it not--long before he asked it. Hisbroken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him intheir hearts long before--even before they received that treasuredfragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:
"Dearest Mother, I am sorry--"
After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with afeeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since thatwretched day when he forsook his father's house.
As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble inthe town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with theGardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask thesergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial Christian, andMiles had lately begun to relish his earnest, intelligent talk, dashedas it was with many a touch of humour.
The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day beforein ascertaining the exact range of several objects on the ground infront.
"I'll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I've given this gun aclean-out," said Gilroy. "Turn the handle, Sutherland."
"I'll turn the handle if it's a' richt," said the cautious Scot, withsome hesitation.
"It is all right," returned the sergeant. "We ran the feeder out lastnight, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away."
Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle.The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant's groin,making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.
He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some forwater, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital.Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised his head andmoistened his pale lips with water. He could hardly speak, but a smilepassed over his face as he said faintly, "She'll get my presents by thismail. Write, Miles--break it to her--we'll meet again--by the side ofJesus--God be praised!"
He ceased, and never spoke again.
Gilroy was a married man, with five children. Just before the accidenthe had written to his wife enclosing gifts for his little ones, andtelling, in a thankful spirit, of continued health and safety. Beforethe mail-steamer with his letter on board was out of sight he was dead!