CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.
AFTER SEVEN YEARS.
Sir Francis, as I afterwards learned, did not insist upon the matter,but the very next day, as I was in the peach-house, I heard the dooropen, and I felt anything but comfortable as I saw Courtenay enter theplace and come slowly up to me.
I was prepared for anything, but I had no cause for expecting war. Hehad come in peace.
"We're going away directly after lunch," he said in a low, surly tone,as if he resented what he was saying. "I'll--, I'll--there! I'll try--to be different when I come back again."
He turned and went hurriedly out of the place, and he had not been gonelong when the door at the other end clicked, and I found, as soon as hewho entered had come round into sight, that it was Philip.
He came up to me in a quick, impetuous way, as if eager to get his taskover, and as our eyes met I could see that he had evidently beensuffering a good deal.
"I'm going away this afternoon," he said quickly. "I wish I hadn't saidand done all I have. I beg--"
He could not finish, but burst into a passionate fit of sobbing, andturned away his face.
"Good-bye!" I said. "I shall not think about it any more."
"Then we'll shake hands," he cried--"some day--next time we meet."
We did shake hands next time we met, but when Philip Dalton said thosewords he did not know it would be seven years first. But so it was.
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I never knew exactly how it happened, but I believe one of my uncles wasinfluenced to take some part in the affair, and Sir Francis did all therest. What I do know is that about three months after the young Daltonshad gone I was on my way to a clergyman's house, where I stayed a year,being prepared for my future career; and when I had been with theReverend Hartley Dallas a year I was able to join the Military Collegeat Woolwich, where I went through the regular course, and in due timeobtained my commission in the artillery.
I had not long been in the service before the Crimean war broke out, andour battery was one of the first despatched to the seat of war, where,in company with my comrades, I went through that terrible period ofmisery and privation.
One night I was in charge of a couple of guns in a rather dangerousposition near the Redan, and after repairing damages under fire my ladshad contrived to patch up a pretty secure shelter with sand-bag andgabion, ready for knocking down next day, but it kept off the rain, andwhere we huddled together there was no mud under our feet, though it wasinches deep in the trench.
It was a bitter night, and the tiny bit of fire that we had ventured tomake in the hole we had scooped underground hardly kept the chill fromour half-frozen limbs. Food was not plentiful, luxuries we had none,and in place of the dashing-looking artillerymen in blue and gold peopleare accustomed to see on parade, anyone who had looked upon us wouldhave seen a set of mud-stained, ragged scarecrows, blackened withpowder, grim looking, but hard and full of fight.
I was seated on an upturned barrel, hugging my sheepskin-lined greatcoatcloser to me, and drawing it down over my high boots, as I made room fora couple of my wet, shivering men, and I felt ashamed to be the owner ofso warm a coat as I looked at their well-worn service covering, when mysergeant put in his head and said:
"Captain of the company of foot, sir, would be glad if you could givehim a taste of the fire and a drop of brandy; he's half dead with thecold."
"Bring him in," I said; and I waited, thinking about home and the oldgarden at Isleworth and then of that at Hampton; I didn't know why, butI did. And then I was thinking to myself that it was a good job that wehad the stern, manly feeling to comfort us of our hard work being ourduty, when I heard the _slush, slush, slush, slush_, sound of feetcoming along the trenches, and then my sergeant said:
"You'll have to stoop very low to get in, sir, but you'll find it warmand dry. The lieutenant's inside."
"Yes, come in," I said; and my men drew back to let the fresh corner geta bit of the fire.
"It's awfully kind of you," he said, as he knelt down, took off hisdripping gloves, and held his blue fingers to the flame. "What a night!It isn't fit for a dog to be out in. 'Pon my soul, gunner, I feelashamed to come in and get shelter, and leave my poor boys in thetrench."
"Get a good warm then, and let's thaw and dry one of them at a time.I'm going to turn out soon."
"Sorry for you," he said. "Brandy--thanks. It's worth anything a nightlike this. I've got some cigars in my breast-pocket, as soon as myfingers will let me get at them."
He had taken off his shako, and the light shone full upon his face,which I recognised directly, though he did not know me, as he looked upand said again:
"It's awfully kind of you, gunner."
"Oh! it's nothing," I said, "Captain Dalton--Philip Dalton, is it not?"
"Yes," he said; "you know me?"
"To be sure," I replied; "but you said that next time we met we'd shakehands."
He sank back and his jaw dropped.
"You remember me--Grant? How is Sir Francis?"
"Remember you!" he said, seizing my hand, "Oh! I say, what a youngbeast I was!"
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I learned more than once that he and his brother turned out fine, manlysoldiers, and did their duty well in that hard-fought campaign. I triedalso to do mine, and came back one of the last to leave the Crimea,another grade higher in my rank.
During my college life I often used to go over and see the brothersBrownsmith, to be warmly welcomed at every visit; and if ever he got toknow that I was going to Isleworth to spend Sunday, Ike used to walkover, straighten his back and draw himself up to attention, and saluteme, looking as serious as if in uniform. He did not approve of my goinginto the artillery, though.
"It's wrong," he used to say; and in these days he was back atIsleworth, for Mr Solomon had entered into partnership with hisbrother, and both Ike and Shock had elected to follow him back to theold place.
"Yes," he would say, "it's wrong, Mars Grant, I was always drew to youbecause your father had been a sojer; but what would he have said to youif he had lived to know as you turned gunner?"
"What would you have had me, then? You must have artillerymen."
"Yes, of course, sir; but what are they? You ought to have been ahoozoar:--
"`Oh, them as with jackets go flying, Oh, they are the gallant hoozoars,'"
he sang--at least he tried to sing; but I went into the artillery.
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By the way, I did not tell you the name of the sergeant who usheredPhilip Dalton into my shelter that night. His name was John Hampton, asfine a soldier as ever stepped. He joined the artillery when I got mycommission. Poor Shock, for I knew him better by that name; he followedme with the fidelity of a dog; he always contrived something hot for mewhen we were almost starving, and any day he would have gone withoutthat I might eat. And I believe that he would have fought for me to thedeath.
Poor Shock! The night when I was told that he could not live, afterbeing struck down by a piece of shell, I knelt by him in the mud andheld his hand. He just looked up in my face and said softly:
"Remember being shut up in the sand-pit, sir, and how you prayed? Ifyou wouldn't mind, sir--once again?"
I bent down lower and lower, and at last--soldier--hardened by horrors--grown stern by the life I led--I felt as if I had lost in that rough,true man the best of friends, and I cried over him like a child!
THE END.
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