CHAPTER XXXVI
"THE FRONT"
Man has been variously defined by philosophers as a cooking animal (thetruth of this definition, unless when applied to our Gallic neighbours,I stoutly contest), as a reasoning animal (this likewise will hardlyhold water), as a self-clothing animal, as an omnivorous one, as anunfeathered biped, and as an improved specimen of the order of Simiaewithout the tail! None of these definitions will I accept as expressingexactly the conditions and necessities of our species. I believe man tobe an animal fed on excitement--the only one in creation that withoutthat pabulum, in some shape or another, languishes, becomes torpid, andloses its noblest energies both of mind and body. Why do men drink,quarrel, gamble, and waste their substance in riotous living? Why doesSatan, according to good Dr. Watts, always provide work "for idle handsto do"? Why, but because man _must_ have excitement. If he have nosafety-valve for his surplus energies in the labour which earns hisdaily bread, they will find vent through some other channel, either forgood or evil, according to his bias one way or the other. There is nosuch thing as repose on the face of the earth; "push on--keep moving,"such is the motto of humanity. If we are not making we must be marring,but we cannot sit still. How else do we account for the proverbialrestlessness of the sailor when he has been a few weeks ashore? How elsecan we conceive it possible for a rational being, whilst enjoying theluxuries and liberty of a landsman's existence, to pine for thehardships, the restraint, the utter discomfort which every one mustnecessarily experience on board ship? How, except upon this principle,can we understand the charm of a soldier's life, the cheering influenceof a campaign? It is most unnatural to like rigid discipline, shortrations, constant anxiety, and unremitting toil. A wet great-coat onthe damp earth is a bad substitute for a four-post bed, with thickblankets, and clean sheets not innocent of the warming-pan. A tent is amiserable dwelling-place at the best of times, and is only justpreferable to the canopy of heaven in very hot or very cold, or verywindy or very wet weather. There is small amusement in spending thelivelong night in sleepless watching for an enemy, and littlesatisfaction in being surprised by the same about an hour before dawn.It is annoying to be starved, it is irritating to be frightened, it isuncomfortable to be shot,--yet are all these casualties more or lessincidental to the profession of arms; and still the recruiting sergeantflaunts his bunch of ribbons in every market town throughout merryEngland, and still the bumpkin takes the shilling, and sings in beerystrains, "Huzza for the life of a soldier!"
And I too had tasted of the fierce excitement of strife--had drunk ofthe stimulating draught which, like some bitter tonic, creates aconstant craving for more--had been taught by the influence of customand companionship to loathe the quiet dreamy existence which was mynormal state, and to long for the thrill of danger, the variety andunholy revelry of war.
So I returned with Ropsley to the Crimea. I had small difficulty inobtaining leave from Omar Pasha to resign, at least for a time, myappointment on his personal staff.
"They are queer fellows, my adopted countrymen," said his Highness, inhis dry, humorous manner, and with his quaint smile, "and the sooner youget out of the way, friend Egerton, the better. I shall be asked allsorts of questions about you myself; and if you stay here, why, thenights are dark and the streets are narrow. Some fine morning it mightbe difficult to wake you, and nobody would be a bit the wiser. Our Turkhas his peculiar notions about the laws of honour, and he cannot be madeto comprehend why he should risk his own life in taking yours. Besides,he is ridiculously sensitive about his women, particularly with aChristian. Had you been a good Mussulman, now, Egerton, it could havebeen easily arranged. You might have bought the lady, got drunk onchampagne with old Papoosh Pasha, and set up a harem of your own. Whydon't you become a convert, as I did? The process is short, the faithsimple, the practice satisfactory. Think it over, my good Interpreter,think it over. Bah! in ten minutes you would be as good a Mussulman asI am, and better." And his Highness laughed, and bid me "Good-bye," forhe had a good deal upon his hands just then, being on the eve ofmarriage with his _fifth_ wife, a young lady twelve years of age,daughter to his Imperial Majesty the Sultan, and bringing her husband amagnificent dowry of jewels, gold, and horses, in addition to many broadand fertile acres in Anatolia, not to mention a beautiful kiosk nearScutari and a stately palace on the Bosphorus, without whichadventitious advantages she might perhaps have hardly succeeded inwinning the heart of so experienced a warrior as Omar Pasha.
Thus it was that I found myself one broiling sunny morning leaning overthe side of a transport, just then dropping her anchor in Balaklava Bay.
The scorching rocks frowned down on the scorching sea; the very plankson the deck glistened with the heat. There was no shade on land, and nota breath of air ruffled the shining bosom of the water. The harbour wasfull, ay, choked with craft of every rig and every tonnage; whilst long,wicked-looking steamers and huge, unwieldy troop-ships dotted thesurface of the land-locked bay. The union-jack trailed idly over ourstern, the men were all on deck, gazing with eager faces on that shorewhich combined for _them_ the realities of history with the fascinationsof romance. Young soldiers were they, mostly striplings of eighteen andtwenty summers, with the smooth cheeks, fresh colour, and stalwart limbsof the Anglo-Saxon race--too good to fill a trench! And yet what wouldbe the fate of at least two-thirds of that keen, light-hearted draft?_Vestigia nulla retrorsum_. Many a time has it made my heart ache tosee a troop-ship ploughing relentlessly onward with her living freightto "the front,"--many a time have I recalled AEsop's fable, and thefoot-prints that were all _towards_ the lion's den,--many a time have Ithought how every unit there in red was himself the centre of a littleworld at home; and of the grey heads that would tremble, and the lovingfaces that would pale in peaceful villages far away in England, when nonews came from foreign parts of "our John," or when the unrelenting_Gazette_ arrived at last and proclaimed, as too surely it would, thathe was coming back "never, never no more."
Boom!--there it is again! Every eye lightens at that dull, distantsound. Every man's pulse beats quicker, and his head towers more erect,for he feels that he has arrived at the _real thing_ at last. No shamfighting is going on over yonder, not two short leagues from where hestands--no mock bivouac at Chobham, nor practice in Woolwich Marshes,nor meaningless pageant in the Park: that iron voice carries _death_upon its every accent. For those in the trenches it is a mere echo--theunregarded consequence that necessarily succeeds the fierce rush of around-shot or the wicked whistle of a shell; but for us here atBalaklava it is one of the pulsations of England's life-blood--one ofthe ticks, so to speak, of that great Clock of Doom which pointsominously to the downfall of the beleaguered town.
Boom! Yes, there it is again; you cannot forget why you are here. Dayand night, sunshine and storm, scarce five minutes elapse in thetwenty-four hours without reminding you of the work in hand. You rideout from the camp for your afternoon exercise, you go down to Balaklavato buy provisions, or you canter over to the monastery at St. George'sto visit a sick comrade--the iron voice tolls on. In the glare of noon,when everything else seems drowsy in the heat, and the men lie downexhausted in the suffocating trenches--the iron voice tolls on. In thecalm of evening, when the breeze is hushed and still, and the violet seais sleeping in the twilight--the iron voice tolls on. So when theflowers are opening in the morning, and the birds begin to sing, andreviving nature, fresh and dewy, seems to scatter health and peace andgood-will over the earth--the iron voice tolls on. Nay, when you wakeat midnight in your tent from a dream of your far-away home--oh! what adifferent scene to this!--tired as you may be, ere you have turned tosleep once more, you hear it again. Yes, at midnight as at noon, atmorn as at evening, every day and all day long, Death is gathering hisharvest--and the iron voice tolls on.
"Very slack fire they seem to be keeping up in the front," yawns outRopsley, who has just joined me on deck, and to whom
the siege and allits accessories are indeed nothing new. Many a long and weary month hashe been listening to that sound; and what with his own ideas on thesubject, and the information a naturally acute intellect has acquiredtouching the proceedings of the besiegers, his is indeed a familiaritywhich "breeds contempt."
"Any news from the camp?" he shouts out to a middy in a man-of-war'sboat passing under our stern. The middy, a thorough specimen of anEnglish boy, with his round laughing face and short jacket, stands up toreply.
"Another sortie! No end of fellows killed; and _they say_ the Malakhoffis blown up."
Our young soldiers listen eagerly to the news. They have heard and readof the Malakhoff for many a day, and though their ideas of the natureand appearance of that work are probably of a somewhat confuseddescription, they are all athirst for intelligence, and prepared toswallow everything connected with the destruction of that or any otherof the defences with a faith that is, to say the least of it, a sadtemptation to the laughter-loving informant.
A middy, though from some organic cause of which I am ignorant, isalways restless and impatient towards the hour of noon; and our friendplumps down once more in the stern of his gig, and bids his men "giveway"; for the sun is by this time high in the heavens; so we take ourplaces in the ship's boat which our own captain politely provides forus, and avoiding the confusion of a disembarkation of men and stores,Ropsley, Bold, and I leap ashore at Balaklava, unencumbered save by theslender allowance of luggage which a campaign teaches the most luxuriousto deem sufficient.
Ashore at Balaklava! What a scene of hurry and crowding and generalconfusion it is! Were it not that every second individual is in uniformand bearded to the waist, it would appear more like the mart of somepeaceful and commercial sea-port, than the threshold of a stage on whichis being fought out to the death one of the fiercest and most obstinatestruggles which History has to record on her blood-stained pages. Thereare no women, yet the din of tongues is perfectly deafening. Hurryingto and fro, doing as little work with as much labour as possible, makingimmense haste with small speed, and vociferating incessantly at the topof their voices, Turks and Tartars, Armenians, Greeks, and Ionians, allaccosted by the burly English soldier under the generic name of"Johnny," are flitting aimlessly about, and wasting her Majesty's storesin a manner that would have driven the late Mr. Hume frantic. Here atrim sergeant of infantry, clean and orderly, despite his war-worn looksand patched garments, drives before him a couple of swarthynondescripts, clad in frieze, and with wild elf-locks protruding overtheir jutting foreheads, and twinkling Tartar eyes. They stagger underhuge sacks of meal, which they are carrying to yonder storehouse, with asentry pacing his short walk at the door. The sacks have been furnishedby contract, so the seams are badly sewn; and the meal, likewisefurnished by contract, and of inferior quality, is rapidly escaping, toleave a white track in the mud, also a contract article, and of thedeepest, stickiest, and most enduring quality. The labours of the twoporters will be much lightened ere they reach their destination; butthis is of less moment, inasmuch as the storehouse to which they areproceeding is by no means watertight, and the first thunderstorm thatsweeps in from the Black Sea is likely much to damage its contents. Itis needless to add that this edifice of thin deal planks has beenconstructed by contract for the use of her Majesty's Government.
A little farther on, a train of mules, guided by a motley crowd of everynation under heaven, and commanded by an officer in the workmanlikeuniform of the Land Transport, is winding slowly up the hill. They haveemerged from a perfect sea of mud, which even at this dry season showsnot the least tendency to harden into consistency, and they willprobably arrive at the front in about four hours, with the loss of athird only of their cargo, consisting of sundry munitions which wereindispensable last week, and might have been of service the day beforeyesterday, but the occasion for which has now passed away for ever.
A staff officer on a short sturdy pony gallops hastily by, exchanging anod as he passes with a beardless cornet of dragoons, whose Englishcharger presents a curious study of the anatomy of a horse. He pulls upfor an instant to speak to Ropsley, and the latter turns to me andsays--
"Not so bad as I feared, Vere. It was a mere sortie, after all, and wedrove them back very handsomely, with small loss on our side. The onlyofficer killed was young ----, and he was dying, poor fellow! at anyrate, of dysentery."
This is the news of the day here, and the trenches form just such asubject of conversation before Sebastopol as does the weather in acountry-house in England--a topic never new, but never entirely wornout.
Side by side, Ropsley and myself are journeying up the hill towards thefront. A sturdy batman has been in daily expectation of his master'sreturn, and has brought his horses down to meet him. It is indeed acomfort to be again in an English saddle--to have the lengthy, powerfulframe of an English horse under one--and to hear the homely, honestaccents of a _provincial_ English tongue. When a man has been longamongst foreigners, and especially serving with foreign troops, it islike being at home again to be once more within the lines of a Britisharmy; and to add to the pleasure of our ride, although the day iscloudless and insufferably hot in the valleys, there is a fresh breezeup here, and a pure bracing air that reaches us from the heights onwhich the army is encamped.
It is a wild, picturesque scene, not beautiful, yet full of interest andincident. Behind us lies Balaklava, with its thronging harbour and itsbusy crowds, whose hum reaches us even here, high above the din. It islike looking down on an ant-hill to watch the movements of the shiftingswarm.
On our right, the plain, stretching far and wide, is dotted with theLand Transport--that necessary evil so essential to the very existenceof an army; and their clustering wagons and scattered beasts carry theeye onwards to a dim white line formed by the neat tents and orderlyencampment of the flower of French cavalry, the gallant and dashingChasseurs d'Afrique.
On our left, the stable call of an English regiment of Light Dragoonsreaches us from the valley of Kadikoi, that Crimean Newmarket, thedoings of which are actually chronicled in _Bell's Life_! Certainly anEnglishman's nationality is not to be rooted out of him even in the jawsof death. But we have little time to visit the race-course or thelines--to pass our comments on the condition of the troopers, or gazeopen-mouthed at the wondrous field-batteries that occupy an adjoiningencampment--moved by teams of twelve horses each, perhaps the finestanimals of the class to be seen in Europe, with every accessory ofcarriage, harness, and appointments, so perfect as not to admit ofimprovement, yet, I believe, not found to answer in actual warfare. Ourinterest is more awakened by another scene. We are on classic groundnow, for we have reached the spot whence
Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred!
Yes, stretching down from our very feet lies that mile-and-a-half gallopwhich witnessed the boldest deed of chivalry performed in ancient ormodern times. Well might the French general exclaim, "_C'estmagnifique!_" although he added, significantly, "_mais ce n'est pas laguerre._" The latter part of his observation is a subject fordiscussion, but of the former there is and there can be but one opinion._Magnifique_ indeed it must have been to see six hundred horsemen ridegallantly down to almost certain death--every heart beating equallyhigh, every sword striking equally hard and true.
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well.
Not a child in England at this day but knows, as if he had been there,the immortal battle of Balaklava. It is needless to describe itssituation, to dwell upon the position they were ordered to carry, or thefire that poured in upon front, flanks, ay, and rear, of the attackingforce. This is all matter of history; but as the valley stretchedbeneath us, fresh, green, and smiling peacefully in the sun, it requiredbut little imagination to call up the stirring scene of which it hadbeen the stage. Here was the very ground on which the Light Brigadewere drawn up; every charger quivering with excitement, every eyeflashing, every lip compressed with the sens
e of coming danger. A staffofficer rides up to the leader, and communicates an order. There is aninstant's pause. Question and reply pass like lightning, and theaide-de-camp points to a dark, grim mass of artillery bristling far awaydown yonder in the front. Men's hearts stop beating, and many a boldcheek turns pale, for there is more excitement in uncertainty than inactual danger. The leader draws his sword, and faces flush, and heartsbeat high once more. Clear and sonorous is his voice as he gives thewell-known word; gallant and chivalrous his bearing as he takes hisplace--that place of privilege--_in front_--"_Noblesse oblige_" and canhe be otherwise than gallant and chivalrous and devoted, for is he not a_gentleman?_ and yet, to the honour of our countrymen be it spoken, nota man of that six hundred, of any rank, but was as gallant andchivalrous and devoted as he--he has said so himself a hundred times.
So the word is given, and the squadron leaders take it up, and the LightBrigade advances at a gallop; and a deadly grasp is on the sword, andthe charger feels his rider's energy as he grips him with his knees, andholding him hard by the head urges him resolutely forward--to death!
And now they cross the line of fire: shot through the heart, anaide-de-camp falls headlong from the saddle, and his loose horse gallopson, wild and masterless, and wheels in upon the flank, and joins thesquadron once more. It has begun now. Man upon man, horse upon horse,are shot down and rolled over; yet the survivors close in, sterner,bolder, fiercer than before, and still the death-ride sweeps on.
"Steady, men--forward!" shouts a chivalrous squadron leader, as he waveshis glittering sword above his head, and points towards the foe. Clearand cheerful rings his voice above the tramp of horses and the rattle ofsmall-arms and the deadly roar of artillery. He is a model of beauty,youth, and gallantry--the admired of men, the darling of women, the hopeof his house.--Do not look again.--A round-shot has taken man and horse;he is lying rolled up with his charger, a confused and ghastly mass.Forward! the squadron has passed over him, and still the death-ridesweeps on.
The gaps are awful now, the men told off by threes look in vain for thefamiliar face at right or left; every trooper feels that he must dependon himself and the good horse under him, but there is no wavering.Officers begin to have misgivings as to the result, but there is nohesitation. All know they are galloping to destruction, yet not a heartfails, not a rein is turned. Few, very few are they by this time, andstill the death-ride sweeps on. They disappear in that rollingsulphurous cloud, the portal of another world; begrimed with smoke,ghastly with wounds, comrade cannot recognise comrade, and officers lookwildly round for their men; but the guns are still before them--theobject is not yet attained--the enemy awaits them steadily behind hisgabions, and the fire from his batteries is mowing them down like grass.If but one man is left, that one will still press forward: and now theyare on their prey. A tremendous roar of artillery shakes the air.Mingled with the clash of swords and the plunge of horses, oath, prayer,and death-shriek fly to heaven. The batteries are reached and carried.The death-ride sweeps over them, and it is time to return.
"The batteries are reached and carried. _TheInterpreter_ _Page 317_]
* * * * *
In twos, and threes, and single files, the few survivors stagger back tothe ground, from whence, a few short minutes ago, a gallant band hadadvanced in so trim, so orderly, so soldier-like a line.
The object has been attained, but at what a sacrifice? Look at yonstalwart trooper sinking on his saddle-bow, sick with his death-hurt,his head drooping on his bosom, his sword hanging idly in his paralysedright hand, his failing charger, wounded and feeble, nobly bearing hismaster to safety ere he falls to rise no more. The soldier's eyebrightens for an instant as he hears the cheer of the Heavy Brigadecompleting the work he has pawned his life to begin. Soon that eye willglaze and close for ever. Men look round for those they knew and loved,and fear to ask for the comrade who is down, stiff and stark, underthose dismounted guns and devastated batteries; horses come galloping inwithout riders; here and there a dismounted dragoon crawls feebly backto join the remnants of what was once his squadron, and by degrees thefew survivors get together and form something like an ordered body oncemore. It is better not to count them, they are so few, so _very_ few.Weep, England, for thy chivalry! mourn and wring thy hands for thatdisastrous day; but smile with pride through thy tears, thrill withexultation in thy sorrow, to think of the sons thou canst boast, of thedeed of arms done by them in that valley before the eyes of gatherednations--of the immortal six hundred--thy children, every man of them,that rode the glorious death-ride of Balaklava!
"That was a stupid business," observed Ropsley, as he brought his horsealongside of mine, and pointed down the valley; "quite a mistake frombeginning to end. What a licking we deserved to get, and what a lickingwe _should_ have got if our dragoons were not the only cavalry in theworld that will _ride straight_!"
"And yet what a glorious day!" I exclaimed, for the wild cheer of acharge seemed even now to be thrilling in my ears. "What a chance for aman to have! even if he did not survive it. What a proud sight for thearmy! Oh, Ropsley, what would I give to have been there!"
"_Not whist_, my dear fellow," replied my less enthusiastic friend;"that is not the way to _play the game_, and no man who makes mistakesdeserves to win. I have a theory of my own about cavalry, they shouldnever be offered too freely. I would almost go so far as to say theyshould not be used till a battle is won. At least they should be keptin hand till the last moment, and then let loose like lightning. Whatsaid the Duke? 'There are no cavalry on earth like mine, but I can onlyuse them _once_;' and no man knew so well as he did the merits and thefailings of each particular arm. Nor should you bring the same men outagain too soon after a brilliant charge; let them have a little time toget over it, they will _come_ again all the better. Never _waste_anything in war, and never run a chance when you can stand on acertainty. But here we are at the camp of the First Division. Yonderyou may catch a glimpse of the harbour and a few houses of the town ofSebastopol. How quiet it looks this fine day! quite the sort of placeto take the children to for sea-bathing at this time of the year! I amgetting tired of the _outside_, though, Egerton; I sometimes think weshall _never_ get in. There they go again," he added, as a white volumeof smoke rose slowly into the clear air, and a heavy report broke dullyon our ears; "there they go again, but what a slack fire they seem to bekeeping up; we shall never do any good till we try a _coup de main_, andtake the place by assault;" so speaking, Ropsley picked his waycarefully amongst tent-ropes and tent-pegs, and all the impediments of acamp, to reach the main street, so to speak, of that canvas town, and Ifollowed him, gazing around me with a curiosity rather sharpened thandamped by the actual warfare I had already seen on so much smaller ascale.
There must have been at least two hundred thousand men at that timedisposed around the beleaguered town, this without counting the LandTransport and followers of an army, or the crowds of non-combatants thatthronged the ports of Kamiesch and Balaklava. The white town of tentsstretched away for miles, divided and subdivided into streets andalleys; you had only to know the number of his regiment to find aprivate soldier, with as great a certainty as you could find anindividual in London if you knew the number of his house and the name ofthe street where he resided--always pre-supposing that the soldier hadnot been killed the night before in the trenches, a casualty by no meansto be overlooked. We rode down the main street of the Guards' division,admired the mountaineer on sentry at the adjoining camp of the Highlandbrigade, and pulled up to find ourselves at home at the door ofRopsley's tent, to which humble abode my friend welcomed me with ascourteous an air and as much concern for my comfort as he would havedone in his own luxurious lodgings in the heart of May-fair. Asoldier's life had certainly much altered Ropsley for the better. Icould see he was popular in his regiment. The men seemed to welcomeback the Colonel (a captain in the Guards holds the rank oflieutenant-colonel in the army), and his brother offi
cers thronged intothe tent ere we had well entered it ourselves, to tell him the latestparticulars of the siege, and the ghastly news that every morningbrought fresh and bloody from the trenches.
As a stranger, or rather as a guest, I was provided with the seat ofhonour, an old, shrivelled bullock-trunk that had escaped the generalloss of baggage on the landing of the army, previous to the battle ofthe Alma, and which, set against the tent-pole for a "back," formed acommodious and delightful resting-place; the said tent-pole, besidesbeing literally the main-stay and prop of the establishment, fulfillingall the functions of a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and adressing-table; for from certain nails artfully disposed on its slendercircumference, depended the few articles of costume and necessaries ofthe toilet which formed the whole worldly wealth of the _ci-devant_London dandy.
The dandy aforesaid, sitting on his camp-bedstead in his raggedflannel-shirt, and sharing that seat with two other dandies more raggedthan himself, pledged his guest in a silver-gilt measure of pale ale,brought up from Balaklava at a cost of about half-a-guinea a bottle, anddrank with a gusto such as the best-flavoured champagne had never wooedfrom a palate formerly too delicate and fastidious to be pleased withthe nectar of the immortals themselves, now appreciating with exquisiteenjoyment the strongest liquids, the most acrid tobacco, nay, the Irishstew itself, cooked by a private soldier at a camp-fire, savoury anddelicious, if glutinous with grease and reeking of onions.
"Heavy business the night before last," said a young Guardsman with abeautiful girlish face, and a pair of uncommonly dirty hands garnishedwith costly rings--a lad that looked as if he ought to be still atschool, but uniting the cool courage of a man with the mischievouslight-hearted spirits of a boy. "Couldn't get a wink of sleep for themat any time--never knew 'em so restless. Tell you what, Colonel, 'ratsleave a falling house,' it's my belief there's _something up_ now, elsewhy were we all relieved at twelve o'clock instead of our regulartwenty-four hours in the trenches? Good job for me, for I breakfastedwith the General, and a precious blow-out he gave me. Turkey, my boys!and cherry-brandy out of a shaving-pot! Do you call that nothing?"
"Were you in the advanced trenches?" inquired Ropsley, stopping ouryoung friend's gastronomic recollections; "and did you see poor ----killed?"
The lad's face fell in an instant; it was with a saddened and alteredvoice that he replied--
"Poor Charlie! yes, I was close to him when he was hit. You know it washis first night in the trenches, and he was like a boy out of school.Well, the beggars made a sortie, you know, on the left of our rightattack: they couldn't have chosen a worse place; and he and I were withthe light company when we drove them back. The men behaved admirably,Colonel; and poor Charlie was so delighted, not being used to it, youknow," proceeded the urchin, with the gravity of a veteran, "that it wasimpossible to keep him within bounds. He had a revolver (that wouldn'tgo off, by the way), and he had filled a soda-water bottle with powderand bullets and odd bits of iron, like a sort of mimic shell. Well,this thing burst in his hand, and deuced near blew his arm off, but itonly made him keener. When the Russians retired, he actually ran out infront and threw stones at them. I tried all I could to stop him." (Thelad's voice was getting husky now.) "Well, Colonel, it was brightmoonlight, and I saw a Russian private take a regular 'pot-shot' at poorCharlie. He hit him just below the waist-belt; and we dragged him intothe trenches, and there he--he died. Colonel, this 'baccy of yours isvery strong; I'll--I'll just walk into the air for a moment, if you'llexcuse me. I'll be back directly."
So he rose and walked out, with his face turned from us all; and thoughthere was nothing to be ashamed of in the weakness, I think not one ofus but knew he had gone away to have his "cry" out, and liked him allthe better for his mock manliness and his feeling heart.
Ere he came back again the bugles were sounding for afternoon parade.Orderly corporals were running about with small slips of paper in theirhands, the men were falling in, and the fresh relief, so diminishedevery four-and-twenty hours, was again being got ready for the work ofdeath in the trenches.