CHAPTER III.
HOW HUGH JOHN BECAME GENERAL NAPOLEON.
Even dull Betty had heard the music. The White Gate was open, and witha wild cry Hugh John sprang through. Betty had a son in the army, andher deaf old ears were quickened by the fife and drum.
"Come back, Master Hugh!" she cried, as he passed through and stood onthe roadside, just as the head of the column, marching easily, turnedthe corner of the White Road and came dancing and undulating towardshim. Hugh John's heart danced also. It was still going fast withrunning so far; but at sight of the soldiers it took a new movement,just like little waves on a lake when they jabble in the wind, so niceand funny when you feel it--tickly too--down at the bottom of yourthroat.
The first who came were soldiers in a dark uniform with very stern,bearded officers, who attended finely to discipline, for they wereabout to enter the little town of Edam, which lay just below the whitegates of Windy Standard.
So intently they marched that no one cast a glance at Hugh Johnstanding with his drawn sword, giving the salute which his friendSergeant Steel had taught him as each company passed. Not that HughJohn cared, or even knew that they did not see him. They were thecrack volunteer regiment of the Grey City beyond the hills, and theirstandard of efficiency was something tremendous.
Then came red-coats crowned with helmets, red-coats tipped withGlengarry bonnets, and one or two brass bands of scattering volunteerregiments. Hugh John saluted them all. No one paid the least attentionto him. He did not indeed expect any one to notice him--a small dustyboy with a sword too big for him standing at the end of the road underthe shadow of the elms. Why should these glorious creations deign tonotice him--shining blades, shouldered arms, flashing bayonets, whitepipe-clayed belts? Were they not as gods, knowing good and evil?
But all the same he saluted every one of them impartially as theycame, and the regiments swung past unregarding, dust-choked, andthirsty.
Then at last came the pipes and the waving tartans. Something crackedin Hugh John's throat, and he gave a little cry, so that his oldnurse, Janet Sheepshanks, anxious for his welfare, came to take himaway. But he struck at her--his own dear Janet--and fled from hergrasp to the other side of the road, where he was both safer andnearer to the soldiers. Swinging step, waving plumes, all in revieworder on came the famous regiment, every man stepping out with atrained elasticity which went to the boy's heart. Thus and nototherwise the Black Watch followed their pipers. Hugh John gave a longsigh when they had passed, and the pipes dulled down the dusky glade.
Then came more volunteers, and yet more and more. Would they neverend? And ever the sword of Hugh John Picton flashed to the salute, andhis small arm waxed weary as it rose and fell.
Then happened the most astonishing thing in the world, the greatestevent of Hugh John's life. For there came to his ear a new sound, theclatter of cavalry hoofs. A bugle rang out, and Hugh John's eyeswatched with straining eagerness the white dust rise and swirl behindthe columns. Perhaps--who knows?--this was his reward for not beingdasht-mean! But now Hugh John had forgotten Prissy and Toady Lion,father and nurse alike, heaven, earth--and everything else. There wasno past for him. He was the soldier of all time. His dusty red coatand his flashing sword were the salute of the universal spirit of manto the god of war--also other fine things of which I have no time towrite.
For the noble grey horses, whose predecessors Napoleon had watched sowistfully at Waterloo, came trampling along, tossing their heads withan obvious sense of their own worth as a spectacle. Hugh John paledto the lips at sight of them, but drew himself more erect than ever.He had seen foot-soldiers and volunteers before, but never anythinglike this.
On they came, a fine young fellow leading them, sitting carelessly onthe noblest charger of all. Perhaps he was kindly by nature. Perhapshe had a letter from his sweetheart in his breastpocket. Perhaps--butit does not matter, at any rate he was young and happy, as he saterect, leading the "finest troop in the finest regiment in the world."He saw the small dusty boy in the red coat under the elm-trees. Hemarked his pale twitching face, his flashing eye, his erect carriage,his soldierly port. The fate of Hugh John stood on tiptoe. He hadnever seen any being so glorious as this. He could scarce commandhimself to salute. But though he trembled in every limb, and his underlip "wickered" strangely, the hand which held the sword was steady,and went through the beautiful movements of the military salute whichSergeant Steel of the Welsh Fusiliers had taught him, with exactnessand decorum.
The young officer smiled. His own hand moved to the response almostinvoluntarily, as if Hugh John had been one of his own troopers.
The boy's heart stood still. Could this thing be? A real soldier hadsaluted him!
But there was something more marvellous yet to come. A sweet spring ofgood deeds welled up in that young officer's breast. Heaven speed him(as doubtless it will) in his wooing, and make him ere his time ageneral, with the Victoria Cross upon his breast. But though (as Ihope) he rise to be Commander-in-Chief, he will never do a prettieraction than that day, when the small grimy boy stood under theelm-trees at the end of the avenue of Windy Standard. This is what hedid. He turned about in his saddle.
"IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN BETTER DONE FOR AFIELD-MARSHAL."]
"_Attention, men, draw swords!_" he cried, and his voice rang like atrumpet, so grand it was--at least so Hugh John thought.
There came a glitter of unanimous steel as the swords flashed intoline. The horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound, and jingledtheir accoutrements as the men gathered their bridle reins up in theirleft hands.
"_Eyes right! Carry swords!_" came again the sharp command.
And every blade made an arc of glittering light as it came to thesalute. It could not have been better done for a field-marshal.
No fuller cup of joy was ever drunk by mortal. The tears welled up inHugh John's eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honour done tohim. To be knighted was nothing to this. He had been acknowledged as asoldier by the greatest soldier there. Hugh John did not doubt thatthis glorious being was he who had led the Greys in the charge atWaterloo. Who else could have done that thing?
He was no longer a little dusty boy. He stood there glorified,ennobled. The world was almost too full.
"_Eyes front! Slope swords!_" rang the words once more.
The pageant passed by. Only the far drum-throb came back as he stoodspeechless and motionless, till his father rode up on his way home,and seeing the boy asked him what he was doing there. Then for allreply a little clicking hitch came suddenly in his throat. He wantedto laugh, but somehow instead the tears ran down his cheeks, and hegasped out a word or two which sounded like somebody else's voice.
"I'm not hurt, father," he said, "I'm not crying. It was only that theScots Greys saluted me. And I _can't_ help it, father. It goes_tick-tick_ in my throat, and I can't keep it back. But I'm notcrying, father! I'm not indeed!"
Then the stern man gathered the great soldier up and set him acrosshis saddle--for Hugh John was alone, the others having long ago goneback with Janet Sheepshanks. And his father did not say anything, butlet him sit in front with the famous sword in his hands which hadbrought about such strange things. And even thus rode our herohome--Hugh John Picton no more, but rather General Napoleon Smith; norshall his rank be questioned on any army roster of strong unblenchinghearts.
But late that night Hugh John stole down the hushed avenue, his barefeet pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. Heclimbed the gate and stood under the elm, with the wind flapping hiswhite nightgown like a battle flag. Then clasping his hands, he tookthe solemn binding oath of his religion, "_The Scots Greys saluted me.May I die-and-rot if ever I am dasht-mean again!_"