ON ACTIVE SERVICE.
"A voice cried out, 'I declare here is the tin soldier!'"--_The Brave
Tin Soldier_.
A brilliant, clear sky overhead, and such a scorching sun that the air
danced with the heat, as though from the blast of a furnace; surely
this could not be the twenty-fifth of December!
But Christmas Day it was--Christmas Day in the camp at Korti.
[Illustration: "It was Christmas Day in the camp at Korti."]
Among the pleasant groves of trees which bordered the steep banks of
the Nile glistened the white tents of the Camel Corps. Still farther
back from the river lay fields of grass and patches of green dhurra;
and behind these again an undulating waste of sand and gravel, dotted
here and there with scrub and rock, and stretching away to the
faintly-discerned hills of the desert. The shade of the trees tempered
the heat, making a pleasant change after the roasting, toilsome journey
up country.
Here, though hardly to be recognized with their ragged clothing and
unshaven faces, was gathered a body of men who might be regarded as
representing the flower of England's army--Life Guards, Lancers,
Dragoons, Grenadiers, Highlanders, and linesmen from many a famous foot
regiment; all were there, ready to march and fight shoulder to shoulder
in order to rescue Gordon from his perilous position in Khartoum.
Every day the numbers in camp had been gradually growing larger, fresh
batches of troops arriving either on camels or in boats. A whole fleet
of these "whalers" lay moored along the bank of the Nile; the usual
quiet of the river being continually broken by the dog-like panting of
steam launches hurrying up and down the stream.
Friendly natives, clad in loose shirts and skull-caps, wandered through
the lines, gazing wonderingly at all they saw; while in strange
contrast to their unintelligible jabberings, rose the familiar _patois_
of the barrack-room, or snatches of some popular music-hall song hummed
or whistled by every urchin in the streets of London.
The concentration of the expedition had now been almost completed, and
the chief topic of conversation was the immediate prospect of a desert
march to Shendy.
But to return to our commencement, Christmas Day it was; and however
difficult it might have been to realize this as far as the weather was
concerned, the fact had, to a certain extent, been impressed upon the
minds of the men by the supplementing of their ordinary dinner rations
with a gallant attempt at plum-pudding, manufactured for the most part
out of boiled dates.
Two men, who had just partaken of this delicacy, were lying stretched
out full length under a shady tree, their pith helmets brought well
forward over their eyes, their grey serge jumpers thrown open, and
pipes in their mouths. To see them now, with their tattered nether
garments, stubbly chins, and sunburnt faces, from which the skin was
peeling off in patches, one could hardly have recognized in them the
same smart soldiers who paraded a few months ago on the barrack square
at Melchester. Yet such they were, as the reader will soon discover by
the opening remarks of their conversation.
"This weather don't seem very seasonable. I wonder whether it's frost
and snow away home at Brenlands."
"Yes; I wonder if the reservoir at Hornalby is frozen. We used to go
skating there when I was at school. It seems a jolly long time ago
now!"
"It don't seem three years ago to me since you enlisted. I never
thought you'd have stayed so long."
"Didn't you? When my mind's made up, it's apt to stick to it, Joe, my
boy. Besides, I had no prospect of anything better."
There was a pause, during which the two comrades (who, from the
foregoing, will have been recognized as our hero and Joe Crouch)
continued to puff away at their pipes in silence, listening to the
remarks of three men who were playing a drowsy game with a tattered
pack of cards.
"These cards are gettin' precious ragged; you'd better get 'em
clipped."--"Why don't you play the king?"--"'Cause there ain't one!
he's one of 'em as is lost."
"You used to have fine times, I reckon, when you and Mr. Valentine and
the young ladies came to stay at Miss Fenleigh's," said Crouch. "I
wonder what she'd say if she knew you was out here in Egypt."
"I took precious good care she shouldn't know. I suppose she heard
from the guv'nor that I went off and enlisted, but I didn't send word
what regiment I joined. I never mean to see her again--no fear!"
"She was a kind lady," murmured Joe reflectively; "very good to me once
upon a time."
"Yes, that she was--the best and kindest woman in the world; and that's
just the reason why I'm glad to think she doesn't know what's become of
me.-- Hallo, Swabs, what are you after?"
The person thus addressed was a gaunt, lanky-looking warrior, clad
simply in helmet, shirt, and trousers; the sleeves of his "greyback"
were rolled up above his elbows; and he was armed with a roughly-made
catapult, evidently intended for the destruction of some of the small,
brightly-coloured birds that were flitting about among the branches of
the palms. "Swabs," who answered at roll-call to the name of Smith H.,
in addition to holding the badge as best shot in the regiment, was a
popular character in C Company.
"Shist!" he answered; "when there ain't nothink better to shoot at, I'm
goin' to try me 'and on some of these dickies."
"Swabs" was evidently more skilful with the rifle than with his present
weapon. He discharged his pebble, but with no result.
"Miss; high right," said Jack. "Where did you get your elastic from?"
"The tube of me filter. I'll take a finer sight next time," and
"Swabs" went stalking off in search of further sport.
"It seems hard to imagine that we're on the real business at last,"
said Jack, clasping his hands behind his head and stretching out his
legs. "After so many sham fights, it seems rum to think of one in real
earnest. The strange thing to me," he continued, "is to think how
often my cousin and I used to talk about war, and wonder what it was
like; and we thought he was the one more likely to see it. I used to
be always grumbling about his luck, and now I expect he'd envy me mine."
"I suppose he hasn't come out?"
"No, I don't think so. I forget just where he's stationed. Look at
Tom Briggs over there, he using his towel to put a patch on the seat of
his breeches. Hey, Tommy! how are you going to dry yourself when you
wash?"
"Wash!" answered the man, looking up from his work with a grin, "you'll
be glad enough afore long to lap up every spot of water you come
across; there won't be much talk of washin' in this 'ere desert, I'm
thinkin'."
The answer was lost on Jack; something else had suddenly attracted his
attention. He sat up and made a movement as though he would rise to
his feet. An officer had just strolled past, wearing a fatigue cap and
the usual serge jumper. His face was tanned a deep brown, and showed
up in strong contrast to his fair hair and small, light-coloured
moustache. Our hero's first impulse was to run after and accost the
stranger, but he checked himself, and sank back into his former
position.
"I say, Briggs," he called, "what men were those who came up in the
boats yesterday?"
"Some of the ----sex Regiment," answered the other, stooping forward to
bite off his cotton with his teeth.
Jack's heart thumped heavily, and he caught his breath; his eyes had
not deceived him, and the subaltern who had just walked by was
Valentine.
He was roused from his reverie by the warning call to "stables," it
being the time for feeding and grooming the camels. They were queer
steeds, these "ships of the desert," and for those who had never ridden
them before even mounting and dismounting was no easy task. In the
case of the former, unless the animals' heads were brought round to
their shoulders, and held there by means of the rope which served as a
rein, they were apt to rise up suddenly before the rider had got
properly into the saddle, a proceeding usually followed by disastrous
results; while, on the other hand, the sudden plunge forward as they
dropped on their knees, followed by the lurch in the opposite direction
when their hind-quarters went down, made it an extremely easy matter to
come a cropper in either direction. Their necks seemed to be made of
indiarubber, and their hind legs, with which they could scratch the top
of their heads, or, if so inclined, kick out behind, even when lying
down, appeared to be furnished with double joints. Jack had christened
his mount "Lamentations," from the continual complaints which it
uttered; but in this the animal was no worse than the remainder of its
fellows, who bellowed and roared whatever was happening, whether they
were being unsaddled, groomed, mounted, or fed.
With thoughts centred on his recent discovery, our hero made his way to
the spot where the camels of his detachment were picketed, and there
went mechanically through the work of cleaning up the lines, and the
still more unsavoury task of attending to "Lam's" toilet. Should he
speak to Valentine, or not? That was the question which occupied his
mind. Unless he did so, it was hardly likely that after seven years,
and with a moustache and sprouting beard, his cousin would recognize
him among the seventeen hundred men destined to form the expedition.
The men marched back to their lines, and were then dismissed for tea.
Jack sat silently sipping at his pannikin and munching his allowance of
biscuit.
Should he speak to Valentine, or not? The vague day-dream of their
school-boy days was realized--they were soldiers together, and on
active service; but everything was altered now. The great difference
of rank was, of itself, sufficient to place an impassable barrier
between them; and then the recollection of their last parting, his
refusals to meet his cousins again at Brenlands, and the fact of his
having left so many of his old chum's letters unanswered, all seemed to
lead up to one conclusion. Valentine would long ago have come to
regard it as a clear proof that the runaway had really stolen the
watch, and not have been surprised to hear that he had gone to the
dogs. Nor was he likely now to be very well pleased if the black sheep
suddenly walked up and claimed relationship. No. Jack felt he had
long ago severed all ties with what had once been dear to him; it was
the better plan to let things remain as they were, and make no attempt
to renew associations with a past which could not be recalled.
Sunset was rapidly followed by darkness. In honour of its being
Christmas Day, an impromptu concert had been announced; and the men
began to gather round a rough stage which had been erected under the
trees, and which was lit up with lamps and the glare of two huge
bonfires.
The programme was of the free-and-easy character: volunteers were
called for, and responded with songs, step-dances, and the like; while
the audience, lying and sitting round on the sand, greeted their
efforts with hearty applause, and joined in every chorus with unwonted
vigour.
Jack had always possessed a good voice, a fact which had long ago been
discovered by his comrades, and now, for the honour of the Royal
Blankshire, those standing near him insisted that he should sing.
Before he knew it, he was pushed forward, and hoisted on to the
platform. There was no chance of retreat. He glanced round the sea of
faces glowing brightly in the firelight, and after a moment's thought
as to what would be likely to go down best, he struck up his old song,
"The Mermaid."
"Oh! 'twas in the broad Atlantic, 'mid the equinoctial gales,
That a gay young tar fell overboard, among the sharks and whales."
The great crowd of listeners burst out into the "Rule, Britannia!"
chorus with a mighty roar. But our hero heeded them not; his thoughts
had suddenly gone back to the little parlour at the back of "Duster's"
shop; his eyes wandered anxiously over the faces of the officers who
were grouped together in front of the stage, but Valentine did not
appear to be among them.
An uproarious repetition of the last "Rule, Britannia!" was still in
progress as Jack rejoined the Blankshire contingent, and submitted his
back to a number of congratulatory slaps.
These signs of approval were still being showered down upon him, when
Sergeant Sparks touched his elbow.
"Here's an officer wants to speak to you, Fenleigh. There he is,
standing over by that tree."
With his heart in his mouth, the singer stepped out of the crush, and
approached the figure standing by itself under the heavy shadow of the
palm.
"Jack!"
The private soldier made no reply, but raised his hand in the customary
salute. The action was simple enough, and yet full of meaning, showing
the altered relationship between the two old friends.
"Why, man, didn't you tell us where you were? and what had become of
you?"
"There was no need; and, besides, I didn't wish you to know, sir?"
"Surely you are not still offended over what happened that summer at
Brenlands? You must have known that we, none of us, suspected you for
a moment of having stolen that watch. It was only a cad like Raymond
Fosberton would ever have thought of suggesting such a thing."
"Appearances were very much against me, sir--and--well, it's all past
and done with now."
Valentine was silent. That "sir," so familiar to his ear, and yet
seemingly so incongruous in the present instance, baffled him
completely. In the first moment of his discovery he had intended,
figuratively speaking, to fall upon the prodigal's neck, and converse
with him in the old, familiar style; but now, between Valentine
Fenleigh, Esq., of the ----sex, and Private Fenleigh, of the Royal
Blankshire, there was a great gulf fixed, and the latter, especially,
seemed determined to recognize that the former conditions of their
friendship could now no longer exist. After a moment's pause, Jack
spoke.
"Could you tell me, sir, if they are all well?"
"Who? my people? They're all right, thanks. Helen's just gone and got
married; and little Bar's just the same as ever, only a bit older. She
was twenty-one last month."
Jack smiled. "And Aunt Mabel, have you seen her lately?"
"Oh, yes! she's very well, and doesn't seem to alter at all. She often
talks of you, and is always sad because you never write. Why have you
never been to see her?"
"I have seen her once. I passed her in the street in Melchester; but I
was in uniform, and she didn't notice me."
"But why didn't you go over to Brenlands?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that! I struck out a path for myself. It may be a
bit rough, like the way of transgressors always is; but it suits me
well enough. I've been in it now for three years, and mean to stick to
it; but it'll never bring me to Brenlands again."
"Oh, yes, it will," answered the other cheerily, "At the end of the
long lane comes the turning."
There was another pause; the conversation had been running more freely,
but now Jack fell back again into his former manner.
"I beg pardon, sir, but I should like to ask if you'll be good enough
not to mention my name in any of your letters home."
"Why not?"
"I should be glad, sir, if you wouldn't. I've managed hitherto to keep
my secret."
"Well, if it's your wish, for the present I won't," answered Valentine;
"but if we both live through this business, then I shall have something
to say to you on the subject."
"Good-night, sir."
"Good-night, old chap, and good luck to us both!"