A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing an
account of the embarkation of a few detachments to join their
respective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India. It
was written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was not
only an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings of
the morning. As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurring
at the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for the
Crimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded on
facts, which alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by parallel
facts and circumstances.
Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and took
a bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retired
early to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martial
music; and ever delighting in the "soul-stirring fife and drum," I
jumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; I
therefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witness
what, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation.
It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in full
splendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected back
all its dazzling effulgence. The river was studded with shipping, and
to add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had just
anchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I could
easily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not only
in the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of the
hundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting their
return. With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled.
How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years,
nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a few
hours to clasp him to the maternal breast. Here, too, might be
pictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wife
and children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheeks
pallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropical
climate. Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams of
affluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their native
land. I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixty
years, braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to
_endure_ life, not to _enjoy_ it. He told me, he had left England at
the early age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out grown his young
friendships. Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place of
those domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed to
take root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his young
breast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than the
interest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East India
Company's Service. On his departure, he earned no parent's blessing
for him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept and
prayed. As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler,
like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what was
passing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, who
only three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which she
now returned, to join her husband,--the long affianced of her early
choice. For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, but
it was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in the
school of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place.
But the Blue Peter,[1] gently floating in the scarcely perceptible
breeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for a
far different purpose. It told not of restoring the fond husband to
his wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; it
was, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties;
for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be borne
many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they hold
dear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not
all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore their
spirits to their wonted tone.
[1] A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail.
There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted of
about one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though only
recruits, were particularly soldier-like in appearance. There was
throughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, which
seemed to say, "Away with private feelings! we go on glory's errand,
and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!" Yet to
fancy's eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face. We might
trace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, that
would say, "With the deportment of the _hero_, we have the feelings of
the _man_. One young officer was there, belonging to a different
regiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiable
weaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize the
husband or the father. He had not even pains of the lover to contend
with. Glory was indeed _his_ mistress, the all absorbing ruling
passion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not of
aught, but glory!"
Panting to distinguish himself with his corps, he would gladly have
annihilated time and space to have reached it, without spending so
many tedious months in making the voyage. Led away by his military
ardor, he thought not of his anxious parents; little recked he of his
mother's sleepless nights, and how her maternal fears would fancy
every breeze a gale, and every gale a storm, while he was subject to
their influence.
Among those waiting to embark, was one who had just parted from his
wife and children; care and anxiety had set their marks on him. He was
a man of domestic habits, and was now, perhaps, to be severed for
years, from all that gave any charm to life; but the fiat for
separation had gone forth, and was inevitable! Soon would immense
oceans roll between them; their resources, which, while they were
together, were barely sufficient for their wants, were now to be
divided; and the pang of parting, severe enough in itself, was
sharpened by the fear that poverty and privation might overtake them,
ere he could send remittances to his family.
A post chaise now came in sight, when an officer stepped forward, as
it drove to the water's edge, and assisted a lady to alight from it.
Her eyes were red with weeping and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely
able to support her sinking frame. Her husband, for such I found he
was, who had gone towards the vehicle, showed little less emotion than
herself, which he, however, strove hard to suppress. These were
parents, whom each successive wave would bear still further from their
lovely offspring, towards whom their aching hearts would yearn, long
after their childish tears had ceased to flow. They, poor little
things, knew not the blessings they were about to lose, but their fond
and anxious father and mother could not forget, that they had
consigned them to strangers, who might or who might not be kind to
them, and who had too many under their care, to feel, or even show the
endearing tenderness that marks parental love.
In regimental costume, also, stood one, quite aloof, and from his
history, (which I afterwards learnt,) I found that his position on the
beach corresponded with that in which he stood in the world--alone;
cared for by none, himself indifferent to all around him; every
kindlier affection had withered in his breast. He was careless whither
he went or what became of him. Yet was he not always so, for he had
known a parent's and a husband's love. His now blighted heart had
often beaten with rapture, as the babe, on which he doted, first
lisped a father's name, taught by a mother, whose smile of affection
was, for years, the sun that gladdened his existence. But these bright
visions of happiness had all flown; that being whom he had so fondly
loved had dishonoured him, and neglected his boy, and on his return,
he found one in the grave, the other living in infamy.
Among the soldiers, I noticed one, on whom not more than nineteen
summers had shone; nay, less than that. His light and joyous heart
seemed bounding with delight, as he witnessed the busy scene that met
his wondering eyes. An aged woman stood near him, whose blanched and
withered cheek but ill accorded with the cheerful look of her
light-hearted thoughtless son. She took his hand, and sobbed out, "Oh,
George, my poor boy, little thought I to see the day when I should be
thus forsaken; I did hope you would now have staid with me, and been a
comfort in my old days."
"Hush, hush! grand-mother, the boys are all looking at you. Come, now,
don't be blubbering so foolishly, I shall soon come back again."
"Come back again, boy! afore that day comes, these poor old bones will
be mouldering in the dust. But God's will be done, and may his
blessings be upon you; I know there must be soldiers, but oh, 'tis
hard, so very hard, to part with one's only child. Oh, after the care
I have taken to bring you up decently, to lose you thus; and how I
worked, day and night, to buy you off before, and yet you listed
again, though a month had not passed over your head. God help me,"
said she sighing, "for even this trial could not be without God's
will, for without that, not a sparrow could fell to the ground. But
stay, do wait a bit longer," said she, catching him by the belt, as he
was manifesting a restless impatience to join the busy throng.
"You will promise to write to me, George, you will not forget that?"
"Yes, yes, to be sure, mother, I'll write."
The sergeant now began to call the muster roll, and the poor old
creature's cheek grew whiter still as the lad exclaimed:
"Now, mother, I must fall into the ranks; good bye, good bye."
"May God Almighty preserve thee, my child; you may one day be a parent
yourself, and will then know what your poor old grandmother feels this
day."
The lad had by this time passed muster, and was soon after on board.
The afflicted grand-mother stood, with her eyes transfixed on the
vessel, gazing on her unheeding boy, who, insensible to the agonizing
feelings that rent her breast, felt not one single throe of regret,
his mind being entirely engrossed in contemplating the bright future,
which the sergeant, who enlisted him, had drawn.
Captain Ormsby, who commanded the detachment, was a man of feeling; he
had particularly noticed the poor woman's distress.
"Be comforted," said he, "I will watch over the lad, for your sake,
and will try and take him under my immediate charge, and if he behaves
well, I may be able to serve him. I will see that he writes to you."
"Heaven bless and reward your honour," she exclaimed, "surely you are
a parent yourself. Oh, yes, I knew it," said she, as she saw him wipe
off the starting tear. "May God spare you such a trial as has this day
been my lot."
"Thank you, thank you, my good woman," said he hardly able to speak.
She had touched a tender chord, and its vibration shook his very
frame, for he had in the last few days, taken leave of four motherless
girls, pledges of love by a wife whom he had fondly loved, and of whom
he had been suddenly bereaved. Well might he feel for this poor
wretch, for _he_ had known parting in all its bitterness.
A soldier and his wife stood side by side, apparently ready to embark,
whose looks told unutterable things; they both seemed young, but their
faces betokened the extreme of agony. The name of Patrick Morgan being
called, the distracted wife clung to her husband, uttering the most
piercing and heartrending cries.
"Sure, and what'll become of me," cried she, "will you then lave me,
Pat, dear, lave your own poor Norah to die, as, sure I will, when you
go in that big ship? Oh, my dear Captain, and where will I go if your
honour isn't plazed to go without him this time? Oh, do forgive me,
but do not, oh, do not, in pity, part us. Sure, an' its your honours
dear self as knows what it is to part from them ye loves; an' so you
thought, when ye tuk lave of the dear childer, t'other day, an' saw
the mother's swate face, God rest her sowl, in the biggest of 'em, for
sure they're like, as two pays in a bushel, only one is little an'
t'other big, barring she's in heaven. Sure, and if your honour's self
had to bid 'em good bye over agin you'd, may be, think how hard it was
for me to stay behind when Pat goes."
Patrick, who, with national keen-sightedness, saw the internal working
which his wife's home appeal had created, now came forward, and said,
"Oh, yer honour, if as how I dare be so bowld as jist to ax you this
wan'st, to take compassion on us; may be, next time, we could go
together, and if Norah was but wid me, what do I care where I goes.
Here's Jem O'Connor wouldn't mind going in my stead, and he's neither
wife, as I have, nor childer, like your honour to part from." Jem
O'Conner now came forward and testified his readiness to go all the
world over to serve a comrade.
Words could but poorly convey an idea of the looks of the anxious
couple, as they watched the varying countenance of the Captain. The
situation of the soldier and his wife touched him to the quick, and
the appeal proved irresistible. Jem O'Connor was permitted to go
instead of Pat. Morgan, who, triumphantly led off his wife, both of
them invoking blessings on his head, whose humanity had thus spared
them the pangs of separation.
I stood, perhaps, twenty minutes musing on the scenes that had just
been passing before me and was returning, to retrace my steps to the
inn breakfast, when I noticed a wretched looking woman, with a baby in
her arms. She was walking very fast, towards the water's edge, where
the boats were still waiting to take the last of the soldiers on board
ship. She had an anxious, nay, a despairing look as she looked around,
as I judged, for the Captain, who was not to be seen.
Hushing her little one, whose piteous cry would almost have made one
think it was uttered in sympathy with its mother's distress. Casting
one more despairing glance, she was, apparently, about to retrace her
weary steps with a look that completely baffles description, when her
eye fell on a boat returning from the vessel, which that moment neared
the water's edge, and she saw Captain Ormsby jump out. Hastily going
up to him, she exclaimed, in a tone that seemed almost to forbid
comfort.
"Oh, Sir, I am ashamed to be so troublesome, indeed I am, and I fear
to ask you if I have any chance this time?"
"Why Kitty, my good girl, had you asked me that question half, nay, a
quarter of an hour ago, I could not have given you any hope, but I can
now put you in place of Timothy Brennan's wife, who has just altered
her mind."
"Sergeant Browne," cried he, "here is Hewson's wife, who went out in
the 'Boyne.' Do the best you can for her, she can take Hetty Brennan's
place." Joyfully did Kitty Hewson step into the boat, beckoning to a
lad who was holding a small deal box, which he placed beside her; but
she seemed as if she could hardly believe herself about to follow her
husband, till actually on board.
The worthy Captain was, indeed, to be envied such a disposition to
lessen the aggregate of human misery, by entering into their feelings.
In how very short a space (three hours) had he the power of cheering
the desponding hearts of several fellow creatures, without either
detriment to the service, or swerving, in the least, from his duty.