"_Firing parrty, revairse arrms_!"
Thus the platoon sergeant--a little anxiously; for we are new to this
feat, and only rehearsed it for a few minutes this morning.
It is a sunny afternoon in late February. The winter of our discontent
is past. (At least, we hope so.) Comfortless months of training are
safely behind us, and lo! we have grown from a fortuitous concourse of
atoms to a cohesive unit of fighting men. Spring is coming; spring is
coming; our blood runs quicker; active service is within measurable
distance; and the future beckons to us with both hands to step down
at last into the arena, and try our fortune amid the uncertain but
illimitable chances of the greatest game in the World.
To all of us, that is, save one.
The road running up the hill from the little mortuary is lined on
either side by members of our company, specklessly turned out and
standing to attention. At the foot of the slope a gun-carriage is
waiting, drawn by two great dray horses and controlled by a private of
the Royal Artillery, who looks incongruously perky and cockney amid
that silent, kilted assemblage. The firing party form a short lane
from the gun-carriage to the door of the mortuary. In response to the
sergeant's command, each man turns over his rifle, and setting the
muzzle carefully upon his right boot--after all, it argues no extra
respect to the dead to get your barrel filled with mud--rests his
hands upon the butt-plate and bows his head, as laid down in the
King's Regulations.
The bearers move slowly down the path from the mortuary, and place the
coffin upon the gun-carriage. Upon the lid lie a very dingy glengarry,
a stained leather belt, and a bayonet. They are humble trophies, but
we pay them as much reverence as we would to the _bâton_ and cocked
hat of a field-marshal, for they are the insignia of a man who has
given his life for his country.
On the hill-top above us, where the great military hospital rears its
clock-tower foursquare to the sky, a line of convalescents, in natty
blue uniforms with white facings and red ties, lean over the railings
deeply interested. Some of them are bandaged, others are in slings,
and all are more or less maimed. They follow the obsequies below
with critical approval. They have been present at enough hurried and
promiscuous interments of late--more than one of them has only just
escaped being the central figure at one of these functions--that they
are capable of appreciating a properly conducted funeral at its true
value.
"They're putting away a bloomin' Jock," remarks a gentleman with an
empty sleeve.
"And very nice, too!" responds another on crutches, as the firing
party present arms with creditable precision. "Not 'arf a bad bit of
eye-wash at all for a bandy-legged lot of coal-shovellers."
"That lot's out of K(1)," explains a well-informed invalid with his
head in bandages. "Pretty 'ot stuff they're gettin'. _Très moutarde!_
Now we're off."
The signal is passed up the road to the band, who are waiting at the
head of the procession, and the pipes break into a lament. Corporals
step forward and lay four wreaths upon the coffin--one from each
company. Not a man in the battalion has failed to contribute his penny
to those wreaths; and pennies are not too common with us, especially
on a Thursday, which comes just before payday. The British private is
commonly reputed to spend all, or most of, his pocket-money upon beer.
But I can tell you this, that if you give him his choice between
buying himself a pint of beer and subscribing to a wreath, he will
most decidedly go thirsty.
The serio-comic charioteer gives his reins a twitch, the horses wake
up, and the gun-carriage begins to move slowly along the lane of
mourners. As the dead private passes on his way the walls of the
lane melt, and his comrades fall into their usual fours behind the
gun-carriage.
So we pass up the hill towards the military cemetery, with the pipes
wailing their hearts out, and the muffled drums marking the time of
our regulation slow step. Each foot seems to hang in the air before
the drums bid us put it down.
In the very rear of the procession you may see the company commander
and three subalterns. They give no orders, and exact no attention. To
employ a colloquialism, this is not their funeral.
Just behind the gun-carriage stalks a solitary figure in civilian
clothes--the unmistakable "blacks" of an Elder of the Kirk. At
first sight, you have a feeling that some one has strayed into the
procession who has no right there. But no one has a better. The sturdy
old man behind the coffin is named Adam Carmichael, and he is here,
having travelled south from Dumbarton by the night train, to attend
the funeral of his only son.