"_Firing parrty, one round blank_--_load_!"
There is a rattle of bolts, and a dozen barrels are pointed
heavenwards. The company stands rigid, except the buglers, who are
beginning to finger their instruments.
"_Fire!_"
There is a crackling volley, and the pipes break into a brief, sobbing
wail. Wayfarers upon the road below look up curiously. One or two
young females with perambulators come hurrying across the grass,
exhorting apathetic babies to sit up and admire the pretty funeral.
Twice more the rifles ring out. The pipes cease their wailing, and
there is an expectant silence.
The drum-major crooks his little finger, and eight bugles come to the
"ready." Then "Last Post," the requiem of every soldier of the King,
swells out, sweet and true.
The echoes lose themselves among the dripping pines. The chaplain
closes his book, takes off his spectacles, and departs.
Old Carmichael permits himself one brief look into his son's grave,
resumes his crape-bound tall hat, and turns heavily away. He finds
Captain Blaikie's hand waiting for him. He grips it, and says--
"Weel, the laddie has had a grand sojer's funeral. His mother will be
pleased to hear that."
He passes on, and shakes hands with the platoon sergeant and one or
two of Peter's cronies. He declines an invitation to the Sergeants'
Mess.
"I hae a trial-trup the morn," he explains. "I must be steppin'. God
keep ye all, brave lads!"
The old gentleman sets off down the station road. The company falls
in, and we march back to barracks, leaving Wee Pe'er--the first name
on our Roll of Honour--alone in his glory beneath the Hampshire
pines.