SERGEANT RAYNE’S STORY.
I often passed an hour with the sergeant in his neat lodging; and if I
went only to inquire after his health, or to ask some question which
might be answered immediately, I frequently stood chatting till my
brothers came to see what I was about. They, however, were generally my
companions, for they loved, like other people, to hear the entertaining
stories of battles, sieges, and shipwrecks, and the sadder accounts of
the suffering and death attendant upon war, which our friend could
relate. As he was as regular in his habits as when subject to regimental
discipline, we always knew when we should find him at home. At a certain
hour he rose and breakfasted; at a certain hour he took down his hat,
hung it on a block and brushed it, and put it on sideways with a
soldier-like air, and the people at the Arms knew what o’clock it was by
the sergeant’s taking his seat under the elm or beside the fire,
according as the weather might be. Moving with the sun to the churchyard
bench, as regularly as the shade on the dial, he would have been
supposed ill or dead if a labourer returning through the stile to his
dinner had missed him on a fine day. His landlady whispered to us that
he was rather a particular old gentleman, though the most good-natured
in the world when not put out of his way; and, indeed, if anything ever
did make him look sour, it was his dinner not being ready to a moment.
He did not care what was provided for him: he preferred a crust of bread
at one o’clock to a goose at two. He could not have told anybody an hour
after dinner what he had been eating; but if kept waiting five minutes,
he could not recover it till the next morning. His hostess had half a
dozen little children, and he was as kind to them as if he had been
their grandfather, but warned them of his awful displeasure if they
entered his room during his absence. If they came by invitation, well
and good; he would do anything to amuse them. He would sing, tell
stories, show them pictures, and even play at blind man’s buff; though,
as he said, it was not fair play with him as he had only one hand to
catch the rogues with. Not a rough word was ever heard from him. I
remember one of the little ones saying, “Show me how you will be angry
if I meddle with your sword. Will you frown like Bonaparte in the
picture?” “No,” said another “he will stamp and speak loud, as he told
us his captain did when he was in a passion.” The sergeant snatched up
his cane, and made his countenance so fierce in a moment, that the
children did not know what to think of him. They stared at him in terror
till he could not help laughing; and then, I dare say, resolved in their
hearts never to set foot in his parlour without leave.
On the present occasion he exclaimed, as I entered the room with
Frederick and Arthur,
“I can guess, Miss Lucy, what you and the young gentlemen are come for,
and I am happy to see you. You want to hear the little story I promised
you; and you shall be welcome to it.”
“I hope you are not busy?”
“Not at all. You are come just in right time. See, I had finished this
chapter of my book, and I was putting the paper in when I heard your
step in the passage.”
“I want to know,” said Frederick, who was remarkable for always going
straight to the point, “I want to know where you were taken prisoner,
and how you got home again, and how long it was ago. Lucy says you are
going to tell her all about it, and that we may hear it too.”
“To be sure you may, my dear boys; so sit down in the window-seat, and I
will tell you. It was in Spain that I served at that time, you know,
against the French. The armies had been drawing nearer to one another
for a long while, and we all knew that there must be a terrible battle
when they met. From the state of the roads, however, the whole army
could not travel together, and when the van of both forces came in sight
of each other, the rest were some miles in the rear. Both sides seemed
much inclined for a skirmish, and there was pretty sharp fighting for
the whole day before the grand battle. Often as I had been in action, I
had never been wounded; but on this particular day, I felt a sort of
certainty that I should be.”
“Had you never felt this before any other battle?”
“I think not so clearly; but it may only be that what happened made me
take particular notice, and remember very well what my feelings had
been. I mentioned this foreboding to a friend, however, and so I suppose
I was somewhat struck by it.”
“And did he laugh at it, or call you a coward?”
“Neither the one nor the other, master. Very young soldiers, or men of
hardened minds, may make light of the disasters of war, and call it
cowardice to reflect upon them and prepare one’s mind for them; but my
friend was neither giddy nor reckless, and he knew me too well to fancy
me a coward. We had fought side by side in many a battle, and I have
nursed him when badly wounded; so that we were real friends, and not
companions of the camp only. He advised me to ease my mind of all
worldly concerns, and to prepare myself in other ways for whatever might
happen, as he always did before a battle; so I told him where to find
what little money I had, and some letters I had written to my mother and
another person——”
“Who was that other person?” interrupted Frederick.
“Never mind who it was,” said I. “You should not ask such a question as
that.”
“I have no objection, Miss Lucy, to tell you all. That other person was
one to whom I had hoped to be married some time or other; but she was
not bound to me, for I told her there was little prospect of my
returning home; and if I did, I was afraid I should be very poor; and
were getting on in life, and I could not bear the idea of preventing her
being happy; so I begged she would not remain single for my sake. I had
said this to her a long time before; and my letter on this occasion was
to tell her that I still loved her as much as ever; and it was only to
be sent in case of my death.—Well: we were very actively engaged all day
without my taking any harm, while hundreds were falling round me. Late
in the evening, when both parties were tired, and the fire slackened, I
passed my friend as we were hastening forward for one other charge, and
he called out ‘So you are safe, after all!’ ‘Safe after all,’ I replied,
and left him behind. A minute after, a shot struck my right arm while
the enemy was pressing round us. I could not defend myself; I was
separated from my company, and, of course, taken prisoner.”
“In pain and alone, among foreigners and enemies!” I exclaimed. “How
very miserable you must have been!”
“Not so much then as afterwards, Miss Lucy. You, who live in peace and
quietness at home, can have no idea of the excitement of spirits there
is in battle. One’s heart is so full of courage, one’s mind burns so
with indignation at being made prisoner, and one has so much to think
about, that there is no time to be truly miserable. I felt no pain from
my wound at that time. I did not even know that I was wounded, till I
found I could not raise my arm.”
“Is that possible?”
“Very true, my dear, I assure you. I was hurried away, I scarcely know
how, to one of the baggage-waggons, with many of the wounded besides:
but they were all French; not one friendly face did I see. We were laid,
one close upon another, on straw, and jolted away, over bad roads to a
town where an hospital was established. Some of my companions were in
dreadful pain, and their groans made me sick at heart. I now began to
suffer much; but I wished above all things not to be spoken to; so I
remained as quiet as if I were dead, and closed my eyes. If I could have
shut my ears also, I should have escaped many a horrible dream which has
startled me since. Many a night, even now, I hear those groans and
oaths; and the tortured countenances I used to see often in a battle
rise up before me.—Before daybreak we reached the hospital; and I was
really glad of it, though I knew well enough what was before me.”
“Did you feel sure that you must lose your arm?”
“Yes, master; I felt and saw that it was past cure.”
“And were you much afraid about it?”
“I had thought so much and so often about the chances of such an
accident, that I was not taken by surprise; and I was already in so much
pain that I was very willing to suffer more for the sake of being rid of
it. I sat beside a fire, while one after another of my companions was
taken to the surgeons. At last, after waiting an hour and a half, they
were going to carry away the man who lay next beside me; but he was a
coward, it seemed, and begged to be left. They had no time to waste, and
so laid hold of me, and were going to carry me; but I soon showed them
that I had the use of my legs at least, and walked as stoutly as any of
them to where the surgeons were. They made quick work of it, and
scarcely made a show of asking my leave.”
“But I suppose you would have given them leave?”
“I took care to do that. I held out my arm as soon as ever I saw the
instruments.”
“And how did you—how could you bear it?”
“A sturdy spirit will carry one through a great deal, master. I am not
sure that I should have borne it so well in England; but I was
determined no enemy should wring a complaint out of me. So I was as
still as a mouse the whole time; grasping the back of a chair with my
other hand so hard that the blood came out at my finger nails. One of
the surgeons observed this; and I heard him say that I was a sturdy
fellow and fit for a soldier.”
“Then the pain was very, very great?”
“Much greater than anybody can fancy who has not felt it, or indeed than
anybody can fancy at all; for it is not the sort of thing that can be
remembered; and I dare say I have little better notion of it at this
moment than you have. But such as it was, it was soon over, and then I
walked away to bed. There I paid dear for the effort I had made; and I
deserved it, for my bravery was not of the right kind and could not last
long.”
“Why, what happened?”
“When I was left alone, weak from pain, and still thrilling in every
nerve, a tide of most bitter feelings rushed in upon me. Such a tumult
of thoughts I never knew before or since. I hid my face under the
bed-clothes, that nobody might disturb me; and there for an hour or two
I suffered such agony of mind as I can give you no idea of. My pride
gave way, and I felt myself as weak as an infant. In vain I told myself
that this misfortune was only what I had expected,—only what every
soldier is liable to. In vain I called to mind the boasting in which I
had indulged before I left home, and the wish which in my youth I had
felt for the glory of one honourable wound. This recollection awakened
others which subdued me completely.”
“What were they?”
“It happened that the day before I left this place to join the army, the
old clergyman, who lived here then, invited me to the parsonage to say
farewell. After talking cheerfully to me about my profession, he went
out with me as far as the gate: and there he put his hand on my shoulder
and said, ‘Remember, yours is a dangerous profession in more ways than
one. You are not only liable to be sent early to another world, but to
depart with false notions of glory in your head, and with pride and
hatred in your heart.’ He pointed to the graves and went on, ‘See here
what becomes of pride and enmity. There have been some of these whose
hearts beat as high with various passions as yours will in your first
battle. Now, all are humbled and all are still. So it will be a hundred
years hence, with the youngest and the fiercest, with or against whom
you are going to fight. They too will be humbled and stilled.’—The
recollection of this circumstance now came back upon me clearly. I saw
the church with the evening sunshine upon its windows. I saw the light
flickering upon the smooth stems of the limes. I saw the graves, and
also the venerable countenance and gray hair of my kind friend. I heard
his voice and the voices of the children at their play. I could almost
smell the flowers in his garden, and feel the pressure of his hand upon
my shoulder. I lay weeping for many hours, till by thoughts of home, of
my mother, and of other dear friends, my mind was prepared for still
better thoughts. My Bible was in my pocket, (for I took care to have it
always about me,) and there I found a better sort of courage than that
of which I had been so proud.—I was soon glad to take some notice of my
companions in the hospital; and we managed to be very cheerful and to
converse a good deal, as I told you, Miss Lucy.”
“Did the friend you mentioned before know what had become of you? And
what did he do with your money and your letters!”
“As he could learn nothing about me, he supposed that I was a prisoner;
and he sent all that I had left behind me to my mother. It was not very
long before she heard of me, but she had delivered the other letter I
spoke of. I was sorry afterwards that I had ever written it.”
Nobody ventured to ask why; but the sergeant has told me since that the
young woman had supposed that, as he was so long absent, he would never
return and had therefore married. She received his letter soon after she
was settled, and was made very unhappy by it for a little time; but I am
pretty sure (though the sergeant did not say any such thing) that she
had not a very warm heart; or, at any rate, that it had never been very
warm towards him. He came back, he told us, a year or more before his
mother’s death, which was a great comfort to them both.
“I think,” said Arthur, “that you must find the world grown very dull
now, that there is no war anywhere in Europe. I wonder you are still so
fond of the newspapers.”
“Dull, Master Arthur! I wish such a kind of dulness may last for ever.
It is all very well for people who want amusement to run about the
village with news of a victory, and to help to make a bonfire and light
up the houses. But if they happen to have a son or a brother killed or
maimed for life, they may learn by experience what it is that thousands
and millions are suffering. If they could take but one look at a field
of battle, or an army in full retreat, they would wish for no more
victories and illuminations. I hope I have as much of the spirit of a
soldier in me as any man: and perhaps all the more for having suffered
something for my country; but I do say that nations are only half
civilized as long as wars are thought necessary. I say, moreover, that
they who are foremost in war are farthest from heaven; for heaven is a
land of peace.”
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