Who has done this deed? All are suspect,
While yet the guilty one is undiscovered:
We stand alike condemn'd, alike acquitted--
The guilty innocent, the innocent guilty.
Let rigid search be straightway made.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amidst all the scenes of wild fun which even the life of a private
soldier is at times enlivened, events occasionally occur that have a
depressing effect upon the mind. We had a "sergeant shoemaker" who was
at the head of the bootmaking department of the regiment; he was the
very soul of "element, divarshun, and fun," as my Irish comrades would
say. It was his custom to visit the barrack-rooms every morning,
generally while at breakfast, for the purpose of ascertaining whether
any boots wanted repairing, or if any of us required a new pair. He
always had a kindly word and a joke for such as he was well acquainted
with, having served as a private in the ranks until promoted to his
lucrative position. Going up to each of our beds, he would take down
the boots from the shelf, and turn them soles upwards with as much
diligence as the troop-farrier daily examined the shoes of our horses.
"Pat," he would say, "you want a new pair of heels on these boots."
"Fred, you are born to be a rich man: your boot-soles are worn out in
the middle, and the sides are scarcely touched."
"Terry, I must speak to Sergeant Williams," (the drill sergeant); "you
are growing Sheffield-knee'd; the soles of _your_ boots are worn down on
the inside and not touched on the outside."
"Denny Smith, your mother must have reared _you_, for shure you must
have been bow-legged from an infant; _your_ boot-soles are worn as much
on the outside as Terry's are on the inside."
"Arrah, now, Tim O'Leary, I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself for
bringing disgrace on our illegant corps by wearing these thundering ould
crab shells wid a patch on the side of each. Shure I'll go bail there's
never a man in the regiment would wear a patch on his boots but
yourself; I'll report you to your captain, so I will, for the
sergeant-major told me your account has been quite clear these four
months, and there's never a betther-looking dragoon in the service: pity
that you should be spoiled entirely for the matther of a pair of
illegant boots." In this fashion he would rattle away with his tongue
while examining our boots, and, slinging such as wanted repairs over his
arm, bustle out of one room into another.
The barrack-rooms are approached by a flight of stone steps leading from
the yard, and one morning when our poor sergeant-shoemaker had been more
than usually jocular, he unfortunately missed his footing at the top of
one of these flights of steps, and falling headlong to the bottom, broke
his neck and died on the spot. There he lay, poor fellow, with his face
turned upwards, until the surgeon was summoned and pronounced him dead,
when he was carried to the hospital. He was buried in the little
churchyard at Heston with military honours, of which he was richly
deserving.
Soon after this unfortunate incident, another occurred that caused some
commotion in the corps. There is a powder-mill on Hounslow Heath, where
we went through all our field-drill. On one occasion, during a
field-day, a waggon was being loaded with powder, to which was attached
a team of four horses: we had just thrown out a party of skirmishers,
who were firing away some distance from the mill. It was then the
custom for the "squad-sergeants" to visit the barrack-rooms for the
purpose of serving out blank ammunition prior to the troops marching out
to a field-day, and the men were supposed to take their ball-cartridges
from their pouches and replace them with blank, leaving the
ball-ammunition on the shelf above their beds. On the day to which I
allude, the skirmishers were keeping up a brisk fire on an imaginary
enemy, when one of the horses attached to the waggon standing at the
powder-mill was seen to drop suddenly, struggle for a few moments, and
then lie still. Those who were not so intent on their duty as to be
able to observe this circumstance, also observed the waggoner making
signs as if something extraordinary had happened, and all the while
pointing to the prostrate horse, while a crowd of workmen collected out
of the mill; the colonel, however, took no heed of the matter until all
the movements were at an end, and the skirmishers recalled to their
places in the ranks; he then commanded the regiment to "sit at ease,"
and the excited waggoner was permitted to explain what had occurred.
He said that one of his horses "there lying dead yonder" had been shot
"clean through the head." The adjutant rode up to the mill, and found
that a _bullet_ had entered the horse's head just under the eye. Now,
we had never had an officer in the regiment that was decidedly
unpopular, and, it was _thought_, never a man that would be coward
enough to adopt this manner of retaliation or revenge for any grievance
he might be labouring under. The ball that killed the horse _might_
have been intended for the breast of a commissioned or a
non-commissioned officer, but the impression was decidedly to the
contrary--that it was the result of some accident or carelessness which
could be explained. Nevertheless, it was necessary that a searching
investigation should take place, and, whether through design or
carelessness, any man had left a ball-cartridge in his pouch, he would
most assuredly be punished. Not one of us could be pronounced free from
suspicion, for in the hurry of preparing for a field-day, any soldier
(as these matters were then conducted) might have left one or more
ball-cartridges in his pouch. The whole regiment was called to
"attention," and we were ordered to divest ourselves of the pouches and
belts, and throw them on the ground in front of our horses; the
squad-sergeants dismounted and made a strict examination of the
remaining rounds of ammunition, but not one round of ball was
discovered, and every man had his proper number of blank.
Notwithstanding this, however, the same uncertainty existed as to which
of us had discharged the round of ball that killed the horse, and a
number of non-commissioned officers were told off to proceed at once to
barracks to examine and count the ammunition left there. It seemed an
age, though little more than an hour, till they returned.
At last a cloud of dust was seen along the lane that led from the
barracks to the heath, and in a few minutes the messengers halted in
front of the regiment: every man's heart beat--at least, I know that
mine did--as one of them delivered his report in an under-tone to the
colonel. The adjutant ran his eye along the line until it rested on Bob
Norris, one of the best, the steadiest, and most harmless men in the
corps, who had borne an irreproachable character ever since he had
enlisted. He was ordered to the front, and commanded by the adjutant (a
man who had risen from the ranks), in a fierce tone and manner, to
account for one of his ten rounds of ball-ammunition found to be
missing, while one round of blank was found on the floor of the
barrack-room close to his bed. Poor fellow, it was evident that he
could not explain; indeed, he could not speak; all who knew the man's
disposition thoroughly, knew also that he must have made a mistake in
the exchange of the ammunition. What so easy and so probable? Other
matters of far less importance in the internal arrangement of a regiment
were scrupulously observed with a fuss and a bother that was positively
sickening to any man of sound common sense: why not have a box with a
lock and key in every room, and let the troop-sergeants collect every
round of ball-ammunition, and place them in this box prior to issuing
the blank for field-firing?
Poor Bob Norris was divested of his arms, and marched off between two of
his comrades, a prisoner to barracks. The case was investigated in due
course; the owner of the horse was paid for his loss by the Government--
60 pounds; and Bob got twenty-one days' kit drill. This was said by
some non-commissioned officers to be a lenient sentence, in consequence
of his previous good character and the commanding officer taking a
merciful view of his case. The ball, he said, "might have been intended
for one of the superior officers or it might not," he was willing to
take the latter view of the case and give the prisoner the benefit. As
a punishment for carelessness, however, the prisoner would, in addition
to the drill, be kept on the stoppages as long as he remained in the
regiment, and in the event of his requiring to purchase his discharge,
he would not be allowed to do so unless the whole of the money advanced
by Government to recompense the man for the loss of the horse was
refunded.
Thus Bob was placed in a most unfortunate and pitiable position,
positively _nailed to the service_ for sixteen more years, without ever
being allowed to draw a farthing of pay in money, and although he was as
good as gold, and true to his colours as steel, he could not "put up"
with such hardships as these: he had, he said, enlisted solely because
"he thought he should like a soldier's life, and had made up his mind to
deserve, and, if possible, to attain promotion." This stroke of pure
misfortune had completely crushed all his hopes, he became sullen and
morose, and after wearily plodding in the barrack-yard with the heavy
burden of his kit (about 60 pounds weight) on his back for four hours
during each of six days, he dashed the pack from his back with a heavy
thud on the floor of the barrack-room. The expression of his fine open
countenance plainly betokened that "something was brewing in Bob's
mind," as old Jem Page remarked while burnishing his spurs. When the
reveille sounded the next morning at five o'clock, Bob Norris's bed was
empty: he had quitted it and scaled the barrack-wall during the night,
and was heard of no more as a soldier in our regiment.
Now if drunkenness had been the primary cause of this dangerous mistake,
few men in the regiment would have been sorry for Bob Norris; but he was
a _steady, good motif_ and it was generally thought that he had been
most cruelly used; for be it remembered, that notwithstanding he had
deserted and so got rid of his troubles, yet he never could be a happy
man. A deserter is always in fear of being retaken, and with good
reason, for let him be disguised as he may, one soldier can always
detect another. Many, very many men who desert give themselves up again
solely because they cannot bear the misery consequent on the constant
fear of being retaken; and a more lenient punishment is administered to
a man who voluntarily surrenders, than if he had given much trouble in
his capture. A deserter can be taken and placed in any gaol in Her
Majesty's dominions, when the police or military authorities forward the
report of his capture to his regiment, if they know it; if not, they
publish his description in the _Hue and Cry_.