'THE ROUTE!'
It was so; those comfortless wooden wigwams in the lines of the North
Camp, which had known the Rifles for so many months, now, in the
words of the Book of Job, knew them no more; and nothing of the smart
but sombre battalion now remained there save a few soldiers--recruits
whose training was not complete, or men whose time of service was
nearly expired.
The mess had been broken up, its massive and trophied service of
plate packed up and placed in the charge of Goring, who had command
of the fragment of the battalion left behind. The senior captain of
a regiment was never employed on this duty, as, for obvious reasons,
his presence at headquarters is always desirable.
On the eventful morning of their march from camp the gallant
battalion of the 'Prince Consort's Own' scarcely knew themselves in
their new 'Ashanti toggery,' as they called it, which was furnished
from the stores at Pimlico, and consisted, for each man, of a grey
tweed tunic, resembling a shooting-jacket, suitable for the climate,
with ample pockets; belt and trousers of the same material, and rough
canvas leggings; the head-dress, a light grey Indian helmet, perhaps
the first time such a thing had been worn on British ground.
Soldier-like looked the Rifles in their black belts and their heavy
marching order, with knapsacks, haversacks, great-coats, canteens,
and water-bottles.
If there was little of the pomp and circumstance of war in this
costume, by repetition in numbers and by uniformity in the mass it
did not seem unimposing; and if splendour was wanting, certainly
enthusiasm was not, and loud and hearty were the cheers that rang
along the Lines from one street of huts to another, as the grey
column, preceded by the bands of several corps, began its short march
to the railway which was to convey it to Southampton just as the red
sun of November, the pioneer of winter, shone out through clouds that
had a ragged and dreary look in a grey and gloomy sky.
The moorlands around Aldershot were odorous with withered bracken,
and a stray heron might have been seen, perhaps, at Fleet Pond,
motionless amid the water as if sculptured in bronze; in the adjacent
thickets the woodsman was going forth, armed with axe and bill-hook,
his dog close behind him, heedless of war and its accompaniments,
pausing, perhaps, as he heard in the distance on the ambient air the
crash of the brass bands that led the Rifles on the first part of the
long route to terrible Ashanti, or it might be the chorus of hundreds
of manly voices shouting 'Cheer, boys, cheer,' on the wind of the
early morning, but he was thinking only of the bundles of faggots on
his shoulder, the crackling fire, the clean-swept hearth, the kettle
on the hob, and the trim little wife that awaited him at home.
Bevil Goring was accompanying the battalion to Southampton to see the
last of his friends, and to 'kill,' as he thought, 'another day of
suspense,' the long and empty days of waiting with gloomy forebodings.
It seemed to him that a few hours had wrought a curious change in
both Jerry Wilmot and Tony Dalton, but more especially in the latter,
who from being a grave, earnest, and pleasant fellow had suddenly
became morose, preoccupied, and even sullen and most impatient; one
thing alone seemed to gratify him--the sudden and speedy departure to
the seat of war.
'What has come to you, my dear fellow?' asked Goring more than once;
'you look as if you were going into a fever.'
'I am in a fever of the mind, Goring,' replied Dalton, 'and I may
tell you all about it before the transport sails.'
Among the crowd that assembled to see the battalion depart were many
ladies on horseback. There was one under whose tightly-tied veil the
hot tears were falling, as she saw Jerry march past in the strange
Ashanti uniform at the head of his company; but Jerry--his sad
thoughts turned inward--saw not her, and he had no prevision that she
of whom his heart was so full at that moment--Bella Chevenix--was so
near him.
'Time will test his truth,' thought the girl; 'true love does not
die, but the false only, as it depends upon outward influences. Yet
_time_ may see this regiment return, and Jerry not with it--oh, God,
if it should be--not with it!'
And the crash of the brass bands went on, and the tramp of the
steadily marching column, the flash of accoutrements and arms, the
cheers, the chorusing, the general hubbub, all portions of a terrible
phantasmagoria, amid which he was taken away from her.
Southampton was reached in due time, and by sound of bugle the
battalion was 'detrained,' to use the term now in use, and marched to
the steam transport which lay in those busy and stately docks, where
of old the sea had ebbed and flowed upon a silent and sandy shore,
and where, it is difficult now to believe, Canute the Dane sat in a
chair, and took his part in that well-known incident by which he
rebuked the flattery of his courtiers.
By a hand gangway the grey column defiled at once on board the ship,
whose capacious womb received it. The men were speedily divided into
their watches; a guard was detailed; berths were apportioned; arms
racked; knapsacks hung on pegs or cleats; bedding inspected; duck
shirts and fatigue trousers served out; and so, for a time, the
officers and sergeants had a busy time of it; while a thousand
mysterious returns, receipts, and requisitions seemed to require the
signature of the colonel and everyone else, and these were affixed on
the capstan head, the gunwale, the back of the nearest soldier, or
anything else that might be improvised as a table.
Incessant was the clatter of the donkey-engines as stores were taken
on board, baggage, shot, shell, gatling-guns, waggons, provisions,
wheel-barrows, shovels, and pickaxes in bundles. Night fell, and
still the odious hurly-burly on deck and by the gaping hatchways went
on, to the sound of many a merry chorus or song at times:
'It's no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true.
And his heart was true to his Poll.'
Though our soldiers are generally too young to have wives nowadays,
in these short-service times, a few years ago it was not so; thus
several women of the Rifle Battalion, some with babies in their arms,
had followed it to Southampton to see the last of those they might
never look upon again.
'Good-bye, my poor Mary,' Goring heard a young soldier cry, looking
wistfully to his girl-wife, who stood weeping on the quay, where she
held up their baby from time to time. 'How are you to get back to
camp?'
'Never mind, Tom darling; I'm here, anyhow.'
'Have you any money?'
'No.'
'God help you, darling,' he replied, and proceeded in a mechanical
but hopeless way to investigate his pockets.
'I'll take her back, and all the women of ours who are here. Pass
the message along, lads,' cried Bevil Goring, who now gave a sergeant
_carte blanche_ to distribute money among all for what they required,
and directing them all to meet him at the railway station next
morning.
'Three cheers for Captain Goring!' was now the cry, and many men
crowded gratefully forward to salute him and shake his hand, while he
felt now that he could spend some of the rupees of Bevil Goring of
Chowringee to good purpose; and sure enough he met his strange
detachment at the station next morning; and after giving them a
hearty breakfast, including buns and cans of milk galore for the
little ones, he brought them all into camp, while the transport was
steaming down the waters of the Solent, and heading for the Channel.
But in this part of our narrative we are anticipating certain events
which occurred at Southampton, and which Dalton and Goring, but more
particularly the former, were destined to have long in their memory.