THE ‘DEATH OR GLORY BOYS.’
In a few minutes Jack was sipping some weak brandy-and-water and
munching a sandwich, after which he felt another man.
‘And now, young fellow, where do you propose to steer for?’ asked the
soldier.
‘I wanted to get to London,’ replied Jack. ‘But I am afraid that after
my late shake up I sha’n’t be able to get as far to-night.’
‘I don’t think you will,’ replied the soldier, ‘unless,’ he added, ‘you
are particularly anxious.’
‘The fact is, I’m down on my luck. I’m out of a situation, with very
little chance of getting another.’ And then Jack told his story, down to
the time when the tramps attacked him.
The soldier listened attentively. ‘That’s just a very lonely bit of road
there,’ he said, ‘especially about this time on a Sunday. It was by the
merest chance that I happened to pass and hear your cries. I was just
returning from the house of one of my officers, to whom I had taken a
letter.’
‘Are you an officer?’ asked Jack, looking at the gold lace on the
soldier’s cuffs and collar.
The Lancer laughed. ‘Not I, lad,’ he said; ‘I’m simply Sergeant Bob
Barrymore.’
‘May I ask what regiment yours is?’
The soldier smiled. ‘I thought our uniform and badge were pretty well
known,’ he said. ‘My regiment is the 17th Lancers, the “Death or Glory
Boys.” But I must be getting on, though I don’t like to leave you here.
I’ll see you as far as Hounslow if you like, and I should advise you to
put up there for the night and make an early start for London in the
morning.’
This seemed to Jack good advice, though he thought with a sinking heart
of his small stock of money, which would be thus further reduced. He got
on to his feet, and was then astonished to find how weak and giddy he
felt.
‘Just what I thought,’ the sergeant said, as he donned his headdress and
gauntlets.
He placed his left arm round Jack’s waist, half-supporting him; took the
portmanteau in his other hand, and, whistling to his horse, which at
once followed him, he led the way out of the pleasant meadow on to the
highroad. He then gave Jack a ‘leg up’ into the saddle, and instructed
him to hold his slender portmanteau in front of him; then, with his
right hand on the horse’s bridle, and carrying his sabre in his left,
away they went.
Before they reached the barracks the sergeant dismounted Jack and they
both passed in on foot. Jack gave an admiring glance at the smart young
soldier, in all his gay trappings, a ten-foot lance surmounted by red
and white bannerols in his hand, his spurred heels jingling on the
stones as he strode up and down in front of the guard-room, outside
which several soldiers, all also in full-dress, were standing or
sitting.
Sergeant Barrymore’s quarters were reached. The sergeant’s wife, who was
quite a superior woman, was soon in possession of the facts of the case.
With a woman’s quick instinct she saw that the youth before her was
tired and faint and hungry.
He was at once taken in; water, with soap and towels, placed for him;
and then, when a welcome wash had refreshed him, a pot of coffee with
some grilled ham-and-eggs and sweet white bread were waiting for him.
Jack ate heartily and soon felt much better.
By that time the sergeant had divested himself of his gay trappings, and
was in a loose undress jacket, slippers on his feet, and a well-used
briar-pipe in his mouth. Jack turned to his host and hostess with the
suspicion of a tear in his eye.
‘How can I thank you both for your more than kindness?’ he said. ‘You
are indeed good Samaritans, and I can never hope to repay you for what
you have done.’
‘Not a word,’ said the sergeant; ‘it’s every man’s duty to help a
comrade in distress.’
‘But I’m not a comrade,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘I’m just a waster, a
failure,’ he added with some bitterness.
‘Tut, tut, all men are comrades; but no more talking. A night’s sleep is
what you want. Come with me. We can give you a shakedown, nothing more;
but I dare say you’ll sleep well enough, and to-morrow you can get on
your way again.’
The sergeant got a basin of hot water, in which Jack bathed his poor,
galled feet. Some ointment was applied to them, a rag soaked in liniment
tied round his injured knee, and Jack was ready for bed. A couple of
regimental blankets on the sofa in Sergeant Barrymore’s sitting-room
made a comfortable bed, and thus Jack passed his first night with those
who, though he did not know it, for years to come, on land and sea, in
comfortable home-quarters or on the blood-stained battlefields of the
Crimea, were to be his loyal and gallant comrades.
His long and dreamless slumbers were at last broken by a ringing peal of
martial music, and he awoke with a start to wonder where he was and what
were the sounds he heard. The music, which he knew to be a trumpet-call,
ceased; then he heard a variety of sounds, sharp commands given in that
tone of voice peculiar to the cavalry service, the trampling of horses’
hoofs on the ground, and the jingling of bits and steel scabbards
against stirrups.
Jack jumped up, hurried on his clothes, and went to the window. The
sight that met his gaze drew an involuntary exclamation of delight from
him. There, on the parade-ground just below him, he saw, drawn up in
column of troops, the gallant ‘Death or Glory Boys.’
It was a magnificent morning, the bright sun shining on the burnished
sword-scabbards and lance-points, making them flash and glisten like
myriads of diamonds, while the light breeze was just enough to flutter
the drooping black plumes and the gay red and white lance-pennons. The
facings of the dark-blue uniforms looked snowy white, the shape of the
men’s legs being shown to perfection by the white-striped overalls. The
horses tossed their heads proudly and pawed the ground restively as
though impatient to be off outside the gates, where they seemed to know
a crowd had gathered to see the gallant regiment march off.
As Jack looked, the trumpeters sounded the ‘General Parade,’ and the
officers took up their position with the regiment, the gold lace
glittering on their uniforms and horse-furniture, conspicuous on which
was the grinning skull and cross-bones, their great plumes of black
swans’ feathers rustling in the breeze.
Then a handsome, distinguished-looking man, on whose breast glittered
several medals and orders, rode up. A few curt commands followed, the
lances came up to the ‘carry,’ and the officers drew their swords.
The band, which had been sitting mounted just on the right of the
regiment, struck up a lively march and moved off; the regiment, in
sections, followed, and the ‘Death or Glory Boys’ passed in review
before Jack.
‘What a glorious sight! how noble they look!’ cried Jack aloud. ‘How I
should love to ride in their ranks!’
‘Would you, indeed, sonny?’ said a voice behind him, and, turning, Jack
beheld Sergeant Barrymore, a kindly smile on his sunburnt features,
regarding him with a quizzical smile.