THE "SAILORS' WELCOME"--MILES HAS A NIGHT OF IT AND ENLISTS--HIS FRIEND
ARMSTRONG HAS AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE AT THE SOLDIERS' INSTITUTE.
It was not long before our hero discovered the reason of Jack Molloy's
solicitude about his appearance. It was that he, Miles, should pass for
a sailor, and thus be in a position to claim the hospitality of the
_Sailors' Welcome_,--to the inner life of which, civilians were not
admitted, though they were privileged, with the public in general, to
the use of the outer refreshment-room.
"Come here, Jack Molloy," he said, leading his friend aside, when he
made this discovery. "You pride yourself on being a true-blue British
tar, don't you?"
"I does," said Jack, with a profound solemnity of decision that
comported well with his character and condition.
"And you would scorn to serve under the French flag, or the Turkish
flag, or the Black flag, or any flag but the Union Jack, wouldn't you?"
"Right you are, mate; them's my sentiments to a tee!"
"Well, then, you can't expect _me_ to sail under false colours any more
than yourself," continued Miles. "I scorn to sail into this port under
your straw hat, so I'll strike these colours, bid you good-bye, and make
sail for another port where a civilian will be welcome."
Molloy frowned at the floor for some moments in stern perplexity.
"You've took the wind out o' my sails entirely, you have," he replied at
last; "an' you're right, young man, but I'm troubled about you. If you
don't run into this here port you'll have to beat about in the offing
all night, or cast anchor in the streets, for I don't know of another
lodgin' in Portsm'uth w'ere you could hang out except them disrepitible
grog-shops. In coorse, there's the big hotels; but I heerd you say to
Sloper that you was bound to do things cheap, bein' hard up."
"Never mind, my friend," said Miles quickly. "I will manage somehow; so
good-night, and many thanks to you for the interest you have taken in--"
"Avast, mate! there's no call to go into action in sitch a hurry. This
here _Sailors' Welcome_ opens the doors of its bar an' refreshment-room,
an' spreads its purvisions before all an' sundry as can afford to pay
its moderate demands. It's on'y the after-cabin you're not free to. So
you'll have a bit supper wi' me before you set sail on your night
cruise."
Being by that time rather hungry as well as fatigued, Miles agreed to
remain for supper. While they were engaged with it, he was greatly
impressed with the number of sailors and marines who passed into the
reading-room beyond the bar, or who sat down at the numerous tables
around to have a hearty supper, which they washed down with tea and
coffee instead of beer or gin--apparently with tremendous appetite and
much satisfaction.
"Look ye here," said Jack Molloy, rising when their "feed" was about
concluded, "I've no doubt they won't object to your taking a squint at
the readin'-room, though they won't let you use it." Following his
companion, Miles passed by a glass double door into an enormous
well-lighted, warm room, seventy feet long, and of proportionate width
and height, in which a goodly number of men of the sea were busy as
bees--some of them reading books or turning over illustrated papers and
magazines, others smoking their pipes, and enjoying themselves in
rocking-chairs in front of the glowing fire, chatting, laughing, and
yarning as free-and-easily as if in their native fo'c's'ls, while a few
were examining the pictures on the walls, or the large models of ships
which stood at one side of the room. At the upper end a full-sized
billiard-table afforded amusement to several players, and profound
interest to a number of spectators, who passed their comments on the
play with that off-hand freedom which seems to be a product of fresh
gales and salt-water. A door standing partly open at the upper end of
this apartment revealed a large hall, from which issued faintly the
sound of soft music.
"Ain't it snug? and there's no gamblin' agoin' on there," remarked
Molloy, as they returned to their table; "that's not allowed--nor
drinkin', nor card-playin', but that's all they putt a stop to. She's a
wise woman is Miss Robinson. She don't hamper us wi' no rules. Why,
bless you, Jack ashore would never submit to rules! He gits more than
enough o' them afloat. No; it's liberty hall here. We may come an' go
as we like, at all hours o' the day and night, an' do exactly as we
please, so long as we don't smash up the furnitur', or feed without
payin', or make ourselves a gineral noosance. They don't even forbid
swearin'. They say they leave the matter o' lingo to our own good taste
and good sense. An' d'you know, it's wonderful what an' amount o' both
we've got w'en we ain't worried about it! You'll scarce hear an oath in
this house from mornin' to evenin', though you'll hear a deal o' snorin'
doorin' the night! That's how the place takes so well, d'ee see?"
"Then the _Welcome_ is well patronised, I suppose?"
"Patronised!" exclaimed the seaman; "that's so, an' no mistake. Why,
mate--But what's your name? I've forgot to ax you that all this time!"
"Call me Miles," said our hero, with some hesitation.
"_Call_ you Miles! _Ain't_ you Miles?"
"Well, yes, I am; only there's more of my name than that, but that's
enough for your purpose, I daresay."
"All right. Well, Miles, you was askin' how the house is patronised.
I'll tell 'ee. They make up about two hundred an' twenty beds in it
altogether, an' these are chock-full a'most every night. One way or
another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep' under
this roof last year--so I've bin told. That's patronisin', ain't it?
To say nothin' o' the fellers as comes for--grub, which, as you've
found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see,
they're always kind an' attentive here, 'cause they professes to think
more of our souls than our bodies--which we've no objection to, d'ee
see, for the lookin' arter our souls includes the lookin' arter our
bodies! An' they don't bother us in no way to attend their
Bible-readin's an' sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you
want 'em you may go; if you don't, you can let 'em alone. No
compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don't myself
care much about sitchlike things. So long's my body's all right, I
leaves my soul to look arter itself."
As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference, there
sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been
impressed on him by his mother: "What shall it profit a man if he should
gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" but he made no reference
to this at the time.
"Hows'ever," continued Molloy, "as they don't worrit us about religion,
except to give us a good word an' a blessin' now an' again, and may-hap
a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it's my opinion,
if it was twice as big as it is, we'd fill it chock-full. I would board
as well as sleep in it myself--for it's full o' conveniences, sitch as
lockers to putt our things in, an' baths, and what not, besides all the
other things I've mentioned--but the want o' drink staggers me. I can't
git along without a drop o' drink."
Miles thought that his nautical friend appeared to be unable to get
along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say
so.
"Man alive!" continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh
with emphasis; "it's a wonderful place is this _Welcome_! An' it's a
lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o' the bunks
overhead not long ago."
"You don't mean that?" exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.
"In course I does. But they heard 'im gaspin', an cut him down in time
to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him
to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he's kep' it too. Leastwise I
know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to
it--all through comin' here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk.
They give the bunks names--cubicles they calls 'em in the lump.
Separately, there's the `Commodore Goodenough Cot,' an' the `Little
Nellie Cot,' an' the `Sunshine Cot'--so called 'cause it hain't got a
port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the `Billy Rough 'un'--"
"The what?"
"`The Billy Rough 'un'--arter the ship o' that name, you know--"
"Oh! you mean the _Bellerophon_."
"Well, young man, an' didn't I _say_ the `Billy Rough 'un'? Then
there's the--But what's your hurry?" said the seaman, as Miles rose.
"It's getting late now, friend. If I'm to find another lodging I must
be off. Doubtless, I'll find some respectable house to take me in for
the night." Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.
"I don't believe you will," returned Molloy, also rising, and giving
full vent to a sympathetic and vociferous yawn. "Hows'ever, w'en a
young feller insists on havin' his way, it's best to give him plenty of
cable and let him swing. He's sure to find out his mistake by
experience. But look ye here, Miles, I've took a fancy to you, an' I'd
be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If," he continued, thrusting
a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of
mixed gold, silver, and copper--"if you don't objec' to accep' of a loan
of--"
"Thank you--no, my friend. It is very kind of you," said Miles quickly;
"but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night."
"All right," returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his
pocket. "But if you should ever want a jaw with Jack Molloy while
you're in this here port you've only got to hail him at the _Sailors'
Welcome_, an' if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you
where he's cruisin'. Good-night, an' luck go wi' ye!"
Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found
himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable sensation
which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against
the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and
felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.
He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his
eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld a policeman looking at him
earnestly.
"Now, then, young fellow," said the guardian of the night; "d'you think
you can take care of yourself?"
"Oh! yes, quite well. It's only a giddy feeling that came over me. I'm
all right," said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.
He staggered slightly, however, and a short "Humph!" from the policeman
showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.
Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated, Miles hurried
away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had
not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had
swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly
he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he
could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy could have
told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed,
would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had
already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.
As he walked onward, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets
seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every
other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and
pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a
stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as "drunk and
incapable!"
When brought before the Inspector the following morning, shame and
reckless despair were the tenants of his breast. Those tenants were not
expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector--after
numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory
replies--adopted the role of the faithful friend, and gave him a great
deal of paternal advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of
strong drink and bad companions.
Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal his feelings, and to take the
reproof and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met
a recruiting sergeant, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the
service of her Majesty, immediately laid siege to him. In his then
state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at
once and entered the Queen's service, under the name of John Miles.
We need scarcely say that his heart misgave him, that his conscience
condemned him, and that, do what he would, he could not shut out the
fact that his taking so hasty and irrevocable a step was a poor return
for all the care and anxiety of his parents in years gone by. But, as
we have said, or hinted, Miles was one of those youths who, when they
have once made up their minds to a certain course of action, fancy that
they are bound to pursue it to the end. Hence it was that he gave his
name as John Miles instead of Miles Milton, so that he might baffle any
inquiries as to what had become of him.
Once enlisted, he soon began to realise the fact that he was no longer a
free agent--at least not in the sense in which he had been so up to that
period of his life. Constant drill was the order of the day for some
weeks; for there was a demand for more troops for Egypt at the time, and
regiments were being made up to their full strength as fast as possible.
During this period Miles saw little of his companions in arms
personally, save that group of recruits who were being "licked into
shape" along with him. At first he was disappointed with these, for
most of them were shy, unlettered men; some, raw lads from the country;
and others, men who seemed to have been loafers before joining, and were
by no means attractive.
The drill-sergeant, however, was a good, though stern man, and soon
recognised the differences in character, aptitude, and willingness among
his raw recruits. This man, whose name was Hardy, made a powerful
impression on our hero from the first; there was something so quiet and
even gentle about him, in spite of his firm and inflexible demands in
regard to the matters of drill and duty. To please this man, Miles gave
himself heart and soul to his work, and was soon so efficient as to be
allowed to join the regiment.
And here he found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that the sergeant
and young soldier with whom he had travelled to Portsmouth, were members
of the company to which he was attached. As we have said, Miles had
taken a great fancy at first sight to the young private, whose name was
William Armstrong. Our hero was of an affectionate disposition, and
would have allowed his warm feelings to expend themselves on a dog
rather than have denied them free play. No wonder, then, that he was
attracted by the handsome manly countenance and deferential manner of
Armstrong, who, although an uneducated youth, and reared in the lower
ranks of life, was gifted with those qualities of the true gentleman
which mere social position can neither bestow nor take away. His
intellect also was of that active and vigorous fibre which cannot be
entirely repressed by the want of scholastic training.
The affection was mutual, for the contrasts and similarities of the two
men were alike calculated to draw them together. Both were tall, broad,
square-shouldered, erect, and soldierly, yet, withal, modest as well in
demeanour as in feeling, and so exactly like to each other in size and
figure, and in the quiet gravity of their expressions, that they might
well have been taken for twin brothers. When, in uniform, the two
strode along the streets of Portsmouth, people were apt to turn and look
at them, and think, no doubt, that with many such men in the British
army it would go hard with the foes of Old England!
The bond of union was still further strengthened by the fact that, while
the comparatively learned Miles was enthusiastic and communicative, the
unlettered Armstrong was inquisitive and receptive, fond of prying into
the nature of things, and always ready as well as competent to discuss--
not merely to _argue_. Observe the distinction, good reader.
Discussion means the shaking of any subject into its component parts
with a desire to understand it. Argument has come very much to signify
the enravelment of any subject with a view to the confusion and conquest
of an opponent. Both young men abhorred the latter and liked the
former. Hence much of their harmony and friendship.
"Will you come with me up town?" said Armstrong to Miles one day, as he
was about to quit the barrack-room. "I'm going to see if there's any
news of my Emmy."
"I did not know you expected her," said Miles. "Come along, I'm ready."
"I don't expect her yet," returned Armstrong, as they left the barracks;
"I only look for a letter, because it was on Wednesday that I wrote
telling her of my going to Egypt, and she can scarce have had time to
get ready to come down, poor girl! In fact I am going to engage a room
for her. By the way, I heard this morning that there's to be another
draft for Egypt, so you'll have a chance to go."
"I'm rejoiced to hear it," returned Miles; "for, to say the truth, I had
been growing envious of your good fortune in being ordered on active
service."
"Hooroo, Armstrong, where away now?" cried an unmistakably Irish voice,
as a smart little soldier crossed the street to them, and was introduced
to Miles as Corporal Flynn, belonging to another company in his own
regiment.
"My blissin' on ye, Miles. John, is it?"
"Yes, John," replied our hero, much amused at the free-and-easy address
of the little corporal.
"Well, John Miles," he said, "I don't know whether ye'll laugh or cry
whin I tell ye that you'll likely be warned this evenin' for the draft
that's goin' to Aigypt."
"I certainly won't cry," returned Miles, with a laugh. Yet the news
brought a sudden feeling into his breast which was strongly allied to
the opposite of laughter, for the thought of parting from father and
mother without bidding them farewell fell upon his spirit with crushing
weight; but, like too many men who know they are about to do wrong,
Miles hardened his heart with the delusive argument that, having fairly
taken the step, it was impossible for him now to retrace it. He knew--
at least he thought--that there was still the possibility of being
bought off, and that his stern father would only be too glad to help
him. He also knew that at least he had time to write and let them know
his circumstances, so that they might run down to Portsmouth and bid him
good-bye; but he had taken the bit in his teeth, and now he resolved to
abide the consequences.
Turning from his companions while they conversed, he looked into a
shop-window.
"Your chum's in the blues," said the lively corporal, in a lower voice.
"Young fellows are often in that state after joining, ain't they?"
returned Armstrong.
"True for ye--an' more shame to them, whin they ought to be as proud as
paycocks at wearin' her gracious Majesty's uniform. But good luck to
'ee! I must be off, for I'm bound for Aigypt mesilf."
"I am glad that I shall have the chance of seeing your wife, for I've
been much interested in her since your friend Sergeant Gilroy told me
about her," said Miles, as they resumed their walk. "Surely it is hard
of them to refuse to let her go with the regiment."
"Well, it _is_ hard," returned the young soldier; "but after all I
cannot find fault with the powers that be, for I married with my eyes
open. I knew the rule that those who marry without leave must leave
their wives at home, for only a certain number of families can go abroad
with a regiment--and that only in peace-time."
"It might have been well," continued Armstrong, slowly, while a sad
expression clouded his face for a few moments, "if I had waited, and
many a time has my conscience smitten me for my haste. But what could I
do? Emmy most unaccountably fell in love wi' me--_thank God_! for I do
think that the greatest earthly blessing that can be given to mortal man
is the love of a gentle, true-hearted girl. The wealth of the Indies
cannot purchase that, and nothing else in life can supply the want of
it. Can you wonder that I grasped the treasure when within my reach?"
"I certainly cannot; and as certainly I do not blame you," returned the
sympathetic Miles.
"Of course I fell in love with Emmy," continued the soldier, with a
slightly confused look. "I could no more help that than I could help
growing up. Could I?"
"Certainly not," said Miles.
"Well, you see," continued his friend, "as the affair was arranged in
heaven, according to general belief, what was I that I should resist?
You see, Emmy's father, who's a well-to-do farmer, was willing, and we
never gave a thought to Egypt or the war at the time. She will be well
looked after while I'm away, and I'll send her every penny of my pay
that I can spare, but--"
He stopped abruptly, and Miles, respecting his feelings, remarked, by
way of changing the subject, that, the pay of a private soldier being so
small, very little could be saved out of that.
"Not much," assented his comrade; "but, little as it is, we can increase
it in various ways. For one thing, I have given up smoking. That will
save a little; though, to say truth, I have never expended much on
baccy. Then I have joined Miss Robinson's Temperance Band--"
"Strange how often that lady's name has been in my ears since I came to
Portsmouth!" said Miles.
"Not so strange after all," returned Armstrong, "when one reflects that
she has been the means of almost changing the character of the town
within the last few years--as far at least as concerns the condition of
soldiers, as well as many of the poorer classes among its inhabitants--
so Sergeant Gilroy tells me."
As some of the information given by Sergeant Gilroy to the young soldier
may be interesting to many readers, we quote a few of his own words.
"Why, some years ago," he said, "the soldiers' wives, mothers, and
sisters who came down here to see the poor fellows set sail for foreign
parts, found it almost impossible to obtain lodgings, except in
drinking-houses which no respectable woman could enter. Some poor women
even preferred to spend a winter night under railway arches, or some
such shelter, rather than enter these places. And soldiers out of
barracks had nowhere else to go to for amusement, while sailors on leave
had to spend their nights in them or walk the streets. Now all that is
changed. The Soldiers' Institute supplies 140 beds, and furnishes board
and lodging to our sisters and wives at the lowest possible rates,
besides reception-rooms where we can meet our friends; a splendid
reading-room, where we find newspapers and magazines, and can write our
letters, if we like, in peace and quiet; a bar where tea and coffee,
bread and butter, buns, etcetera, can be had at all reasonable hours for
a mere trifle; a coffee and smoking room, opening out of which are two
billiard-rooms, and beyond these a garden, where we can get on the flat
roof of a house and watch the arrival and departure of shipping. There
is a small charge to billiard-players, which pays all expenses of the
tables, so that not a penny of the Institute funds is spent on the
games. Of course no gambling is allowed in any of Miss Robinson's
Institutes. Then there are Bible-class rooms, and women's work-rooms,
and a lending library, and bathrooms, and a great hall, big enough to
hold a thousand people, where there are held temperance meetings,
lectures with dissolving views, entertainments, and `tea-fights,' and
Sunday services. No wonder that, with such an agency at work for the
glory of God and the good of men, Portsmouth is almost a new place.
Indeed, although Miss Robinson met with powerful opposition at first
from the powers that be, her Institute is now heartily recognised and
encouraged in every way at the Horse Guards. Indeed, it has recently
been visited by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, and
highly approved of by these and other grandees."
While the two soldiers were chatting about the past and present of the
Institute they arrived at its door.
"Here we are. Come into the reception-room, Miles, while I make inquiry
about my letters."
They entered the house as he spoke. The reception-room is on the right
of the passage. Armstrong opened the door and looked in, but, instead
of advancing, he stood transfixed, gazing before him open-mouthed as
though he had seen a spectre, for there, in front of the fire, sat a
beautiful, refined-looking girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, gazing
pensively at the flickering flames.
Miles was not kept long in suspense as to who she was.
"Emmy!"
"Oh, Willie!"
These were exclamations which would have revealed all in a moment, even
though Emmy had not sprung up and rushed into Willie's open arms. How
she ever emerged from the embrace of those arms with unbroken bones is a
mystery which cannot be solved, but she did emerge in safety, and with
some confusion on observing that Miles had witnessed the incident with
admiring gaze!
"Never mind him, Emmy," said the young soldier, laughing; "he's a good
friend, a comrade. Shake hands with him."
The action, and the ease of manner with which Emmy obeyed, proved that
grace and small hands are not altogether dependent on rank or station.
"Excuse me," said Miles, after a few words of salutation; "I'll go and
have a look at the library."
So saying he quitted the room, leaving the young couple alone; for there
chanced to be no other visitors to the reception-room at the time. In
the lobby he found several soldiers and a couple of sailors enjoying
coffee at the bar, and was about to join them when a man came forward
whose dress was that of a civilian, though his bearing proclaimed him a
soldier.
"Hallo, Brown," exclaimed one of the soldiers, "d'ye know that a
troop-ship has just come in!"
"Know it? of course I do; you may trust the people of this house to be
first in hearing such news."
"Mr Tufnell told me of it. I'm just going down to the jetty to boil
the kettle for them."
As he spoke, two ladies of the Institute descended the broad staircase,
each with a basket on her arm.
They entered into conversation for a few minutes with the soldiers at
the bar, and it was abundantly evident to Miles, from the kindly tone of
the former and the respectful air of the latter, that they were familiar
acquaintances, and on the best of terms.
"Are you all ready, Brown?" asked one of the ladies of the soldier-like
civilian, whom we have already mentioned.
"All ready, Miss; a man has already gone to order the bread and butter
and light the fire. I hear the vessel is crowded, so we may expect a
full house to-night."
Miles pricked up his ears on hearing this, and when Brown went out,
leaving the two ladies to finish their conversation with the soldiers,
he followed him.
"Pardon me," he said, on overtaking the man. "Did I understand
correctly that a troop-ship has just arrived?"
"Right," said Brown. "I am just going down to the embarkation jetty to
get coffee ready for the men. You seem to have joined but a short time,
apparently, for though I am familiar with your uniform I have not seen
yourself before."
"True, it is not long since I joined, and this is my first visit to the
Institute."
"I hope it won't be the last, friend," returned Brown heartily. "Every
soldier is welcome there, and, for the matter of that, so is every
sailor and marine."
"I have heard as much. May I accompany you to this jetty to see the
troops arrive, and this coffee business that you speak of?"
"You may, and welcome," said Brown, leading his companion through the
town in the direction of the docks, and chatting, as they walked along,
about the army and navy; about his own experiences in the former; and
about the condition of soldiers at the present time as contrasted with
that of the days gone by.