Bronzed faces under white helmets crowded the ports and bulwarks of the
great white leviathan of the deep--the troop-ship _Orontes_--as she
steamed slowly and cautiously up to the embarkation jetty in Portsmouth
harbour.
On the jetty itself a few anxious wives, mothers, and sisters stood
eagerly scanning the sea of faces, in the almost hopeless endeavour to
distinguish those for which they sought. Yet ever and anon an
exclamation on the jetty, and an answering wave of an arm on the
troop-ship, told that some at least of the anxious ones had been
successful in the search.
"Don't they look weather-beaten?" remarked Miles to his companion.
"Sure it's more like sun-dried they are," answered a voice at his side.
Brown had gone to the shed to prepare his coffee and bread against the
landing of the troops, and a stout Irishwoman had taken his place.
Close to her stood the two ladies from the Institute with baskets on
their arms.
"You are right," returned Miles, with a smile; "they look like men who
have seen service. Is your husband among them?"
"Faix, I'd be sorprised if he _was_," returned the woman; "for I left
him in owld Ireland, in the only landed property he iver held in this
world--six futt by two, an' five deep. He's been in possession six
years now, an' it wouldn't be aisy to drive him out o' that, anyhow.
No, it's my son Terence I've come to look afther. Och! there he is!
Look, look, that's him close by the funnel! Don't ye see 'im? Blissins
on his good-lookin' face! Hooroo! Terence--Terence Flynn, don't ye
recognise yer owld mother? Sure an' he does, though we haven't met for
tin year. My! hasn't he got the hair on his lips too--an' his cheeks
are like shoe-leather--my darlint!"
As the enthusiastic mother spoke in the tones of a public orator, there
was a general laugh among those who were nearest to her; but she was
forgotten immediately, for all were too deeply intent on their own
interests to pay much regard to each other just then.
The great vessel was slow in getting alongside and making fast to the
jetty--slow at least in the estimation of the impatient--for although
she might leap and career grandly in wanton playfulness while on her
native billows, in port a careless touch from her ponderous sides would
have crushed part of the jetty into fragments. Miles therefore had
ample time to look about him at the various groups around.
One young woman specially attracted his attention, for she stood apart
from every one, and seemed scarcely able to stand because of weakness.
She was young and good-looking. Her face, which was deadly pale,
contrasted strongly with her glossy raven-black hair, and the character
of her dress denoted extreme poverty.
The ladies from the Institute had also observed this poor girl, and one
of them, going to her side, quietly addressed her. Miles, from the
position in which he stood, could not avoid overhearing what was said.
"Yes, Miss, I expect my husband," said the woman in answer to a
question. "He's coming home on sick-leave. I had a letter from him a
good while ago saying he was coming home in the _Orontes_."
"I hope you will find that the sea air has done him good," said the
lady, in that tone of unobtrusive sympathy which is so powerfully
attractive,--especially to those who are in trouble. "A sea voyage
frequently has a wonderful effect in restoring invalids. What is his
name?"
"Martin--Fred Martin. He's a corporal now."
"You have not recognised him yet, I suppose?"
"Not yet, Miss," answered Mrs Martin, with an anxious look, and
shivering slightly as she drew a thin worn shawl of many patches closer
round her shoulders. "But he wouldn't expect me to meet him, you see,
knowing that I'm so poor, and live far from Portsmouth. But I was so
anxious, you see, Miss, that our kind Vicar gave me enough money to come
down."
"Where did you spend the night?" asked the lady, quickly.
The poor woman hesitated, and at last said she had spent the night
walking about the streets.
"You see, Miss," she explained apologetically, "I didn't know a soul in
the town, and I couldn't a-bear to go into any o' the public-houses;
besides, I had no money, for the journey down took nearly all of it."
"Oh, I am so sorry that you didn't know of our Institute," said the
lady, with much sympathy in voice and look; "for we provide
accommodation for soldiers' wives who come, like you, to meet their
husbands returning from abroad, and we charge little, or even nothing,
if they are too poor to pay."
"Indeed, Miss! I wish I had known of it. But in the morning I had the
luck to meet a policeman who directed me to a coffee-tavern in a place
called Nobbs Lane--you'll not know it, Miss, for it's in a very poor
part o' the town--where I got a breakfast of as much hot pea-soup and
bread as I could eat for three-ha'pence, an' had a good rest beside the
fire too. They told me it was kept by a Miss Robinson. God bless her
whoever she is! for I do believe I should have been dead by now if I
hadn't got the rest and the breakfast."
The woman shivered again as she spoke, and drew the thin shawl still
closer, for a sharp east wind was blowing over the jetty at the time.
"Come with me; you are cold. I know Nobbs Lane well. We have a shed
and fire here on the jetty to shelter people while waiting. There, you
need not fear to miss your husband, for the men won't land for a long
time yet."
"May I follow you, madam?" said Miles, stepping forward and touching his
cap in what he supposed to be the deferential manner of a private
soldier. "I am interested in your work, and would like to see the shed
you speak of."
The lady looked up quickly at the tall young soldier who thus addressed
her.
"I saw you in the lobby of the Institute this morning, did I not?"
"You did, madam. I was waiting for a friend who is a frequenter of the
Institute. One of your own people brought me down here to see the
arrival of the _Orontes_, and the coffee-shed; but I have lost him in
the crowd, and know not where the shed is."
"Here it is," returned the lady, pointing to an iron structure just
behind them. "You will find Mr Brown there busy with the coffee, and
that small shed beside it is the shelter-room. You are welcome to
inspect all our buildings at any time."
So saying, the lady led Mrs Martin into the shed last referred to, and
Miles followed her.
There was a small stove, in the solitary iron room of which the shed
consisted, which diffused a genial warmth around. Several soldiers'
wives and female relatives were seated beside it, engaged in quieting
refractory infants, or fitting a few woollen garments on children of
various ages. These garments had been brought from the Institute,
chiefly for the purpose of supplying the wives and children returning
from warmer climes to England; and one of them, a thick knitted shawl,
was immediately presented to Mrs Martin as a gift, and placed round her
shoulders by the lady's own hands.
"You are _very_ kind, Miss," she said, an unbidden tear rolling down her
cheek as she surveyed the garment and folded it over her breast.
"Have you any children?" asked the lady.
"None. We had one--a dear baby boy," answered the young wife sadly,
"born after his father left England. God took him home when he was two
years old. His father never saw him; but we shall all meet again," she
added, brightly, "in the better land."
"Ah! it makes me glad to hear you say that God took him _home_. Only
the spirit of Jesus could make you regard heaven as the home where you
are all to meet again. Now I would advise you to sit here and keep warm
till I go and make inquiry about your husband. It is quite possible,
you know, that he may be in the sick bay, and they won't let any one on
board till the vessel is made fast. You are quite sure, I suppose, that
it was the _Orontes_ in which your husband said he was coming?"
"Yes, quite sure."
The lady had asked the question because a vague fear possessed her
regarding the cause of the soldier's not having been seen looking
eagerly over the side like the other men.
Hurrying from the shed, with her basket on her arm, she made for the
gangway, which had just been placed in position. She was accompanied by
her companion, also carrying her basket. Miles took the liberty of
following them closely, but not obviously, for he formed only one of a
stream of men and women who pushed on board the instant that permission
was given.
While one of the ladies went in search of one of the chief officers, the
other quietly and unobtrusively advanced among the returning warriors,
and, opening her basket, drew therefrom and offered to each soldier an
envelope containing one or two booklets and texts, and a hearty
invitation to make free use of the Soldiers' Institute during their stay
in Portsmouth.
A most bewildering scene was presented on the deck of that great white
vessel. There were hundreds of soldiers in her, returning home after
longer or shorter absences in China, India, the Cape, and other far-away
parts of the earth. Some were stalwart and bronzed by the southern sun;
others were gaunt, weak, and cadaverous, from the effect of sickness,
exposure, or wounds; but all were more or less excited at having once
again set eyes on Old England, and at the near prospect of once more
embracing wives, mothers, and sweethearts, and meeting with old friends.
The continual noise of manly voices hailing, exclaiming, chaffing, or
conversing, and the general babel of sounds is indescribable. To Miles
Milton, who had never before even imagined anything of the sort, it
seemed more like a vivid dream than a reality. He became so bewildered
with trying to attend to everything at once that he lost sight of the
shorter of the ladies, whom he was following, but, pushing ahead, soon
found her again in the midst of a group of old friends--though still
young soldiers--who had known the Institute before leaving for foreign
service, and were eagerly inquiring after the health of Miss Robinson,
and Tufnell the manager, and others.
During his progress through this bustling scene, Miles observed that the
soldiers invariably received the gifts from the lady with respect, and,
many of them, with hearty expressions of thanks, while a few stopped her
to speak about the contents of the envelopes. So numerous were the men
that the work had to be done with business-like celerity, but the
visitor was experienced. While wasting no time in useless delay, she
never hurried her movements, or refused to stop and speak, or forced her
way through the moving throng. Almost unobserved, save by the men who
chanced to be next to her, she glided in and out amongst them like a
spirit of light--which, in the highest sense, she was--intent on her
beneficent mission. Her sole aim was to save the men from the
tremendous dangers that awaited them on landing in Portsmouth, and bring
them under Christian influence.
Those dangers may be imagined when it is told that soldiers returning
from abroad are often in possession of large sums of money, and that
harpies of all kinds are eagerly waiting to plunder them on their
arrival. On one occasion a regiment came home, and in a few days
squandered three thousand pounds in Portsmouth. Much more might be said
on this point, but enough has been indicated to move thoughtful minds--
and our story waits.
Suddenly the attention of Miles, and every one near him, was attracted
by the loud Hibernian yell of a female voice exclaiming--
"Oh, Terence, me darlin' son, here ye are; an' is it yersilf lookin'
purtier a long way than the day ye left me; an' niver so much as a
scratch on yer face for all the wars ye've bin in--bad luck to thim!"
Need we say that this was Mrs Flynn? In her anxiety to meet her son
she had run against innumerable men and women, who remonstrated with her
variously, according to temperament, without, however, the slightest
effect. Her wild career was not checked until she had flung herself
into the arms of a tall, stalwart trooper with drooping moustache, who
would have done credit to any nationality under the sun, and whose
enthusiasm at the happy meeting with his mother was almost as
demonstrative as her own, but more dignified.
Others there were, however, whose case was very different. One who came
there to meet the strong healthy man, to whom she had said good-bye at
the same spot several years before, received him back a worn and wasted
invalid, upright still with the martial air of discipline, but feeble,
and with something like the stamp of death upon his brow. Another woman
found her son, strong indeed and healthy, as of yore, but with an empty
sleeve where his right arm should have been--his days of warfare over
before his earthly sun had reached the zenith!
Whilst Miles was taking note of these things, and moralising in spite of
his distaste just then to that phase of mental occupation, the other
lady of the Institute appeared and spoke hurriedly to her companion.
"Go," she said, "tell Mrs Martin that her husband is _not_ on board the
_Orontes_. Let Tufnell, if he is at the shed, or our missionary, take
her up to the Institute without delay. Let them take this note to Miss
Robinson at the same time."
The younger lady looked inquiringly at her companion, but the latter
pushed on hurriedly and was soon lost in the crowd, so she went at once
on shore to obey her instructions.
Being thus left to look after himself, Miles went about gazing at the
varied, interesting, and curious scenes that the vessel presented. No
one took any notice of him, for he was only one soldier among hundreds,
and so many people from the shore had been admitted by that time that
strange faces attracted no attention.
We have referred chiefly to soldiers' friends, but these, after all,
formed a small minority of the visitors, many of whom were tradesmen of
the town--tailors, shoemakers, and vendors of fancy articles--who had
come down with their wares to tempt the returning voyagers to part with
their superfluous cash. Even in the midst of all the pushing and
confusion, one man was seen trying on a pair of boots; near to him was a
sailor, carefully inspecting a tailor's book of patterns with a view to
shore-going clothes; while another, more prompt in action, was already
being measured for a suit of the same.
Descending to the 'tween-decks, our hero found that the confusion and
noise there were naturally greater, the space being more limited and the
noise confined. There was the addition of bad air and disagreeable
smells here; and Miles could not help reflecting on the prospect before
him of long voyages under cramped circumstances, in the midst of similar
surroundings. But, being young and enthusiastic, he whispered to
himself that he was not particular, and was ready to "rough it" in his
country's cause!
In a remarkably dark region to which he penetrated, he found himself in
the women's quarters, the disagreeables of which were increased by the
cries of discontented children, and the yells of inconsolable infants--
some of whom had first seen the light of this world in the sad twilight
of 'tween-decks! Shrinking from that locality, Miles pursued his
investigations, and gradually became aware that sundry parrots and other
pets which the soldiers and sailors had brought home were adding their
notes of discord to the chorus of sounds.
While he was looking at, and attempting to pat, a small monkey, which
received his advances with looks of astonished indignation, he became
conscious of the fact that a number of eyes were looking down on him
through a crevice at the top of a partition close to his side.
"Who are these?" he asked of a sailor, who stood near him.
"Why, them are the long-term men."
"I suppose you mean prisoners?"
"Yes; that's about it," replied the tar. "Soldiers as has committed
murder--or suthin' o' that sort--an' got twenty year or more for all I
knows. The other fellers further on there, in chains, is short-term
men. Bin an' done suthin' or other not quite so bad, I suppose."
Miles advanced "further on," and found eight men seated on the deck and
leaning against the bulkhead. If his attention had not been drawn to
them, he might have supposed they were merely resting, but a closer
glance showed that they were all chained to an iron bar. They did not
seem very different from the other men around them, save that they were,
most of them, stern and silent.
A powerful feeling of compassion rose in our hero's breast as he looked
at these moral wrecks of humanity; for their characters and prospects
were ruined, though their physique was not much impaired. It seemed to
him such an awful home-coming, after, perhaps, long years of absence,
thus, in the midst of all the bustle and joy of meetings and of pleasant
anticipations, to be waiting there for the arrival of the prison-van,
and looking forward to years of imprisonment instead of reunion with
friends and kindred.
At sight of them a thought sprang irresistibly into our hero's mind,
"This is the result of wrong-doing!"
His conscience was uncomfortably active and faithful that morning.
Somehow it pointed out to him that wrong-doing was a long ladder; that
the chained criminals before him had reached the foot; and that he stood
on the topmost rung. That was all the difference between them and
himself--a difference of degree, not of principle.
Pushing his way a little closer to these men, he found that his was not
the only heart that pitied them. His friend, the younger lady, was
there speaking to them. He could not hear what she said, for the noise
drowned her voice; but her earnest, eager look and her gesticulations
told well enough that she was pointing them to the Saviour of sinners--
with what effect, of course, he could not tell, but it was evident that
the prisoners at least gave her their attention.
Leaving her thus engaged, Miles continued for a considerable time his
progress through the ship. Afterwards he observed, by a movement among
the men, that a detachment was about to land. Indeed he found that some
of the soldiers had already landed, and were making their way to the
coffee-shed.
Following these quickly to the same place, he found that innumerable
cups of hot coffee and solid slices of bread and butter were being
served out as fast as they could be filled and cut. A large hole or
window opened in the side of the shed, the shutter of which was hinged
at the bottom, and when let down formed a convenient counter.
Behind this counter stood the two ubiquitous ladies of the Institute
acting the part of barmaids, as if to the manner born, and with the same
business-like, active, yet modest, ready-for-anything air which marked
all their proceedings.
And truly their post was no sinecure. To supply the demands of hundreds
of hungry and thirsty warriors was not child's-play. Inside the shed,
Miles found his friend Brown busy with a mighty caldron of hot water,
numerous packets of coffee, and immense quantities of sugar and
preserved milk. Brown was the fountain-head. The ladies were the
distributing pipes--if we may say so; and although the fountain produced
can after can of the coveted liquid with amazing rapidity, and with a
prodigality of material that would have made the hair of a private
housewife stand on end, it was barely possible to keep pace with the
demand.
At a large table one of the missionaries of the Institute cut up and
buttered loaves at a rate which gave the impression that he was a
conjurer engaged in a species of sleight-of-hand. The butter, however,
troubled him, for, the weather being cold, it was hard, and would not
spread easily. To overcome this he put a pound or so of it on a plate
beside the boiler-fire to soften. Unfortunately, he temporarily forgot
it, and on afterwards going for it, found that it had been reduced to a
yellow liquid. However, hungry soldiers, rejoicing in the fact of
having at last reached home, are not particular. Some of them,
unaccustomed, no doubt, to be served by ladies, asked for their supply
deferentially, accepted it politely, and drank it with additional
appreciation.
"We want more, Brown," said one of the ladies, glancing back over her
shoulder as she poured out the last drop from her large jug; "and more
buns and bread, please."
"Here you are, Miss," cried Brown, who was warm by that time in spite of
the weather, as he bore his brimming and steaming pitcher to the
window--or hole in the wall--and replenished the jugs. "The buns are
all done, an' the bread won't hold out long, but I've sent for more; it
won't be long. I see we shall need several more brews," he added, as he
turned again towards the inexhaustible boiler.
"Shall I assist you?" said Miles, stepping into the shed and seizing a
loaf and a knife.
"Thank you. Go ahead," said Brown.
"Put another lump of butter near the fire," said the missionary to our
hero; "not too close. I melted the last lump altogether."
"A cup o' coffee for my Terence, an' wan for mesilf, my dear," exclaimed
a loud voice outside.
There was no mistaking the speaker. Some of the men who crowded round
the counter laughed, others partially choked, when the strapping Terence
said in a hoarse whisper, "Whist, mother, be civil; don't ye see that
it's ladies, no less, is sarvin' of us?"
"Please, ma'am, can I 'ave some coffee?" asked a modest soldier's wife,
who looked pale and weary after the long voyage, with three children to
look after.
A cup was promptly supplied, and three of the newly-arrived buns stopped
the mouths of her clamorous offspring.
"Can ye give me a cup o' tea?" demanded another soldier's wife, who was
neither so polite nor so young as the previous applicant.
It is probable that the ladies did not observe the nature of her demand,
else they would doubtless have explained that they had no tea, but a cup
of coffee was silently handed to her.
"Ah! this is _real_ home-tea, this is," she said, smacking her lips
after the first sip. "A mighty difference 'tween this an' what we've
bin used to in the ship."
"Yes, indeed," assented her companion. Whether it was tea she had been
accustomed to drink on board the troop-ship we cannot tell, but probably
she was correct as to the "mighty difference." It may be that the
beverages supplied in foreign lands had somewhat damaged the power of
discrimination as to matters of taste in these soldiers' wives. At all
events an incident which occurred about the same time justifies this
belief.
"Mr Miles," said the missionary, pausing a moment to wipe his brow in
the midst of his labours, "will you fetch the butter now?"
Miles turned to obey with alacrity--with too much alacrity, indeed, for
in his haste he knocked the plate over, and sent the lump of butter into
the last prepared "brew" of coffee!
"Hallo! I say!" exclaimed Brown, in consternation. "More coffee,
Brown," demanded the ladies simultaneously, at that inauspicious moment.
"Yes, Miss, I--I'm coming--directly," cried Brown.
"Do be quick, please!"
"What's to be done?" said Brown, making futile endeavours to fish out
the slippery mass with the stirring-stick.
"Shove it down and stir it well about," suggested Miles.
Whether conscience was inoperative at that moment we know not, but Brown
acted on the suggestion, and briskly amalgamated the butter with the
coffee, while the crowd at the port-hole politely but continuously
demanded more.
"Don't be in a 'urry, Tom," cried a corporal, removing his pith helmet
in order to run his fingers through his hair; "it's a 'eavenly state o'
things now to what it was a few years ago, w'en we an' our poor wives
'ad to sit 'ere for hours in the heat or cold, wet or dry, without
shelter, or a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, till we got away up
town to the grog-shops."
"Well, this _is_ civilisation at last!" remarked a handsome and hearty
young fellow, who had apparently been ignorant of the treat in store for
him, and who sauntered up to the shed just as the butter-brew was
beginning to be served out.
"Why, I declare, it's chocolate!" exclaimed one of the women, who had
been already served with a cup, and had resolved to "go in," as she
said, for another pennyworth.
"So it is. My! ain't it nice?" said her companion, smacking her lips.
Whether the soldiers fell into the same mistake, or were too polite to
take notice of it, we cannot tell, for they drank it without comment,
and with evident satisfaction, like men of simple tastes and uncritical
minds.
We turn now to a very different scene.
In one of the private sitting-rooms of the Institute sat poor young Mrs
Martin, the very embodiment of blank despair. The terrible truth that
her husband had died, and been buried at sea, had been gently and
tenderly broken to her by Miss Robinson.
At first the poor girl could not--would not--believe it. Then, as the
truth gradually forced itself into her brain, she subsided into a
tearless, expressionless, state of quiescence that seemed to indicate a
mind unhinged. In this state she remained for some time, apparently
unconscious of the kind words of Christian love that were addressed to
her.
At last she seemed to rouse herself and gazed wildly round the room.
"Let me go," she said. "I will find him somewhere. Don't hinder me,
please."
"But you cannot go anywhere till you have had food and rest, dear
child," said her sympathetic comforter, laying her hand gently on the
girl's arm. "Come with me."
She sought to lead her away, but the girl shook her off.
"No," she exclaimed, starting up hastily, so that the mass of her dark
hair fell loose upon her shoulders, contrasting forcibly with the dead
whiteness of her face and lips. "No. I cannot go with you. Fred will
be getting impatient. D'you think I'll ever believe it? Dead and
buried in the sea? Never!"
Even while she spoke, the gasp in her voice, and the pressure of both
hands on her poor heart, told very plainly that the young widow did
indeed believe it.
"Oh! may God Himself comfort you, dear child," said the lady, taking her
softly by the hand. "Come--come with me."
Mrs Martin no longer refused. Her spirit, which had flashed up for a
moment, seemed to collapse, and without another word of remonstrance she
meekly suffered herself to be guided to a private room, where she was
put to bed.
She never rose from that bed. Friendless, and without means, she would
probably have perished in the streets, or in one of the dens of
Portsmouth, had she not been led to this refuge. As it was, they nursed
her there, and did all that human skill and Christian love could devise;
but her heart was broken. Towards the end she told them, in a faint
voice, that her Fred had been stationed at Alexandria, and that while
there he had been led to put his trust in the Saviour. She knew nothing
of the details. All these, and much more, she had expected to hear from
his own lips.
"But he will tell me all about it soon, thank God!" were the last words
she uttered as she turned her eyes gratefully on the loving strangers
who had found and cared for her in the dark day of her calamity.