Next morning young Milton--or, as he was called by his comrades, John
Miles--rose with the depressing thought that it was to be his last day
in England. As he was dressing, it flashed across him that he had left
his unfinished letter on the reading-room table, and, concluding that it
would be swept away in the rush of people there--at all events that, not
having been folded or addressed, it could not be posted--his depression
was deepened.
The first thing that roused him to a better frame of mind was the smell
of tea!
Most people are more or less familiar with teapots; with the few
teaspoonfuls of the precious leaf which thrifty housekeepers put into
these pots, and the fragrant liquid that results. But who among
civilians, (save the informed), can imagine a barrack-room teapot?
Open your ears, O ye thrifty ones! while we state a few facts, and there
will be no need to tell you to open your eyes.
Into the teapot which supplied Miles with his morning cup there was put,
for _one_ making, eight pounds of tea!--not ounces, observe, but
pounds,--twenty-nine pounds of sugar, and six gallons--an absolute
cowful--of milk! The pot itself consisted of eight enormous coppers,
which were filled with boiling water to the brim.
"Yes, sir," remarked the military cook, who concocted the beverage, to a
speechless visitor one day; "it _is_ a pretty extensive brew; but then,
you see, we have a large family!"
A considerable portion of this large family was soon actively engaged in
preparation for immediate embarkation for Egypt. Then the General made
the men a farewell speech. It was a peculiar speech--not altogether
suited to cheer timid hearts, had any such been there, but admirably
adapted to British soldiers.
"Men," said he, "I am very glad to see you parade looking so well and
clean and comfortable and ready for active service. You will be dirty
enough, sometimes, where you are going, for the country is hot and
unhealthy, and not over clean. You will have hardships, hard times, and
plenty of hard work, as well as hard beds now and then, and very likely
the most of you will never come back again; but you would be unworthy of
the name of British soldiers if you allowed such thoughts to trouble
your minds. I sincerely express the hope, however, that you will all
come home again safe and sound. I have not the slightest doubt that
every man of you will do his duty in the field faithfully and well; but
I'm not so sure of your wisdom in camp and barracks, so I will give you
a word of advice. There is far more danger in getting drunk in hot
countries than in England. Let me advise you, then, not to get drunk;
and I would warn you particularly against the vile stuff they will offer
for sale in Egypt. It is rank poison. If you had stomachs lined with
brass you might perhaps stand it--not otherwise. Then I would warn you
against the sun. In Egypt the sun is sometimes like a fiery furnace.
Never expose yourself when you can avoid doing so, and, above all, never
go outside your tents without your helmets on. If you do, you'll repent
it, and repentance will probably come too late. I wish you all a
prosperous voyage, and may God keep you all!"
Delivered in a sharp, stern, unsentimental tone, this brief speech had
probably a much more powerful effect on the men than a more elaborate
exhortation would have had. The impression was deepened by the remarks
of an old officer, who made a very brief, soldierly speech after the
General, winding up with the information that he had himself been in
Egypt, and assuring them that if they did not take care of themselves
there was little chance of a man of them returning alive!
"May you have a pleasant passage out," he said, in conclusion; "and, in
the name of the Portsmouth Division, I wish you victory in all your
battles, and a hearty good-bye."
The men who were not going away were then called on to give their
departing friends three cheers, which they did with right good-will.
Captain Lacey, who was in charge of the detachment, stepped to the
front, drew his sword, gave the order to shoulder arms, form fours,
right turn, quick march, and away they went with the united bands of two
regiments playing "The girl I left behind me!"
The girls they were about to leave behind them were awaiting them at the
barrack-gates, with a considerable sprinkling of somewhat older girls to
keep them company. Many of the poor creatures were in tears for the men
whom they might never see again, and lumps in several manly throats
rather interfered with the parting cheer delivered by the detachment at
the gate. Most of them accompanied the soldiers as far as the Dockyard
gates. Emily Armstrong was not among them. She had parted the previous
night from her husband at his earnest request, and returned by rail to
her father's house, there to await, as patiently as she might, the
return of her "Willie."
"Noble defenders of our country!" observed an enthusiastic citizen, as
they passed through the gates.
"Food for powder," remarked a sarcastic publican, as he turned away to
resume his special work of robbing powder of its food and his country of
its defenders.
Proceeding to the Embarkation Jetty, the detachment was marched on board
the troop-ship, where the men were at once told off to their respective
messes, and proceeded without delay to make themselves at home by taking
possession of their allotted portion of the huge white-painted fabric
that was to bear them over the waves to distant lands.
Taking off their belts and stowing them overhead, they got hold of their
bags, exchanged their smart uniforms for old suits of clothes, and
otherwise prepared themselves for the endurance of life on board a
transport.
To his great satisfaction, Miles found that several of the comrades for
whom he had by that time acquired a special liking, were appointed to
the same mess with himself. Among these were his friend Willie
Armstrong, Sergeants Gilroy and Hardy, Corporal Flynn, a private named
Gaspard Redgrave, who was a capital musician, and had a magnificent
tenor voice, Robert Macleod, a big-boned Scotsman, and Moses Pyne, a
long-legged, cadaverous nondescript, who was generally credited with
being half-mad, though with a good deal of method in his madness, and
who was possessed of gentleness of spirit, and a cheerful readiness to
oblige, which seemed a flat contradiction of his personal appearance,
and rendered him a general favourite.
While these were busy arranging their quarters a soldier passed with
several books in his hand, which he had just received from one of the
ladies from the Institute.
"Hallo, Jack!" cried Moses Pyne; "have the ladies been aboard?"
"Of course they have. They've been all over the ship already
distributin' books an' good-byes. If you want to see 'em you'll have to
look sharp, Moses, for they're just goin' on shore."
"See 'em!" echoed Moses; "of course I wants to see 'em. But for them,
I'd be--"
The rest of the sentence was lost in the clatter of Moses' feet as he
stumbled up the ladder-way. Remembering his letter at that moment,
Miles followed him, and reached the gangway just as the visitors were
leaving.
"Excuse me," he said to one of them, stopping her.
"Oh! I'm so glad to have found you," she said.
"I have been looking for you everywhere. Miss Robinson sent you this
little parcel of books, with her best wishes, and hopes that you will
read them."
"Thanks, very much. I will, with pleasure. And will you do me a
favour? I left a letter on the reading-room table--"
A sudden and peremptory order of some sort caused a rush which separated
Miles from the visitor and cut short the sentence, and the necessity for
the immediate departure of all visitors rendered its being finished
impossible.
But Miss Robinson's representative did not require to be told that a
forgotten letter could only want posting. On returning, therefore, to
the Institute, she went at once to the reading-room, where she found no
letter! Making inquiry, she learned from one of the maids that a sheet
of paper had been found with nothing on it but the words, "Dearest
mother, I'm so sorry"; and that the same had been duly conveyed to Miss
Robinson's room. Hasting to the apartment of her friend, she knocked,
and was bidden enter.
"You have got an unfinished letter, it seems?" she began.
"Yes; here it is," interrupted Miss Robinson, handing the sheet to her
assistant. "What a pity that it gives no clew to the writer--no
address!"
"I am pretty sure as to the writer," returned the other. "It must have
been that fine-looking young soldier, John Miles, of whom we have seen a
little and heard so much from Sergeant Gilroy."
Hereupon an account was given of the hurried and interrupted meeting on
board the troop-ship; and the two ladies came to the conclusion that as
nothing was known about the parents or former residence of John Miles no
steps of any kind were possible. The letter was therefore carefully put
by.
That same evening there alighted at the railway station in Portsmouth an
elderly lady with an expression of great anxiety on her countenance, and
much perturbation in her manner.
"Any luggage, ma'am?" asked a sympathetic porter--for railway porters
are sometimes more sympathetic than might be expected of men so much
accustomed to witness abrupt and tender partings.
"No; no luggage. Yes--a small valise--in the carriage. That's it."
"Four-wheeler, ma'am?"
"Eh! no--yes--yes."
"Where to, ma'am?" asked the sympathetic porter, after the lady was
seated in the cab.
"Where to?" echoed Mrs Milton, (for it was she), in great distress.
"Oh! where--where shall I drive to?"
"Really, ma'am, I couldn't say," answered the porter, with a modest
look.
"I've--I--my son! My dear boy! Where shall I go to inquire? Oh! what
_shall_ I do?"
These would have been perplexing utterances even to an unsympathetic
man.
Turning away from the window, and looking up at the driver, the porter
said solemnly--
"To the best 'otel you know of, cabby, that's not too dear. An' if
you've bin gifted with compassion, cabby, don't overcharge your fare."
Accepting the direction, and exercising his discretion as well as his
compassion, that intelligent cabby drove, strange to say, straight to an
hotel styled the "Officers' House," which is an offshoot of Miss
Robinson's Institute, and stands close beside it!
"A hofficer's lady," said the inventive cabby to the boy who opened the
door. "Wants to putt up in this 'ere 'ouse."
When poor Mrs Milton had calmed her feelings sufficiently to admit of
her talking with some degree of coherence, she rang the bell and sent
for the landlord.
Mr Tufnell, who was landlord of the Officers' House, as well as manager
of the Institute, soon presented himself, and to him the poor lady
confided her sorrows.
"You see, landlord," she said, whimpering, "I don't know a soul in
Portsmouth; and--and--in fact I don't even know how I came to your
hotel, for I never heard of it before; but I think I must have been sent
here, for I see from your looks that you will help me."
"You may depend on my helping you to the best of my power, madam. May I
ask what you would have me do?"
With much earnestness, and not a few tears, poor Mrs Milton related as
much of her son's story as she thought necessary.
"Well, you could not have come to a better place," said Tufnell, "for
Miss Robinson and all her helpers sympathise deeply with soldiers. If
any one can find out about your son, _they_ can. How were you led to
suspect that he had come to Portsmouth?"
"A friend suggested that he might possibly have done so. Indeed, it
seems natural, considering my dear boy's desire to enter the army, and
the number of soldiers, who are always passing through this town."
"Well, I will go at once and make inquiry. The name Milton is not
familiar to me, but so many come and go that we sometimes forget names."
When poor Mrs Milton was afterwards introduced to Miss Robinson, she
found her both sympathetic and anxious to do her utmost to gain
information about her missing son, but the mother's graphic descriptions
of him did not avail much. The fact that he was young, tall, handsome,
curly-haired, etcetera, applied to so many of the defenders of the
country as to be scarcely distinctive enough; but when she spoke of "My
dear Miles," a new light was thrown on the matter. She was told that a
young soldier answering to the description of her son had been there
recently, but that his surname--not his Christian name--was Miles.
Would she recognise his handwriting?
"Recognise it?" exclaimed Mrs Milton, in a blaze of sudden hope. "Ay,
that I would; didn't I teach him every letter myself? Didn't he insist
on making his down-strokes crooked? and wasn't my heart almost broken
over his square O's?"
While the poor mother was speaking, the unfinished letter was laid
before her, and the handwriting at once recognised.
"That's his! Bless him! And he's sorry. Didn't I say he would be
sorry? Didn't I tell his father so? Darling Miles, I--"
Here the poor creature broke down, and wept at the thought of her
repentant son. It was well, perhaps, that the blow was thus softened,
for she almost fell on the floor when her new friend told her, in the
gentlest possible manner, that Miles had that very day set sail for
Egypt.
They kept her at the Institute that night, however, and consoled her
much, as well as aroused her gratitude, by telling of the good men who
formed part of her son's regiment; and of the books and kind words that
had been bestowed on him at parting; and by making the most they could
of the good hope that the fighting in Egypt would soon be over, and that
her son would ere long return to her, God willing, sound and well.