MILES BEGINS TO DISCOVER HIMSELF--HAS A FEW ROUGH EXPERIENCES--AND FALLS
INTO PEA-SOUP, SALT-WATER, AND LOVE.
While his mother was hunting for him in Portsmouth, Miles Milton was
cleaving his way through the watery highway of the world, at the rate of
fifteen knots.
He was at the time in that lowest condition of misery, mental and
physical, which is not unfrequently the result of "a chopping sea in the
Channel." It seemed to him, just then, an unbelievable mystery how he
could, at any time, have experienced pleasure at the contemplation of
food! The heaving of the great white ship was nothing to the heaving--
well, it may perhaps be wiser to refrain from particulars; but he felt
that the beating of the two thousand horse-power engines--more or less--
was child's-play to the throbbing of his brain!
"And this," he thought, in the bitterness of his soul, "this is what I
have sacrificed home, friends, position, prospects in life for! This
is--soldiering!"
The merest shadow of the power to reason--if such a shadow had been
left--might have convinced him that that was _not_ soldiering; that, as
far as it went, it was not even sailoring!
"You're very bad, I fear," remarked a gentle voice at the side of his
hammock.
Miles looked round. It was good-natured, lanky, cadaverous Moses Pyne.
"Who told you I was bad?" asked Miles savagely, putting a wrong--but too
true--interpretation on the word.
"The colour of your cheeks tells me, poor fellow!"
"Bah!" exclaimed Miles. He was too sick to say more. He might have
said less with advantage.
"Shall I fetch you some soup?" asked Moses, in the kindness of his
heart. Moses, you see, was one of those lucky individuals who are born
with an incapacity to be sick at sea, and was utterly ignorant of the
cruelty he perpetrated. "Or some lobscouse?" he added.
"Go away!" gasped Miles.
"A basin of--"
Miles exploded, literally as well as metaphorically, and Moses retired.
"Strange," thought that healthy soldier, as he stalked away on further
errands of mercy, stooping as he went to avoid beams--"strange that
Miles is so changeable in character. I had come to think him a steady,
reliable sort of chap."
Puzzling over this difficulty, he advanced to the side of another
hammock, from which heavy groans were issuing.
"Are you very bad, corporal?" he asked in his usual tone of sympathy.
"Bad is it?" said Flynn. "Och! it's worse nor bad I am! Couldn't ye ax
the captin to heave-to for a--"
The suggestive influence of heaving-to was too much for Flynn. He
pulled up dead. After a few moments he groaned--
"Arrah! be off, Moses, av ye don't want my fist on yer nose."
"Extraordinary!" murmured the kindly man, as he removed to another
hammock, the occupant of which was differently constituted.
"Moses," he said, as the visitant approached.
"Yes, Gaspard," was the eager reply, "can I do anything for you?"
"Yes; if you'd go on deck, refresh yourself with a walk, and leave us
all alone, you'll con--fer--on--"
Gaspard ceased to speak; he had already spoken too much; and Moses Pyne,
still wondering, quietly took his advice.
But if the Channel was bad, the Bay of Biscay was, according to Flynn,
"far badder."
Before reaching that celebrated bay, however, most of the men had
recovered, and, with more or less lugubrious aspects and yellow-green
complexions, were staggering about, attending to their various duties.
No doubt their movements about the vessel were for some time
characterised by that disagreement between action and will which is
sometimes observed in feeble chickens during a high wind, but, on the
whole, activity and cheerfulness soon began to re-animate the frames and
spirits of Britain's warriors.
And now Miles Milton began to find out, as well as to fix, in some
degree, his natural character. Up to this period in his life, a mild
existence in a quiet home, under a fairly good though irascible father
and a loving Christian mother, had not afforded him much opportunity of
discovering what he was made of. Recent events had taught him pretty
sharply that there was much room for improvement. He also discovered
that he possessed a very determined will in the carrying out of his
intentions, especially when those intentions were based upon his
desires. Whether he would be equally resolute in carrying out
intentions that did _not_ harmonise with his desires remained to be
seen.
His mother, among her other teachings, had often tried to impress on his
young mind the difference between obstinacy and firmness.
"My boy," she was wont to say, while smoothing his curly head, "don't
mistake obstinacy for firmness. A man who says `I _will_ do this or
that in spite of all the world,' against advice, and simply because he
_wants_ to do it, is obstinate. A man who says, `I _will_ do this or
that in spite of all the world,' against advice, against his own
desires, and simply because it is the right thing to do, is firm."
Remembering this, and repenting bitterly his having so cruelly forsaken
his mother, our hero cast about in his mind how best he could put some
of her precepts into practice, as being the only consolation that was
now possible to him. You see, the good seed sown in those early days
was beginning to spring up in unlikely circumstances. Of course the
habit of prayer, and reading a few verses from the Bible night and
morning, recurred to him. This had been given up since he left home.
He now resumed it, though, for convenience, he prayed while stretched in
his hammock!
But this did not satisfy him. He must needs undertake some disagreeable
work, and carry it out with that degree of obstinacy which would amount
to firmness. After mature consideration, he sought and obtained
permission to become one of the two cooks to his mess. Moses Pyne was
the other.
Nothing, he felt, could be more alien to his nature, more disgusting in
every way to his feelings--and he was right. His dislike to the duties
seemed rather to increase than to diminish day by day. Bitterly did he
repent of having undertaken the duty, and earnestly did he consider
whether there might not be some possible and honourable way of drawing
back, but he discovered none; and soon he proved--to himself as well as
to others--that he did indeed possess, at least in some degree, firmness
of character.
The duties that devolved on him were trying. He had to scrub and keep
the mess clean and tidy; to draw all the provisions and prepare them for
cooking; then, to take them to the galley, and fetch them when cooked.
That this last was no simple matter, such as any shore-going tail-coated
waiter might undertake, was brought forcibly out one day during what
seamen style dirty weather.
It was raining at the time. The sea was grey, the sky was greyer, and
as the steamer itself was whitey-grey, it was a grave business
altogether.
"Is the soup ready, Moses?" asked Miles, as he ascended towards the deck
and met his _confrere_ coming down.
"I don't know. Shall I go an' see?"
"No; you can go and look after the table. I will fetch the soup."
"A nasty sea on," remarked a voice, which sounded familiar in Miles's
ears as he stepped on deck.
"Hallo! Jack Molloy!" he exclaimed, catching hold of a stanchion to
steady himself, as a tremendous roll of the vessel caused a sea to flash
over the side and send a shower-bath in his face. "What part of the sky
did you drop from? I thought I had left you snug in the _Sailors'
Welcome_."
"Werry likely you did, John Miles," answered the tar, balancing himself
with perfect ease, and caring no more for spray than if he had been a
dolphin; "but I'm here for all that--one o' the crew o' this here
transport, though I means to wolunteer for active sarvice when I gets
out. An' no wonder we didn't come across each other sooner! In sitch a
enormous tubful o' lobsters, etceterer, it's a wonder we've met at all.
An' p'r'aps you've bin a good deal under hatches since you come
a-boord?"
Molloy said this with a knowing look and a grin. Miles met the remark
in a similar spirit.
"Yes, Jack, I've been paying tribute to Neptune lately."
"You looks like it, Miles, judgin' by the colour o' your jib. Where
away now?"
"Going for our soup."
"What! made you cook o' the mess?"
"Ay; don't you wish you were me?"
Another roll and flash of spray ended the conversation and separated the
friends.
The pea-soup was ready when our hero reached the galley. Having filled
the mess-tureen with the appetising mixture, he commenced the return
journey with great care, for he was now dependent entirely on his legs,
both hands being engaged. Miles was handy, if we may say so, with his
legs. Once or twice he had to rush and thrust a shoulder against the
bulwarks, and a dash of spray served for salt to the soup; but he was
progressing favourably and had traversed full three-quarters of the
distance to the hatch when a loud "Hooroo!" caused him to look round
smartly.
He had just time to see Corporal Flynn, who had slipped and fallen, come
rolling towards him like a sack of flour. Next moment he was swept off
his legs, and went into the lee scuppers with his comrade in a bath of
pea-soup and salt-water!
Fortunately, the obliging wave which came in-board at the same moment
mingled with the soup, and saved both men from a scalding.
Such mishaps, however, were rare, and they served rather to enliven the
voyage than otherwise.
Besides the duties already mentioned, our hero had to wash up all the
dishes and other things at meal-hours; to polish up the mess-kettles and
tin dishes; and, generally, to put things away in their places, and keep
things in apple-pie order. Recollecting another of his mother's
teachings--"Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well"--he
tried his best, and was so ably seconded by the amiable Moses, that the
Miles-Moses mess came to be at last regarded as the best-kept one on
board.
One morning, after clearing up the dishes and putting things in order,
Miles went on deck for a little fresh air. On the way up he met an
elderly gentleman whose dress proclaimed him a clergyman.
He looked earnestly at our hero, and, nodding kindly, spoke a few words
to him in passing. Miles had been aware that there was a clergyman on
board going out to Egypt with his family--whether in connection with the
troops or for health he did not know. He was much impressed with the
looks and expression of this man. It seemed to him as if there were
some sort of attractive power about him which was unaccountably strong,
and he felt quite interested in the prospect of hearing him preach on
the following Sunday.
While on deck the previous day, he had seen the figures of two ladies,
whom he rightly judged to be the family above referred to, but as there
was nearly the whole distance of the ship's length between them, he
could not distinguish their faces.
On taking his place when Sunday came, he observed that the family were
present, seated, however, in such a position that he could only see
their backs. Speculating in a listless way as to what sort of faces
they had, he whiled away the few minutes before the service began.
He was recalled from this condition by the tones of the clergyman's
voice, which seemed to have the same effect on him as his look and
manner had the day they first met. During the sermon Miles's attention
was riveted, insomuch that he almost forgot where he was. The text was
a familiar one--"God is Love,"--but the treatment of it seemed entirely
new: the boundless nature of that love; its incomprehensible and
almighty force; its enduring certainty and its overwhelming immensity,
embracing, as it did, the whole universe in Christ, were themes on which
the preacher expatiated in a way that Miles had never before dreamed of.
"All subordinate love," said the preacher, in concluding, "has its
source in this. No wonder, then, that it is spoken of in Scripture as a
love `which passeth knowledge.'"
When the men rose to leave, it could be easily seen that they were
deeply impressed. As they went out slowly, Miles passed close to the
place where the ladies sat. The slighter of the two was talking in a
low tone to her companion, and the young soldier was struck with the
wonderful resemblance in her tone to that of the preacher. He wondered
if her face also resembled his in any degree, and glanced back, but the
head was turned away.
"I like that parson. He has got _brains_," remarked Sergeant Hardy, as
he walked along the deck with Sergeant Gilroy and Corporal Flynn.
"Sur' an' I like him too," said the corporal, "for he's got _heart_!"
"Heart and brains," returned Gilroy: "a grand combination! What more
could we want?"
"Don't you think that _tongue_ is also essential?" asked Miles. "But
for the preacher's eloquence his heart and brain would have worked in
vain."
"Come now, John Miles, don't you be risin' up into poethry. It's not
yer natur--though ye think it is. Besides, av a man's heart an' brains
is all right, he can make good use of 'em widout much tongue. Me own
notion is that it's thim as hasn't got much to spake of, aither of heart
or brain, as is over-fond o' waggin' the tongue."
"That's so, Flynn. You're a living example of the truth of your own
opinion," retorted Miles.
"Och! is it angered ye are at gittin' the worst o' the argiment?"
rejoined the corporal. "Niver mind, boy, you'll do better by and by--"
As Flynn descended the ladder while he spoke, the sense of what he said
was lost, but the truth of his opinion still continued to receive
illustration from the rumbling of his voice, until it was swallowed up
in the depths of the vessel.
Next day our hero received a shock from which he never finally
recovered!
Be not alarmed, reader; it was not paralytic in its nature. It happened
on this wise:
Miles had occasion to go to the fore part of the ship on some culinary
business, without his coat, and with his sleeves rolled up above his
elbows. Arrived there, he found that the captain was taking the ladies
round the ship to point out some of its interesting details. As Miles
came up, the younger lady turned round so as to present her full face to
him. It was then that poor Miles received the shock above referred to.
At that moment a little boy with wings and a bow stepped right in front
of the young lady and shot straight at Miles Milton! The arrow entered
his heart, and he--no, he did not fall; true men in such circumstances
never fall! They stand transfixed, sometimes, or stupefied. Thus stood
Miles and stared. Yes, though naturally modest and polite, he stood and
stared!
And small blame to him, as Flynn might have said, for before him stood
his ideal of a fairy, an angel, a sylph--or anything beautiful that best
suits your fancy, reader! Sunny hair, sunny eyes--earnest and inquiring
eyes--sunny smiles, and eyebrows to match. Yes, she had eyebrows
distinctly darker than her hair, and well-defined over a pair of large
brown eyes.
Poor Miles was stricken, as we have said; but--would you believe it?--
there were men there looking at that girl at that time who, to use their
own phraseology, would not have accepted a dozen of her for the girls
they had left behind them! One young fellow in particular murmured to
himself as follows--"Yes, very well in her way, no doubt, but she
couldn't hold a candle to my Emmy!" Perhaps the most cutting remark of
all--made mentally, of course--was that of Sergeant Grady, who, for
reasons best known to himself, had left a wife, describable as a stout
well-favoured girl of forty, behind him.
"In twenty years or so," he thought, "she may perhaps be near as
good-lookin' as my Susy, but she'll never come quite up to her--never!"
"Come this way, Mrs Drew," said the captain. "I will show you the
men's quarters. Out of the way, my man!"
Flushing to the roots of his hair, Miles stepped hastily aside.
As he did so there was heard an awful rend of a sort that tests the
temper of women! It was followed by a musical scream. The girl's dress
had caught on a block tackle.
Miles leaped forward and unhooked it. He was rewarded with a smiling
"Thank you," which was followed by a blush of confusion as Miss Drew's
mother exclaimed, "Oh! Marion--how _could_ you?" by way of making
things easier for her, no doubt!
"You did that, young man, about as smart as I could a' done it myself,"
growled a voice behind him.
The speaker was Jack Molloy, and a general titter followed Miles as he
hurried away.
As we have said, the weather became much worse when the troop-ship drew
near to the Bay of Biscay; and it soon became evident that they were not
to cross that famous portion of the Atlantic, without experiencing some
of the violent action for which it is famed. But by that time most of
the soldiers, according to Molloy, had got their sea-legs on, and rather
enjoyed the tossing than otherwise.
"I do like this sort o' thing," said a beardless young fellow, as a
number of the men sat on camp-stools, or stood on the weather-side of
the deck, chatting together about past times and future prospects.
"Ha!" exclaimed a seaman, who stood near them coiling up a rope; "hold
on till you've got a taste o' the Bay. This is a mill-pond to that.
And you'll have the chance to-night. If you don't, I'm a Dutchman."
"If I do, you'll have a taste of it too, old salt-water, for we're in
the same boat," retorted the young red-coat.
"True, but we ain't in the same body;" returned the sailor. "I should
just like to see your four-futt legs wobblin' about in a nor'-west gale.
You'd sing another song."
"Come, Macleod," cried Moses Pyne, "tip us a Gaelic song."
"Hoots, man, wull ye be wantin' to be made sea-seek?--for that's what'll
do it," said the big Scotsman. "Na, na, let Gaspard sing us `The Bay o'
Biscay O!' That'll be mair appropriate."
There was a general chorus of assent to this; and as Gaspard Redgrave
was an obliging man, untroubled by false modesty, he cleared his throat
and began. His voice, being a really splendid one, attracted all the
men who chanced to be within range of it: among others, Miles, who was
passing at the moment with a bag of biscuits in one hand and a meat-can
in the other. He leaned up against one of those funnels which send
fresh air down to the stokers of steam-ships. He had listened only a
few moments when Marion Drew glided amongst the men, and seemed to stand
as if entranced with delight in front of him, steadying herself by a
rope, for the vessel was pitching a good deal as well as rolling
considerably.