TELLS OF SOME OF THE TRIALS, UNCERTAINTIES, DANGERS, AND DISASTERS OF
WAR.
Uncertain moonlight, with a multitude of cloudlets drifting slowly
across the sky so as to reveal, veil, partially obscure, or sometimes
totally blot out the orb of night, may be a somewhat romantic, but is
not a desirable, state of things in an enemy's country, especially when
that enemy is prowling among the bushes.
But such was the state of things one very sultry night when our hero
found himself standing in the open alone, and with thoughts of a varied
and not wholly agreeable nature for his companions.
He was on sentry duty.
It was intensely dark when the clouds partially veiled the moon, for she
was juvenile at the time--in her first quarter; and when the veil was
partially removed, the desert, for it was little better, assumed an
indistinct and ghostly-grey appearance.
Sombre thoughts naturally filled the mind of our young soldier as he
stood there, alert, watchful, with weapons ready, ears open to the
slightest sound, and eyes glancing sharply at the perplexing shadows
that chased each other over the ground like wanton Soudanese at play.
His faculties were intensely strung at what may well be styled
"attention," and riveted on that desert land to which Fate--as he called
his own conduct--had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysterious
spirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenes
of childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usually
pleasant retrospect. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightly
reproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination he
returned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasanter
memories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of the
Soldiers' Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy with
newspaper and illustrated magazine, while the sweet sound of familiar
music came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, or
rather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker,
were engaged with songs of praise.
Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping at his ribs. An
object seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonet
was lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. The
shadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush--that was all; yet it
was strange how very like to a real object it seemed to his
highly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him that
nothing to cause alarm was visible.
Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stood
there in body, but in mind he had again deserted his post. Yet not to
so great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria,
and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physical
heat--that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen to
the utmost attainable height--but a glow of soul. He became heroic! He
remembered Marion's burning words, and resolved that Duty should
henceforth be his guiding-star!
Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Something
within him became suddenly active, and whispered, "How about your duty
to parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time in
Portsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home,
but you didn't. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. You
might have done it several times since you landed in this country, but
you haven't. You know quite well that you have not fully repented even
yet!"
While the whispering was going on, the active fancy of the youth saw the
lovely face of Marion looking at him with mournful interest, as it had
been the face of an angel, and then there came to his memory words which
had been spoken to him that very day by his earnest friend Stevenson the
marine: "No man can fully do his duty to his fellows until he has begun
to do his duty to God."
The words had not been used in reference to himself but in connection
with a discussion as to the motives generally which influence men. But
the words were made use of by the Spirit as arrows to pierce the youth's
heart.
"Guilty!" he exclaimed aloud, and almost involuntary followed, "God
forgive me!"
Again the watchful ear distinguished unwonted sounds, and the sharp
eye--wonderfully sharpened by frequent danger--perceived objects in
motion on the plain. This time the objects were real. They approached.
It was "the rounds" who visited the sentries six times during each
night.
In another part of the ground, at a considerable distance from the spot
where our hero mounted guard, stood a youthful soldier, also on guard,
and thinking, no doubt, of home. He was much too young for service in
such a climate--almost a boy. He was a ruddy, healthy lad, with plenty
of courage and high spirit, who was willing to encounter anything
cheerfully, so long as, in so doing, he could serve his Queen and
country. But he was careless of his own comfort and safety. Several
times he had been found fault with for going out in the sun without his
white helmet. Miles had taken a fancy to the lad, and had spoken
seriously, but very kindly, to him that very day about the folly of
exposing himself in a way that had already cost so many men their lives.
But young Lewis laughed good-naturedly, and said that he was too tough
to be killed by the sun.
The suffocating heat of that night told upon him, however, severely--
tough though he was or supposed himself to be--while he kept his lonely
watch on the sandy plain.
Presently a dark figure was seen approaching. The sentinel at once
challenged, and brought his rifle to the "ready." The man, who was a
native, gave the password all right, and made some apparently
commonplace remark as he passed, which, coupled with his easy manner and
the correct countersign, threw the young soldier off his guard.
Suddenly a long sharp knife gleamed in the faint light and was drawn
across the body of Lewis before he could raise a hand to defend himself.
He fell instantly, mortally wounded, with his entrails cut open. At
the same moment the tramp of the rounds was heard, and the native glided
back into the darkness from which he had so recently emerged.
When the soldiers came to the post they found the poor young soldier
dying. He was able to tell what had occurred while they were making
preparations to carry him away, but when they reached the fort they
found that his brief career had ended.
A damp was cast on the spirits of the men of his company when they
learned next day what had occurred, for the lad had been a great
favourite; but soldiers in time of war are too much accustomed to look
upon death in every form to be deeply or for long affected by incidents
of the kind. Only the comrades who had become unusually attached to
this poor youth mourned his death as if he had been a brother in the
flesh as well as in the ranks.
"He was a good lad," said Sergeant Gilroy, as they kept watch on the
roof of the fort that night. "Since we came here he has never missed
writing to his mother a single mail. It is true, being an amiable lad,
and easily led through his affections, he had given way to drink to some
extent, but no later than yesterday I prevailed upon him to join our
temperance band--"
"What? become a Blue Light!" exclaimed Sutherland, with something of a
sneer in his tone.
"Ah, comrade; and I hope to live to see you join our band also, and
become one of the bluest lights among us," returned the sergeant
good-humouredly.
"Never!" replied Sutherland, with emphasis; "you'll never live to see
that."
"Perhaps not, but if I don't live to see it some one else will,"
rejoined the sergeant, laying his hand gently on the man's shoulder.
"Is that you again? It's wishin' I am that I had you in ould Ireland,"
growled Corporal Flynn, referring to Osman Digna, whose men had opened
fire on the neighbouring fort, and again roused the whole garrison.
"Slape is out o' the question wi' such a muskitos buzzin' about. Bad
luck to 'ee!"
"What good would it do to send him to Ireland?" asked Simkin, as he
yawned, rolled over, and, like the rest of his comrades, loaded his
rifle.
"Why, man, don't ye see, av he was in ould Ireland he couldn't be
disturbin' our night's rest here. Moreover, they'd make a dacent man of
'im there in no time. It's always the way; if an English blackguard
goes over to Ireland he's almost sure to return home more or less of a
gintleman. That's why I've always advised you to go over, boy. An'
maybe if Osman wint he'd--Hallo!"
A flash of light and whistling of bullets overhead effectually stopped
the Irishman's discourse. Not that he was at all alarmed by the
familiar incident, but being a change of subject it became more
absorbingly interesting than the conversation, besides necessitating
some active precautions.
The firing seemed to indicate an attack in several places along the line
of defence. At one of the posts called the New House the attack was
very sharp. The enemy could not have been much, if at all, over three
hundred yards distant in the shelter of three large pits. Of course the
fire was vigorously returned. A colonel and major were there on the
redoubt, with powerful field-glasses, and directed the men where to fire
until the General himself appeared on the scene and took command. On
the left, from Quarantine Island, the Royal Engineers kept up a heavy
cross-fire, and on the right they were helped by a fort which was manned
by Egyptian troops. From these three points a heavy fire was kept up,
and continued till six o'clock in the morning.
By that time, the enemy having been finally driven out of the pits, a
party was sent across to see what execution had been done. It was
wonderfully little, considering the amount of ammunition and energy
expended. In the first pit one man was found dead; a bullet had entered
his forehead and come out at the back of his head. Moving him a little
on one side they found another man under him, shot in the same way. All
round the pit inside were large pools of blood, but no bodies, for the
natives invariably dragged or carried away their dead when that was
possible. In the other two pits large pools of blood were also found,
but no bodies. Beyond them, however, one man was discovered shot
through the heart. He had evidently been dragged along the sand, but
the tremendous fire of the defenders had compelled the enemy to drop
him. Still further on they found twelve more corpses which had been
dragged a short way and then left.
Close to these they observed that the sand had been disturbed, and on
turning it up found that a dozen of bodies had been hastily buried
there. Altogether they calculated that at least fifty of the enemy had
been killed on that occasion--a calculation which was curiously verified
by the friendly tribes asking permission to bury the dead according to
the Soudanese custom. This was granted, of course, and thus the exact
number killed was ascertained, but how many had been wounded no one
could tell.
"Fifty desolated homes!" remarked one of the men, when the number of
killed was announced at mess that day. He was a cynical, sour-visaged
man, who had just come out of hospital after a pretty severe illness.
"Fifty widows, may-hap," he continued, "to say nothin' o' child'n--that
are just as fond o' husbands an' fathers as _ours_ are!"
"Why, Jack Hall, if these are your sentiments you should never have
enlisted," cried Simkin, with a laugh.
"I 'listed when I was drunk," returned Hall savagely.
"Och, then, it sarves ye right!" said Flynn. "Even a pig would be
ashamed to do anythin' whin it was in liquor."
The corporal's remark prevented the conversation taking a lugubrious
turn, to the satisfaction of a few of the men who could not endure to
look at anything from a serious point of view.
"What's the use," one of them asked, "of pullin' a long face over what
you can't change? Here we are, boys, to kill or be killed. My creed
is, `Take things as they come, and be jolly!' It won't mend matters to
think about wives and child'n."
"Won't it?" cried Armstrong, looking up with a bright expression from a
sheet of paper, on which he had just been writing. "Here am I writin'
home to _my_ wife--in a hurry too, for I've only just heard that word
has been passed, the mail for England goes to-day. I'm warned for guard
to-night, too; an' if the night takes after the day we're in for a
chance o' suffocation, to say nothing o' insects--as you all know. Now,
won't it mend matters that I've got a dear girl over the sea to think
about, and to say `God bless her, body and soul?'"
"No doubt," retorted the take-things-as-they-come-and-be-jolly man,
"but--but--"
"But," cried Hall, coming promptly to his rescue, "have not the
Soudanese got wives an' children as well as us?"
"I daresay they have--some of 'em."
"Well, does the thought of your respective wives an' children prevent
your shooting or sticking each other when you get the chance?"
"Of course it don't!" returned Armstrong, with a laugh as he resumed his
pencil. "What would be the use o' comin' here if we didn't do that?
But I haven't time to argue with you just now, Hall. All I know is that
it's my duty to write to my wife, an' I won't let the chance slip when
I've got it."
"Bah!" exclaimed the cynic, relighting his pipe, which in the heat of
debate he had allowed to go out.
Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by the
conversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though their
hands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was Miles
Milton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word
_Duty_, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote a
distinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word of
excuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. In
short, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was--Guilty! and of
course this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He had
forgiveness--though he knew it not--long before he asked it. His
broken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him in
their hearts long before--even before they received that treasured
fragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:
"Dearest Mother, I am sorry--"
After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with a
feeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since that
wretched day when he forsook his father's house.
As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble in
the town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with the
Gardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask the
sergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial Christian, and
Miles had lately begun to relish his earnest, intelligent talk, dashed
as it was with many a touch of humour.
The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day before
in ascertaining the exact range of several objects on the ground in
front.
"I'll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I've given this gun a
clean-out," said Gilroy. "Turn the handle, Sutherland."
"I'll turn the handle if it's a' richt," said the cautious Scot, with
some hesitation.
"It is all right," returned the sergeant. "We ran the feeder out last
night, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away."
Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle.
The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant's groin,
making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.
He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some for
water, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital.
Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised his head and
moistened his pale lips with water. He could hardly speak, but a smile
passed over his face as he said faintly, "She'll get my presents by this
mail. Write, Miles--break it to her--we'll meet again--by the side of
Jesus--God be praised!"
He ceased, and never spoke again.
Gilroy was a married man, with five children. Just before the accident
he had written to his wife enclosing gifts for his little ones, and
telling, in a thankful spirit, of continued health and safety. Before
the mail-steamer with his letter on board was out of sight he was dead!