Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was
Hardy the sergeant.
His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to
the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that
it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do
most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and
drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of
the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many
of them were surrounded and severely wounded.
When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy's captain sprang to the front,
sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a
moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was
on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain's back when Hardy
observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it
was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he
had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to
thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was
thought, mortally wounded.
This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound,
although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into
hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his
temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm
equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his
sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound.
But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven
that awaited him, if he should die, and of being "for ever with the
Lord," his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only "does not
kill,"--it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant's case it
formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.
One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill's zereba, Sutherland
and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant's bed--cheering him
up a bit, as they said--and chatting about the details of the recent
fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to
religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor
Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.
"Well, it's very kind of you to come an' cheer me up, lads," said Hardy
at last; "and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you
ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour.
Will you promise?"
"Of course we will," said Gaspard quickly.
"If we can," said the more cautious Scot.
"Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me
good."
"With the greatest pleasure," answered the soldier; "but," he added,
looking round doubtfully, "I don't know how they might like it here."
"They'll not object; besides, you can sing low. You've got the knack of
singin' soft--better than any man I ever heard."
"Well, what shall it be?" returned the gratified Gaspard.
"One of Sankey's hymns," said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance
of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his
pillow and gave it to his friend.
Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had
often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of
the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to
fulfil his promise.
"Sing Number 68, `Shall we gather at the river?' I'm very fond of that
hymn."
In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within
hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was
heard more than one "Amen" and "Thank God" from the neighbouring beds.
"Yes, comrades, we shall gather there," said the sergeant, after a brief
pause, "for the same Almighty Saviour who saved _me_ died for _you_ as
well. I ain't used to wettin' my cheeks, as _you_ know, lads, but I
s'pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I
have to ask of--"
"If ye're thinkin' o' askin' me to pray," broke in the alarmed Scotsman,
"ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, `if I _can_.' Noo,
I can _not_ pray, an' it's nae use askin' me to try. Whatever I may
come to in this warld, I'll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin' man."
"Quite right, Sutherland--quite right. I had no intention of asking you
to pray," replied Hardy, with a faint smile. "What I want you to do is
to draw out my will for me."
"Oh! I'm quite willin' to do that," returned the relieved Scot.
"You see," continued the sergeant, "one never knows what may be the
result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my
Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I
possess to go in the right direction."
"That's a wise-like sentiment," returned his friend, with an approving
nod and thoughtful frown.
"Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on
paper," continued Hardy, "it strikes me that you will do the job better
than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to
you on my private affairs. So you'll help me?"
"I'm wullin' to try, serjint, and ac' the legal adviser--amytoor-like,
ye ken."
"Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?"
"No, serjint, I canna, because I've to start airly the morn's mornin'
wi' a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin' back frae Tamai, but the
moment I come back I'll come to ye."
"That will do--thank you. And now, Gaspard, what's the news from
England? I hear that a mail has just come in."
"News that will make your blood boil," said Gaspard sternly.
"It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood
that is left in me," said Hardy, languidly.
"Well, I don't know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d'you think of
McNeill's brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?"
"You don't mean that!"
"Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a
splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that
General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to
carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been
such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single
man of us had returned alive to tell the tale--as you and I know full
well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department
that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill's prudence and our pluck that
saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home--bah!"
The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.
"He's a wee thing roosed!" remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet
slightly cynical grin. "But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an'
I'll come an' draft yer wull i' the mornin'."
So saying the "amytoor" lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping
over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.
They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their
indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part
of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late
to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill's deserted zereba,
surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.
Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All
round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the
ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and
Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a
dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of
mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them--ghastly
skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures
and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had
already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers
spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded
above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying
carcases of camels and mules--the whole filling the air with a horrible
stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is
powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot
conceive.
Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on
continually producing and reproducing scenes like this--sometimes, no
doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling
error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about
a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that
succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the
meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!
Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!
Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast,
and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy,
with pen, ink, and paper.
"Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?"
"Pretty well, thank you--pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been
thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for
salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being
anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am
rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God--my Father! Sutherland, my
good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life.
Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this."
The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly
from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being
impressed.
"I believe ye're no' far wrang, serjint, an' I tak' shame to mysel' that
I've been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time."
Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put
out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.
"Comrade," he said, "God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready
and willing to save."
Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying
for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by
saying--
"You have brought paper and ink, I see."
"Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin' o' takin' yer depairture yet. This
draftin' o' yer wull is only a precaution."
"Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution," returned Hardy, in
a cheerful tone. "But you seem to have caught a cold--eh? What makes
you cough and clear your throat so?"
"A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it's the stink o' thae
corps that I canna get oot o' my nose an' thrapple."
Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched
out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at
McNeill's zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his
writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.
"Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?"
"Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one
to leave it to."
"What! Nae frien's ava?"
"Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have
indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my
poor little possessions; besides, he's a cross-grained old fellow, and
does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving.
However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don't want what I do
leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will;
because, of course, he is my natural heir, and--"
"Haud ye there, man," said the Scot abruptly but slowly. "If he's your
nait'ral heir, ye're _his_ nait'ral heir tae, ye ken."
"Of course, I am aware of that," returned the sergeant with an amused
look; "but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he
means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has
already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital--for
incurables of some sort, I believe."
"Ma certy! If I was his lawyer," said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn,
"I wad advise him to erec' an hospital in his lifetime for incurable
eediots, an' to gang in himsel' as the first patient. But, come awa wi'
yer wull, serjint."
"Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all
ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said."
"Oh, ye needna fear," said the Scot, "I'm no' sic an ass as to trust to
my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an' I'll pit it
doon, and then write it into a form in the reg'lar way."
After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said
that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he
wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie
Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.
Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad
surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.
"Ye forget, serjint," he said softly, "that Miles an' Airmstrang are
baith deed."
"No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead."
"Aweel--we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o' the born
deevils that have gotten haud o' them, we are entitled to _think_ them
deed ony way."
"They are reported as `missing,' that is all, and that is enough for me.
You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?"
"Ay, fifty to each."
"There may be some interest due on the account," said the sergeant
thoughtfully; "besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have
forgotten--and it's not worth while dividing such trifles between them."
"Weel, weel, ye've only to mak yin o' them yer residooary legitee, an'
that'll pit it a' richt."
"True, my lawyer. Let it be so," said Hardy, with a short laugh at the
thought of making so much ado about nothing. "Make Miles my residuary
legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an' leave me to rest, for
I'm a trifle tired after all this legal work."
The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and
witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation
whatever fate should be appointed to him.
His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought
a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate
of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the
hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances,
he began to recover rapidly.
One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant
was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the
subject nearest his heart.
One day she said to him with unusual animation:
"The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers' Institute that has
recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not
intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate
friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute
stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh
sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as
well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and--"
"Ay, just like Miss Robinson's Institute at Portsmouth," interrupted
Hardy. "I know the sort o' thing well."
"The Alexandrian Soldiers' Institute is _also_ Miss Robinson's,"
returned the nurse, with a pleased look; "so if you know the one at
Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The
change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And
I'll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there
just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse
here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having
broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute
for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long
ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul."