THE WAR FEVER.
They were stirring times, those early days of '54. After half a
century of peace the shadow of a great contest loomed dark and near.
The whole British nation, sick and tired of Russian double-dealing,
was eager to cut the knot of political difficulty with the sword.
Everyone was mad to fight; only a few optimists, statesmen mostly,
still relying on the sedative processes of diplomacy, had any hopes of
averting war. A race reputed peace-loving, but most pugnacious when
roused, was stirred now to its very depths. British hearts beat high
throughout the length and breadth of the land, proudly mindful of
their former prowess and manfully hopeful of emulating former glorious
deeds.
It was the same wherever Englishmen gathered under the old flag; in
every corner of the world peopled by offshoots from the old stock,
most of all in those strongholds and dependencies beyond sea captured
in the old wars, and still held by our arms.
It was so upon the great Rock, the commonly counted impregnable
fortress, one of the ancient pillars of Hercules that still stands
silently strong and watchful at the mouth of the Mediterranean Sea.
Nowhere did the war fever rage higher than at Gibraltar. Before
everything, a garrison town, battlemented and fortified on every side,
resonant from morning gunfire till watch-setting with martial sounds,
its principal pageants military, with soldiers filling its streets,
and sentinels at every corner, the prospect of active service was
naturally the one theme and topic of the place.
As spring advanced, one of those balmy-scented Southern springs when
flowers highly prized with us blossomed wild everywhere, even in the
fissures of the rock--when the days are already long and bright, under
ever-blue and cloudless skies, Gibraltar realised more fully that war
was close at hand. Lying in the high road to the East, it saw daily
the armed strength of England sweep proudly by. Now a squadron of
men-of-war: not the hideous, shapeless ironclad of to-day, but the
traditional three-decker, with its tiers of snarling teeth and its
beauty of white-bellying canvas and majestic spar. Now a troopship
with its consorts, two, or three, or more, tightly packed with their
living cargo--whole regiments of red-coated soldiers on their way to
Malta and beyond.
Such sights as these kept the garrison--friends and comrades of those
bound eastward--in a state of constant high-pitched excitement. At
first, forbidden by strict quarantine, there was no communication
between the sea and the shore, but all day long there were crowds of
idlers ready to line the sea-wall and greet every ship that came in
close enough with hearty repeated cheers. When the vexatious
health-rules were relaxed, and troopships landed some of their
passengers, there was endless fraternisation, eager discussion of
coming operations, and unlimited denunciation of the common foe.
Members of the garrison itself were, of course, frantically jealous of
all who had the better luck to belong to the expeditionary force. That
they were not under orders for the East was the daily burden of
complaint in every barrack-room and guard-house upon the Rock. The
British soldier is an inveterate grumbler; he quarrels perpetually
with his quarters, his food, his clothing, and his general want of
luck. Just now the bad luck of being refused a share in an arduous
campaign, with its attendant chances of hardships, sufferings, perhaps
a violent death, made every soldier condemned to remain in safety at
Gibraltar discontented and sore at heart.
"No orders for us by the last mail, Hyde," said a young sergeant of
the Royal Picts, as he walked briskly up to the entrance of the
Waterport Guard.
A tall, well-grown, clean-limbed young fellow of twenty-four or five:
one who prided himself on being a smart soldier, and fully deserved
the name. He was admirably turned out; his coatee with wings, showing
that he belonged to one of the flank companies, fitted him to
perfection; the pale blue trousers, the hideous fashion of the day,
for which Prince Albert was said to be responsible, were carefully
cut; his white belts were beautifully pipe-clayed, and the use of
pipe-clay was at that time an art; you could see your face in the
polish of his boots. A smart soldier, and as fine-looking a young
fellow as wore the Queen's uniform in 1854. He had an open, honest
face, handsome withal; clear bright grey eyes, broad forehead, and a
firm mouth and chin.
"Worrying yourself, as usual, for permission to have your throat cut.
Can't you bide your time, Sergeant McKay?"
The answer came from another sergeant of the same regiment, an elder,
sterner man--a veteran evidently, for he wore two medals for Indian
campaigns, and his bronzed, weather-beaten face showed that he had
seen service in many climes. As a soldier he was in no wise inferior
to his comrade: his uniform and appointments were as clean and
correct, but he lacked the extra polish--the military dandyism, so to
speak--of the younger man.
"War is our regular trade. Isn't it natural we should want to be at
it?" said Sergeant McKay.
"You talk like a youngster who doesn't know what it's like," replied
Sergeant Hyde. "I've seen something of campaigning, and it's rough
work at the best, even in India, where soldiers are as well off as
officers here."
"Officers!" said McKay, rather bitterly. "They have the best of it
everywhere."
"Hush! don't be an insubordinate young idiot," interposed his comrade,
hastily. "Here come two of them."
The sergeants sprang hastily to their feet, and, standing strictly to
attention, saluted their superiors in proper military form.
"That's what I hate," went on McKay.
"Then you are no true soldier, and don't know what proper discipline
means. They are as much bound to salute us as we them."
"Yes, but they don't."
"That's their want of manners; so much the worse for them. Besides, I
am quite sure Mr. Wilders didn't mean it; he is far too good an
officer--always civil-spoken, too, and considerate to the men."
"I object to saluting him more than any one else."
"Why, McKay! what's the matter with you? What particular fault have
you to find with Mr. Wilders?"
"I am just as good as he is."
"In your own opinion, perhaps; not in that of this garrison--certainly
not under the Mutiny Act and Articles of War."
"I am just as good. I am his cousin--"
Sergeant McKay stopped suddenly, bit his lip, and flushed very red.
"So you have let the cat out of the bag at last, my young friend,"
said Sergeant Hyde, quietly. "I always thought this--that you were a
gentleman--"
"Superior to my station, in fact."
"By no means, Sergeant McKay. I should be sorry to admit that any man,
however highly born, had lost his right to be deemed a gentleman
because he is a sergeant in the Royal Picts."
"You, Hyde, are a gentleman too. I am sure of that."
"I am a sergeant in the Royal Picts. That is enough for me and for
you."
"Why did you enlist?"
Hyde shook his head gravely.
"There are pages in every man's life," he said, "which he does not
care to lift again when they are once turned down. I have not asked
you for your secret; respect mine."
"But I have nothing to conceal," said McKay, quickly. "I am ready
enough to tell you why I enlisted."
"As you please; but, mind, I have not asked you."
There was little encouragement in this speech; but McKay ignored it,
and went on--
"I enlisted because I could not enter the army in any other way. My
friends could not afford to purchase me a commission."
"Why were you so wild to become a soldier?"
"It was my father's profession. He was a captain in--"
"That should have given you a claim for an ensigncy, as an officer's
son."
"But my father was not in the English service. He was only half an
Englishman, really."
"Indeed! How so?"
"Although Scotch by extraction, as our name will tell you, my father
was born in Poland. He was a Russian subject, and as such was
compelled to serve in the Russian army."
"For long?"
"Until he was mixed in an unfortunate national movement, and only
escaped execution by flight. He lived afterwards at Geneva. It was
there he met my mother."
"Is it through him or her that you are related to the Wilders?"
"Through my mother. She was daughter of the Honourable Anastasius, son
of the twelfth earl."
"And what might be the distinguishing numeral of the present Essendine
potentate?"
"He is fourteenth earl."
"Then he and your mother are first cousins?"
"Quite so; and I am his first cousin once removed."
"Ah! that is very nice for you," said old Hyde, with a tinge of
contempt in his tone. "They're not much use to you though, these fine
relations. Surely Lord Essendine could have got you a commission by
holding up his hand?"
"That's just what he would not do, and why I hate him and the whole of
the Wilders family. Lord Essendine has never recognised us."
"Why? Is there any reason?"
"The Honourable Anastasius made a poor match, married against his
father's wish, and was cut off with a shilling. His brother, the next
earl, was disposed to make it up, but my grandfather died, and my
grandmother married again--an honest sea-captain--and the noble peer
cut her dead."
"And so you joined the Royal Picts. But I wonder you came to this
regiment to serve with your cousin."
"I enlisted, you know, a couple of years before he was gazetted to the
corps."
"Do they know you took the shilling?--that you are now a
colour-sergeant in the Royal Picts?"
"I don't think they are aware of my existence even."
"Well, never mind. Don't be cast down. The time may come when they
will be proud to recognise you. It all depends upon yourself?"
"I will do all I know to force them, you may be sure."
"And you will have your chance, in a great war like this which is
coming. Everything is possible to a man whose heart is in the right
place. You have pluck and spirit."
The young fellow's eyes flashed.
"Trust me, Hyde; I sha'n't flinch, if I only get the chance."
"You are well educated; you can draw; you have picked up Spanish since
you have been here; and I suppose you inherit a taste for languages
from your Polish father?"
"I don't know; at any rate, I can talk French fluently, and I speak
Russian of course."
"Why, man! the game is positively in your own hands. You are bound to
get on: mark my words."
"Not if we stay here, Hyde, keeping guard upon this old Rock and
losing all the fun. Can you wonder why I am so anxious the regiment
should get the route?"
"It will come, never fear. They will want every soldier that carries a
musket before this war is over, or I'm a much-mistaken man. Only have
patience."
"How can I? I am eating my heart out, Hyde."
"Was it to tell me this you came down here? What brings you to
Waterport this morning? Only to gossip with me?"
"That, and something more. I am on duty, detailed as orderly sergeant
to one of the Expeditionary Generals; he is just going to land from a
yacht in the bay."
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes, Wilders--another of my fine cousins. You can understand now why
I am so bitter against my relations to-day: there are too many of them
about."
"I suppose that is what's brought our Mr. Wilders here to-day--to meet
his cousin."
"And his brother; for they are on board Lord Lydstone's yacht."
"They! How many of them?"
"General Wilders has his wife with him, I believe, accompanying him to
the East."
"Old idiot! Why couldn't he leave her at home? Women are in the way at
these times. Soldiers have no business with wives."
"That's why you never married, I suppose?"
Hyde did not answer his question, but got up and left his comrade
abruptly, to re-enter the guard-room.