HOW HUGH JOHN BECAME GENERAL NAPOLEON.
Even dull Betty had heard the music. The White Gate was open, and with
a wild cry Hugh John sprang through. Betty had a son in the army, and
her deaf old ears were quickened by the fife and drum.
"Come back, Master Hugh!" she cried, as he passed through and stood on
the roadside, just as the head of the column, marching easily, turned
the corner of the White Road and came dancing and undulating towards
him. Hugh John's heart danced also. It was still going fast with
running so far; but at sight of the soldiers it took a new movement,
just like little waves on a lake when they jabble in the wind, so nice
and funny when you feel it--tickly too--down at the bottom of your
throat.
The first who came were soldiers in a dark uniform with very stern,
bearded officers, who attended finely to discipline, for they were
about to enter the little town of Edam, which lay just below the white
gates of Windy Standard.
So intently they marched that no one cast a glance at Hugh John
standing with his drawn sword, giving the salute which his friend
Sergeant Steel had taught him as each company passed. Not that Hugh
John cared, or even knew that they did not see him. They were the
crack volunteer regiment of the Grey City beyond the hills, and their
standard of efficiency was something tremendous.
Then came red-coats crowned with helmets, red-coats tipped with
Glengarry bonnets, and one or two brass bands of scattering volunteer
regiments. Hugh John saluted them all. No one paid the least attention
to him. He did not indeed expect any one to notice him--a small dusty
boy with a sword too big for him standing at the end of the road under
the shadow of the elms. Why should these glorious creations deign to
notice him--shining blades, shouldered arms, flashing bayonets, white
pipe-clayed belts? Were they not as gods, knowing good and evil?
But all the same he saluted every one of them impartially as they
came, and the regiments swung past unregarding, dust-choked, and
thirsty.
Then at last came the pipes and the waving tartans. Something cracked
in Hugh John's throat, and he gave a little cry, so that his old
nurse, Janet Sheepshanks, anxious for his welfare, came to take him
away. But he struck at her--his own dear Janet--and fled from her
grasp to the other side of the road, where he was both safer and
nearer to the soldiers. Swinging step, waving plumes, all in review
order on came the famous regiment, every man stepping out with a
trained elasticity which went to the boy's heart. Thus and not
otherwise the Black Watch followed their pipers. Hugh John gave a long
sigh when they had passed, and the pipes dulled down the dusky glade.
Then came more volunteers, and yet more and more. Would they never
end? And ever the sword of Hugh John Picton flashed to the salute, and
his small arm waxed weary as it rose and fell.
Then happened the most astonishing thing in the world, the greatest
event of Hugh John's life. For there came to his ear a new sound, the
clatter of cavalry hoofs. A bugle rang out, and Hugh John's eyes
watched with straining eagerness the white dust rise and swirl behind
the columns. Perhaps--who knows?--this was his reward for not being
dasht-mean! But now Hugh John had forgotten Prissy and Toady Lion,
father and nurse alike, heaven, earth--and everything else. There was
no past for him. He was the soldier of all time. His dusty red coat
and his flashing sword were the salute of the universal spirit of man
to the god of war--also other fine things of which I have no time to
write.
For the noble grey horses, whose predecessors Napoleon had watched so
wistfully at Waterloo, came trampling along, tossing their heads with
an obvious sense of their own worth as a spectacle. Hugh John paled
to the lips at sight of them, but drew himself more erect than ever.
He had seen foot-soldiers and volunteers before, but never anything
like this.
On they came, a fine young fellow leading them, sitting carelessly on
the noblest charger of all. Perhaps he was kindly by nature. Perhaps
he had a letter from his sweetheart in his breastpocket. Perhaps--but
it does not matter, at any rate he was young and happy, as he sat
erect, leading the "finest troop in the finest regiment in the world."
He saw the small dusty boy in the red coat under the elm-trees. He
marked his pale twitching face, his flashing eye, his erect carriage,
his soldierly port. The fate of Hugh John stood on tiptoe. He had
never seen any being so glorious as this. He could scarce command
himself to salute. But though he trembled in every limb, and his under
lip "wickered" strangely, the hand which held the sword was steady,
and went through the beautiful movements of the military salute which
Sergeant Steel of the Welsh Fusiliers had taught him, with exactness
and decorum.
The young officer smiled. His own hand moved to the response almost
involuntarily, as if Hugh John had been one of his own troopers.
The boy's heart stood still. Could this thing be? A real soldier had
saluted him!
But there was something more marvellous yet to come. A sweet spring of
good deeds welled up in that young officer's breast. Heaven speed him
(as doubtless it will) in his wooing, and make him ere his time a
general, with the Victoria Cross upon his breast. But though (as I
hope) he rise to be Commander-in-Chief, he will never do a prettier
action than that day, when the small grimy boy stood under the
elm-trees at the end of the avenue of Windy Standard. This is what he
did. He turned about in his saddle.
[Illustration: "IT COULD NOT HAVE BEEN BETTER DONE FOR A
FIELD-MARSHAL."]
"_Attention, men, draw swords!_" he cried, and his voice rang like a
trumpet, so grand it was--at least so Hugh John thought.
There came a glitter of unanimous steel as the swords flashed into
line. The horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound, and jingled
their accoutrements as the men gathered their bridle reins up in their
left hands.
"_Eyes right! Carry swords!_" came again the sharp command.
And every blade made an arc of glittering light as it came to the
salute. It could not have been better done for a field-marshal.
No fuller cup of joy was ever drunk by mortal. The tears welled up in
Hugh John's eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honour done to
him. To be knighted was nothing to this. He had been acknowledged as a
soldier by the greatest soldier there. Hugh John did not doubt that
this glorious being was he who had led the Greys in the charge at
Waterloo. Who else could have done that thing?
He was no longer a little dusty boy. He stood there glorified,
ennobled. The world was almost too full.
"_Eyes front! Slope swords!_" rang the words once more.
The pageant passed by. Only the far drum-throb came back as he stood
speechless and motionless, till his father rode up on his way home,
and seeing the boy asked him what he was doing there. Then for all
reply a little clicking hitch came suddenly in his throat. He wanted
to laugh, but somehow instead the tears ran down his cheeks, and he
gasped out a word or two which sounded like somebody else's voice.
"I'm not hurt, father," he said, "I'm not crying. It was only that the
Scots Greys saluted me. And I _can't_ help it, father. It goes
_tick-tick_ in my throat, and I can't keep it back. But I'm not
crying, father! I'm not indeed!"
Then the stern man gathered the great soldier up and set him across
his saddle--for Hugh John was alone, the others having long ago gone
back with Janet Sheepshanks. And his father did not say anything, but
let him sit in front with the famous sword in his hands which had
brought about such strange things. And even thus rode our hero
home--Hugh John Picton no more, but rather General Napoleon Smith; nor
shall his rank be questioned on any army roster of strong unblenching
hearts.
But late that night Hugh John stole down the hushed avenue, his bare
feet pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. He
climbed the gate and stood under the elm, with the wind flapping his
white nightgown like a battle flag. Then clasping his hands, he took
the solemn binding oath of his religion, "_The Scots Greys saluted me.
May I die-and-rot if ever I am dasht-mean again!_"