General Bounce Part 9

Even little Blanche, living in one of the best houses in Grosvenor Square, and going to Court under a peeress's "wing," sighed while she thought of Newton-Hollows and its shrubberies, and her garden just blooming into summer luxuriance. As they toiled slowly down St.

James's Street, envying the privileged grandees with the _entree_ through St. James's Park, our pretty heiress would fain have been back in her garden-bonnet, tying up her roses, and watching her carnations, and idling about in the deep shades of her leafy paradise. Not so the chaperon. She was full of the important occasion. It was her pleasure to _present_ Miss Kettering, and her business to arrange how that maidenly patronymic should be merged in the t.i.tle of Mount Helicon: for this she was herself prepared to lapse into a _dowager_. Who but a mother would be capable of such a sacrifice? Yet it must be; none knew better than her ladyship--excepting, perhaps, the late lord's man of business, and certain citizens of the Hebrew persuasion, collectors of n.o.blemen's and gentlemen's autographs--how impossible it was for "Mount" to go on much longer. His book on the Derby was a far deeper affair than his "Broadsides from the Baltic"--where the publisher lost shillings on the latter, the author paid away hundreds on the former--and the literary sportsman confessed, with his usual devil-may-care candour, that "between black-legs and blue-stockings he was pretty nearly told-out!"--therefore must an heiress be supplied from _the canaille_ to prop the n.o.ble house of Mount Helicon--therefore have the Mount Helicon arms, and the Mount Helicon liveries, and the Mount Helicon carriage, been seen day after day waiting in Grosvenor Square--therefore does their diplomatic proprietress speak in all societies of "_her_ charming Miss Kettering," and "_her_ sweet Blanche," and therefore are they even now arriving in company at St. James's, followed by the General in his brougham, who has come to pay his respects to his sovereign in _the tightest_ uniform that ever threatened an apoplectic warrior with convulsions. "My dear, you look exquisite," says the chaperon, "only mind how you get out, and don't dirty your train, and recollect your feathers; when you curtsey to the Queen, whatever you do, don't let them bob in her Majesty's face." Blanche, albeit somewhat frightened, could not help laughing, and looked so fresh and radiant as she alighted, that the very mob, a.s.sembled for purposes of criticism, scarcely forbore from telling her as much to her face. "Don't be nervous, my dear," and "_Pray_ don't let us get separated," said the two ladies simultaneously, as they entered the palace; and Blanche felt her knees tremble and her heart beat as she followed her conductress up the stately, well-lined staircase, between rows of magnificent-looking gentlemen-officials, all in full dress. The kettle-drums of the Life Guards booming from without did not serve to rea.s.sure her half so much as the jolly faces of the beef-eaters, every one of whom seems to be cut out to exactly the same pattern, and, inexplicable as it may appear, is a living impersonation of Henry VIII.; but she took courage after a time, seeing that n.o.body was the least frightened except herself, and that young Brosier of the Guards, one of her dancing-partners, and to-day on duty at St. James's, was swaggering about as much at home as if he had been brought up in the palace instead of his father's humble-looking parsonage. Blanche would have liked it better, though, had the staircase and corridor been a little more crowded; as it was, she felt too conspicuous, and fancied people looked at her as if they knew she was clutching those two tickets, with her name and her chaperon's legibly inscribed thereon, for the information of an exalted office-bearer, because this was her first appearance at Court, and she was going _to be presented_.

Innocent Blanche! The gentlemen in uniform are busy with their collars (the collar of a uniform is positive strangulation for everything but a _bona fide_ soldier), whilst those in civil vestures are absorbed in the contemplation of their own legs, which, in the unusual attire of silk stockings and "shorts," look worse to the owner than to any one else, and that is saying a good deal. The General is close behind his niece, and struts with an ardour which yesterday's levee in that same tight coat has been unable to cool. The plot thickens, and they add their tickets to a table already covered by cards inscribed with the names of England's n.o.blest and fairest, for the information of the grand vizier, and--shall we confess it?--the gentlemen of the press!

Lady Mount Helicon bows right and left with stately courtesy: Blanche seizes a moment to arrange her train and a stray curl un.o.bserved; and the General, between gold lace and excitement, breaks out into an obvious perspiration. Blanche's partners gather round her as they would at a ball, though she scarcely recognises some in their military disguises. And those who have not been introduced whisper to each other, "_That's_ Miss Kettering," and depreciate her, and call her "very pretty _for an heiress_." Captain Lacquers is magnificent; he has exchanged into the "Loyal Hussars," chiefly on account of the uniform, and thinks that in "hessians" and a "pelisse" he ought not to _be bought_ under half-a-million. He breakfasted with "Uppy" this morning, and rallied that suitor playfully on his advantage in attending the Drawing-room, whereas Sir Ascot was to be on duty, and is even now lost in jack-boots and a helmet, on a pawing black charger, outside. D'Orville is there too, with his stately figure and grave, handsome face. His hussar uniform sits none the worse for those two medals on his breast; and his beauty is none the less commanding for a tinge of brown caught from an Indian sun. He is listening to the General, and bending his winning eyes on Blanche. The girl thinks he is certainly the _nicest_ person _here_. By a singular a.s.sociation of ideas, the whole thing reminds the General of the cavalry action at Gorewallah, and his energetic reminiscences of that brilliant affair are by no means lost on the bystanders.

"Blanche, my dear, there's Sir Roger Rearsby--most distinguished officer. What?--I was his brigade-major at Chutney, and we--D'Orville, _you_ know that man--how d'ye mean?--why, it's Colonel Chuffins. I pulled him from under his horse in the famous charge of the Kedjerees, and stood across him for two hours--_two hours_, by the G.o.d of war!--till I'd rallied the Kedjerees, and we swept everything before us. I suppose you'll allow Gorewallah was the best thing of the war.

Zounds! I don't believe the Sepoys have done talking of it yet! Look ye here: Marsh Mofussil occupied the heights, and Bahawdar Bang was detached to make a demonstration in our rear. Well, sir----"

At this critical juncture, and ere the General had time to explain the strategy by which Bahawdar Bang's manuvre was defeated, he and his party had been swept onward with the tide to where a doorway stemmed the crowd into a ma.s.s of struggling confusion. Lappets and feathers waved to and fro like a grove of poplars in a breeze; fans were broken, and soft cheeks scratched against epaulettes and such accoutrements of war; here and there a pair of moustaches towered above the surface, like the yards of some tall bark in a storm; whilst ever and anon a heavy dowager, like some plunging seventy-four that answers not her helm, came surging through the ma.s.s with the sheer force of that specific gravity which is not to be denied. As the state-rooms are reached, the crowd becomes more dense and the heat insufferable. A red cord, stretched tightly the whole length of the room, offers an insuperable barrier to the impetuous, and compels the panting company to defile in due order of precedence--"first come first served" being here, as elsewhere, the prevailing maxim. And now, people being obliged to stand still, make the best of it, and begin to talk, their remarks being as original and interesting as those of a well-dressed crowd usually are. "Wawt a crush--aw"--says Captain Lacquers, skilfully warding off from Blanche the whole person of a stout naval officer, and sighing to think of the tarnish his beloved hessians have sustained by being trodden on--"there's Lady Crane and the Miss Cranes--that's Rebecca, the youngest, she's going to be presented, poor girl!--aw--she's painfully ugly, Miss Kettering--aw--makes me ill to look at her." Poor Rebecca! she's not pretty, at least in a court dress, and is dreadfully frightened besides. She knows the rich Miss Kettering by sight, and admires her honestly, and envies her too, and would give anything to change places with her now, for she has a slight _tendresse_ for good-looking, unmeaning Lacquers. Take comfort, Rebecca, you will hardly condescend to speak to him, when you go through the same dread ordeal next year, in this very place, as Marchioness Ermindale. The Marquis is looking out for a young wife, and has seen you already, walking early, in shabby gloves, with your governess, and has made up his mind, and will marry you out of hand before the end of the season. So you will be the richest peeress in England, and have a good-looking, good-humoured, honest-hearted husband, very little over forty; and you will do pretty much what you like, and never go with your back to the horses any more; only you don't know it, nor has it anything to do with our story, except to prove that the lottery is not, invariably, "all blanks and no prizes"--that a quiet, una.s.suming, lady-like girl has fully as good a chance of winning the game as any of your fashionable beauties--your dashing young ladies, with their pictures in print-books, and their names in the clubs, and their engagements a dozen deep, and their heart-broken lovers in scores--men who can well afford to be _lovers_, seeing that their resources will not admit of their becoming husbands. Such a suitor is Captain Lacquers to the generality of his lady-loves, though he means honestly enough as regards Blanche, and would like to marry her and her Three per Cents, to-morrow. Misguided dandy! what chance has he against such a rival as D'Orville? Even if there were no Frank Hardingstone, and Cousin Charlie were never to come back, he is but on a par with Sir Ascot, Lord Mount Helicon, and a hundred others--there is not a toss of a halfpenny for choice between them. Nevertheless, he has great confidence in his own fascinations, and not being troubled with diffidence, is only waiting for an opportunity to lay himself, his uniform, and his debts at the heiress's feet.

The Major, meanwhile, whom Lady Mount Helicon thinks "charming," and of whom she is persuaded _she_ has made a conquest, pioneers a way for Blanche and her chaperon through the glittering throng. "It _is_ very formidable, Miss Kettering," says he, pitying the obvious nervousness of the young girl, "but it's soon over, like a visit to the dentist.

You know what to do, and the Queen is so kind and so gracious, it's not half so alarming when you are really before her; now, go on; that's the grand vizier; keep close to Lady Mount Helicon; and mind, don't turn your back to any of the royalties. I shall be in the gallery to get your carriage after it's over. I shall be so anxious to know how you get through it."

"Thank you, Major D'Orville," replied poor Blanche, with an upward glance of grat.i.tude that made her violet eyes look deeper and lovelier than ever; and she sailed on, with a very respectable a.s.sumption of fort.i.tude, but inwardly wishing that she could sink into the earth, or, at least, remain with kind, protecting Major D'Orville and Uncle Baldwin, and those gentlemen whose duty did not bring them into the immediate presence of their sovereign.

These worthies, having nothing better to do, began to beguile the time by admiring each other's uniforms, criticising the appearance of the company, and such vague impertinences as go by the name of general conversation. Lacquers, who had just caught the turn of his hessians at a favourable point of view, was more than usually communicative.

"Heard of Bolter?" says he, addressing the public in general, and amongst others a first cousin of that injured man. "Taken his wife back again--aw--soft, I should say--fact is, she and Fopples couldn't get on; Frank kicked at the poodle directly he got to the railway station; he swore he would only take the parrot, and they quarrelled there. I don't believe they went abroad at all, at least not together.

Seen the poodle? Nice dog; they've got him in Green Street; very like Frank; believe he was jealous of him!" A general laugh greeted the hussar's witticism, and the cousin being, as usual, not on the best of terms with his relation, enjoyed the joke more than any one else.

Major D'Orville alone has neither listened to the story nor caught the point. Blanche's pleading, grateful eyes haunt him still. He feels that the more he likes her, the less he would wish to marry her. "She is worthy of a better fate," he thinks, "than to be linked to a broken-down _roue_." And as is often the case, the charm of beauty in another brings forcibly to his mind the only face he ever really loved; and the Major sighs as he wishes he could begin life again, on totally different principles from those he has all along adopted.

Well, it is too late now. The game must be played out, and he proceeds to cement his alliance with the General by asking him to lunch with him at his club "after this thing's over."

"We'll all go together," exclaimed Lacquers, who had been meditating the very same move against his prospective uncle-in-law, only he couldn't hit the right p.r.o.nunciation of a _dejeuner a la fourchette_, the term in which he was anxious to couch his invitation.

"Not a member, sir," says the General, with a well-pleased smile at the invitation; "cross-questioned by the waiter, kicked out by the committee--what?--only belong to 'The Chelsea and Noodles'--don't approve of clubs in the abstract--all very well whilst one's a bachelor--eh? D----d selfish and all that--wife moping in a two-storied house at Bayswater--husband swaggering in a Louis Quatorze drawing-room in Pall Mall. Can't dine at home to-day, my love; where's the latch-key? Promised to have a mutton-chop at the club with an old brother-officer. Wife dines on chicken broth with her children, and has a poached egg at her tea. Husband begins with oysters and ends with a pint of claret, by himself too--we all know who the old brother-officer is--lives in the Edgeware Road!--how d'ye mean?"

Lacquers goes off with a horse-laugh; he enjoys the joke amazingly; it is just suited to his comprehension. "Then we'll meet in an hour from now," says he, as the crowd, surging in, breaks up their little conclave; "should like to show you our pictures--aw--fond of high art, you know--and our staircase, Arabian, you know, with the ornaments quite Mosaic. _A-diavolo!_" And pleased with what he believes to be his real Spanish farewell, our dandy-linguist elbows his way up to Lady Ormolu, and gladdens that panting peeress with the pearls and rubies of his intellectual conversation.

All this time Blanche is nearing the ordeal. If she thought the crowd too dense before, what would she not give now to bury herself in its sheltering ranks? An ample d.u.c.h.ess is before her with a red-haired daughter, but everywhere around her there is room to breathe, and walk, and _to be seen_. Through an open door she catches a glimpse of the Presence and the stately circle before whom she must pa.s.s.

Good-natured royalties, of both s.e.xes, stand smiling and bowing, and striving to put frightened subjects at their ease, and carrying their kind hearts on their handsome open countenances; but they are all whirling round and round to Blanche, and she cannot tell uniforms from satin gowns, epaulettes from ostrich plumes, old from young. It strikes her that there is something ridiculous in the way that a central figure performs its backward movement, and the horrid conviction comes upon her that she will have to go through the same ceremony before all those royal eyes, and think of her train, her feathers, her curtsey, and her escape, all at one and the same agonising moment. A foreign diplomatist makes a complimentary remark in French, addressed to his neighbour, a tall, soldier-like German with nankeen moustaches. The German unbends for an instant that frigid air of military reserve which has of late years usurped the place of what we used to consider foreign volubility and politeness--he stoops to reply in a whisper, but soon recovers himself, stiffer and straighter than before.

Neither the compliment nor its reception serves to rea.s.sure Blanche.

In vain she endeavours to peep past the d.u.c.h.ess's ample figure, and see how the red-haired daughter pulls through. The d.u.c.h.ess rejoices in substantial materials, both of dress and fabric, so Blanche can see nothing. Another moment, and she hears her own name and Lady Mount Helicon's p.r.o.nounced in a whisper, every syllable of which thrills upon her nerves like a musket-shot. She reaches the door--she catches a glimpse of a tall, handsome young man with a blue ribbon, and a formidable-looking phalanx of princes, princesses, foreign amba.s.sadors, and English courtiers, in a receding circle, of which she feels she is about to become the centre. Blanche would like to cry, but she is in the Presence now, and we follow her no farther. It would not become us to enlarge upon the majesty which commands reverence for the queen, or the beauty which wins homage for the woman; to speak of her as do her servants, her household, her n.o.bility, or all who are personally known to her, would entail such language of devoted affection as in our case might be termed flattery and adulation. To hurrah and throw our hats up for her, with the fervent loyalty of an English mob--to cheer with the whole impulse of every stout English heart, and the energy of good English lungs, is more in accordance with our position and our habits, and so "Hip, hip, hip--G.o.d save the Queen."

"Oh, dear! if I'd only known," said Blanche, some two hours afterwards, as Rosine was brushing her hair, and taking out the costly ostrich plumes and the string of pearls, "I needn't have been so frightened after all! So good, so kind, so considerate, I shouldn't the least mind being presented every day!"

CHAPTER XI

CAMPAIGNING ABROAD

SHIFTING THE SCENE--UNDER CANVAS--A VETERAN AND A YOUNG SOLDIER--THE CHARMS OF A BIVOUAC--ORDERS FOR THE MORROW--A SOLDIER'S DREAM--AN EARLY START--THE MARCH--THE ENGAGEMENT--FORTUNE OF WAR--CHARLIE'S COMMAND--THE BLUE ONE DOWN!

In the "good old times" when railways were not, and the _nec plus ultra_ of speed was, after all, but ten miles an hour, he who would take in hand to construct a tale, a poem, or a drama, was much hampered by certain material conditions of time and place, termed by critics the unities, and the observance of which effectually prevented all glaring vagaries of plot, and many a _deus ex machina_ whose unaccountable presence would have saved an infinity of trouble to author as well as reader. But we have changed all this now-a-days.

When Puck undertook to girdle the earth in "forty minutes," it was no doubt esteemed a "sporting offer," not that Oberon seems to have been man enough to "book it"; but we, who back Electra, should vote such a forty minutes "dead slow"--"no pace at all!" Ours are the screw-propeller and the flying-express--ours the thrilling wire that rings a bell at Paris, even while we touch the handle in London--ours the greatest possible hurry on the least possible provocation--we ride at speed, we drive at speed--eat, drink, sleep, smoke, talk, and deliberate, still at full speed--make fortunes, and spend them--fall in love, and out of it--are married, divorced, robbed, ruined, and enriched, all _ventre a terre_! nay, time seems to be grudged even for the last journey to our long home. 'Twas but the other day we saw a hea.r.s.e clattering along at an honest twelve miles an hour! Well, forward! is the word--like the French grenadier's account of the strategy by which his emperor invariably out-manuvred the enemy.

There were but two words of command, said he, ever heard in the grand army--the one was "_En avant! sacr-r-re ventre-bleu!_" the other, "_Sacr-r-re ventre-bleu! en avant!_" So forward be it! and we will not apologise for shifting the scene some thousands of miles, and taking a peep at our friend Cousin Charlie, fulfilling his destiny in that heaven-forsaken country called Kaffirland. When it rains in South Africa it rains to some purpose, pelting down even sheets of water, to which a thunderstorm at home is but as the trickling of a gutter to the Falls of Niagara--Nature endues her whole person in that same leaden-coloured garment, and the world a.s.sumes a desolate appearance of the most torpid misery. The greasy savage, almost naked, crouching and coiling like a snake wherever covert is to be obtained, bears his ducking philosophically enough; he can but be wet to the skin at the worst, and is dry again almost before the leaves are; but the British soldier, with his clothing and accoutrements, his pouches, haversacks, biscuits, and ammunition--not to mention Brown Bess, his mainstay and dependence--nothing punishes him so much as wet. Tropical heat he bears without a murmur, and a vertical sun but elicits sundry jocose allusions to beer. Canadian cold is met with a jest biting as its own frost, and a hearty laugh that rings through the clear atmosphere with a tw.a.n.g of home; but he hates water--drench him thoroughly and you put him to the proof; albeit he never fails, yet, like Mark Tapley, he _does_ deserve credit for being _jolly_ under such adverse circ.u.mstances.

Look at that encampment--a detached position, in which two companies of a British regiment, with a handful of Hottentots, are stationed to hold in check some thousands of savages: the old story--outnumbered a hundred to one, and wresting laurels even from such fearful odds. Look at one of the heroes--the only one visible indeed--as he paces to and fro to keep himself warm. A short beat truly, for he is within shot of yonder hill, and the Kaffirs have muskets as well as "a.s.sagais." No shelter or sentry-box is there here, and our warrior at twelvepence a day has "reversed arms" to keep his firelock dry, and covers his person as well as he can with a much-patched weather-worn grey great-coat, once spruce and smart, of the regimental pattern, but now scarcely distinguishable as a uniform. To and fro he walks--wet, weary, hungry, and liable to be shot at a moment's notice. He has not slept in a bed for months, and has almost forgotten the taste of pure water, not to mention beer; yet is there a charm in soldiering, and through it all the man is contented and cheerful--even happy. A slight movement in his rear makes him turn half-round; between him and his comrades stands a tent somewhat less uncomfortable-looking than the rest, and from beneath its folds comes out a hand, followed by a young, bronzed face, which we recognise as Cousin Charlie's ere the whole figure emerges from its shelter and gives itself a hearty shake and stretch. It is indeed Charlie, "growed out of knowledge," as Mrs.

Gamp says, and with his moustaches visibly and tangibly increased to a very warlike volume. The weather is clearing, as in that country it often does towards sundown; and Charlie, like an old campaigner, is easing the tent-ropes, already strained with wet. "I wish I knew the orders," says the young lancer to some one inside, "or how I'm to get back to head-quarters--not but what you fellows have treated me like an alderman." "You should have been here yesterday, my boy," said a voice from within, apparently between the puffs of a short, wheezing pipe. "We only finished the biscuit this morning, and I could have given you a mouthful of brandy from the bottom of my flask--it is dry enough now, at all events. The baccy 'll soon be done too, and we shall be floored altogether if we stay here much longer." "Why the whole front don't advance I can't think," replied Charlie, with the ready criticism of a young soldier. "If they'd only let us get _at_ these black beggars, we'd astonish them!" "Heaven knows," answered the voice, evidently getting drowsy, "our fellows are all tired of waiting----By Jove," he added, brightening up in an instant, "here comes 'Old Swipes'; I'll lay my life we shall be engaged before daybreak, the old boy looks so jolly!"--and even as he spoke, a hale, grey-headed man, with a rosy countenance and a merry, dark eye, was seen returning the sentry's salute as he advanced to the tent which had sheltered these young officers, and pa.s.sing on with a good-humoured nod to Charlie, entered upon an eager whispered conversation with the gentleman inside, whose drowsiness seemed to have entirely forsaken him. "Old Swipes," as he was irreverently called (a nickname of which, as of most military sobriquets, the origin had long been forgotten), was the senior captain of the regiment, one of those gallant fellows who fight their way up without purchase, serving in every climate under heaven, and invariably becoming grey of head long ere they lose the greenness and freshness of heart which in the Service alone outlive the cares and disappointments that wait on middle age.

Now, Charlie had been sent to "Old Swipes" with dispatches from head-quarters. One of the general's _aides-de-camp_ was wounded, another sick, an _extra_ already ordered on a _particular service_; and Charlie, with the dash and gallantry which had distinguished him from boyhood, volunteered to carry the important missives nearly a hundred miles through a country not a yard of which he knew, and threading whole hordes of the enemy with no arms but his sabre and pistols, no guide but a little unintelligible Hottentot. From the Kat River frontier to the defenceless portals of Fort Beaufort, the whole district was covered with swarms of predatory savages; and but that Fortune proverbially favours the brave, our young lancer might have found himself in a very unpleasant predicament. Fifty miles finished the lad's charger, and he had accomplished the remainder of his journey walking and riding turn-about with his guide on the hardy little animal of the latter. No wonder our dismounted dragoon was weary--no wonder the rations of tough beef and muddy water which they gave him when he arrived elicited the compliment we have already mentioned to the good cheer of "The Fighting Light-Bobs," as the regiment to which "Old Swipes" and his detachment belonged was affectionately nicknamed in the division. The great thing, however, was accomplished--wet, weary, and exhausted, Charlie and his guide arrived at their destination by daybreak of the second day. The young lancer delivered his dispatches to the officer in command, was received like a brother into a subaltern's tent, already containing two inhabitants, and slept soundly through the day, till awakened at sunset by a strong appet.i.te for supper, and the absolute necessity for slackening the tent-ropes recorded above.

"Kettering, you must join our council of war," said the cheery voice of the old captain from within; "there's no man better ent.i.tled than yourself to know the contents of my dispatches. Come in, my boy; I can give you a pipe, if nothing else."

Charlie lifted the wet sailcloth and crept in--the conclave did not look so very uncomfortable after all. Certainly there was but little room, but no men pack so close as soldiers. The old captain was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in the centre, clad in a russet-coloured coat that had once been scarlet, with gold lace tarnished down to the splendour of rusty copper. A pair of regimental trousers, plentifully patched and strapped with leather, adorned his lower man, and on his head he wore a once-burnished shako, much gashed and damaged by a Kaffir's a.s.sagai. He puffed forth volumes of smoke from a short black pipe, and appeared in the most exuberant spirits, notwithstanding the deficiencies of his exterior; the real proprietor of the tent, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with a lightning eye and huge black beard and whiskers, was leaning against the centre support of his domicile, in a blue frock-coat and buckskin trousers, looking very handsome and very like a gentleman (indeed, he is a peer's younger son), though no "old clothes man" would have given him eighteenpence for the whole of his costume. He had hospitably vacated his seat on a battered portmanteau, "warranted solid leather," with the maker's name, in the Strand--it seemed so odd to see it there--and was likewise smoking furiously, as he listened to the orders of his commander. A small tin basin, a canister of tobacco, nearly finished, a silver hunting-flask--alas! quite empty--and a heap of cloaks, with an old blanket in the corner, completed the furniture of this warlike palace. It was very like Charlie's own tent at head-quarters, save that his cavalry accoutrements gave an air of finish to that dwelling, of which he was justly proud. So he felt quite at home as he took his seat on the portmanteau and filled his pipe. "Just the orders I wanted," said the old captain, between his whiffs; "we've been here long enough, and to-morrow we are to advance at daybreak. I am directed to move upon that 'Kloof' we have reconnoitred every day since we came, and after forming a junction with the Rifles, we are to get possession of the heights."

"The river will be out after this rain," interrupted the handsome lieutenant; "but that's no odds; our fellows can all swim--'gad, they want washing!"

"Steady, my lad," said the veteran, "we'll have none of that; I've got a Fingo at the quarter-guard here that'll take us over dry-shod. I've explained to him what I mean, and if he don't understand it now he will to-morrow morning. A 'Light-Bob' on each side, with his arms sloped, directly the water comes in at the rent in these old boots,"

holding up at the same time a much-damaged pair of Wellingtons, "down goes the Fingo, poor devil, and out go my skirmishers, till we reach the cattle-ford at Vandryburgh."

"I don't think the beggar _will_ throw us over," replied the subaltern. "I suppose I'd better get them under arms before daybreak; the nights are infernally dark, though, in this beastly country, but my fellows all turn out smartest now when they've no light."

"Before daybreak, certainly," replied "Old Swipes"; "no whist _here_, Kettering, to keep us up very late. Well," he added, resuming his directions to his subaltern, "we'll have the detachment under arms by four. Take Sergeant Macintosh and the best of the 'flankers' to form an advanced guard. Bid him make every yard of ground good, particularly where there's _bush_; but on no account to fire unless he's attacked. We'll advance in column of sections--_mind that_--they're handier that way for the ground; and Harry--where's Harry?" "Here, sir!" said a voice, and a pale, sickly-looking boy, apparently about seventeen years of age, emerged from under the cloaks and blankets in the corner, where he had been lying half asleep, and thoroughly exhausted with the hardships of a life which it requires the const.i.tution of manhood to undergo. Poor Harry! with what sickening eagerness his mother, the clergyman's widow, grasps at the daily paper, when the African mail is due. How she shudders to see the great black capitals, with "Important News from the Cape!" What a hero his sisters think Harry! and how mamma alone turns pale at the very name of war, and prays for him night and morning on her knees till the pale face and wasted form of her darling stand betwixt her and her Maker. And Harry, too, thinks sometimes of his mother; but oh! how different is the child's divided affection from the all-engrossing tenderness of the mother's love! The boy is fond of "soldiering," and his heart swells as "Old Swipes" gives him his orders in a paternal tone of kindness. "Harry, I shall entrust you with the rear-guard, and you must keep up your communications with the sergeant's guard I shall leave here. He will probably be relieved by the Rifles, and you can then join us in the front. If they don't show before twelve o'clock, fall back here; pack up the baggage, right-about-face, and join 'the levies,' they're exactly five miles in our rear; if you're in difficulties, ask Sergeant File what is best to be done, only don't club 'em, my boy, as you did at Limerick."

"Well, sir," said the handsome lieutenant, "we've all got our orders now, except Kettering; what are we to do with him?"

"Give him some supper first," replied the jolly commandant; "but how to get him back I don't know; we've had a fine stud of oxen for the last ten days, but as for a horse, I have not seen one since I left Cape Town."

"We're doing nothing at head-quarters, sir," exclaimed Charlie, with flashing eyes; "will you allow me to join the attack to-morrow, with your people?"

The three officers looked at him approvingly, and the ensign muttered, "By gad, he's a trump, and no mistake!" but "Old Swipes" shook his grey head with a half-melancholy smile as he scanned the boy's handsome face and shapely figure, set off by his blue lancer uniform, muddy and travel-stained as it was. "I've seen many a fine fellow go down," thought the veteran, "and I like it less and less--this lad's too good for the Kaffirs; d----n me, I shall never get used to it;"

however, he did not quite know how to refuse so soldier-like a request, so he only coughed, and said, "Well--I don't approve of _volunteering_--we old soldiers go where we're ordered, but we _never volunteer_. Still, I suppose you won't stay here, with fighting in the front. 'Gad, you _shall_ go--you're a _real_ good one, and I _like_ you for it." So the fine old fellow seized Charlie's hand and wrung it hard, with the tears in his eyes.

And now our three friends prepared to make themselves comfortable. The old captain's tent was the largest, but it was not water-tight, and consequently stood in a swamp. His supper, therefore, was added to the joint stock, and the four gentlemen who, at the best club in London, would have turned up their noses at turtle because it was _thick_, or champagne because it was sweet, sat down quite contentedly to half-raw lumps of stringy beef and a tin mug only half filled with the muddiest of water, glad to get even that.

How they laughed and chatted and joked about their fare! To have heard them talk one would have supposed that they were at dinner within a day's march of Pall Mall, London--the opera, the turf, the ring, each and all had their turn; and when the sergeant on duty came to report the "lights out," said lights consisting of two lanterns for the whole detachment, Charlie had just proposed "fox-hunting" as a toast with which to finish the last sip of brandy, and treated his entertainers to a "view-holloa" _in a whisper_, that he might not alarm the camp, which, save for the lowing of certain oxen in the rear, was ere long hushed in the most profound repose.

Now, these oxen were a constant source of confusion and annoyance to the "old captain" and his myrmidons, whose orderly, soldier-like habits were continually broken through by their perverse charge. Of all the contradictory, self-willed, hair-brained brutes on the face of the earth, commend us to an ox in Kaffirland. He is troublesome enough when first driven off by his black despoilers, but when recaptured by British troops he is worse than ever, as though he brought back with him, from his sojourn in the bush, some of the devilry of his temporary owners, and was determined to resent upon his preservers all the injuries he had undergone during his unwilling peregrinations.

Fortunately, those now remaining with the detachment were but a small number, destined to become most execrable beef, large herds retaken from the savages having already been sent to the rear; but even this handful were perpetually running riot, breaking out of their "kraal"

on the most causeless and imaginary alarms when in the camp, and on the march making a point of "knocking up" invariably at the most critical moment. Imagine the difficulties of a commander when, in addition to ground of which he knows comparatively nothing, of an enemy outnumbering him hundreds to one, lurking besides in an impenetrable bush, where he can neither be reached nor seen--of an extended line of operation in a country where the roads are either impa.s.sable or there are none at all--and, above all, of a trying climate, with a sad deficiency of water--he has to weaken his already small force by furnishing a cattle-guard, and to prepare himself for the contingency of some thousands of frantic animals breaking loose (which they a.s.suredly will should his position be forced), and the inevitable confusion which must be the result of such an untoward liberation. The Kaffirs have a knack of driving these refractory brutes in a manner which seems unattainable to a white man. It is an interesting sight to watch a couple of tall, dark savages, almost naked, and with long staves in their hands, manuvring several hundred head of cattle with apparently but little trouble. Even the Hottentots seem to have a certain mysterious influence over the horned troop; but for an English soldier, although goaded by his bayonet, they appear to entertain the most profound contempt.

Charlie, however, cared little for ox or Kaffir; the lowing of the one no more disturbed him than the proximity of the other. Was he not at last in front of the enemy? Should he not to-morrow begin his career of glory? The boy felt his very life-blood thrill in his veins as the fighting propensity--the spirit of Cain, never quite dormant within us--rose to his heart. There he lay in a corner of the dark tent, dressed and ready for the morrow, with his sword and pistols at his head, covered with a blanket and a large cloak, his whereabout only discernible by the red glow from his last pipe before going to sleep; the handsome lieutenant was already wrapped in slumber and an enormous rough great-coat (not strictly regulation); the ensign was far away in dreamland; and Charlie had watched the light die out from their respective pipes with drowsy eyes, while the regular step of the sentry outside smote less and less distinctly on his ear. He had gone through two very severe days, and had not been in a bed for weeks.

Gradually his limbs relaxed and tingled with delightful languor of rest after _real_ fatigue. Once or twice he woke up with a start as Fancy played her usual tricks with the weary, then his head declined, his jaw dropped, the pipe fell to the ground, and Charlie was fast asleep.

Far, far away on a mountain in Inverness the wild stag is _belling_ to the distant corries, and snuffing the keen north air as he stamps ever and anon with lightning hoof that cuts the heather tendrils asunder and flings them on the breeze. Is he not the great master-hart of the parcel? and shall he not be circ.u.mvented and stretched on the moor ere the fading twilight darkens into night? Verily, he must be stalked warily, cautiously, for the wind has shifted and the lake is already ruffling into pointed, white-crested waves, rising as in anger, while their spray, hurried before the tempest, drifts in long-continuous wreaths athwart the surface. Fitful gusts, the pent-up sobs of rising fury, that must burst or be released, chase the filmy scud across that pale moon, which is but veiled and not obscured; while among the ferns and alders that skirt the water's edge the wind moans and shrieks like an imprisoned demon wailing for his freedom. Mists are rising around the hazy forms of the deer; cold, chilling vapours through which the mighty stag looms like some gigantic phantom, and still he swells in defiance, and _bells_ abroad his trumpet-note of war. Charlie's finger is on the trigger; Uncle Baldwin, disguised as a Highlander, whispers in his ear the thrilling caution, "Take time!" The wind howls hideously, and phantom shapes, floating in the moonlight, mock and gibber and toss their long, lean arms, and wave their silver hair. No, the rifle is _not_ c.o.c.ked; that stubborn lock defies the force of human fingers--the mist is thickening and the stag moves. Charlie implores Uncle Baldwin to a.s.sist him, and drops upon his knees to cover the retiring quarry with his useless weapon. The phantoms gather round; their mist-wreaths turn to muslin dresses, and their silver hair to glossy locks of mortal hues. The roaring tempest softens to an old familiar strain. Mary Delaval is before him. Her pale, sweet face is bent upon the kneeling boy with looks of unutterable love, and her white hand pa.s.ses over his brow with an almost imperceptible caress.

Her face sinks gradually to his--her breath is on his temples--his lips cling to hers--and he starts with horror at the kiss of love, striking cold and clammy from a grinning skull! Horror! the rifleman, whose skeleton he shuddered to find beneath his horse's feet not eight-and-forty hours ago! What does he here in the drawing-room at home? _Home_--yes, he is at home, at last. It must have been fancy--the recollections of his African campaign! They are all gone to bed. He hears the General's well-known tramp dying away along the pa.s.sage; and he takes his candle to cross the s.p.a.cious hall, dark and gloomy in that flickering light. Ha! seated on the stairs as on a throne frowns a presence that he dare not pa.s.s. A tall, dark figure, in the shape of a man, yet with angel beauty--no angel form of good--glorious in the grandeur of despair--magnificent in the pomp and glare of h.e.l.l--those lineaments awful in their very beauty--those deep, unfathomable eyes, with their eternity of suffering, defiance, remorse, all but repentance or submission! Could mortal look and not quail? Could man front and not be blasted at the sight? On his lofty forehead sits a diadem, and on the centre of his brow, burned in and scorched, as it were, to the very bone, behold the seal of the Destroyer--the single imprint of a finger.

The boy stands paralysed with affright. The Principle of Evil waves him on and on, even to the very hem of his garment; but a prayer rises to the sleeper's lips; with a convulsive effort he speaks it forth aloud, and the spell is broken. The mortal is engaged with a mortal enemy. Those waving robes turn to a leopard-skin _kaross_, the glorious figure to an athletic savage, and the immortal beauty to the grinning, chattering lineaments of a hideous Kaffir. Charlie bounds at him like a tiger--they fight--they close--and he is locked in the desperate embrace of life or death with his ghastly foe. Charlie is undermost! His enemy's eyes are starting from their sockets--his white teeth glare with cannibal-like ferocity--and his hand is on the boy's throat with a grip of iron. One fearful wrench to get free--one last superhuman effort of despair, and.... Charlie wakes in the struggle!--wakes to find it all a dream; and the cold air, the chilling harbinger of dawn, stealing into the tent to refresh and invigorate the half-suffocated sleepers. He felt little inclination to resume his slumbers; his position had been a sufficiently uncomfortable one--his head having slipped from the pistol-holsters on which it had rested, and the clasp of his cloak-fastening at the throat having well-nigh strangled him in his sleep. The handsome lieutenant's matter-of-fact yawn on waking would have dispelled more horrid dreams than Charlie's, and the real business of the coming day soon chased from his mind all recollections of his imaginary struggle.

Breakfast was like the supper of the preceding night--half-raw beef, eaten cold, and a whiff from a short pipe. Ere Charlie had finished his ration, dark though it was, the men had fallen in; the advanced guard had started; Ensign Harry had received his final instructions, and "Old Swipes" gave the word of command in a low, guarded tone--"Slope arms! By your left--Quick march!"

Day dawned on a spirit-stirring scene. With the swinging, easy step of those accustomed to long and toilsome marches the detachment moved rapidly forward, now lessening its front as it arrived at some narrow defile, now "marking time" to allow of its rear coming up, without effort, into the proper place. Bronzed, bold faces theirs, with the bluff, good-humoured air of the English soldier, who takes warfare as it comes, with an oath and a jest. Reckless of strategy as of hardship, he neither knows nor cares what his enemy may be about, nor what dispositions may be made by his own officers. If his flank be turned he fights on with equal unconcern, "it is no business of his"; if his ammunition be exhausted he betakes himself to the bayonet, and swears "the beggars may take their change out of that!"

The advanced guard, led by the handsome subaltern, was several hundred paces in front. The Hottentots brought up the rear, and the "Fighting Light-Bobs," commanded by their grey-headed captain, formed the column. With them marched Charlie, conspicuous in his blue lancer uniform, now respectfully addressing his superior officer, now jesting good-humouredly with his temporary comrades. The sun rose on a jovial, light-hearted company; when next his beams shall gild the same arid plains, the same twining _mimosas_, the same glorious landscape, shut in by the jagged peaks of the Anatola mountains, they will glance back from many a firelock lying ownerless on the sand; they will deepen the clammy hue of death on many a bold forehead; they will fail to warm many a gallant heart, cold and motionless for ever. But the men go on all the same, laughing and jesting merrily, as they "march at ease,"

and beguile the way with mirth and song.

"We'll get a sup o' brandy to-night, anyhow, won't us, Bill?" says a weather-beaten "Light-Bob" to his front-rank man, a thirsty old soldier as was ever "confined to barracks."