shows some of the consequences of the false step, and introduces the reader to peculiar company.
our hero soon discovered that the sergeant was an old campaigner, having been out in egypt at the beginning of the war, and fought at the famous battle of tel-el-kebir.
in his grave and undemonstrative way and quiet voice, this man related some of his experiences, so as not only to gain the attention of his companion in arms, but to fascinate all who chanced to be within earshot of him—not the least interested among whom, of course, was our friend miles.
as the sergeant continued to expatiate on those incidents of the war which had come under his own observation, three points impressed themselves on our hero: first, that the sergeant was evidently a man of serious, if not religious, spirit; second, that while he gave all due credit to his comrades for their bravery in action, he dwelt chiefly on those incidents which brought out the higher qualities of the men, such as uncomplaining endurance, forbearance, etcetera, and he never boasted of having given “a thorough licking” to the egyptians, nor spoke disparagingly of the native troops; lastly, that he seemed to lay himself out with a special view to the unflagging entertainment of his young comrade.
the reason for this last purpose he learned during a short halt at one of the stations. seeing the sergeant standing alone there, miles, after accosting him with the inevitable references to the state of the weather, remarked that his comrade seemed to be almost too young for the rough work of soldiering.
“yes, he is young enough, but older than he looks,” answered the sergeant. “poor lad! i’m sorry for him.”
“indeed! he does not seem to me a fit subject for pity. young, strong, handsome, intelligent, he seems pretty well furnished to begin the battle of life—especially in the army.”
“‘things are not what they seem,’” returned the soldier, regarding his young questioner with something between a compassionate and an amused look. “‘all is not gold that glitters.’ soldiering is not made up of brass bands, swords, and red coats!”
“having read a good deal of history i am well aware of that,” retorted miles, who was somewhat offended by the implication contained in the sergeant’s remarks.
“well, then, you see,” continued the sergeant, “all the advantages that you have mentioned, and which my comrade certainly possesses, weigh nothing with him at all just now, because this sudden call to the wars separates him from his poor young wife.”
“wife!” exclaimed miles; “why, he seems to me little more than a boy—except in size, and perhaps in gravity.”
“he is over twenty, and, as to gravity—well, most young fellows would be grave enough if they had to leave a pretty young wife after six months of wedded life. you see, he married without leave, and so, even if it were a time of peace, his wife would not be recognised by the service. in wartime he must of course leave her behind him. it has been a hard job to prevent him from deserting, and now it’s all i can do to divert his attention from his sorrow by stirring him up with tales of the recent wars.”
at this point the inexorable bell rang, doors were banged, whistles sounded, and the journey was resumed.
arrived at portsmouth, miles was quickly involved in the bustle of the platform. he had made up his mind to have some private conversation with the sergeant as to the possibility of entering her majesty’s service as a private soldier, and was on the point of accompanying his military travelling companions into the comparative quiet of the street when a porter touched his cap—
“any luggage, sir?”
“luggage?—a—no—no luggage!”
it was the first moment since leaving home that the thought of luggage had entered into his brain! that thought naturally aroused other thoughts, such as lodgings, food, friends, funds, and the like. on turning to the spot where his military companions had stood, he discovered that they were gone. running to the nearest door-way he found it to be the wrong one, and before he found the right one and reached the street the two soldiers had vanished from the scene.
“you seem to be a stranger here, sir. can i direct you?” said an insinuating voice at his elbow.
the speaker was an elderly man of shabby-genteel appearance and polite address. miles did not quite like the look of him. in the circumstances, however, and with a strangely desolate feeling of loneliness creeping over him, he did not see his way to reject a civil offer.
“thank you. i am indeed a stranger, and happen to have neither friend nor acquaintance in the town, so if you can put me in the way of finding a respectable lodging—a—a cheap one, you will greatly oblige me.”
“with pleasure,” said the man, “if you will accompany—”
“stay, don’t trouble yourself to show me the way,” interrupted miles; “just name a house and the street, that will—”
“no trouble at all, sir,” said the man. “i happen to be going in the direction of the docks, and know of excellent as well as cheap lodgings there.”
making no further objection, miles followed his new friend into the street. for some time, the crowd being considerable and noisy, they walked in silence.
at the time we write of, portsmouth was ringing with martial music and preparations for war.
at all times the red-coats and the blue-jackets are prominent in the streets of that seaport; for almost the whole of our army passes through it at one period or another, either in going to or returning from “foreign parts.” but at this time there was the additional bustle resulting from the egyptian war. exceptional activity prevailed in its yards, and hurry in its streets. recruits, recently enlisted, flocked into it from all quarters, while on its jetties were frequently landed the sad fruits of war in the form of wounded men.
“have you ever been in portsmouth before?” asked the shabby-genteel man, on reaching a part of the town which was more open and less crowded.
“never. i had no idea it was so large and bustling,” said miles.
“the crowding and bustling is largely increased just now, of course, in consequence of the war in egypt,” returned the man. “troops are constantly embarking, and others returning. it is a noble service! men start in thousands from this port young, hearty, healthy, and full of spirit; they return—those of them who return at all—sickly, broken-down, and with no spirit at all except what they soon get poured into them by the publicans. yes; commend me to the service of my queen and country!”
there was a sneering tone in the man’s voice which fired his companion’s easily roused indignation.
“mind what you say about our queen while in my company,” said miles sternly, stopping short and looking the man full in the face. “i am a loyal subject, and will listen to nothing said in disparagement of the queen or of her majesty’s forces.”
“bless you, sir,” said the man quickly, “i’m a loyal subject myself, and wouldn’t for the world say a word against her majesty. no more would i disparage her troops; but, after all, the army ain’t perfect, you know. even you must admit that, sir. with all its noble qualities there’s room for improvement.”
there was such an air of sincerity—or at least of assumed humility—in the man’s tone and manner that miles felt it unjustifiable to retain his indignation. at the same time, he could not all at once repress it, and was hesitating whether to fling off from the man or to forgive him, when the sound of many voices, and of feet tramping in regular time, struck his ear and diverted his attention. next moment the head of a regiment, accompanied by a crowd of juvenile admirers, swept round the corner of the street. at the same instant a forest of bayonets gleamed upon the youth’s vision, and a brass band burst with crashing grandeur upon his ear, sending a quiver of enthusiasm into the deepest recesses of his soul, and stirring the very marrow in his bones!
miles stood entranced until the regiment had passed, and the martial strains were softened by distance; then he looked up and perceived that his shabby companion was regarding him with a peculiar smile.
“i think you’ve a notion of being a soldier,” he said, with a smile.
“where is that regiment going?” asked miles, instead of answering the question.
“to barracks at present; to egypt in a few days. there’ll be more followin’ it before long.”
it was a distracting as well as an exciting walk that miles had through the town, for at every turn he passed couples or groups of soldiers, or sailors, or marines, and innumerable questions sprang into and jostled each other in his mind, while, at the same moment, his thoughts and feelings were busy with his present circumstances and future prospects. the distraction was increased by the remarks and comments of his guide, and he would fain have got rid of him; but good-feeling, as well as common-sense, forbade his casting him off without sufficient reason.
presently he stopped, without very well knowing why, in front of a large imposing edifice. looking up, he observed the words soldiers’ institute in large letters on the front of it.
“what sort of an institute is that?” he asked.
“oh! it’s a miserable affair, where soldiers are taken in cheap, as they say, an’ done for,” returned the shabby man hurriedly, as if the subject were distasteful to him. “come along with me and i’ll show you places where soldiers—ay, and civilians too—can enjoy themselves like gentlemen, an’ get value for their money.”
as he spoke, two fine-looking men issued from a small street close to them, and crossed the road—one a soldier of the line, the other a marine.
“here it is, jack,” exclaimed the soldier to his friend; “miss sarah robinson’s institoot, that you’ve heard so much about. come an’ i’ll show you where you can write your letter in peace—”
thus much was overheard by miles as they turned into a side-street, and entered what was obviously one of the poorer districts of the town.
“evidently that soldier’s opinion does not agree with yours,” remarked miles, as they walked along.
“more’s the pity!” returned the shabby man, whose name he had informed his companion was sloper. “now we are getting among places, you see, where there’s a good deal of drinking going on.”
“i scarcely require to be told that,” returned miles, curtly; for he was beginning to feel his original dislike to mister sloper intensified.
it did not indeed require any better instructor than eyes and ears to inform our hero that the grog-shops around him were full, and that a large proportion of the shouting and swearing revellers inside were soldiers and seamen.
by this time it was growing dark, and most of the gin-palaces were beginning to send forth that glare of intense and warm light with which they so knowingly attract the human moths that constitute their prey.
“here we are,” said sloper, stopping in front of a public-house in a narrow street. “this is one o’ the respectable lodgin’s. most o’ the others are disreputable. it’s not much of a neighbourhood, i admit.”
“it certainly is not very attractive,” said miles, hesitating.
“you said you wanted a cheap one,” returned sloper, “and you can’t expect to have it cheap and fashionable, you know. you’ve no occasion to be afraid. come in.”
the arguments of mr sloper might have failed to move miles, but the idea of his being afraid to go anywhere was too much for him.
“go in, then,” he said, firmly, and followed.
the room into which he was ushered was a moderately large public-house, with a bar and a number of tables round the room, at which many men and a few women were seated; some gambling, others singing or disputing, and all drinking and smoking. it is only right to say that miles was shocked. hitherto he had lived a quiet and comparatively innocent country life. he knew of such places chiefly from books or hearsay, or had gathered merely the superficial knowledge that comes through the opening of a swing-door. for the first time in his life he stood inside a low drinking-shop, breathing its polluted atmosphere and listening to its foul language. his first impulse was to retreat, but false shame, the knowledge that he had no friend in portsmouth, or place to go to, that the state of his purse forbade his indulging in more suitable accommodation, and a certain pride of character which made him always determine to carry out what he had resolved to do—all these considerations and facts combined to prevent his acting on the better impulse. he doggedly followed his guide to a small round table and sat down.
prudence, however, began to operate within him. he felt that he had done wrong; but it was too late now, he thought, to retrace his steps. he would, however, be on his guard; would not encourage the slightest familiarity on the part of any one, and would keep his eyes open. for a youth who had seen nothing of the world this was a highly commendable resolve.
“what’ll you drink?” asked mr sloper.
miles was on the point of saying “coffee,” but, reflecting that the beverage might not be readily obtainable in such a place, he substituted “beer.”
instead of calling the waiter, mr sloper went himself to the bar to fetch the liquor. while he was thus engaged, miles glanced round the room, and was particularly struck with the appearance of a large, fine-looking sailor who sat at the small table next to him, with hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, his chin resting on his broad chest, and a solemn, owlish stare in his semi-drunken yet manly countenance. he sat alone, and was obviously in a very sulky frame of mind—a condition which he occasionally indicated through a growl of dissatisfaction.
as miles sat wondering what could have upset the temper of a tar whose visage was marked by the unmistakable lines and dimples of good-humour, he overheard part of the conversation that passed between the barman and mr sloper.
“what! have they got hold o’ rattling bill?” asked the former, as he drew the beer.
“ay, worse luck,” returned sloper. “i saw the sergeant as i came along lead him over to miss robinson’s trap—confound her!”
“don’t you go fur to say anything agin miss robinson, old man,” suddenly growled the big sailor, in a voice so deep and strong that it silenced for a moment the rest of the company. “leastways, you may if you like, but if you do, i’ll knock in your daylights, an’ polish up your figur’-head so as your own mother would mistake you fur a battered saucepan!”
the seaman did not move from his semi-recumbent position as he uttered this alarming threat, but he accompanied it with a portentous frown and an owlish wink of both eyes.
“what! have you joined the blue lights?” asked sloper, with a smile, referring to the name by which the religious and temperance men of the army were known.
“no, i ha’n’t. better for me, p’r’aps, if i had. here, waiter, fetch me another gin-an’-warer. an’ more o’ the gin than the warer, mind. heave ahead or i’ll sink you!”
having been supplied with a fresh dose of gin and water, the seaman appeared to go to sleep, and miles, for want of anything better to do, accepted sloper’s invitation to play a game of dominoes.
“are the beds here pretty good?” he asked, as they were about to begin.
“yes, first-rate—for the money,” answered sloper.
“that’s a lie!” growled the big sailor. “they’re bad at any price—stuffed wi’ cocoa-nuts and marline-spikes.”
mr sloper received this observation with the smiling urbanity of a man who eschews war at all costs.
“you don’t drink,” he said after a time, referring to miles’s pot of beer, which he had not yet touched.
miles made no reply, but by way of answer took up the pot and put it to his lips.
he had not drunk much of it when the big seaman rose hurriedly and staggered between the two tables. in doing so, he accidentally knocked the pot out of the youth’s hand, and sent the contents into mr sloper’s face and down into his bosom, to the immense amusement of the company.
that man of peace accepted the baptism meekly, but miles sprang up in sudden anger.
the seaman turned to him, however, with a benignantly apologetic smile.
“hallo! messmate. i ax your parding. they don’t leave room even for a scarecrow to go about in this here cabin. i’ll stand you another glass. give us your flipper!”
there was no resisting this, it was said so heartily. miles grasped the huge hand that was extended and shook it warmly.
“all right,” he said, laughing. “i don’t mind the beer, and there’s plenty more where that came from, but i fear you have done some damage to my fr—”
“your friend. out with it, sir. never be ashamed to acknowledge your friends,” exclaimed the shabby man, as he wiped his face. “hold on a bit,” he added, rising; “i’ll have to change my shirt. won’t keep you waitin’ long.”
“another pot o’ beer for this ’ere gen’lem’n,” said the sailor to the barman as sloper left the room.
paying for the drink, he returned and put the pot on the table. then, turning to miles, he said in a low voice and with an intelligent look—
“come outside for a bit, messmate. i wants to speak to ’ee.”
miles rose and followed the man in much surprise.
“you’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when a few yards away from the door; “but i see that you’re green, an’ don’t know what a rascally place you’ve got into. i’ve been fleeced there myself, and yet i’m fool enough to go back! most o’ the parties there—except the sailors an’ sodgers—are thieves an’ blackguards. they’ve drugged your beer, i know; that’s why i capsized it for you, and the feller that has got hold o’ you is a well-known decoy-duck. i don’t know how much of the ready you may have about you, but this i does know, whether it be much or little, you wouldn’t have a rap of it in the mornin’ if you stayed the night in this here house.”
“are you sure of this, friend?” asked miles, eyeing his companion doubtfully.
“ay, as sure as i am that my name’s jack molloy.”
“but you’ve been shamming drunk all this time. how am i to know that you are not shamming friendship now?”
“no, young man,” returned the seaman with blinking solemnity. “i’m not shammin’ drunk. i on’y wish i was, for i’m three sheets in the wind at this minute, an’ i’ve a splittin’ headache due i’ the mornin’. the way as you’ve got to find out whether i’m fair an’ above-board is to look me straight in the face an’ don’t wink. if that don’t settle the question, p’r’aps it’ll convince you w’en i tells you that i don’t care a rap whether you go back to that there grog-shop or not. only i’ll clear my conscience—leastways, wot’s left of it—by tellin’ ye that if you do—you—you’ll wish as how you hadn’t—supposin’ they leave you the power to wish anything at all.”
“well, i believe you are a true man, mister molloy—”
“don’t mister me, mate,” interrupted the seaman.
“my name’s jack molloy, at your service, an’ that name don’t require no handle—either mister or esquire—to prop it up.”
the way in which the sailor squared his broad shoulders when he said this rendered it necessary to prop himself up. seeing which, miles afforded the needful aid by taking his arm in a friendly way.
“but come, let us go back,” he said. “i must pay for my beer, you know.”
“your beer is paid for, young man,” said molloy, stopping and refusing to move. “i paid for it, so you’ve on’y got to settle with me. besides, if you go back you’re done for. and you’ve no call to go back to say farewell to your dear friend sloper, for he’ll on’y grieve over the loss of your tin. as to the unpurliteness o’ the partin’—he won’t break his heart over that. no—you’ll come wi’ me down to the sailors’ welcome near the dock-gates, where you can get a good bed for sixpence a night, a heavy blow-out for tenpence, with a splendid readin’-room, full o’ rockin’ chairs, an’ all the rest of it for nothin’. an there’s a lavatory—that’s the name that they give to a place for cleanin’ of yourself up—a lavatory—where you can wash yourself, if you like, till your skin comes off! w’en i first putt up at the welcome, the messmate as took me there said to me, says he, ‘jack,’ says he, ‘you was always fond o’ water.’ ‘right you are,’ says i. ‘well,’ says he, ‘there’s a place in the sailors’ welcome where you can wash yourself all day, if you like, for nothing!’
“i do b’lieve it was that as indooced me to give in. i went an’ saw this lavatory, an’ i was so took up with it that i washed my hands in every bason in the place—one arter the other—an’ used up ever so much soap, an’—would you believe it?—my hands wasn’t clean after all! yes, it’s one the wery best things in portsm’uth, is miss robinson’s welcome—”
“miss robinson again!” exclaimed miles.
“ay—wot have you got to find fault wi’ miss robinson?” demanded the sailor sternly.
“no fault to find at all,” replied miles, suffering himself to be hurried away by his new friend; “but wherever i have gone since arriving in portsmouth her name has cropped up!”
“in portsmouth!” echoed the sailor. “let me tell you, young man, that wherever you go all over the world, if there’s a british soldier there, miss sarah robinson’s name will be sure to crop up. why, don’t you know that she’s ‘the soldiers’ friend’?”
“i’m afraid i must confess to ignorance on the point—yet, stay, now you couple her name with ‘the soldier’s friend,’ i have got a faint remembrance of having heard it before. have i not heard of a miss weston, too, in connection with a work of some sort among sailors?”
“ay, no doubt ye have. she has a grand institoot in portsm’uth too, but she goes in for sailors only—all over the kingdom—w’ereas miss robinson goes in for soldiers an’ sailors both, though mainly for the soldiers. she set agoin’ the sailors’ welcome before miss weston began in portsm’uth, an’ so she keeps it up, but there ain’t no opposition or rivalry. their aims is pretty much alike, an’ so they keep stroke together wi’ the oars. but i’ll tell you more about that when you get inside. here we are! there’s the dock-gates, you see, and that’s queen street, an’ the welcome’s close at hand. it’s a teetotal house, you know. all miss robinson’s institoots is that.”
“indeed! how comes it, then, that a man—excuse me—‘three sheets in the wind,’ can gain admittance?”
“oh! as to that, any sailor or soldier may get admittance, even if he’s as drunk as a fiddler, if he on’y behaves his-self. but they won’t supply drink on the premises, or allow it to be brought in—’cept inside o’ you, of coorse. cause why? you can’t help that—leastwise not without the help of a stomach-pump. plenty o’ men who ain’t abstainers go to sleep every night at the welcome, ’cause they find the beds and other things so comfortable. in fact, some hard topers have been indooced to take the pledge in consekince o’ what they’ve heard an’ seen in this welcome, though they came at first only for the readin’-room an’ beds. here, let me look at you under this here lamp. yes. you’ll do. you’re something like a sea-dog already. you won’t object to change hats wi’ me?”
“why?” asked miles, somewhat amused.
“never you mind that, mate. you just putt yourself under my orders if you’d sail comfortably before the wind. i’ll arrange matters, an’ you can square up in the morning.”
as miles saw no particular reason for objecting to this fancy of his eccentric friend, he exchanged his soft cap for the sailor’s straw hat, and they entered the welcome together.
