refers to sergeant hardy, amytoor-lawyer sutherland, and other matters.
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.”
