Our Soldier Boy

“You, Tom Jones, let that pot-lid alone.”
It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly, and a big rough-looking bugler, in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers, with belts, buttons and facings looking very clean and bright, but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud, and sleeping in it anywhere, often without shelter, who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more, as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks, over a wood fire.
It was in a lovely part of Portugal, and the regiment was halting among the mountains after a long weary tramp; fires had been lit for cooking, and the men were lying and sitting about, sleeping, cleaning their firelocks, pipeclaying their belts, and trying to make themselves look as smart as they could considering that they were all more or less ragged and torn after a fortnight’s tramp in all weathers in pursuit of a portion of the French army which had been always a few hours ahead.
But it was easy enough to follow their steps, for everywhere they had plundered, and destroyed; villages and pleasant homes were burned; and blackened ruins, cut-up gardens and vineyards met the soldiers’ eyes wherever the enemy had been.
There had been a straggling little village by the side of the mountain stream, where the 200th had halted at midday after their long march under a burning sun, at a spot where there was plenty of fresh water, and it was the pot over one of these cooking fires whose lid Tom Jones had lifted off.
“On’y wanted to smell what was for dinner,” he said. “What have you got, Mother Beane?”
“Never you mind. Rare ohs for meddlers, and pump-handle sauce, perhaps; and look here, you sir, you come when we halt to-night and I’ll mend some of them rags. You’re a disgrace.”
“Ain’t worse than the rest of the fellows,” said Tom, grinning. “The Colonel’s horse went down ’s morn’.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” cried the woman excitedly; “is he hurt?”