UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
It will be well to relieve at once the anxiety which the reader must feel—unless I have altogether failed to interest him—in the fate of my hero, Stanislas McKay.
He was not drowned when, through the fiendish intervention of Mrs. Wilders, he fell from the deck of the Arcadia, and was, as it seemed, swallowed up in the all-devouring sea.
He went under, it is true, but only for a moment, and, coming once more to the surface, by a few strong strokes swam to a drifting spar. To this he clung desperately, hoping against hope that he might yet be picked up from the yacht. Unhappily for him, the waves ran so high that the boat under Trejago's guidance failed to catch sight of him, and, as we know, returned presently to the Arcadia, after a fruitless errand, as was thought.
Very shortly the yacht and the half-submerged man parted company. The former was steered for the open sea; the latter drifted and tossed helplessly to and fro, growing hourly weaker and more and more benumbed, but always hanging on with convulsive tenacity to the friendly timber that buoyed him up, and was his last frail chance of life.
All night long he was in the water, and when day dawned it seemed all over with him, so overpowering was his despair. Consciousness had quite abandoned him, and he was almost at the last gasp when he was seen and picked up by a passing steamship, the Burlington Castle.
"Where am I?" he asked, faintly, on coming to himself. He was in a snug cot, in a small but cosy cabin.
"Where you'd never have been but for the smartness of our look-out man," said a steward at his bedside. "Cast away, I suppose, in the gale?"
"No: washed overboard," replied McKay, "last evening."
"Thunder! and in the water all those hours! But what was your craft? Who and what are you?"
"I was on board the yacht Arcadia. My name is Stanislas McKay. I am an officer of the Royal Picts—aide-de-camp to General Wilders. Where am I?" he repeated.
"You'll learn that fast enough; with friends, anyhow. Doctor said you weren't to talk. But just drink this, while I tell the captain you've come to. He hasn't had sight of you yet; we hauled you aboard while it was his watch below."
Five minutes more and the captain, a jolly English tar, red in face and round in figure, came down, with a loud voice and cheering manner, to welcome his treasure-trove.
"Well, my hearty, so this is how I find you, eh? Soused in brine. Why, I hear they had to hang you up by the heels to let the water run out of your mouth. Come, Stanny, my boy, this won't do."
"Uncle Barto!"
"The same: master of the steamship Burlington Castle, deep in deals—timbers for huts—and other sundries, now lying in Balaclava, waiting to be discharged. But, my dearest lad, you've had a narrow squeak. Tell me, how did it happen, and when?"
"I fell overboard, and I've been all night in the water: that's all."
He did not choose as yet to make public his suspicions as to the real origin of his nearly fatal accident.
"I always said you had nine lives, Stanny, only don't go using them up like this. There's not a tom-cat could stand it."
"Were you out in the gale, uncle?"
"Ay; and weathered it. At dawn, after the first puff, I knew we'd have a twister, so I got up steam and regularly worked against it. Made a good offing that way, and when the storm abated came back here. We were close in when we picked you up on a log."
"It was a providential escape," said Stanislas, thankfully. "I thought it was all over with me."
"We'll set you up in no time, never fear. But tell more about yourself. Jove! you are a fine chap, Stanny. Why, you'll die a general yet, if the Russians'll let you off a little longer, and you're not wanted for the House of Peers."
"What do you mean, uncle?"
"Why, of course, you haven't heard. There's trouble among your fine relations. Lord Essendine has lost all his sons."
"All?"
"Yes; all. Hugo was killed, as you know; Anastasius died at Scutari; and Lord Lydstone, two days later, was found dead in the streets of Stamboul."
"Dead? How? What did he die of, uncle?"
"A stab in the heart. He was murdered."
"And I—"
He understood now the cause of the foul blow struck at him, and the base attempt to get him also out of the way.
"You are now next heir to the peerage, in spite of all they may say. But you'll find my lord civil enough soon. He'll be wanting you to go straight home."
"And leave the army? Not while there's fighting to be done, Uncle Barto. I may not be much good as I am, but I'll do all I can, trust me. I ought to be getting on shore and back to the front."
"My doctor will have a word to say to that. He won't let you be moved till you're well and strong."
But on the second day McKay, thanks to kindly care and plenty of nourishment, was able to leave his cot, and on the third morning he was determined to return to his duty.
"I won't baulk you, Stanny," said his uncle; "good soldiers, like good sailors, never turn their backs on their work. But mind, this ship is your home whenever and wherever you like to come on board; and if you want anything you have only to ask for it, d'ye hear?"
McKay promised readily to draw upon his uncle when needful, and then, his horse being still at Balaclava, he once more got into the saddle and rode up to camp.
The journey prepared him a little for what he found. All the way from Balaclava his horse struggled knee-deep in mud: a very quagmire of black, sticky slush. Yet this was the great highway—the only road between the base of supply and an army engaged eight miles distant in an arduous siege. Along it the whole of the food, ammunition, and material had to be carried on pony-back, or in a few ponderous carts drawn by gaunt, over-worked teams, which too often left their wheels fast-caught in the mire.
At the front—it had been raining in torrents for hours—the mud was thicker, blacker, and more tenacious. Tents stood in pools of water; their occupants, harassed by trench duty, lay shivering within, half-starved and wet.
McKay made his way at once to the colonel and reported his return.
"Oh! so you've thought fit to come back," said Colonel Blythe, rather grumpily. Since war and sickness had decimated his battalion he looked upon every absentee, from whatever cause, right or wrong, as a recreant deserter.
"I was with my general, sir," expostulated Stanislas.
"The general has no need of an aide-de-camp now. We want every man that can stand upright in his boots. I have given up the command of the brigade myself so as to look the better after my men."
McKay accepted the reproof without a murmur, and only said—
"Well, sir, I am here now, and ready to do whatever I may be called upon. I feel my first duty is to my own colonel and my own corps."
"Do you mean that, young fellow?" said the colonel, thawing a little.
"Certainly, sir."
"Because they want to inveigle you away—on the staff. Lord Raglan has sent to inquire for you."
"I have no desire to go, sir," said McKay, simply; although his face flushed red at the compliment implied by the Commander-in-Chief's message.
"It seems he was pleased with the way you rallied those Frenchmen, and he has heard you are a good linguist, and he wants to put you on the staff."
"I had much rather stay with the regiment, sir," said McKay.
"Are you quite sure? You must not stand in your own light. This is a fine chance for you to get on in the service." The colonel's voice had become very friendly.
"I know where my true duty lies, sir; I owe everything to you and to the regiment. I should not hesitate to refuse an appointment on the general staff if it were offered me now." McKay did not add that his future prospects were now materially changed, and that it was no longer of supreme importance to him to rise in his profession.
"Give me your hand, my boy," said Colonel Blythe, visibly touched at McKay's disinterestedness. "You are proving your gratitude in a way I shall never forget. But let us talk business. You know I want you as adjutant."
"I shall be only too proud to act, sir."
"I must have a good staff about me. We are in great straits; the regiment will go from bad to worse. There are barely 200 'duty' men now, and it will soon be a mere skeleton, unless we can take good care of the rest."
"Yes, sir," said McKay, feeling constrained to say something.
"They are suffering—we all are, but the men most of all—from exposure, cold, want of proper clothing, and, above all, from want of proper food. This is what I wish to remedy. They are dying of dysentery, fever, cholera—I don't know what."
"The doctor, sir?"
"Can do nothing. He has few drugs; but, as he says, that would hardly matter if the men could have warmth and nourishment."
"Something might be done, sir, with system; the quartermaster—"
"You are right. Let us consult him. Hyde is still acting, and he has already proved himself a shrewd, hard-headed old soldier."
Quartermaster-sergeant Hyde—for he had accepted the grade, although unwillingly—came and stood "at attention" before his superiors.
"As to food, sir," he said, "the men might be provided with hot coffee, and, I think, hot soup, on coming off duty. I am only doubtful as to the sufficiency of fuel."
"There is any quantity of drift-wood just now—wreckage—floating in Balaclava Harbour," suggested McKay.
"We must have it sir, somehow," said Hyde, eagerly. "But can we get it up to the front?"
"We'll lay an embargo on all the baggage-animals in camp. Take the whole lot down to Balaclava, and lay hands on every scrap of timber."
"As to clothing, sir, an uncle of mine has come up with a heavily-laden ship—hutting-timbers mostly, but he may have some spare blankets, sailors' pea-jackets, jerseys, and so forth."
"And boots, long boots or short—all kinds will be acceptable. Get anything and everything that is warm. I'll pay out of my own pocket sooner than not have them. When can you start, Hyde?"
"Now, sir, if that will suit Mr. McKay, and I can have the horses."
The matter was speedily arranged, and in the early afternoon our hero and Hyde were jogging back to Balaclava, at the head of a string of animals led and ridden by a small selected fatigue-party of regimental batmen and grooms.
It was the first occasion on which the two friends had conversed freely together for months.
McKay had most to tell. He spoke first of the offer to go on the headquarter-staff which he had refused. Then of the strange accidents by which he had become heir presumptive to the earldom of Essendine. Last of all, of the narrow escape he had of his life.
Hyde pressed him on this point.
"You fell overboard—lost your balance, eh? Entirely your own doing? Mrs. Wilders did not help you at all?"
"How on earth, Hyde, did you guess that? I never hinted at such a thing."
"I know her—do not look surprised—I know her, and have done so intimately for years. There is nothing she would stick at if she saw her advantage therefrom. You were in her way; she sought to remove you, as, no doubt, she, or some one acting for her, had removed Lord Lydstone, and—and—for all I know, ever so many more."
"Can she be such a fiendish wretch?"
"She is a demon, Stanislas McKay. Beware how you cross her path. But let her also take heed how she tries to injure you again. She will have to do with me then."
"Why, Hyde! what extraordinary language is this? What do you know of Mrs. Wilders? What can you mean?"
"Some day you shall hear everything, but not now. It is too long a story. Besides, here we are at Balaclava. Do you know where your uncle's ship lies?"