Chapter Ten.
Though we march, or though we halt,
Or though the enemy we assault;
Though we’re cold, or though we’re warm,
Or though the sleeping town we storm,
Still the merry, merry fife and drum
Bid intruding care be dumb;
Sprightly still we sing and play,
And make dull life a holiday.
I was once taken prisoner myself on suspicion of being a deserter, being on a two months’ furlough. I was visiting a married sister resident in a village near Derby, and I frequently wore a suit of her husband’s clothes to save my regimentals. This is very often done by soldiers on furlough. Walking up the corn-market one day, I was tapped on the shoulder by a recruiting sergeant from the 33rd Regiment.
“Have you got a pass?” said he.
“Yes; I have a two months’ furlough.”
“Show it,” said he.
“It is at Mugginton,” said I.
“Yes, or somewhere else,” said he; “therefore you had better come along with me to the police-station.”