Superior intelligence in the soldier is as great a recommendation as mere brute strength, and, let the discontented say what they please, the duty of a soldier will never deaden the feelings of a man, who during the most arduous and dangerous campaign can always find time to think.
I never was fond of preaching morality to others. Always cheerful and fond of company, I would never debar the soldier from enjoyment, either in or out of barracks. I do not mind confessing that I have had many a “turn up” with policemen, especially when those so-called “guardians of the peace” have attempted to take an unwarrantable liberty with a comrade. But to those “ruffians” in the uniform of soldiers, who constantly figure in our police-courts on the cowardly charge of fighting with their belts and indiscriminately striking civilians in the streets with the frightful weapons, I would say, “You are no soldiers.” Indeed, the whole term of the service of such men is not worth a day’s pay. They are only the refuse of society, who have foisted themselves upon the public service with no other object than that they fancy they can eat the bread of idleness, and be better clothed and lodged than by remaining civilians. In the latter case, they would become a burden to the country through being lodged in some gaol or transported, and in the army they are not only a disgrace to their corps in time of peace, but are always the first to scheme and skulk when any fighting or long marching has to be done.
Such characters would laugh at and deride any display of affection, simply because they never knew it. They would ransack a cottage when campaigning, abuse the inmates, break up the furniture through sheer wantonness, and commit all sorts of frightful excesses; but show them an enemy in force, let the trumpet or bugle sound the “advance,” and they are the first to show the “white feather.”
Your genuine blackguard, whether he be a “rough” in a London mob, or a soldier in the ranks, is invariably a coward when he is equally matched. All attempts to reform him by discipline, good advice, and kind treatment, will fail in making a bad man good, but fear of death and the “cat-o’-nine-tails” will make him the most abject wretch alive. Lash him to the halberds after a drum-head court-martial on the line of march and he will writhe about like an eel, and scream like a jay before a lash is laid on his back. I am no advocate for flogging in time of peace, but if it were abolished in time of war, the gallows and the gibbet-post would have to be substituted. A long campaign with plenty of fighting is, however, the best purgative to get rid of these characters, because none of them will enlist or volunteer in time of war; those already in the service will desert or contrive to be taken prisoners if they can, and those who remain in the ranks are kept to their duty by the aid of the “cat,” without which I am certain they would neither march nor fight, but always be ready to plunder, and disgrace the British name.
To return, however, to our voyage. The men regained their usual spirits in the course of a few hours, and as the three vessels, which had embarked the greater part of our men and horses, sailed out of the Sound on a beautiful evening in the early part of May, 1854, the joke and song, with the merry laugh at some attempts to dance, told plainly that there was more of gladness than sorrow on board our transport. The sailors especially were very pleased with our company: they donned our clothes, examined our arms, patted our horses, and would have jumped on their backs had they been allowed. After we had been at sea a couple of days a stiff breeze sprung up, and many of the men being unable to drink their daily rations of excellent rum, the sailors tossed theirs off instead, with many a wish for their safe return from “a-lickin’ the Roosians.” The weather was, however, on the whole favourable, and the men having quite recovered from sickness, before a week had passed were enabled to drink their own rum and eat their rations with amazing relish; indeed, food is never so enjoyable as after a recovery from sea-sickness.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
Shakespeare.