[CHAPTER XI]
CAMPAIGNING ABROAD
SHIFTING THE SCENE—UNDER CANVAS—A VETERAN AND A YOUNG SOLDIER—THE CHARMS OF A BIVOUAC—ORDERS FOR THE MORROW—A SOLDIER’S DREAM—AN EARLY START—THE MARCH—THE ENGAGEMENT—FORTUNE OF WAR—CHARLIE’S COMMAND—THE BLUE ONE DOWN!
In the “good old times” when railways were not, and the nec plus ultra of speed was, after all, but ten miles an hour, he who would take in hand to construct a tale, a poem, or a drama, was much hampered by certain material conditions of time and place, termed by critics the unities, and the observance of which effectually prevented all glaring vagaries of plot, and many a deus ex machinâ whose unaccountable presence would have saved an infinity of trouble to author as well as reader. But we have changed all this now-a-days. When Puck undertook to girdle the earth in “forty minutes,” it was no doubt esteemed a “sporting offer,” not that Oberon seems to have been man enough to “book it”; but we, who back Electra, should vote such a forty minutes “dead slow”—“no pace at all!” Ours are the screw-propeller and the flying-express—ours the thrilling wire that rings a bell at Paris, even while we touch the handle in London—ours the greatest possible hurry on the least possible provocation—we ride at speed, we drive at speed—eat, drink, sleep, smoke, talk, and deliberate, still at full speed—make fortunes, and spend them—fall in love, and out of it—are married, divorced, robbed, ruined, and enriched, all ventre à terre! nay, time seems to be grudged even for the last journey to our long home. ’Twas but the other day we saw a hearse clattering along at an honest twelve miles an hour! Well, forward! is the word—like the French grenadier’s account of the strategy by which his emperor invariably out-manœuvred the enemy. There were but two words of command, said he, ever heard in the grand army—the one was “En avant! sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu!” the other, “Sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu! en avant!” So forward be it! and we will not apologise for shifting the scene some thousands of miles, and taking a peep at our friend Cousin Charlie, fulfilling his destiny in that heaven-forsaken country called Kaffirland. When it rains in South Africa it rains to some purpose, pelting down even sheets of water, to which a thunderstorm at home is but as the trickling of a gutter to the Falls of Niagara—Nature endues her whole person in that same leaden-coloured garment, and the world assumes a desolate appearance of the most torpid misery. The greasy savage, almost naked, crouching and coiling like a snake wherever covert is to be obtained, bears his ducking philosophically enough; he can but be wet to the skin at the worst, and is dry again almost before the leaves are; but the British soldier, with his clothing and accoutrements, his pouches, haversacks, biscuits, and ammunition—not to mention Brown Bess, his mainstay and dependence—nothing punishes him so much as wet. Tropical heat he bears without a murmur, and a vertical sun but elicits sundry jocose allusions to beer. Canadian cold is met with a jest biting as its own frost, and a hearty laugh that rings through the clear atmosphere with a twang of home; but he hates water—drench him thoroughly and you put him to the proof; albeit he never fails, yet, like Mark Tapley, he does deserve credit for being jolly under such adverse circumstances.
Look at that encampment—a detached position, in which two companies of a British regiment, with a handful of Hottentots, are stationed to hold in check some thousands of savages: the old story—outnumbered a hundred to one, and wresting laurels even from such fearful odds. Look at one of the heroes—the only one visible indeed—as he paces to and fro to keep himself warm. A short beat truly, for he is within shot of yonder hill, and the Kaffirs have muskets as well as “assagais.” No shelter or sentry-box is there here, and our warrior at twelvepence a day has “reversed arms” to keep his firelock dry, and covers his person as well as he can with a much-patched weather-worn grey great-coat, once spruce and smart, of the regimental pattern, but now scarcely distinguishable as a uniform. To and fro he walks—wet, weary, hungry, and liable to be shot at a moment’s notice. He has not slept in a bed for months, and has almost forgotten the taste of pure water, not to mention beer; yet is there a charm in soldiering, and through it all the man is contented and cheerful—even happy. A slight movement in his rear makes him turn half-round; between him and his comrades stands a tent somewhat less uncomfortable-looking than the rest, and from beneath its folds comes out a hand, followed by a young, bronzed face, which we recognise as Cousin Charlie’s ere the whole figure emerges from its shelter and gives itself a hearty shake and stretch. It is indeed Charlie, “growed out of knowledge,” as Mrs. Gamp says, and with his moustaches visibly and tangibly increased to a very warlike volume. The weather is clearing, as in that country it often does towards sundown; and Charlie, like an old campaigner, is easing the tent-ropes, already strained with wet. “I wish I knew the orders,” says the young lancer to some one inside, “or how I’m to get back to head-quarters—not but what you fellows have treated me like an alderman.” “You should have been here yesterday, my boy,” said a voice from within, apparently between the puffs of a short, wheezing pipe. “We only finished the biscuit this morning, and I could have given you a mouthful of brandy from the bottom of my flask—it is dry enough now, at all events. The baccy ’ll soon be done too, and we shall be floored altogether if we stay here much longer.” “Why the whole front don’t advance I can’t think,” replied Charlie, with the ready criticism of a young soldier. “If they’d only let us get at these black beggars, we’d astonish them!” “Heaven knows,” answered the voice, evidently getting drowsy, “our fellows are all tired of waiting——By Jove,” he added, brightening up in an instant, “here comes ‘Old Swipes’; I’ll lay my life we shall be engaged before daybreak, the old boy looks so jolly!”—and even as he spoke, a hale, grey-headed man, with a rosy countenance and a merry, dark eye, was seen returning the sentry’s salute as he advanced to the tent which had sheltered these young officers, and passing on with a good-humoured nod to Charlie, entered upon an eager whispered conversation with the gentleman inside, whose drowsiness seemed to have entirely forsaken him. “Old Swipes,” as he was irreverently called (a nickname of which, as of most military sobriquets, the origin had long been forgotten), was the senior captain of the regiment, one of those gallant fellows who fight their way up without purchase, serving in every climate under heaven, and invariably becoming grey of head long ere they lose the greenness and freshness of heart which in the Service alone outlive the cares and disappointments that wait on middle age.
Now, Charlie had been sent to “Old Swipes” with dispatches from head-quarters. One of the general’s aides-de-camp was wounded, another sick, an extra already ordered on a particular service; and Charlie, with the dash and gallantry which had distinguished him from boyhood, volunteered to carry the important missives nearly a hundred miles through a country not a yard of which he knew, and threading whole hordes of the enemy with no arms but his sabre and pistols, no guide but a little unintelligible Hottentot. From the Kat River frontier to the defenceless portals of Fort Beaufort, the whole district was covered with swarms of predatory savages; and but that Fortune proverbially favours the brave, our young lancer might have found himself in a very unpleasant predicament. Fifty miles finished the lad’s charger, and he had accomplished the remainder of his journey walking and riding turn-about with his guide on the hardy little animal of the latter. No wonder our dismounted dragoon was weary—no wonder the rations of tough beef and muddy water which they gave him when he arrived elicited the compliment we have already mentioned to the good cheer of “The Fighting Light-Bobs,” as the regiment to which “Old Swipes” and his detachment belonged was affectionately nicknamed in the division. The great thing, however, was accomplished—wet, weary, and exhausted, Charlie and his guide arrived at their destination by daybreak of the second day. The young lancer delivered his dispatches to the officer in command, was received like a brother into a subaltern’s tent, already containing two inhabitants, and slept soundly through the day, till awakened at sunset by a strong appetite for supper, and the absolute necessity for slackening the tent-ropes recorded above.
“Kettering, you must join our council of war,” said the cheery voice of the old captain from within; “there’s no man better entitled than yourself to know the contents of my dispatches. Come in, my boy; I can give you a pipe, if nothing else.”
Charlie lifted the wet sailcloth and crept in—the conclave did not look so very uncomfortable after all. Certainly there was but little room, but no men pack so close as soldiers. The old captain was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in the centre, clad in a russet-coloured coat that had once been scarlet, with gold lace tarnished down to the splendour of rusty copper. A pair of regimental trousers, plentifully patched and strapped with leather, adorned his lower man, and on his head he wore a once-burnished shako, much gashed and damaged by a Kaffir’s assagai. He puffed forth volumes of smoke from a short black pipe, and appeared in the most exuberant spirits, notwithstanding the deficiencies of his exterior; the real proprietor of the tent, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with a lightning eye and huge black beard and whiskers, was leaning against the centre support of his domicile, in a blue frock-coat and buckskin trousers, looking very handsome and very like a gentleman (indeed, he is a peer’s younger son), though no “old clothes man” would have given him eighteenpence for the whole of his costume. He had hospitably vacated his seat on a battered portmanteau, “warranted solid leather,” with the maker’s name, in the Strand—it seemed so odd to see it there—and was likewise smoking furiously, as he listened to the orders of his commander. A small tin basin, a canister of tobacco, nearly finished, a silver hunting-flask—alas! quite empty—and a heap of cloaks, with an old blanket in the corner, completed the furniture of this warlike palace. It was very like Charlie’s own tent at head-quarters, save that his cavalry accoutrements gave an air of finish to that dwelling, of which he was justly proud. So he felt quite at home as he took his seat on the portmanteau and filled his pipe. “Just the orders I wanted,” said the old captain, between his whiffs; “we’ve been here long enough, and to-morrow we are to advance at daybreak. I am directed to move upon that ‘Kloof’ we have reconnoitred every day since we came, and after forming a junction with the Rifles, we are to get possession of the heights.”
“The river will be out after this rain,” interrupted the handsome lieutenant; “but that’s no odds; our fellows can all swim—’gad, they want washing!”