Middy and Ensign

by George Manville Fenn

As far as the men were concerned, this was soon settled; for the order was given to fall in, and they were soon ranged in line, every man anxious in the extreme as to his fate. The next order was for the even numbered to take two paces back, and the next for the rear-rank men to fall out; they were the lucky ones, and in a high state of delight.

With the officers it was more difficult. However, that was soon settled. Captain Horton said that he should go; and gave the corvette in charge of Lieutenant Johnson. Major Sandars followed his example by appointing Captain Smithers to the task of taking command of the fort; and to his great disgust Tom Long found that he was not to be of the select.

The resident had not intended to go, but so pressing a request that he would come had arrived from the sultan, that he felt bound to make one of the party. On the eve of the start the principal talk was of the qualities and powers of the various rifles and shot guns that had been brought out to be cleaned and oiled.

Tom Long was solacing himself out in the open air with a strong rank cigar that had been given him by a brother officer, and very poorly it made him feel. But he put that all down to the major’s account for depriving him of his treat.

“I’ll be even with him, though,” he said, breaking out into the habit of talking aloud. “I won’t forget it.”

The night was very dark and starless, and he stood leaning up against a tree, when he heard the splash of oars from the landing-place, a short sharp order, and then the rattling of a ring-bolt.

“Some one from the steamer, I suppose,” he growled. “Gun borrowing, I’ll be bound. They don’t have mine, whoever wants it.”

“Here you, sir,” said a familiar voice, as a figure came up through the darkness. “Where’s Major Sandars—at the officers’ quarters or the residency? Do you hear? Why don’t you speak?”

“That path leads to the officers’ quarters, Mr Robert Roberts, and the other leads, as you well know, to the residency. Now go and find out for yourself, and don’t air your salt-junk bluster on shore.”

“Salt-junk bluster be bothered,” said Bob sharply. “How the dickens was I to know it was you standing stuck-up against that tree like two tent poles in a roll of canvass? Here, I’ve come from the skipper to see if the major’s got any spare leggings, for fear of the noble captain getting any thorns in his legs.”