Tracks of a Rolling Stone

by Henry J. Coke

Amongst the steerage passengers was a Major—in the English army—returning from leave to rejoin his regiment at Colombo. If one might judge by his choice of a second-class fare, and by his much worn apparel, he was what one would call a professional soldier. He was a tall, powerfully-built, handsome man, with a weather-beaten determined face, and keen eye. I was so taken with his looks that I often went to the fore part of the ship on the chance of getting a word with him. But he was either shy or proud, certainly reserved; and always addressed me as ‘Sir,’ which was not encouraging.

That same evening, after dinner in the steerage cabin, a German got up and, beginning with some offensive allusions to the British army, proposed the health of General Cronje and the heroic Boers. This was received with deafening ‘Hochs.’ To cap the enthusiasm up jumped another German, and proposed ‘unglück—bad luck to all Englanders and to their Queen.’ This also was cordially toasted. When the ceremony was ended and silence restored, my reserved friend calmly rose, tapped the table with the handle of his knife (another steerage passenger—an Australian—told me what happened), took his watch from his pocket, and slowly said: ‘It is just six minutes to eight. If the person who proposed the last toast has not made a satisfactory apology to me before the hand of my watch points to the hour, I will thrash him till he does. I am an officer in the English army, and always keep my word.’ A small band of Australians was in the cabin. One and all of them applauded this laconic speech. It was probably due in part to these that the offender did not wait till the six minutes had expired.

Next day I congratulated my reserved friend. He was reticent as usual. All I could get out of him was, ‘I never allow a lady to be insulted in my presence, sir.’ It was his Queen, not his cloth, that had roused the virility in this quiet man.

Let us turn to another aspect of the deeds of war. About daylight on the morning following our bombardment, it being my morning watch, I was ordered to take the surgeon and assistant surgeon ashore. There were many corpses, but no living or wounded to be seen. One object only dwells visually in my memory.

At least a quarter of a mile from the dead soldiers, a stray shell had killed a grey-bearded old man and a young woman. They were side by side. The woman was still in her teens and pretty. She lay upon her back. Blood was oozing from her side. A swarm of flies were buzzing in and out of her open mouth. Her little deformed feet, cased in the high-heeled and embroidered tiny shoes, extended far beyond her petticoats. It was these feet that interested the men of science. They are now, I believe, in a jar of spirits at Haslar hospital. At least, my friend the assistant surgeon told me, as we returned to the ship, that that was their ultimate destination. The mutilated body, as I turned from it with sickening horror, left a picture on my youthful mind not easily to be effaced.

After this we joined the rest of the squadron: the ‘Melville’ (a three-decker, Sir W. Parker’s flagship), the ‘Blenheim,’ the ‘Druid,’ the ‘Calliope,’ and several 18-gun brigs. We took Hong Kong, Chusan, Ningpo, Canton, and returned to take Amoy. One or two incidents only in the several engagements seem worth recording.

We have all of us supped full with horrors this last year or so, and I have no thought of adding to the surfeit. But sometimes common accidents appear exceptional, if they befall ourselves, or those with whom we are intimate. If the sufferer has any special identity, we speculate on his peculiar way of bearing his misfortune; and are thus led on to place ourselves in his position, and imagine ourselves the sufferers.

Major Daniel, the senior marine officer of the ‘Blonde,’ was a reserved and taciturn man. He was quiet and gentlemanlike, always very neat in his dress; rather severe, still kind to his men. His aloofness was in no wise due to lack of ideas, nor, I should say, to pride—unless, perhaps, it were the pride which some men feel in suppressing all emotion by habitual restraint of manner. Whether his sangfroid was constitutional, or that nobler kind of courage which feels and masters timidity and the sense of danger, none could tell. Certain it is he was as calm and self-possessed in action as in repose. He was so courteous one fancied he would almost have apologised to his foe before he remorselessly ran him through.

On our second visit to Amoy, a year or more after the first, we met with a warmer reception. The place was much more strongly fortified, and the ship was several-times hulled. We were at very close quarters, as it is necessary to pass under high ground as the harbour is entered. Those who had the option, excepting our gallant old captain, naturally kept under shelter of the bulwarks and hammock nettings. Not so Major Daniel. He stood in the open gangway watching the effect of the shells, as though he were looking at a game of billiards. While thus occupied a round shot struck him full in the face, and simply left him headless.

Another accident, partly due to an ignorance of dynamics, happened at the taking of Canton. The whole of the naval brigade was commanded by Sir Thomas Bouchier. Our men were lying under the ridge of a hill protected from the guns on the city walls. Fully exposed to the fire, which was pretty hot, ‘old Tommy’ as we called him, paced to and fro with contemptuous indifference, stopping occasionally to spy the enemy with his long ship’s telescope. A number of bluejackets, in reserve, were stationed about half a mile further off at the bottom of the protecting hill. They were completely screened from the fire by some buildings of the suburbs abutting upon the slope. Those in front were watching the cannon-balls which had struck the crest and were rolling as it were by mere force of gravitation down the hillside. Some jokes were made about football, when suddenly a smart and popular young officer—Fox, first lieutenant of one of the brigs—jumped out at one of these spent balls, which looked as though it might have been picked up by the hands, and gave it a kick. It took his foot off just above the ankle. There was no surgeon at hand, and he was bleeding to death before one could be found. Sir Thomas had come down the hill, and seeing the wounded officer on the ground with a group around him, said in passing, ‘Well, Fox, this is a bad job, but it will make up the pair of epaulets, which is something.’