War is inexcusable, and is foolish and ugly; but, like the poor and the ailing, we shall have it always with us. It is criminal, except as protest against intolerable persecution, or in maintenance of national honour or defence of national territory; and even in these cases it should be undertaken only when all devices of conciliation have been tried in vain. Next to the vanquished, it does most harm to the victor. Yet about it, as about high play, there is a fascination, and I have to plead guilty to the weak feeling that I would not look with overwhelming aversion on an order, should it come to me to-morrow, to prepare to chronicle a new campaign and face the chronicler's risks; and they are real. But I should not go into it with a light heart, like M. Emile Ollivier. I might be, in a quiet way, happy as Queen Victoria was (according to Count Vitzthum) for she danced much the night before the declaration of hostilities against Russia, but spoke of what was coming with amiable candour and great regret.
We are on the eve of a Jubilee Year, when the halcyon shall plume his wing, and we shall hear much oratorical trash and hebetude about the peacefulness of this happy reign.
Does the reader reflect how many wars we have had in the pacific half-century which is lapsing? The tale will astonish him, and should silence the thoughtless word-spinners of the platforms. The door of the temple of Janus has been seldom closed for long. Our campaigns, great and small, and military enterprises of the lesser sort, could not be counted on the fingers of both hands. We have had fighting with Afghans and Burmese (twice); Scinde, Gwalior, and Sikh wars; hostilities with Kaffirs, Russians, Persians, Chinese, and Maoris (twice), Abyssinians, Ashantis, Zulus, Boers, and Soudanese, not to mention the repression of the most stupendous of mutinies, a martial promenade in Egypt, and expeditions against Jowakis, Bhootanese, Looshais, Red River rebels, and such pitiful minor fry.
In St. Jean de Luz, the nearest point to the disputed ground and the best place from which to transmit information, there was a small and select British colony, mostly consisting of retired naval and military officers. A dear friend of mine amongst them was Major Russell, who had spent a lengthened span of years in the East—an admirable type of the calm, firm, courteous Anglo-Indian—who had never soured his temper and spoiled his liver with excessive "pegs," who understood and respected the natives, who had shown administrative ability, and who, like many another honest, dutiful officer, had not shaken much fruit off the pagoda-tree, or even secured the C.B. which is so often given to tarry-at-home nonentities. Russell used to pay me a regular visit to the Fonda de la Playa. One morning as we were chatting, Leader strode into the coffee-room, a vision of splendour. He had got on his uniform as Commandant of the Foreign Legion—a uniform which did much credit to his fancy, for he had designed it himself. He wore a white boina with gold tassel, a blue tunic with black braid, red trousers, and brown gaiters. He had donned the gala-costume with the object of getting himself photographed. Commandant is the equivalent of Major in the British service, so we agreed to dub the young Irishman henceforth and for ever, until he became colonel or captain-general, Major Leader.
"Promotion is quick in this army," murmured Russell. "I served all my active life under the suns of India, and here I am only a major at the close. Leader joined the Carlists less than three months ago, and he is already my equal in rank."
"The fortune of war, Russell," said I; "don't be jealous. I was offered command of a brigade under the Commune, but I declined the tribute to my merit, or I would not be here to-day. I met a man in Bayonne yesterday, and he was ready to assume control of the entire insurrectionary forces."
"Who? Cabrera?"
"No," I answered; "catch Cabrera coming here. He is too much afraid of a ruler who is no pretender. The renowned Commander-in-Chief of Aragon and Valencia, Don Ramon the Rough and Ready, is Conde Something-or-other now, a willing slave to petticoat government. He is to be seen any day pottering about Windsor."
"And who is this speculator in bloodshed?"
"A foreign adventurer," I explained, "who does not know a word of Spanish, much less Basque, is unacquainted with the topography of the country, and has not the faintest inkling of the idiosyncrasies of the lieutenants who would serve under him, or of the mode of humouring the prejudices of the people of the different provinces in revolt."