CHAPTER II.
THE CHOLERA SEASON—MY MOTHER GOES AWAY—MY SIXTH BIRTHDAY.
We were living in a bungalow not far from the barracks at X. when the cholera came. It was when I was within a few weeks of six years old. First we heard that it was among the natives, and the matter did not excite much notice. Then it broke out among the men, and the officers talked a good deal about it. The next news was of the death of the Colonel commanding our regiment.
One of my early recollections is of our hearing of this. An ensign of our regiment (one of the “little ones”) called upon my mother in the evening of the day of the Colonel’s death. He was very white, very nervous, very restless. He brought us the news. The Colonel had been ill barely thirty-six hours. He had suffered agonies with wonderful firmness. He was to be buried the next day.
“He never was afraid of cholera,” said Mr. Gordon; “he didn’t believe it was infectious; he thought keeping up the men’s spirits was everything. But, you see, it isn’t nervousness, after all, that does it.”
“It goes a long way, Gordon,” said my father. “You’re young; you’ve never been through one of these seasons. Don’t get fanciful, my good fellow. Come here, and play with Margery.”
Mr. Gordon laughed.
“I am a fool, certainly,” he said. “Ever since I heard of it, I have fancied a strange, faint kind of smell everywhere, which is absurd enough.”