“Send I don’t meet that man,” pursued the trooper, with a dark frown and a gesture of his strong right arm that augured ill for Jowell, “when my heart is bursting with the wrongs he’s heaped on me, and I’ve a weapon in my hand! The dog he’ve given a bad name to might swing for him yet, med-be! Meantime, supposing it be true as my mother believes—that ’tis possible to call down Judgment on the wicked merely by wishing it with all one’s heart and soul—and since through him I’ve lost my own two children, I’ll wish—for that bad man has got an only son and sets his eyes by him—may the sins of Thompson Jowell be visited on him by means of that same son! Send I may live to see young Jowell in rags; an’ with an old boot on one foot and an old shoe on t’other, asking—and asking in vain—for a handshake from an honest man! As for his father, may the Hand That’s Above us scourge him with rods of shame and retribution! May he drink of the cup that I ha’ drunk of, and drink it deep and long! So be it. Amen! Come, let’s be stepping back-along to Barracks.”
They never called it Home.
LXXVI
The Tsar was genuinely puzzled to know—War having been declared between himself and the Sultan—why he could not crumple those thirteen vessels of a Turkish Convoy bound with troops, arms, and ammunition for a certain important port on the coast of the Black Sea without provoking such a deafening outcry from Gallia and Britannia; and, indeed, what the Daily Press of both these countries persisted in calling the “outrage” of Sinope, seems at this distance of time no more than a provoked and unavoidable measure of defense.
A Comic Illustrated Paper of the date represents the Sultan as a curled darling in short socks, strap-shoes, petticoats, and pinafore, sniveling, with his little fist in his weeping eyes—the while he blubbers out to grinning, knickerbockered Russia:
“Hoo—boohoo! You’ve broken my nice new Fleet!... Wait till I tell Nursie France and Auntie Britannia—they’ll give you a good spanking, you—boohoo!—naughty Boy!”
For some reason there was hurry. The Holy Standard was unfurled and the Sacred Shirt displayed; the Moslem, who had suddenly become so dear to us, plunged, with renewed vigor, into hostilities; the Russian Ambassadors quitted London and Paris; but weeks before Great Britain and France leagued themselves with the Infidel against Christian Russia, and War was proclaimed by the Lord Mayor of London from the steps of the Royal Exchange, Her Majesty’s Foot Guards received orders to proceed to the East, and the Second Battalion of the Cut Red Feathers marched out from St. George’s Barracks; and the Third Battalion of the White Tufts marched out from the Tower; and the First Battalion of the Bearskins Plain marched out of Windsor—slept a night at Wellington Barracks; and with bands playing “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” “We are Going Far Away,” “Oh, Susannah! Don’t You Cry for Me!” and “The British Grenadiers,” they were off and away for Gallipoli via—why via Malta?
You may conceive the cheers, the tears, the shaking of the earth by the even tread of battalions of marching men; the waving of hats and pocket-handkerchiefs; the wives, and children, and sweethearts crying and clinging to husbands’, and fathers’, and lovers’ arms. You may imagine the roaring trade done by the venders of oranges, whelks, polonies, pettitoes, and other portable refreshments; and the generosity with which these were pressed upon the rank-and-file; and the lavishness with which the thirst of the British soldier—great even in piping times of peace—was assuaged by copious draughts of foaming beer and liquors even more potent....
The Bearskins Plain got the best send-off, for from Bird Cage Walk to Buckingham Palace, and along the Strand to Waterloo, many thousands of people were gathered to give them God-speed, and the Mall was made gay with bunting and streamers. Jowell, Sewell, Cowell, Towell, Bowell, and Co., of whose cunning, and greed, and rapacity most of these departing warriors were presently to perish—filled an official window in Pall Mall with gorgeous waistcoats and patriotic enthusiasm.