It is not to be supposed that he was without occasional tidings from that land of his fathers, from which, as he sometimes considered, he had hastily exiled himself.
For was it not exile, in the fullest sense of the word? Œdipus in Colona was a joke to it. Was this travel-stained, over-wearied, haggard man, who trudged day by day, and often from night to dawn, through darksome woods and endless marshes, in daily risk of being "shot like a rabbit in a ride," the same Massinger of the Court, who was wont to turn out so spick and span at covert and copse?
He could hardly believe it, any more than that the sardonic soldier at his side, whose unsparing comments included the Government, the New Zealand Company, the soldiers, and the sailors, the general, the governor, the colonists, the natives, by no means excepting himself, as the champion idiots of the century, was the erstwhile debonair Dudley Slyde, faultless in costume as unapproachable in languid elegance.
It has been observed that a campaign brings out the best or worst points of a man's character. This struck Massinger as a proposition proved to demonstration when he saw the cheerful acquiescence of Mr. Slyde in the drudgeries and dangers of their harassing expeditions. He it was who volunteered for "fatigue" duty by night or day; ready at any hour to help to bury the dead, to forage for provisions, to cover retreat, to attend the wounded, at the same time keeping up the cheerfulness of the rank and file by his withering execrations, which, from their very incongruousness, always provoked the laughter of his comrades.
The simple privates voted him the "rummest chap as ever they see," at the same time fully appreciating his coolness under fire and many-sided utility.
Nor was Warwick unmindful of the necessity of keeping up the reputation of les trois mousquetaires, as they were occasionally called. He exhibited in his personal traits certain distinct tendencies derived from an admixture of the races. Grave, steadfast, and trustworthy, obedient to orders, as became his Anglo-Saxon descent, he was occasionally affected with the Berserker frenzy of his mother's people. At such moments he would rush to the front, heedless of friends or foes, and indulge himself in the blood-fury of her reckless race. When mixed up with friendly natives he would stalk through the hottest of the fire with those younger chiefs, who desired to have some daring achievement to boast of when the war was over. It more than once happened that his companions returned no more, having fallen to a man in the breach, or when they had surmounted the lofty palisades which engirdled the fortress, behind which lay trench and fascine, gallery and bastion. So far Warwick had always returned, blood-stained and powder-blackened, with torn uniform and dimmed accoutrements, dropping with fatigue, and half dead with thirst, but safe and unharmed, ready—and more than ready—for the next day's exploits. When in this mood he had been seen side by side with the famous Winiata, standing on the parapet of a beleaguered redoubt, having guns handed to them, with which they kept up a ceaseless fusilade, they themselves the centre of a close and deadly volley.
Even in the midst of war's alarms the English soldier finds time for recreative pastime and the omnipresent national sports.
Football and cricket, polo and other matches flourish, in which distinction is enjoyed with a pathetic disregard of the morrow. When it chances that the "demon bowler" of the regiment, who has taken five wickets in four "overs," is himself bowled next day with a smaller ball and yet more deadly delivery, short shrift and brief requiem suffice. The batsman's stumps are scattered, and no L.B.W. affords an appeal to the umpire.
In polo the fortune of war, indeed, dwarfs the untoward accidents of the game. Who can object to a "crumpler" of a fall, when horse and rider may so soon form part of the sad company "in one red burial blent"? No! the bugle-call sounds to arms, and his comrades form in line, all unheeding of the gap in the ranks.