[Transcriber's note: WARNING: some words and language in this book may be offensive to modern readers.]
He dashed the stone into the dying embers.
HOW JACK MACKENZIE
WON HIS EPAULETTES
By
GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN
AND NEW YORK
1906
PREFACE.
There is a glamour and romance about war that appeals to the heart of every young man worthy of the name in these islands. This is as it should be. We are a nation of sailors, it is true, but many a blood-red field can bear witness that we are soldiers also, when we have the right man to lead us.
A weapon, however, that is left too long in its scabbard is apt to rust therein. This was the state in which we found the British sword when the fiery cross was sent round in 1853. We had not been at war for forty years before this, and even many of our generals had forgotten all about the art. Hence the terrible muddle and mismanagement witnessed in the Crimea. Our poor fellows were positively sent off as empty-handed as if going to a grand parade or soldiers' picnic, and indeed but for individual courage, and good luck, the invasion would have ended in national disaster and disgrace, for us as well as for our brave allies the French.
I have no desire to dispel the romance that surrounds as with a halo the noble and necessary art of war. But I think every young fellow should know that to be a real soldier it is necessary for him to be not only a fighting man and a brave man in the field, but a perfect camp's-man also; and he can never learn to be so in barracks, but on the tented field, in times of peace.
It is for this reason that the sailor, if I may be allowed to say a word in favour of the service to which I belong, makes the best soldier. Captain Peel's brigade proved this in the trenches.
In the second book of this story, the youthful reader will find fighting and bloodshed enough, and horrors too. But the tale is all true, sadly, terribly true. Hear what Sir Evelyn Wood says: "It may be asked, Why recall these dismal stories? Because ...... to the present generation our hideous sacrifice of soldiers in the Crimea is but little more known than the sufferings of our troops at Walcheren and in the Peninsula. I believe in the advantage of telling those who elect parliamentary representatives what has happened and what may happen again, unless a high standard of administrative efficiency is maintained. This cannot be attained unless the necessary departments are practised in their duties during peace."
* * * * * *
"Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war."
In my first book, then, I have endeavoured to give a sketch of the sailor's life in the piping times of peace, and most of the sketches and little adventures and yarns are drawn from the life. Dr. Reikie, who is constantly in the pursuit of science under difficulties, was a real character. So were Sturdy, Gribble, Fitzgerald, Captain Gillespie, and the marine Paddy O'Bayne.
CONTENTS.
Book First.
IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.
[III. Mrs. Malony's Wedding-ring]
[IV. "I'll be a Sailor or a Soldier"]
[V. "Hullo, Johnnie Greybreeks! I'm your Uncle"]
[VI. "The Old Lady had a Woman's Heart after all"]
[IX. In the good old "Gurnet"]
[X. Paddy's Adventure—Fred Harris proves himself a Hero]
[XI. A Tragedy—Auld Reikie pursues Science under Difficulties]
[XII. Tom Finch and the Shark—Shooting in the Dismal Swamp—Death and Promotion]
[XIII. Paddy's Hybrid—"A quare, quare Baste, Sorr"—Tricky Niggers—Black Man as Cook—War declared]
Book Second.
FOR HONOUR AND GLORY.
[I. "Blow, Good Wind, and waft us East"]
[II. A Ghastly Adventure—The Embarkation—A Stormy Landing]
[III. A field of Heroes—"On, Lads, On!"—Brave Codrington—Panic and Terror]
[IX. The Battle of Inkermann—The Soldiers' Own]
[X. The Awful Gale—In Camp before Sebastopol—Letters from Home]
[XII. Pelissier to the Front—Death of Lord Raglan]
[XIII. The Russian Bear at Bay—The Last Act of the Tragic War]
[XIV. "Remember, we shall all meet again some Christmas Eve on High"]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
[He dashed the stone into the dying embers] . . . Frontispiece
He threw up his arms, and fell flat on his face . . . Vignette
[missing from source book]
[He crept nearer and nearer to the window]
[He felt a weight on his back]
[He has seized the colours, and his wild slogan can be heard high above the roar]
[She laid about her right and left]
HOW JACK MACKENZIE WON HIS EPAULETTES.
Book First.
IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.
CHAPTER I.
WEE JOHNNIE GREYBREEKS.
It was what is called a real old-fashioned Yuletide. The snow had been falling, falling, falling all day long; it had begun at grey daylight in the morning, in little pellets like millet seed, which lay white and unmelted on the frozen pavements. But as the hours went by, these were changed for flakes as big and broad as butterflies' wings, that fell fast and "eident" all the day; and that night the more aristocratic thoroughfares of Glasgow were as silent as a city of the dead.
Not that they were deserted by any means, for passengers flitted about in garments draped with snow, and snow-laden cabs drove past, but not a sound could be heard from hoof of horse or foot of man.
It was not cold, however. There was no high wind to powder the flakes or grind them into ice-dust, or raise wreaths along the pathways; and so pure was the air, that but to breathe it for a little while was to purify every drop of blood in one's body from heart to head and heels, to heighten the vital flame, and to make one feel as happy and contented as one should ever be about a Christmas time.
From the windows of many a beautiful villa in this picture of a winter's night there shone, directly out upon the snow-clad lawns and ghost-like bushes, the ruddy light of cosily-furnished rooms, where rosy children romped and played, while around the fire sat their elders, "doucely" talking about the days of "auld lang syne."
One room in a villa of larger size and more pretentious architecture than its fellows looked particularly bright and cheerful. It was tastefully furnished, and here and there in corners stood tall lamps with coloured shades, while in the centre was placed a lordly Christmas tree. No wonder that the ring of prettily-attired children around gazed with admiration on this masterpiece of decoration. It was indeed very beautiful, its green and spreading branches laden with light and the sunshine of a hundred toys.
But listen! the music of a piano and harp strikes up, and now the children, big and little, join hands and go daftly dancing round the tree. Till one wee toddler tumbles; then the ring is broken, and half a dozen at least are piled on top of her. The very house seems to shake now with the sound of mirth and laughter, the shrill treble of the youngsters receiving a deep and hearty bass in the voices of two jolly-looking elderly gentlemen, who are standing on the hearth with their backs to the fire.
But once again the ring is formed, once again the music that had been partially interrupted is heard, and once again the children dance jubilantly round, madder and wilder now than ever, singing,—
"Here we go round and round and round,
Here we go round the Christmas tree."
The elderly gentlemen who stood with their backs to the fire were spectators of all this fun, frolic, and jollity. But they were not the only ones.
For past the broad and open gate, as he had been creeping through the snow—oh so slowly and wearily—a tiny boy, attracted by the sound of the gladsome voices, had paused to listen. Listening or looking is such a cheap pleasure that even the very poorest can indulge in it. The snowflakes had for a time ceased falling, and from behind a mass of clouds the moon was struggling. But the red rays from the window more than rivalled its splendour, and very inviting indeed did they appear to the little wanderer. He first looked in through the gate, then he crept in through it. Nearer and nearer to the window, closer and closer to the joy within, till the lamplight shone directly on his white, pinched face, and glittered in his dark and wondering eyes, as he stood there keeping hold of a snowy branch with one hand, as if afraid of falling.
To listen and to look on while the rich enjoy themselves—oh yes, these are the privileges of the very poor! But somehow on the present occasion little Jack Mackenzie was doing more than simply listening and looking. Quite unintentionally, remember. He was associating himself with all the games and pleasure inside the room. He was no longer a thinly-clothed, bare-footed laddie, shivering in the winter's snow; he was one of that prettily-dressed crowd of beautiful children playing around the Christmas tree. Fairies he called them in his own mind; for he had once been treated to a gallery seat at a pantomime, and this was just like that, only ever so much more beautiful and natural. No wonder he felt interested and entranced, or that several times his lips parted to give utterance to the exclamation "Oh!" though he always restrained himself in time.
Was it any wonder this poor, half-starved boy was delighted with the scene before him? It was, he thought, as different from what he was used to behold in that part of the city he called his home, as the heaven his mother often spoke about must be from earth—that heaven to which his father had gone, long, long, long ago, so long ago that he couldn't remember him, and always thought of him only as a saint Up Yonder somewhere, where he himself would go one day if he was good.
So completely are Jack Mackenzie's senses enthralled, that he does not hear the sound of a manly voice singing adown the broad terrace, but coming nearer and nearer every moment,—
"'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, etc.
"An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain:
O give me my lowly thatched cottage again!"
No, Jack doesn't hear the song. Nor does he see the singer, until he is suddenly caught by one shoulder and wheeled right round to confront a well-dressed and handsome man with a huge brown beard, on which melted snow-flakes sparkle like diamonds.
"Hullo! hullo! so I've caught you, have I?" The new-comer had bent down, and was gazing straight into Jack's face.
"Caught me, sir!" replied the boy, with fearless innocence; "did—did you want to catch me, sir?"
"Want to catch you, you young rascal! Come, give an account of yourself. What are you? A burglar's boy, eh?"
Jack looked a little puzzled. He put his hand up as if to feel that his cap was on. It was only a little old glengarry, with a hole where the top used to be, and through which a lock of the lad's hair always straggled.
"No, sir, I'm nothing yet. Was you looking for somebody to be a burglar's boy, sir? I would be it if it was nice. I want to work for mother and Siss, you know. But what do burglars do, sir? Mind, I'm not afraid of work, and I might get shoes and stockings then."
As he spoke, he held up one red and swollen foot. Not that he was courting sympathy. Oh no; only standing in the snow had made his feet cold.
"O you poor wee ragamuffin, are you really so destitute as all that, and on Christmas eve too? Come now, tell me your name and what you were after, and if it is all right I'll give you a penny and let you go."
"My name is Jack Mackenzie, sir; but mebbe, sir, you would know me better as little Johnnie Greybreeks, because that's what the boys all call me."
The big man laughed.
"Me know you! Well, that's good. But what were you doing?"
"Oh," cried the lad ecstatically, "I was looking in there at the fairies. O sir, isn't it grand and beautiful? If you stand here you can have a see too. They won't notice us."
"Ha, ha! Well, but suppose I don't want to have a 'see,' as you call it; suppose I live here?"
Johnnie didn't answer immediately. He heaved a big, double sort of a sigh, and on his eyelashes something appeared that glittered in the light like the melted snow-flakes on the stranger's brown beard.
"I wish my mother and Siss lived in there."
There was a ring of genuine sadness and pathos in the boy's voice that went straight to that tall man's heart, and he would not have trusted himself to speak just then for a good deal. He felt certain in his own mind that this poor, ragged lad was speaking the truth. Then he pictured to himself the contrast between the very poor and the rich in such a city as this. How could he help doing so, when he glanced from the white and weary face before him to the happy children at their innocent gambols within?
"It is a contrast," he murmured to himself, "that Heaven permits for some good purpose, though it is all dark, dark to my limited mental vision."
But, happy thought! he could do something even to-night to soothe the sorrows and sufferings of this one wee waif before him. It was Christmas eve too.
"Tell me, boy," he said first, "how comes it that you can talk such good English?"
"Because I'm talking to a gentleman."
"But can't you speak broad Scotch?"
"Bonnie yon, to the wee callants on the street. But mother makes us—Siss and me—speak English at home."
"And what does your father do?"
He crept nearer and nearer to the window.
"Oh, father's gone to heaven, you know, sir. He's going to stop there always."
"Does your mother—er—wash or char or anything?"
"Oh no, sir; mother's a real lady."
Mr. Tom Morgan—for that was his name—smiled.
"Now show me your hands. Why, they are quite clean! There, give me one, and now march along with me."
Jack drew back hesitatingly.
"I hope, sir," he said, with tears in his voice, "I haven't done any harm?"
"No, no, lad; I'm going to give you supper and send you off. Come."
Somehow, lines from Thorn's beautiful poem "The Mitherless Bairn" were borne to Mr. Morgan's mind, as he led the boy round through the garden to the back door of the villa.
Jack was not mitherless, but in other respects he resembled the subject of the sad song.
"Oh speak him not harshly—he trembles the while—
He bends to your bidding and blesses your smile:
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn."
* * * * *
When little Johnnie Greybreeks had left his mother's room that evening, he had been on business bent. Business of a very important description, I can assure you, reader. Important to Johnnie, at all events. A few weeks before this, when wandering in the western outskirts of the town, which at the time our story commences—namely, away back in 1849—were beautifully wooded and with very few houses indeed to be seen, he had come upon the ruined walls of a mansion that had been destroyed by fire. It was open to the road, and probably people as poor as Johnnie had been here before, for every rag and piece of wood had been carried away. But to the boy's delight he had come across an ash heap, over which a large elder tree drooped, half hiding it, and here were at least two dozen medicine-bottles, many smashed but many whole. What a find if they could only be his! Next day he had wandered that way again, and was glad to find a man there who was about to clear the heap. The man laughed when Johnnie volunteered his assistance, but for sake of company, he said, permitted the boy to help him. The job was finished in a couple of hours, and Johnnie had the bottles as his wages.
He took as many as he could down to the burn and washed them, then came back for more, and by-and-by they were all nice and clean and hidden away where he was sure no one could find them but himself. Then a good-natured chemist in the street where the boy lived had promised him ninepence for the lot. Ninepence! what a fortune! He had never seen so much money before. When he got it, he tied it up in a handkerchief—it was all in pennies and half-pennies—and resolved not to tell his mother till Christmas eve, when he would go quietly out and purchase something nice for next day's dinner.
And it was with the view of making these purchases that Johnnie had come out to-night. He had come too early though, for in the shops he was to favour with his custom, things were never at their very cheapest till nearly closing-time. So he had treated himself to a walk in the west end.
Then the snow began to fall, and we know the rest.
Mr. Tom Morgan had his reasons for taking Johnnie in by the back door and through the kitchen. He really wanted to know if the boy was in the slightest degree presentable.
He was better pleased with his appearance than he had expected to be. Johnnie's nether garments of hodden grey were patched at the knees and tattered and short at the ankles; his jacket was torn, too, and out at the elbows; but the lad was clean, even to his shirt, which left neck and red chest exposed to the weather.
Johnnie's features were regular and far from unpleasant, but his dark eyes were very large and sad.
"You'll do, lad, you'll do. Come along; it is Christmas eve, and mother is kind anyhow."
CHAPTER II
LIFE IN SUMMER LOANING.
"O children," cried old Mrs. Morgan during a lull in the frolicsome riot, "here comes your uncle Tom. I can hear his voice in the hall. Now we'll have a song and a dance!"
She rose and walked towards the drawing-room door, and the bairns crowded after, with joyful, expectant faces.
But when the door was opened, and they found Uncle Tom standing there holding little ragged Johnnie by the hand, astonishment and wonder seemed to deprive everybody of speech. Miss Scraggs, an elderly spinster, nearly fainted.
"What on earth—" began one elderly gentleman.
"As I live—-" exclaimed the other.
Neither got any further, but both burst into a hearty fit of laughing.
Mrs. Morgan, Tom's mother, found voice first.
"Tom," she cried, "who or what have you gotten there?"
"Well, mother, I couldn't say—at least, not exactly. He is a sort of mitherless bairn—well, not exactly that either, because he has a mother, but no father. And you see how poor the child is. Look at his naked feet, mother and children all, and we so happy and jolly and everything. And this Christmas eve, too, mother. I thought we might—that is, I might—do some little thing for him—a supper, or anything like that—and then send him home."
"My own good-hearted Tom!" said the old lady, smiling. "And did you pick him up in the street?"
"No, not exactly in the street, mother. Fact is, he was in the grounds, and looking in at the window."
"In the grounds, Tom! Oh, do you think he was after the spoons, or—
"No, no, dear mother," interrupted the stalwart son. "He was peeping in at the dancing and the Christmas tree. He said the children were just like fairies."
"Droll boy. What is his name? Jack?—When did you see fairies?"
"When I was a god, big lady."
"When you were what?"
"He means," said Mr. Tom Morgan, "when he had a seat in the gallery of the theatre at a pantomime, I suppose."
"Oh yes.—Are you a good boy?"
"No, ma'am; very wicked. For 'there is none that doeth good and sinneth not, no, not one.'"
The elderly men-people behind laughed loudly and heartily.
"What do you think of that, Dawson?" said one, nudging the other in the ribs.
"Good, good!—Capital, Mrs. Morgan!"
But Miss Scraggs said, "Dreadful!"
"What are you going to be when you grow up to manhood?" continued Mrs. Morgan.
"I'm not quite sure, big lady. I think I'd like to be a bu'glar."
It is no wonder that Miss Scraggs screamed, or that "big lady" lifted up her hands.
"Oh, take the dreadful creature away!" cried Miss Scraggs; "he may kill us all before morning."
But when Tom Morgan laughingly explained that poor little Jack knew not what he was saying, and had no idea what a burglar was, he was restored to favour.
"Well, Tom," said the elder Mr. Morgan, who was Tom's father, "take your little sans-culotte away and give him a feed. I'll warrant he won't say 'no' to that on a Christmas eve."
"And some dood tlothes too," lisped a wee maiden of six—"some dood tlothes, Uncle Tom."
Then Jack made a bow such as he had seen actors outside caravans in the Green make. He took off the remains of his glengarry solemnly with his right hand, put his left hand to his heart, and bent his body low.
"I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, as Tom led Jack off, "that isn't any ordinary boy. Blame me if I don't think there are the makings of a little gentleman about him. What think you?"
"Well, Dawson, you never can tell what a boy of that age may turn to or be. He might turn out a burning and a shining light in church or state, he might become a leader of armies, or he might give—Jack Ketch a job."
* * * * *
Young Tom Morgan—for he was not above four-and-twenty, although his beard was so big and strong—was the younger of two sons who both lived with their parents, the house being very large. The elder son, Grant Morgan, was married, and occupied the northern wing with his wife and three children. The wee lass who had proposed that Jack or Johnnie should have "dood tlothes" was the youngest; then there was a boy of eight and one of eleven.
When Tom returned to the servants' hall, he succeeded in interesting every one there, even the somewhat supercilious butler, in Johnnie Greybreeks; and between the lot of them they succeeded in working quite a transformation in the boy. In fact, they took great fun in doing it.
"Ulric's clothes will just fit him, cook," said Tom.
"Yes, sir; but—"
"Oh, bother the 'but'! this is Christmas eve, cook. There, now; you take him into your own room and see to his hair and his poor little feet. I'll be back in a minute."
Half an hour after this nobody would have taken Johnnie for the same boy, but for his pale face and sad, dark, wondering eyes.
"I'm not going to go away with all these grand things on, am I, sir?" he asked.
"Oh yes, you are."
"I can go to church now!" cried Jack jubilantly. "I tried one time before; but they thought I'd come after the coppers, and chased me away. O sir, mother and Sissie will be pleased; you've made such a happy boy of me!"
Johnnie began bundling up his old clothes in his red handkerchief as he spoke; and when he departed, about an hour after this, he took that bundle with him, and another too, containing more provisions and nice things than would do for several days' dinner.
"Now, Johnnie Greybreeks—" began Tom Morgan.
"Oh, if you please, sir," said Johnnie, "that is only my sobriquet."
"Well, Jack, then," laughed Tom, "I'm going to take you to have a look at the Christmas tree, and it is just possible you may have something off it for your Siss—eh?"
Jack's heart was too full to speak, and there were tears in his eyes.
Everybody said that Miss Scraggs was cocking her cap at young Tom Morgan, though everybody took care to add that she was old enough to be his grand—well, his aunt at least. Tom could not stand her. Not that he hated her—he was too good-hearted to hate anybody—but he just gave her a wide berth, as we say at sea.
But when he returned to the drawing-room with the intention of placing his little protégé in a corner to look at the fun for a few minutes, Tom had his revenge, for he had not felt pleased at the way Miss Scraggs talked to or at the poor ragged boy.
The spinster lady happened to be standing near to the door when Tom entered. She did not see Jack just at once, but as soon as she did she smiled most condescendingly on him.
"How do you do, my little friend? I know your face, but can't recollect where I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.—Oh, goodness gracious!" she cried immediately after; "it's the horrid little burglar boy!"
It was rude of Mr. Dawson and Tom Morgan to laugh so loudly, but they could not help it. As for poor Jack, he crimsoned to the very roots of his hair. I think there is always some good about a boy who can blush. However, Jack never forgot Miss Scraggs. But he thought no more about it for the present, because wee Violet Morgan tripped up to speak to him. There was no pride about Violet.
"So," she said, "you's dot you dood tlothes on. You is so pletty now I tould almost tiss you."
"Violet!" screamed Miss Scraggs; "come here this instant."
But Violet had a will of her own; besides, it was Christmas eve, and she had a right to do whatever she pleased.
"I won't tome there this instant," she said, stamping her tiny foot; "this is Tlismas eve, and 'ittle dirls can do as they pleases, Miss Staggs."
But all eyes were now drawn towards Violet and Jack, and there was momentary silence.
"I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, loud enough for every one to hear, "did ever you, in all your life, see such a remarkable resemblance?"
"'Pon honour, Dawson, I never did!"
"Why, Violet and that little fellow might be sister and brother!"
Same contour, same hair, same eyes, same everything.
"Hush! hush!" said Mr. Morgan the elder; "remember the boy's station in life."
Jack drew back into his corner a little abashed. Half an hour afterwards, when Tom went round that way, the child stole his hand softly into the brown-bearded big man's.
"Take me away now," he beseeched; "I'm tired."
The fun was then getting fast and furious; but Tom and the boy slipped out as quietly as they had come, and in a few minutes more Johnnie Greybreeks found himself once more out in the snow. As he passed through the gate, he paused to look back.
"Heigh-ho!" he sighed; "I've been in fairy-land. What a story I should have to tell mother and Siss! only, long before I get home I shall wake and find it is all a dream."
Then away he went, feathering through the snow, and keeping a good hold on his bundle, but nevertheless expecting every minute to awake and find himself in his own bed.
* * * * *
It is needless to say that Jack didn't awake, and that his adventure wasn't a dream; and it is quite impossible to describe the astonishment of his mother and sister when he told all his wonderful story.
That Christmas dinner, next day, was the best and most delightful ever Jack or his little sister Maggie could remember partaking of since they had come to reside at No. 73 Summer Loaning.
Summer Loaning, indeed! what a cruel misnomer! Well, to be sure, there might have been a time away back in the past when this street was a kind of loaning, or even a lover's lane leading right away out into the cool country. Green hedges might have grown where now stood houses gaunt and grey and grim; hedges of wild hawthorn, trailed over in summer-time with dog-roses pink and red; hedges in which birds in early spring may have sung—the sweet wee linnet, the spotted mavis, the mellow blackbird, or madly-lilting chaffinch. Trees, too, may have waved their branches over Summer Loaning—the rustling ash and the oak and chestnut, and the spreading rowan to which the poet sings and says,—
"Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring,
Thy flowers the simmer's pride;
There wasna sic a bonnie tree
In a' the country-side."
Yes, this may have been the case long, long ago; but now, alas! the change.
Summer Loaning went straggling up a hill, or brae, for fully half a mile, and one glance at the street would have convinced you that, although not a slum by any means, it was the abode of the hard-working poor. People lived here on landings and flats, many families occupying but two rooms, many having to content themselves with only one. The common stairways, generally of stone, went winding up and up from closes—called in England courts—often five or even six stories high. If the landlord of these tenements happened to be a good sort of a fellow, then the staircases might be lighted in winter by tiny jets of gas no bigger than farthing rush-lights; but as often as not they were shrouded in darkness and gloom, and the dwellers in these stone castles had to "glamp" their way up, as it is called, by feeling along the damp, cold walls.
There was poverty enough, though, in Summer Loaning when sickness came, or when the want of work induced it; for trouble haunts the abodes of the hungry and needful. Many a little coffin, in times like these, was manoeuvred down those steep stone stairs, and borne quietly away to the cemetery or Necropolis, which was not a great distance off. Usually a few neighbours went along, and then a kind of funeral procession would be formed. But often, when the coffin was very tiny indeed, the father himself would trudge along with it under his arm, accompanied, perhaps, by his sad-eyed wife; both dressed in black clothes that, more than likely, had been borrowed from kindly neighbours for the occasion. Yes, I said kindly neighbours; for the poor to the poor are ever kind.
This was the sort of neighbourhood in which Jack Mackenzie had hitherto spent most of his young days. And hard indeed his life had been, pinched for food, ragged in clothes, and often cold as well as hungry. Jack had never been to school in his life; but his mother, though in poverty now, had seen far better days, and right well she knew the advantage of a good education in enabling either boy or man to do battle with the world, and so she spent half her time in teaching her two children. It was stitch, stitch, stitch with her now all day long just to get ends to meet. From her poor, thin face you might have said she was not long for this world, and that while sewing at a shirt she was making her shroud. But even while at work, Jack and his sister would be busy at their books, or with their slates.
They lived in one room, and every article in it betokened poverty, although all was cleanly. The ferns and flowers in the window above the "jaw-box," where water was drawn and toilets performed, threw a little of nature into this poor apartment, and a solitary canary made it even cheerful, for he sang as joyously as if his cage had been of gilded wire and all his surroundings the best in the city. Neither of the children was unhappy, and they dearly loved their mother. They never grumbled, either, at their scanty fare—and, O dear reader, it was scanty enough at times. A little oatmeal porridge washed down with a halfpennyworth of blue skimmed milk was all their breakfast; and their supper, too, was much the same.
But Jack was a brave provider, and a capital hand at marketing. No one knew better than he how to make a bargain, or how far six or seven pence would go in the purchase of meal, coals, herrings, and a little tea and sugar for mother. In fact, the whole outdoor management of the family devolved upon little Johnnie Greybreeks, as everybody on the great staircase called him. And very proud indeed he was to be looked upon as purser or paymaster. Often his sister went out with him on his foraging expeditions; but although she was some years older than Johnnie, she had not the boy's knowledge of the world and of mankind. It seems almost ridiculous to talk of a boy of eight years of age knowing anything about the world; but poverty sharpens the wits, I do assure you.
It is said that poverty is a hard taskmaster. Well, perhaps,—and doubtless it is a very exacting one; but, nevertheless, some of the greatest geniuses, generals, statesmen, and thinkers have been brought up in just such schools as Johnnie's, and have been all the better for it. So poor boys must never let down their hearts, but just work, work, work; read, read, read; and think, think, think. Remember the story of Dick Whittington. It is only a kind of fairy romance, you may tell me. Ah! but there is a deal of truth in it; and some very poor lads have become presidents even of the great American republic, and a president is a cut above Lord Mayor of London. So, hurrah! who cares for poverty? Don't forget those spirited lines of Robbie Burns, the great Scottish poet. Yes, Scottish poet, but the British people's poet as well, and the poet of the people of every country where true freedom reigns.
"Is there for honest poverty
That hides his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
* * * *
"What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er so poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!"
CHAPTER III.
MRS. MALONY'S WEDDING-RING.
Poor Mrs. Mackenzie's story had been a very sad one. And it was one that is, alas! too common. It does not take long to tell.
She had been well educated and delicately reared in the lap of wealth and luxury. She was an old man's only child, and her father considered there was nothing on earth too good for her. When the girl was about sixteen, her father was in the heyday of success in life. A speculator he was, and lived in a beautiful house on the Borders, and on the banks of the winding Tweed. He was very much looked up to, as wealthy men generally are, simply because they are wealthy. But to have seen Mr. Noble's house and grounds, his retinue of servants and his carriages and horses, would have caused you to think, as everybody else thought, "Here is a man that can never be moved."
At this time, or soon after, he had a winter establishment in Edinburgh, and used to give as good parties as any lord in the city; and Euphemia—his daughter, and she had no mother—used to be the presiding goddess. She was very beautiful; she is beautiful even as we know her now, though poverty and want have hollowed her cheeks, and given a lustre to her dark eyes that her good neighbours on the stair say is hardly "canny."
Euphemia, when only seventeen, had several suitors for her hand, and might have made what is called a very good match. But there was one she cared for above them all. He was a dashing young officer of a Highland regiment at that time stationed in the Castle.
The two became engaged.
Lieutenant Mackenzie was of very good family, and would one day be wealthy; only just at that time he had nothing but his pay, his prospects, and the allowance his mother made him. He couldn't afford to marry for some time. What did that matter? they were both young, and could wait.
So away went the gallant 93rd to India, and with it went Lieutenant Donald Mackenzie, with hope and love to buoy up his heart.
He had not been away a year before a crisis came, and then a crash—oh, such a terrible crash! I suppose Mr. Noble had got too daring, or too something or other, in his speculations. I really do not know all the outs and ins of the matter, but I do know that his house and all his property, down even to Euphemia's pet canaries, were sold, and that after this poor Mr. Noble—poor now indeed—had barely enough to pay the passage-money for himself and daughter to America, where, with the help of some friends or distant relatives, he intended to start afresh. Just think of it—an old man of seventy starting life afresh!
Well, the end seemed to have come, indeed, when Euphie's father died. She was a brave Scotch lassie, however, and would not give in; so she wrote to India to Donald—her Donald now no longer—releasing him from his engagement, then she hired herself out as a governess.
Donald's regiment fought in Afghanistan and the borders of India, and he was wounded. He lost his left arm, brave fellow, and was sent home to be invalided, and retired.
A whole year passed away, and Donald lived at his mother's Highland home—Drumglen—an estate that had been left entirely to her, to will or to do with it as she pleased. Donald was the only son, and a very great favourite. She, the mother, too, was exceedingly jealous of his attentions to any fair maiden that she did not approve of. In fact, she had her eye upon a lady who would make a capital wife for her son. A little older, it is true. What did that matter, the mother told herself; she would be all the more fitted to advise and guide her son through life. Rather dark and stately, too, she was, not to say forbidding. But she owned broad Highland acres, and moorlands, forests, and glens. The absence of beauty, Donald's mother thought, would be an advantage rather than otherwise, for Donald could not well be jealous of a wife ugly enough to stop the church clock.
But, woe is me! Donald still languished and prayed for Euphemia Noble. And one day in Glasgow, lo, he met her! She was only a governess to some very young children. What of that? All Donald's love returned in double force, and he determined to marry her.
It is the old story: the girl consented at last. Then Donald tried to win his mother over. But that stern Highland dowager was inexorable. If he married this wretched governess—doubtless some designing minx and hussy—he should never again darken the doors of Drumglen.
Donald looked at her in sadness and sorrow, and though one sleeve was empty, a very gallant and soldierly man he was. But there was no relenting in his tall, stern, and dignified mother.
"Good-bye."
That was all Donald either said or sighed. He just turned on his heel and walked away as he was—and never once looked back.
The mother gazed after him through the window, till the trees hid him from her view; then she shut herself up in her rooms for days, and no one, not even her maid, knew all that proud woman suffered during this time.
After her marriage with her one-armed soldier, Euphemia and he lived in a tiny cottage down the Clyde. They were so poor that it was difficult indeed to get ends to meet, even in a semi-genteel kind of way. But they were rich in each other's love. And so they struggled on and on for years.
Alas that I should have to tell it! Lieutenant Mackenzie in an evil hour was induced to enter the betting ring. From that hour his downfall may have been dated. It is too sad a story to tell. Instead of the pretty little cottage on the banks of the romantic Clyde, his wife and he were soon occupying rooms in a somewhat squalid quarter of great Glasgow.
How it happened I do not know, but one evening Donald was missing, and he did not return all the next day; but in the gloom of the gloaming a strange man called on Mrs. Mackenzie, and when she saw him she burst at once into an agony of grief that cannot easily be described.
It ended in her leaving her two children to the charge of a neighbour and going away in a cab with the stranger—to a mortuary.
Yes, that was he—that was Donald, pale and draggled and dead; her Donald, with his poor, empty sleeve pinned across his breast!
Oh the pity of it! oh the anguish! But there, the curtain drops on that act, and I am glad it does. Let me just add that ill-health after this reduced Mrs. Mackenzie more and more, till we find her living in this one room, her boy and girl alone to cheer her, and give her some little excuse for hanging on to life.
But compared with many of the large houses in many parts of Glasgow, No. 73 Summer Loaning was very quiet.
Yes, it was quiet, except perhaps on a Saturday night, when, it must be conceded, one or two working-men did come up the long stone stair singing to themselves. Although a lady by birth and education, Mrs. Mackenzie, in her one room, did not keep all her neighbours at bay. They called her the "shuestress," which is a kind of Scotch for dressmaker. They knew she had seen far better days, and that she was poorer now than any of them, because she was unable to do much work. As the song says,—
"The poor make no new friends,
But ah! they love the better far
The few the Father sends."
Now, it might be thought by some that, for sake of her children, Mrs. Mackenzie ought to have written to her late husband's mother or rich relations, and asked for help.
Asked for help? No, a thousand times no; that would have been begging! Mrs. Mackenzie was far too proud to do that. Sooner would she die. But her pride did not forbid her from courting the companionship of the neighbours on the stair. If they were, like herself, poor, or not so poor, they were honest. And really neighbours like these need to be friendly. If you are in the grip of grim poverty, and sick and ill, you will find few more attentive to you, and few whose attentions you will more readily suffer, than those of neighbours who are just as poor as you.
Well-meaning ladies sometimes called upon the Mackenzies with bundles of tracts and Pharisaical advice, and out of politeness Mrs. Mackenzie suffered them. When, however, about a year and two months after little Jack's adventure at the Morgans', his poor mother fell sick, and was confined for weeks to bed, it wasn't to her rich visitors in sealskin sacks and gloves of kid she had to look for comfort and help.
Luckily, in expectation of just such an illness as this, Mrs. Mackenzie had saved a little money. But there lived on the stair immediately below a Mrs. Malony, whose husband was a blacksmith, who sometimes, sad to say, took a dram. He wasn't by any means a bad fellow, however, and often took Johnnie Greybreeks off with him for a whole day to the smithy to see the sparks fly, and always shared his dinner with Johnnie. The blacksmith had no family, and his wife used sometimes to go out charing, so her hands were hard and rough. But her heart wasn't.
Mrs. Malony would often come up to borrow a flat-iron or a "brander," or even a red herring for her man's supper, when hard up. On the other hand, if she happened to make a good bargain down town on a Saturday night, she would never forget to bring "the shuestress" some portion of it—a piece of fish, a few potatoes, a couple of sausages, or a bundle of greens. Often, too, in the long, dreary winter forenights, Mrs. Malony would spend hours in her neighbour's room. She would at times bring her husband also, when he was washed and tidied up; and he did nothing but sit in a corner and smoke and smile. But Johnnie and his sister would "hurkle" down by the fire, nursing the cat between them while they listened to Mrs. Malony's wonderful tales of Ireland and the down-trodden Irish. Evenings like these passed pleasantly enough away.
The children had a younger neighbour, though, a pale-faced, roll-shouldered boy who lived in the garret with his old mother, and used to play the fiddle on the street to support her. Very sweetly he did play, too, though his airs were very sad.
Little Peter, as he was called, used to come downstairs frequently to tea, and bring his fiddle. Well, the tea was almost an imaginary entertainment. It was a delightful sort of a make-belief. To be sure, there was bread and a scraping of butter, and thin, thin tea, with but little milk and less sugar; but then there were oyster-shells and round "chuckie-stanes" to take the place of cakes and currant-buns and all kinds of nice things. And with Maggie presiding in such a dignified and lady-like way, it was quite easy for Little Peter to imagine that an oyster-shell was a slice of delicious tea-cake, or a "chuckie-stane" a pasty.
Then there were really more laughing and fun at these make-believe tea-parties than if everything had been edible.
But that fiddle of Little Peter's was real. There was no mistake about the musical part of the entertainment. But when poor Mrs. Mackenzie fell ill, the sealskin-sack people came but seldom. It might be something catching, you know. The young minister was kind, however, though somewhat too solemn for a sick-room.
It would have been a sad and dreary time, then, for the little family but for their kindly neighbours. Poor Mrs. Malony, with her rough, red hand and her plain face, became a sort of a saint. She allowed Malony to take his "pick" of dinner out of doors, and made him always take Johnnie Greybreeks with him, and keep him all day—there were no Board schools in those days, you know. Malony had also to make his own cup of coffee when he returned at night, buying a polony and a roll on the way to eat with it. But Malony had his pipe, and took things very easy. How gentle Mrs. Malony was with the poor invalid; how softly she spread the bed and softened the hard, small pillows! Ah, it was indeed a treat to have her there. She was very plain-spoken, however. Here, for example, was a specimen of the kind of verbal comfort she used to give Mrs. Mackenzie:—
"An' sure, Mrs. Mackenzee, ye needn't be throublin' yourself aboot dyin' at all. For whin ye're dead and in the soilent grave, it's meself and Malony will be lookin' after the childer. Indade I'll bring thim up as me own, and it's the beautiful blacksmith that Johnnie will make; so niver be grievin', but die whin ye plaze wid an aisy mind, an' sure it's the angels will be waitin' for ye evermore."
Was it any wonder that as she listened to consolation like this, and her mind reverted to her father's beautiful home, or to her life with Donald in the wee cottage by the banks of the bonnie Clyde, tears stole down her pale cheeks? But then she would say to herself, "Oh, how ungrateful I am!" and so she would seize and press Mrs. Malony's kindly hand, and cry,—
"O dear Mrs. Malony, how good you are to me! I'm sure I don't deserve it."
"Is it good ye're sayin', Mrs. Mackenzee? Sure I need all me goodness. An' after all, isn't it the same you'd be doin' for me if I was sick and ill? There now, don't cry. Indade it's just as wake [weak] as a baby ye are."
* * * * *
The young doctor was very attentive, but one evening he left the bedside looking more thoughtful than usual. Mrs. Mackenzie seemed to be dozing, so after keeping his fingers on her pale wrist for a time, he had let the hand drop gently on the coverlet. He looked at Mrs. Malony as he passed out, and she followed him to the landing.
"I don't think," he said, "we can keep her."
"Och and och!" cried Mrs. Malony, with her rough apron to her eyes. "Och and och, dhoctor dear, is it come to this?—so soon and sudden."
"I fear," he said, "she cannot last long."
"And is there no physic ye can think av at all, at all, that—"
"Oh, hang physic!" cried the doctor. "It isn't physic she wants, Mrs. Malony, but good wine and beef-tea."
"An' would the tay and the wine take her from the bhrink av the grave, dhoctor dear?"
"It would give her a chance. Don't leave her, Mrs. Malony; don't leave her! I fear I can do little more."
Mrs. Malony went back to the quiet room. Her patient seemed sleeping, and so she moved about like a mouse, lest she should disturb her.
The spring sun was shining in through the window and falling on a bunch of early flowers that Little Peter had brought the invalid, because he knew she loved them. It fell also on the canary's cage. Even Dick had given up singing lately, as if he knew there was sadness and grief in the air.
Mrs. Malony drew the blind a little way down, then left the room. She stole downstairs on tiptoe. Maggie was there, keeping house.
"Go up," said Mrs. Malony, "as quate as a weasel, and sit by your mother till I come back."
Poor Maggie had been crying, but she now did as she was told.
Mrs. Malony went straight to her cupboard, now her clothes-cupboard, and very soon made up a bundle.
"Och and och," she said to herself, "they won't go far at all, at all."
They were the woman's Sunday clothes for all that, and she meant to take them to the poor man's banker at the sign of the three golden balls.
Then her eyes fell upon her stubby left hand.
"Set you up wid a gold ring indade, Mrs. Malony," she said, "when a brass one would do for a toime! Ill-luck? I won't belave it."
A tear fell on the ring nevertheless, for it brought back memories of happy days of the half-forgotten past. No wonder then she sighed as she screwed it off.
"You've been crying, Mrs. Malony," said the burly pawnbroker as she laid the ring on the counter.
Then the tears sprang afresh to her eyes, and she told him all the story.
"Put that ring back on your finger again this moment, Mrs. Malony," said the man. "I'm going to let you have just double on the dresses. Oh yes, they're worth it. I won't lose by it. Now off you go and buy the wine."
"Lord love you, Mr. Grant," said the poor woman as she picked up the money. "An' I belave it's yourself that's saved a loife this blissid day."
* * * * *
When Mrs. Malony returned, she found Maggie silently weeping by her mother's bed. Then a great fear got possession of her heart. Had her sacrifice been all in vain? Was the invalid gone? She hastily deposited her purchases on the little table and approached the bed.
Mrs. Mackenzie looked very still and beautiful. She might have been made of wax, or her features chiselled from purest marble.
Mrs. Malony touched her hand that still lay on the coverlet. It was cold. She bent over her, and could hear no breathing.
Was as this indeed death?
CHAPTER IV.
"I'LL BE A SAILOR OR A SOLDIER."
As she bent over the bed in grief and sorrow, Mrs. Malony was rewarded and startled at the same time. For the poor patient heaved a sigh, and slowly opened her eyes.
Then a faint smile stole over her lips.
"I had such a happy dream!" she whispered.
"Hush, dear; don't spake another word."
It wasn't the first, nor the second patient either, that Mrs. Malony had nursed, so she had all her wits about her.
She knew that at this very moment Mrs. Mackenzie's life was hanging by the merest thread, and there was no time to lose.
She quickly squeezed some of the juice of the meat into a saucer, and mixing it with a little wine, put it tea-spoonful after tea-spoonful into her patient's mouth.
Mrs. Mackenzie slept after this, a real not a dreamful sleep, and towards evening she awoke refreshed. A cupful of warm beef-tea was ready, and she smiled her thanks as she sipped it.
All that night Mrs. Malony sat up and nursed her, and when next day the doctor came, he was more than satisfied.
"She will do now," he told Mrs. Malony on the landing—"do for a time. If she could only be got down the Clyde to a cottage hospital I know of—Well, I'll do what I can."
"Do, sorr; and may heaven be your portion evermore!"
* * * * *
"I'll tell you how I think it can be managed," said Dr. Gregory, a few days after this. "There is a cottage hospital, or rather a home for poor convalescents, down the water. It is partly supported by voluntary contributions, but the patients have to pay a little themselves."
"But," interrupted Mrs. Malony, "the crayture here is as poor as a church-mouse, sorr, and not able to pay. Och, and och!"
"Wait a minute, Mrs. Malony. I have noticed how deft and handy little Maggie here is. She seems really cut out for a nurse. Now, at the home they want just such a wee lass, and she would have food and keep, and wages enough to maintain her mother at the hospital.—Would you like to go, dear?"
"Oh," cried Maggie, "I would be so delighted."
"All right then; I'll see about it at once."
And the doctor did see about it. For a fortnight, however, if not more, Mrs. Mackenzie was not strong enough to be moved. But during all this time she was slowly improving. This was perhaps as much from the fact that she now had hope as from the extra nourishment she received.
Little Johnnie Greybreeks, however, much to his sorrow, was to remain in Glasgow, and live for a time with the Malonies.
Johnnie kept up very bravely, though. He wouldn't have shed a tear before his mother or sister, not even when the day of parting came, for anything. But when in his little bed at night—ah! then I must confess the lad did give way to grief. We must remember he was little more than a child after all.