The Thorogood Family, R. M. Ballantyne [ebook reader library .txt] 📗

We turn now to a battlefield, but we won’t affect to believe that the reader does not know who is one of the chief heroes of that field.

Robert Thorogood is his name. Bob does not look very heroic, however, when we introduce him, for he is sound asleep with his mouth open, his legs sprawling, his eyes tight shut, his bed the ground, his pillow the root of a tree, and his curtains the branches thereof. The only warlike point about Bob is the trumpet-sound that issues from his upturned nose.

Bob’s sentiments about soldiering are queer. His comrades laugh at him a good deal about them, but they never scoff, for Bob is strong and full of fire; besides he is a pattern of promptitude and obedience, so they respect him. Moreover, he is a kindly and jovial man, therefore they are fond of him.

The battlefield of which we write was in the East. The fight had been between the British and Russians. The British had been victorious, and slept on the field.

When the bugles sounded the next morning they stopped the nasal trumpets everywhere, and Corporal Robert Thorogood was the first man of all the host to “fall in”—which he did by himself. But he was not long alone; others quickly joined him.

The companies were soon numbered, proved, formed into column, and marched off. Then there was a short halt for breakfast.

“Why, you’re not half a soldier, Bob,” said a hearty young comrade, while hastily eating his rations. “I saw you spare a Russian officer yesterday after he had cut off the little finger of your left hand.”

“What good would it have done to have killed him?” asked Bob, with a smile, as he looked at the bloody stump, which had just been dressed by the surgeon; “the poor fellow’s leg was broken by a bullet the moment after he had done it, so he could do us no more harm in this campaign. Then, his death would not make my little finger grow on again. Besides, I don’t like killing men.”

“Why did you join the army, then, if you did not do so for the honour and glory of fighting, (which means killing), our enemies?”

“Ah, you may ask that indeed! I mistook my profession, I suppose. However, I’ll do my duty while I remain in the service.”

As he spoke, firing was heard in the distance, and the men were ordered to fall in hastily before breakfast had been quite finished.

The firing increased, and soon the advance guard was seen falling back in good order over the brow of a small hill or slope. Rifle balls began to fly overhead, and a few to drop unpleasantly near the troops. Suddenly our Corporal was startled by an appalling cry behind him. He turned quickly, and saw the young soldier with whom he had been so recently conversing lying on his back stone dead, with the blood oozing from a hole between his eyes.

There was no time to think, however. His battalion was ordered to the front to defend a narrow rocky pass which the enemy were attempting to carry by storm. Twice already they had made the assault, and had almost succeeded on the second attempt. A third assault was being made when Thorogood’s company came up. They rushed forward just as the Russians crowned the heights and were driving the British back. The reinforcements checked them, but did not turn the scale at first.

There was one gigantic Russian who stood towering above his fellows with clubbed rifle, furiously knocking down all who came within his reach, like Horatius or one of the other heroes of ancient Rome. At him Corporal Thorogood sprang, grasping his rifle by the muzzle as he ran, and whirling it on high. The Russian saw him coming. The two rifles met with a crash, and flew into splinters. Bob dropped his weapon, grasped his adversary by the throat, thrust him back, and bore him headlong to the ground. This incident turned the scale. A cheer followed. The British swept forward with such irresistible fury that the men in front were thrust upon the foe in a mass, Bob and his enemy being turned heels over head in the rush. A well-sustained fire scattered the foe like chaff, and those who had been thrown down were taken prisoners. Among them was the gigantic Russian, with the Corporal still holding his collar tight in his iron grasp.

“Well done, my man!” said the Colonel of the regiment as he rode past Bob.

The Colonel was a man of few words. He said no more on that occasion, but every one knew that he would not forget the man who had so bravely turned the tide of battle that day.

Bob, however, did not escape altogether unhurt. He had been rather severely wounded, and afterwards had to spend a considerable time in hospital. As his wound did not prevent him from moving about, he soon became a valuable assistant to the surgeons and nurses in the hospital.

“Ah!” said he one night, when smoothing the pillow and attending to the wants of a severely wounded soldier, “this comes more natural to me. It suits me better than fighting.”

“I wish you were one of the regular nurses, Corporal,” said one of the surgeons heartily; “you do everything so thoroughly, and with such a will.”

But Bob was not allowed to remain long at his peaceful work. Being a healthy and temperate man he soon recovered, and ere long found himself in the trenches before Sebastopol.

It was winter. One bleak, raw morning, just before daybreak, Bob plodded down with his party through slush and mud to take his turn of fighting before the great fortress. It was bitterly cold and dark. Some of the men were grumbling terribly.

“Ah, then, won’t you shut your ’tatie traps?” said a big Irishman, who had won the Victoria Cross the week before for conspicuous gallantry.

“We engaged for this sort o’ work, lads, when we ’listed,” remarked Bob, “an’ are paid for it; so let’s stick to our bargain wi’ the Queen, an’ do our duty well.”

“Troth, that’s well said,” remarked the Irishman. “‘What’s worth doin’ at all is worth doin’ well,’ as my ould grandmother used to say when she whacked me.”

There was a faint laugh at this, and the grumbling ceased.

“Come, Corporal Free,” said Bob, “as we’ve got to sit here till morning you’d better tell us one of your far-famed stories to make the time pass pleasantly—at least as pleasantly as circumstances will allow.”

“Ay, Jacob Free,” cried the Irishman, “that’s well said. Give us that one about yoursilf whin ye was a schoolboy. A good story, you know, is niver a bit the worse o’ bein’ twice towld.”

“Hear! hear!” cried Bob, “come along now, Corporal, an’ give us the schoolboy’s story.”

Corporal Jacob Free, who was a gentlemanly man, somewhat advanced in years, said he would rather tell about some one else than himself, but this only made his comrades more determined.

“Well, then,” said he, at last, “since you will have it, I’ll give you what Bob Thorogood has named:— The Schoolboy’s Story.

“It was with an intense hatred of lessons and books that I began my school-days. Not an unusual experience, I believe, with boys. My parents were poor—though I have every reason to conclude that they were scrupulously honest; hence I began my school career rather late in life—at about twelve years of age. But previously to that, my much-loved, much-abused, and long-suffering mother had taught me to read and write, so that my brain was not altogether unfurnished when I went to school.

“It was a village school, in a remote district of Scotland; the master was a tall, thin, cadaverous and kindly man, of considerable attainments, and with a strong affection for boys. Had it been otherwise he must have died younger—of a broken heart. I loved that man—but I worried him. A pang of toothache-like remorse shoots through me still when I think of the sorrows I caused that good man, but the pang is mitigated by the reflection that I lived to make amends to him.

“I liked the school-days well enough at first; chiefly because I devoted myself entirely to play and refused work. Besides, there was something amusing in the novelty of the thing, and there was much interest in the mischief that could be done in school; also in the deeds of daring and violence that could be done out of it, with the able assistance of a score or so of boys of almost every age and size. But the liking moderated with experience, especially when the master, having tried every method of encouragement and persuasion in vain, adopted the trying method of keeping me in during play-hours. To escape this punishment I tried to learn a little.

“I was a bully when I went to school, being big and strong for my age. I mention the fact with shame, but it is some satisfaction to be able to add that I was not a bully when I left it. My chief enemy, and, afterwards, dearest friend, saved me from that state. He and I were the biggest and strongest boys in the school. His name was Tom Turner.

“In nearly all respects Turner and I were opposites. He was clever and studious; I stupid and idle. He was gentle and kind—especially to little boys; I rough and disobliging. He was usually dux, I invariably booby.

“‘You shouldn’t be so hard on little Spinks,’ he said to me in a quiet way, one day in the playground, ‘he can’t defend himself, you know.’

“‘You let me an’ little Spinks alone,’ I replied angrily, yet with some hesitation, for I did not feel quite sure that I could thrash Turner. I expected a sharp rejoinder, but he merely smiled and turned away.

“From that date I set Tom Turner down as a coward, and worried Spinks more than ever, just to spite him.

“One day I had been harder than usual on little Spinks, who was a mere human spider—all legs and arms, with a roundish body—when Tom called me aside and quietly began to lecture me, just as if he had been a grown-up man. I kept down my indignation at first, having made up my mind to have a quarrel with him, but the amiable tone of his voice subdued me.

“‘You should consider, Jacob,’ he went on, taking no notice of my flushed face and angry frown, ‘what a poor little squirrel of a thing Spinks is, and what a great powerful fellow you are. It’s not fair, you know, and he’s a kindly, harmless sort of a fellow too. Besides, if his poor mother knew how you treat him it would almost break her heart, for she’s very delicate, and he is her only child. You know I visited her last year, on my way from London, in passing the village where she lives. You’ve been there, haven’t you?’

“‘No,’ I replied sulkily.

“‘Oh, man, Jacob! you would enjoy a visit to Spinks’s home,’ returned Tom, still taking no notice of my state of mind, ‘it’s such a splendid place for trout-fishing, with a burn full of the deep oily pools you are so fond of, and lots of sea-trout; and Mrs Spinks is so kind and jolly—though so delicate; just like little Spinks himself, but of course a good deal larger.’

“From this point Turner went on to describe his visit in such a cheery way, that I was