Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan, R. M. Ballantyne [free ebook reader for iphone txt] 📗

We do not, however, mean to draw the reader again through the old scene, further than to point out that, among the many faces that loom over these bulwarks, five are familiar, namely, those of our friends Miles Milton, William Armstrong, Moses Pyne, Stevenson, and Simkin. Jack Molloy is not with them, because he has preferred to remain in Egypt, believing himself to be capable of still further service to Queen and country.

A feeling of great disappointment oppresses Miles and his friend Armstrong, for they fail to recognise in the eager crowd those whom they had expected to see.

“My mother must be ill,” muttered Miles.

“So must my Emmy,” murmured his friend.

There was a very anxious little widow on the jetty who could not manage to distinguish individuals in the sea of brown faces and white helmets, because the tears in her eyes mixed them all up most perplexingly. It is not surprising that Miles had totally failed to recognise the mother of old in the unfamiliar widow’s weeds—especially when it is considered that his was a shrinking, timid mother, who kept well in the background of the demonstrative crowd. Their eyes met at last, however, and those of the widow opened wide with surprise at the change in the son, while those of the son were suddenly blinded with tears at the change in the mother.

Then they met—and such a meeting!—in the midst of men and women, elbowing, crowding, embracing, exclaiming, rejoicing, chaffing, weeping! It was an awkward state of things, but as every one else was in the same predicament, and as all were more or less swallowed up in their own affairs, Miles and his mother were fain to make the best of it. They retired under the partial shelter of a bulkhead, where block-tackles and nautical débris interfered with their footing, and tarry odours regaled their noses, and there, in semi-publicity, they interchanged their first confidences.

Suddenly Mrs Milton observed a tall young fellow standing not far off, looking wistfully at the bewildering scene, apparently in deep dejection.

“Who is that, Miles?” she asked.

“Why, that’s my comrade, chum, and friend, whom I have so often written about, Willie Armstrong. Come. I will introduce you.”

“Oh! how selfish of me!” cried the widow, starting forward and not waiting for the introduction; “Mr Armstrong—I’m so sorry; forgive me! I promised to let you know that your wife waits to meet you at the Soldiers’ Institute.”

The difference between darkness and light seemed to pass over the soldier’s face, then a slight shade of anxiety clouded it. “She is not ill, is she?”

“No, no, quite well,” said Mrs Milton, with a peculiar smile; “but she thought it wiser not to risk a meeting on the jetty as the east wind is sharp. I’m so sorry I did not tell you at once, but I selfishly thought only—”

“Pray make no apology, madam,” interrupted Armstrong. “I’m so thankful that all is well. I had begun to fear that something must be wrong, for my Emmy never disappoints me. If she thinks it wiser not to meet on the jetty, it is wiser!”

A crowd of men pushed between them at this moment. Immediately after, a female shout was heard, followed by the words, “There he is! Och, it’s himsilf—the darlint!”

Mrs Flynn had discovered the little corporal, and her trooper son, Terence, who had come down with her, stood by to see fair-play while the two embraced.

Drifting with a rather rapid tide of mingled human beings, Miles and his mother soon found themselves stranded beside the coffee-shed. Retiring behind this they continued their conference there, disturbed only by wind and weather, while the distribution of hot coffee was going on in front.

Meanwhile, when leave was obtained, Armstrong made his way to the Institute, where the old scene of bustle and hilarity on the arrival of a troop-ship was going on. Here, in a private room, he discovered Emmy and the cause of her not appearing on the jetty.

“Look at him—Willie the second!” cried the little woman, holding up a bundle of some sort. The soldier was staggered for a moment—the only infantry that had ever staggered him!—for his wife had said nothing about this bundle in her letters. He recovered, however, and striding across the room embraced the wife and the bundle in one tremendous hug!

The wife did not object, but the bundle did, and instantly set up a howl that quite alarmed the father, and was sweetest music in the mother’s ears!

“Now tell me,” said the little woman, after calming the baby and putting it in a crib; “have you brought Miles Milton home all safe?”

“Yes, all right, Emmy.”

“And is he married to that dear girl you wrote about?”

“No, not yet—of course.”

“But are they engaged?”

“No. Miles told me that he would not presume to ask her while he had no home to offer her.”

“Pooh! He’s a goose! He ought to make sure of her, and let the home look after itself. He may lose her. Girls, you know, are changeable, giddy things!”

“I know nothing of the sort, Emmy.”

The young wife laughed, and—well, there is no need to say what else she did.

About the same time, Mrs Milton and her son were seated in another private room of the Institute finishing off that interchange of confidences which had begun in such confusion. As it happened, they were conversing on the same subject that occupied Emmy and her husband.

“You have acted rightly, Miles,” said the mother, “for it would have been unfair and selfish to have induced the poor girl to accept you until you had some prospect of a home to give her. God will bless you for doing the right, and trusting to Him. And now, dear boy, are you prepared for bad news?”

“Prepared for anything!” answered Miles, pressing his mother’s hand, “but I hope the bad news does not affect you, mother.”

“It does. Your dear father died a bankrupt. I shrank from telling you this when you were wounded and ill. So you have to begin again the battle of life with only one hand, my poor boy, for the annuity I have of twenty pounds a year will not go far to keep us both.”

Mrs Milton tried to speak lightly on this point, by way of breaking it to her son, but she nearly broke down, for she had already begun to feel the pinch of extreme poverty, and knew it to be very, very different from what “well-off” people fancy. The grave manner in which her son received this news filled her with anxiety.

“Mother,” he said, after pondering in silence for a few moments, and taking her hand in his while he slipped the handless arm round her waist, “the news is indeed serious, but our Father whom you have trusted so long will not fail us now. Happily it is my right hand that has been spared, and wonders, you know, may be wrought with a strong right hand, especially if assisted by a strong left stump, into which spoons, forks, hooks, and all manner of ingenious contrivances can be fitted. Now, cheer up, little mother, and I’ll tell you what we will do. But first, is there nothing left? Do the creditors take everything?”

“All, I believe, except some of the furniture which has been kindly left for us to start afresh with. But we must quit the old home next month. At least, so I am told by my kind little lawyer, who looks after everything, for I understand nothing.”

“Your mention of a lawyer reminds me, mother, that a poor sergeant, who died a short time ago in Egypt, made me his executor, and as I am painfully ignorant of the duties of an executor I’ll go and see this ‘kind little lawyer’ if you will give me his address.”

Leaving Miles to consult his lawyer, we will now turn to a meeting—a grand tea-fight—in the great hall of the Institute, that took place a few days after the return of the troop-ship which brought our hero and his friends to England. Some telling incidents occurred at this fight which render it worthy of notice.

First, Miss Robinson herself presided and gave a stirring address, which, if not of much interest to readers who did not hear it, was a point of immense attraction to the hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilians to whom it was delivered, for it was full of sympathy, and information, and humour, and encouragement, and, above all, of the Gospel.

Everybody worth mentioning was there—that is, everybody connected with our tale who was in England at the time. Miles and his mother of course were there, and Armstrong with Emmy—ay, and with Willie the second too—who was pronounced on all hands to be the born image of his father. Alas for his father, if that had been true! A round piece of dough with three holes punched in it and a little knot in the midst would have borne as strong a resemblance to Miles as that baby did. Nevertheless, it was a “magnificent” baby! and “so good,” undeniably good, for it slept soundly in its little mother’s lap the whole evening!

Stevenson was also there, you may be sure; and so were Moses and Sutherland, and Rattling Bill Simkin and Corporal Flynn, with his mother and Terence the Irish trooper, who fraternised with Johnson the English trooper, who was also home on the sick-list—though he seemed to have a marvellous colour and appetite for a sick man.

“Is that the ‘Soldiers Friend?’” asked Simkin, in a whisper, of a man who stood near him, as a lady came on the platform and took the chair.

“Ay, that’s her,” answered the man—and the speaker was Thomas Tufnell, the ex-trooper of the Queen’s Bays, and the present manager of the Institute—“Ay, that’s the ‘Soldier’s Friend.’”

“Well, I might have guessed it,” returned Simkin, “from the kindly way in which she shook hands with a lot of soldiers just now.”

“Yes, she has shook hands with a good many red-coats in her day, has the ‘Soldier’s Friend,’” returned the manager. “Why, I remember on one occasion when she was giving a lecture to soldiers, and so many men came forward to shake hands with her that, as she told me herself, her hand was stiff and swelled all night after it!”

“But it’s not so much for what she has done for ourselves that we’re grateful to her,” remarked a corporal, who sat on Simkin’s right, “as for what she has done for our wives, widows, and children, through the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Wives’ Aid Association. Lookin’ arter them when we’re away fightin’ our country’s battles has endeared her to us more than anything else.”

Thus favourably predisposed, Simkin was open to good impressions that night. But, indeed, there was an atmosphere—a spirit of good-will—in the hall that night which rendered many others besides Simkin open to good impressions. Among the civilians there was a man named Sloper, who had for some time past been carefully fished for by an enthusiastic young red-coat whom he had basely misled and swindled. He had been at last hooked by the young red-coat, played, and finally landed in the hall, with his captor beside him to keep him there—for Sloper was a slippery fish, with much of the eel in his nature.

Perhaps the most unexpected visitors to the hall were two ladies in mourning, who had just arrived from Egypt by way of Brindisi. Mrs and Miss Drew, having occasion to pass through Portsmouth on their way home, learned that there was to be a tea-fight at the Institute, and Marion immediately said, “I should like so much to see it!”

However much “so much” was, Mrs Drew said she would like to see it as much, so away they went, and were conducted to the front row. There Miles saw them! With his heart in his mouth, and his head in confusion, he quietly rose, bade his wondering mother get up; conducted her to the front seat, and, setting her down beside