The Thorogood Family, R. M. Ballantyne [ebook reader library .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“This event was the great turning-point in my schoolboy life. Remorse began to tell upon me while they carried him home, but words cannot describe the agony of my mind when, a fortnight afterwards, I was admitted to his room and saw him lying, a mere wreck of his former self, but with the old kindly smile on his face, as he stretched out his thin hand.
“‘We’ll be friends now, Jacob, won’t we?’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
“I could not speak. The thought that I had brought him to this in spite of his desire to be friendly, overwhelmed me. I could only seize his hand, bury my face in the bed-clothes, and sob.
“‘Never mind, Jacob,’ he said cheerily; ‘I shall be all right soon, and then we shall have the fight out—a little further from the black hole!’
“But Tom Turner did not get all right soon. He became worse and worse. The wetting and the accident combined to throw him into a fever, which left him to all appearance a confirmed invalid and a cripple, so that he was obliged to give up all idea of returning to school.
“‘I would not mind it so much,’ he said to me, some months afterwards, with a feeble effort to be cheery, ‘if it had not stopped my going to school. You see, I had set my heart on being a learned man, and one has not much chance of being that without a teacher. But God’s will be done. I don’t grumble, Jacob, though I can’t help wishing very hard that it had been otherwise.’
“I formed a great resolve while he was speaking, but said no word about it. I determined to apply myself, heart and soul, to study, until I should not only reach but pass the point where Tom had left off, and then I would become his teacher, carrying him on, step by step, as I advanced!
“To make a long story short—I carried out my resolution. It was harder work than I had expected, but I persevered. My love for Turner had become intense. I felt like a high-pressure engine with extra steam on and the safety-valve screwed down. The amazement of the boys at the change in me may be imagined. The satisfaction of the master cannot be imagined. I took no notice of either condition, but held on my way. Soon I came up to Tom in learning; then shot past him; then revealed my designs and took him in tow.
“Tom was charmed with the plan and inexpressibly grateful. When little Spinks came to hear of it, he begged to be allowed to study along with us in the sick-room. We agreed to this. Then Dr Tiddler was admitted, and afterwards the Tadpole; so that our evening class flourished.
“But the best of it was, that Tom did not become a confirmed invalid. A new doctor, who came to live in our village, seemed to understand his case better than the old one. At all events he effected an almost perfect cure, so that Tom’s limp became scarcely perceptible, and his general strength was so much restored, that he and I afterwards had many long geological and botanical rambles over the surrounding country, in company with little Spinks and the rest of the evening class.
“And this was no mere flash in the pan. We persevered to the end. From the date of that fight all the boys became Turnerites, our village school commenced a prosperous career, and our kind old master had the satisfaction of living to see it grow into one of the most noted in the district for turning out well-educated boys.
“Finally: Tom Turner became a real ‘Professor’—a Professor of Theology. And Tiddler became a real doctor of medicine. The Tadpole also came off with flying colours. His body grew up to his head, insomuch that he became a fine strapping fellow, and a Professor of Natural History in one of our colonial colleges. I am the only one of the lot who did not get on well in life, and that, lads, was owing to drink. In a drunken spree I enlisted, and here I am now, only a corporal; but, thank God, I’m also a total abstainer, and hope to remain so to the end of my life.”
Most of the men in the trenches had become rather sleepy while listening to Jacob Free’s story, but they began to freshen up a little when the first faint streaks of dawn appeared, for they knew full well that the enemy would be stirring ere long. And they were right.
When day broke the Russians commenced firing, and every now and then a shell would pass roaring over the men’s heads. Sometimes one would drop in amongst them. When this happened the men fled right and left, or threw themselves flat on their faces until the shell had exploded.
On one of these occasions a shell dropped close to a wounded man, to whom Bob was giving a drink at the time. The men near it sprang away or lay down as usual, but the wounded man lay in such a position, with his shoulders raised by a little knoll of earth, that he could not escape, and had not strength even to move. With a look of horror he gazed at the hissing shell. Bob Thorogood saw this all at a glance. In a moment he had the live shell in his arms, rushed to the top of the earthworks, and hurled it over, only just in time, for it burst as it reached the ground, and blew the spot on which Bob stood, with Bob himself, back into the trenches, where the big Irishman received him in his arms.
“Not hurt, darlin’, are ye?” he asked anxiously.
“No, thank God, only shaken a bit,” answered the Corporal.
Next day, however, our hero was not so fortunate, although he gained a reward for which many of his comrades panted.
He was on duty at the time in the trenches. The Russians had been pretty quiet that night, but just before daybreak they made a sortie in considerable force. Our Corporal’s company had to bear the brunt of the fighting, and suffered much. It was broad daylight before the Russians were driven back. Some of the more fiery men of the company pursued them too far, and were cut off. At last all the survivors returned to the trenches, and then the enemy commenced a furious cannonade, as if to revenge themselves for the repulse. Their sharpshooters, too, were on the alert, and if a man chanced to show the top of his shako above the earthworks, several bullets went through it instantly.
Among those who had fallen on the exposed ground outside was a young officer—almost a boy, with fair curling hair and a soft little moustache.
He lay severely wounded under the frail protection of a bush round which shot and shell were raining fearfully. Corporal Thorogood observed him, leaped over the earthworks, ran through the iron storm, raised the youth in his strong arms, and brought him under cover in safety. The Corporal’s shako was riddled, and his clothes were torn in all directions, but nothing had touched his body save one bullet, which cut off the forefinger of his right hand.
For this gallant deed Corporal Robert Thorogood afterwards received the Victoria Cross. What pleased him far more, however, was the fact that the young officer’s life was saved, and he ultimately recovered from his wounds.
“Ah, then,” said the big Irishman, with a look of pity when Bob showed him his bleeding hand, “your sodgerin’ days is over, me boy.”
And so they were. At the close of the war our Corporal retired from the service with a small pension, leaving two fingers behind him!
One very cold but calm and clear winter night, a lame man was seen to hurry along the Strand in the direction of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The man was clothed in a thick greatcoat, and wore a shawl round his neck, which muffled him up to the very eyes. Indeed, the said shawl would have gone quite over his eyes if it had not been for his fine Roman nose, which stuck out over it, and held it firmly down.
The man’s lameness was only a limp. It did not prevent him from walking very fast indeed. He was evidently bent on business; nevertheless, the business was not so pressing but that he could stop now and then to look at anything that interested him in the crowded streets.
And how crowded they were—and cheerful too: for it was Christmastide, and people seemed to be more excited and hearty than usual. The shops were resplendent—filled to overflowing with everything that could tempt man to spend money, and blazing with gas-light, so that the streets seemed even brighter than at noon. The poulterers’ shops, in particular, were so stuffed, that rows of fat geese and ducks, apparently finding the crush too much for them inside, seemed to have come outside the shops and hung themselves up round the doors and windows!
The lame man did not linger long, however, but hurried onwards until he reached that quarter of the city near to the Bank of England, where very poor and wretched people lived upon wondrously little of that gold which lay in such huge quantities so near them.
In the back slums of this region there were no bright gas-lights. The shops were ill-lighted and miserable, like the population, except a few at the corners of streets, where rough men and ragged women, and even children, went to poison themselves with gin.
In one of the darkest and dirtiest of these streets the lame man found an open door and entered, taking off his greatcoat and shawl, which he handed to a pleasant-faced man who stood there.
“I’m in good time, I hope?” said the lame man.
“Oh yes, they’re on’y ’alf through their tea yet. Miss Home’s bin singin’ to ’em.”
The lame man’s body was very thin and not very strong, but his face was particularly handsome and grave, with a strange mingling of humour and sadness in his expression.
Opening an inner door, he entered a large schoolroom, and, going to the upper end of it, took his place behind some gentlemen, who nodded to him as he passed.
The room was filled with the very lowest classes of the London poor. Among them were ferocious-looking, dirty, ragged men, who might have been thieves, burglars, or pickpockets. Not less disreputable-looking were the women and children. The air of the room smelt horribly of dirty clothes and drink. They were all very quiet, however, and well-behaved at the time, for all were busily engaged in eating splendid “hunks” of bread and cheese, and drinking huge mugsful of hot tea. Truly there are few quieters of the savage human breast equal to food! Probably all the people there were hungry; many of them had been starving, and were ravenous. There was scarcely any sound except of moving jaws, when, accompanied by a few chords from a harmonium, a sweet, mellow, female voice told of the love of Jesus Christ to poor, perishing, guilty man.
Both the words and music of the hymn had a soothing influence on the people. When the calm contentment resulting from satisfied hunger had settled down on them, a gentleman rose, and, continuing the theme of the hymn, told his hearers earnestly about the Saviour of sinners. His address was very short, because, he said, a city missionary—a personal friend—had come that night
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