Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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into what appeared to Miles to be the reproduction of Babel, minus the bricks.
The fact was that a troop-ship having arrived rather suddenly, a sergeant had driven up in hot haste from the docks to make arrangements for the reception of the soldiers’ wives and children!
“Look sharp!” he cried, on entering the hall abruptly; “sixteen families are on their way to you.”
“All right; we can take ’em in,” was the prompt reply; and orders were given to set the food-producing machinery of the establishment instantly in motion. But almost before the preparation had fairly begun, the advance-guard of the army, largely composed of infantry, burst upon them like a thunder-clap, and continued to pour in like a torrent. There were men shouting, women chattering, tired children whining, and excited children laughing; babies yelling or crowing miscellaneously; parrots screaming; people running up and down stairs in search of dormitories; plates and cups clattering at the bar, as the overwhelmed barmaids did their best to appease the impatient and supply the hungry; while the rumbling of control-wagons bringing up the baggage formed a sort of bass accompaniment to the concert.
“You see, it varies with us a good deal,” remarked Brown to Miles, during a lucid interval, “Sometimes we are almost empty, a few hours later we are overflowing. It comes hard on the housekeeper, of course. But we lay our account wi’ that, and, do you know, it is wonderful what can be done in trying circumstances, when we lay our account wi’ them!—Yes, Miss, it’s all ready!” shouted the speaker, in reply to a soft female voice that came down the wide staircase, as it were, over the heads of the turbulent crowd.
In a moment he disappeared, and Tufnell stood, as if by magic, in his place.
“Yes,” said the manager, taking up his discourse where the other had left off; “and in a few minutes you’ll see that most of these wives and children of the soldiers will be distributed through the house in their bed-rooms, when our ladies will set to work to make acquaintance with them; and then we’ll open our stores of warm clothing, of which the poor things, coming as they do from warm climates, are often nearly or quite destitute.”
“But where do you get these supplies from?” asked Miles.
“From kind-hearted Christians throughout the country, who send us gifts of old and new garments, boots and shoes, shawls and socks, etcetera, which we have always in readiness to meet sudden demands; and I may add that the demands are pretty constant. Brown told you just now that we have varied experience. I remember once we got a message from the Assistant Quartermaster-General’s office to ask how many women and children we could accommodate, as a shipful was expected. We replied that we could take 140, and set to work with preparations. After all, only one woman came! To-day we expected nobody, and—you see what we have got!”
The genial countenance of the manager beamed with satisfaction. It was evident that “what he had got” did not at all discompose him, as he hurried away to look after his flock, while the originator—the heart and soul of all this—although confined to her room at that time with spine complaint, and unable to take part in the active work, as she had been wont to do in years gone by, heard in her chamber the softened sound of the human storm, and was able to thank God that her Soldiers’ Institute was fulfilling its destiny.
“Hallo! Miles!” exclaimed Armstrong, over the heads of the crowd; “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. D’you know we run a chance of being late? Come along, quick!”
Our hero, who, in his interest in the scene, had forgotten the flight of time, hurried out after his comrade as the band struck up “Home, sweet Home,” and returned to barracks, utterly oblivious of the fact that he had left the unfinished letter to his mother on the table in the reading-room.
Chapter Six.
The Unfinished Letter—Too Late!
Next morning young Milton—or, as he was called by his comrades, John Miles—rose with the depressing thought that it was to be his last day in England. As he was dressing, it flashed across him that he had left his unfinished letter on the reading-room table, and, concluding that it would be swept away in the rush of people there—at all events that, not having been folded or addressed, it could not be posted—his depression was deepened.
The first thing that roused him to a better frame of mind was the smell of tea!
Most people are more or less familiar with teapots; with the few teaspoonfuls of the precious leaf which thrifty housekeepers put into these pots, and the fragrant liquid that results. But who among civilians, (save the informed), can imagine a barrack-room teapot?
Open your ears, O ye thrifty ones! while we state a few facts, and there will be no need to tell you to open your eyes.
Into the teapot which supplied Miles with his morning cup there was put, for one making, eight pounds of tea!—not ounces, observe, but pounds,—twenty-nine pounds of sugar, and six gallons—an absolute cowful—of milk! The pot itself consisted of eight enormous coppers, which were filled with boiling water to the brim.
“Yes, sir,” remarked the military cook, who concocted the beverage, to a speechless visitor one day; “it is a pretty extensive brew; but then, you see, we have a large family!”
A considerable portion of this large family was soon actively engaged in preparation for immediate embarkation for Egypt. Then the General made the men a farewell speech. It was a peculiar speech—not altogether suited to cheer timid hearts, had any such been there, but admirably adapted to British soldiers.
“Men,” said he, “I am very glad to see you parade looking so well and clean and comfortable and ready for active service. You will be dirty enough, sometimes, where you are going, for the country is hot and unhealthy, and not over clean. You will have hardships, hard times, and plenty of hard work, as well as hard beds now and then, and very likely the most of you will never come back again; but you would be unworthy of the name of British soldiers if you allowed such thoughts to trouble your minds. I sincerely express the hope, however, that you will all come home again safe and sound. I have not the slightest doubt that every man of you will do his duty in the field faithfully and well; but I’m not so sure of your wisdom in camp and barracks, so I will give you a word of advice. There is far more danger in getting drunk in hot countries than in England. Let me advise you, then, not to get drunk; and I would warn you particularly against the vile stuff they will offer for sale in Egypt. It is rank poison. If you had stomachs lined with brass you might perhaps stand it—not otherwise. Then I would warn you against the sun. In Egypt the sun is sometimes like a fiery furnace. Never expose yourself when you can avoid doing so, and, above all, never go outside your tents without your helmets on. If you do, you’ll repent it, and repentance will probably come too late. I wish you all a prosperous voyage, and may God keep you all!”
Delivered in a sharp, stern, unsentimental tone, this brief speech had probably a much more powerful effect on the men than a more elaborate exhortation would have had. The impression was deepened by the remarks of an old officer, who made a very brief, soldierly speech after the General, winding up with the information that he had himself been in Egypt, and assuring them that if they did not take care of themselves there was little chance of a man of them returning alive!
“May you have a pleasant passage out,” he said, in conclusion; “and, in the name of the Portsmouth Division, I wish you victory in all your battles, and a hearty good-bye.”
The men who were not going away were then called on to give their departing friends three cheers, which they did with right good-will. Captain Lacey, who was in charge of the detachment, stepped to the front, drew his sword, gave the order to shoulder arms, form fours, right turn, quick march, and away they went with the united bands of two regiments playing “The girl I left behind me!”
The girls they were about to leave behind them were awaiting them at the barrack-gates, with a considerable sprinkling of somewhat older girls to keep them company. Many of the poor creatures were in tears for the men whom they might never see again, and lumps in several manly throats rather interfered with the parting cheer delivered by the detachment at the gate. Most of them accompanied the soldiers as far as the Dockyard gates. Emily Armstrong was not among