One of the Six Hundred: A Novel

"You forget my Arab horse--my spoil from the enemy." "Well, gentlemen," said Studhome, who had been uncorking several bottles, "you shall sup _a la carte_. I have a hare which is being jugged in that identical warming-pan which we picked up at Eskel; two golden plovers and a gallant bustard are being stewed with it. I shot the latter; the hare was caught by Travers' Kurdistan dog--a rough brute, like your Scotch staghounds, M'Goldrick. That is my kitchen," he added, pointing to a hole before the tent, in which some ashes were smouldering. "This is true Crimean fashion. Make a hole as a grate, and when you have aught to put in your kettle light a fire under it. 'Dost like the picture?' But here come the viands!" The stew, which had been prepared by Pitblado and Studhome's servant (both of whom officiated in their stablejackets), was certainly savoury enough in odour, though not quite such as we might have welcomed at the home mess-table. It steamed and spattered bravely in two large tin dishes; and with their contents, and some biscuits of Trieste flour from the bakery-ship _Abundance_ (on board which twenty thousand pounds of bread were made daily, and yet the army starved), a piece of cheese, some fruit, and several bottles of Bass, sherry, and brandy, we resolved to make a night of it. "'Od, it's a queer mess, this!" said that constitutional grumbler, M'Goldrick, as he fished away with his fork. "I doubt whether the mastodon or the megatherium of antediluvian times would have faced it. What do you call this, Studhome?" "Come, don't mock the blessings of war, most learned Scot! That is the gizzard of a wild bustard. Help yourself and pass the sherry. Pitblado, uncork the Bass." "Wood is frightfully scarce here," said Travers. "Our fellows seized and burnt all the tent-poles and pegs of Hadji Mehmet's regiment of Bono Johnnies, and old Raglan made a devil of a row about it." "We are put to odd shifts, certainly," added the colonel, laughing; "and it is seldom a supper like this comes our way, Norcliff. The green coffee, pounded between two stones, is not the worst thing we have to encounter; for, after it is pounded, we have no fuel wherewith to boil it, and men are actually flogged for taking dry-wood from the beach. We must do our best to keep ourselves alive, though the Russians and red-tapists are doing theirs to make an end of us." "I have actually been thinking of turning Tartar, and speculating seriously on the merits of horseflesh," said Scarlett, as he tore away at a drumstick of the bustard. "I suppose you know that the chargers of the Heavies are dying like sheep with the rot?" "Now, M'Goldrick, pass the bottle, will you!" said Jack. "By Jove! you Scotchmen are such slow fellows!" "Slow or fast," growled the paymaster, "I don't know how in this war you would get on without us. You have the two Dundases, Charley Napier, Sir George Cathcart, two Campbells--Sir John and Sir Colin--Jamie Simpson, and Sir George Browne." "Anything you like; but pass the wine from right to left," said the jovial adjutant, who began to sing-- Right about went horse and foot, Artillery and all, And as the devil left the house, They tumbled through the wall, When They saw our light dragoons, With their long swords, boldly riding, Whack! fol de rol, &c. Amid this kind of merriment and banter, we heard ever and anon the thunder of the heavy guns from the batteries of Sebastopol, as they fired on the lines where our brave troops were working to get under cover--working with old spades and mattocks, which the Iron Duke had sent home as unserviceable from Spain--and I felt saddened by the idea that every boom which pealed in the distance was, perhaps, the knell of at least one human soul. I had other thoughts that made me grave and stern. No letters had reached me from home; nor had anything come, save an old _Punch_ or two, addressed in my uncle's handwriting. Even Cora was forgetting me! My blood was boiling against Berkeley. A long debt of cowardly wrong was about to be paid off, if he did not elude me by a hasty departure on leave. The clear grey eye of the colonel was fixed on me at times. He knew my thoughts; but he and the others, with the intuitive delicacy peculiar to well-educated and highly-bred men, forbore to speak of Berkeley, and the grave obligation which they were aware I was about to clear off in a manner that had become unusual now. "You are listening to the cannon of the siege train," said Beverley. "We cavalry are in clover here, when compared to our poor infantry, who are potting the Russians like partridges, from amid the mud of the trenches." "Mud, thickened by blood, and fragments of shot and shell--a veritable Slough of Despond!" added the paymaster. "There, in the rifle-pits, our advanced parties have fired till the grooves of their barrels are lined with lead, and their aching shoulders are black and blue with the kicking of the butt." "Yes, colonel; and if any one wishes to study the theory of sounds and atmospheric effects, my wigwam in the cavalry quarter is the very place," said Studhome. "Boom! there goes that Lancaster gun again. It must be playing old gooseberry with the Russians by moonlight. Only think of ten-inch shells, fired at point-blank range! I was up this morning at the trenches, and saw a long sixty-eight pounder from the _Terrible_ brought into position by the blue-jackets, to bear on a heavy gun on the left embrasure of the Mamelon. It was trained by a naval officer--a fine young fellow. The practice he made was perfect! The first shot tore away the left of the embrasure; the second struck the great gun full on the muzzle, shattering it, and then the eyes of the young officer flashed with delight! 'Bravo, my lads! load he again!' he exclaimed; and with the third shot he dismounted the gun completely. Lord Raglan then telegraphed to fire the sixty-eight every half hour, and effectually breach the Mamelon." "But before the order came, a shot struck our brave young sailor, and killed him on the spot," added the Colonel. "His fall was sudden, and his interment as rapid as his demise," said Studhome; "he was buried beside the gun." "Poor fellow!" observed the Colonel, thoughtfully; "few would like to die thus. Yet that which was his fate to-day may be mine or yours to-morrow. This idea makes the memory, the heart, go home. We number those who love us there, and those whom we love. Their faces come before us, and their voices fall again on the ear. Little expressions and little episodes come vividly to mind. Shall we ever see them again, those home circles--those loved and treasured ones! Well, well; every bullet has its billet--duty is duty--(another old saw), and the first obligation of a soldier is obedience. And so we console ourselves, and hope on for the best, drowning dull care in the bottle, or boldly treading him under foot." The poor Colonel's words often came back to memory long after he led us to that terrible charge through the Valley of Death! Thus their conversation and anecdotes were all connected with the great siege then in progress; but after they had all retired, Studhome and I reverted, all at once, to the matter which was uppermost in my mind--the punishment of Berkeley. "Take a caulker of cognac, Norcliff, and then turn in. Keep your head and your hand cool. I'll take a boat for his yacht after _reveillez_ to-morrow, and though he has got sick leave for a few days, he is not so sick that he can't hold a pistol." "Arrange this for me, Jack, and you shall win my lasting gratitude," said I, fervently. Jack shook me warmly by the hand, and then we betook us to our not over-luxurious couches for the night. When I awoke in the morning, Studhome had mounted and ridden off to the harbour. *CHAPTER XLVIII.* The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, The camp around in slumber lies; The night with solemn pace moves on, The shadows thicken o'er the skies. But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. I think of thee, oh, dearest one, Whose love my early life hath blest-- God of the gentle, frail, and lone, Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest. I awaited his return with impatience, while our servants were pounding the green coffee for breakfast. After the lapse of an hour or so he cantered up to the door of our wigwam--for such it was, being half tent and half hut--sprang off and threw his reins to Lanty O'Regan. "Berkeley?" I inquired. "Has given you the slip for this time." "The devil!--how?" "Whether he has heard of your return or not I cannot say; but the yacht has left her moorings, and stood away towards the Straits of Yenikale. We shall have better luck another time; but meanwhile, here is something to solace you for your disappointment." "His sick leave----" "Was extended to the 17th of this month; but he was not to leave Balaclava harbour, it was presumed. I met Beverley as I was riding back, and he gave one of his quiet and significant laughs, on hearing that the yacht had put to sea." "He then divined your errand?" "Of course--the affair is pretty patent to the whole corps now; but here, I say, is something to console you in the meantime." "Something--what?" "The Sultan Abdul Medjid has already sent several medals for distribution among the officers of the Allies, and here is an announcement that to you--you only of all our corps as yet--he has accorded his star of Medjidie; and here also is the Colonel's memorandum concerning it for insertion in this day's regimental orders, stating that it is given for the bravery and zeal displayed by you in assisting the quartermaster-general to procure trains of waggons--those blessed _kabitkas_--before we advanced on the Alma." With equal astonishment and pleasure I heard of this unexpected honour, though no way inclined to indulge in self-glory, when a Turkish officer of rank, a fat old fellow, wearing a blue surtout, a scarlet fez, and gold-hilted Damascus sabre--an aide-de-camp of the Seraskier Pasha--brought me the Order of the Medjidie--a silver star, inscribed, in Turkish characters, "Zeal and ardent sentiments of Honour and Fidelity," around the Sultan's cypher, which closely resembled the cabalistic figures on the side of a tea-chest--when he hung it on my breast, I say, the natural emotions of pride which rose in my heart were blended with joy at the pure satisfaction it would afford my dear friends at home. A jolly cooper of old port would be started at Calderwood, and I already saw in fancy my uncle (to whom I instantly wrote of my safety and success) receiving the congratulations of his neighbours and old servants. And what of Louisa? Surely this would be soothing to her inordinate pride! It was accompanied by a little diploma in Turkish, to the effect that "Captain Newton Calderwood Norcliff, of her Britannic Majesty's service, having distinguished himself prior to the battle of the Alma, as a gift in appreciation of his worthily-performed duty, his Imperial Majesty the Sultan grants him the fifth degree of the Medjidie medal, together with this warrant. Dated in the year of the Hejira, 1271." Medals, save those of the old Waterloo veterans, were scarcely known in our service, as yet--thus a decorated man was a man of mark. Yet, amid the excitement of campaigning, this gift was but the gratification of an hour, and the dull craving at my heart to punish Berkeley and to hear from Louisa still remained unsatisfied. Reduced by service, sufferings, starvation, and cholera, our regiment