The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood. Griffiths Arthur
was so upon the great Rock, the commonly counted impregnable fortress, one of the ancient pillars of Hercules that still stands silently strong and watchful at the mouth of the Mediterranean Sea.
Nowhere did the war fever rage higher than at Gibraltar. Before everything, a garrison town, battlemented and fortified on every side, resonant from morning gunfire till watch-setting with martial sounds, its principal pageants military, with soldiers filling its streets, and sentinels at every corner, the prospect of active service was naturally the one theme and topic of the place.
As spring advanced, one of those balmy-scented Southern springs when flowers highly prized with us blossomed wild everywhere, even in the fissures of the rock—when the days are already long and bright, under ever-blue and cloudless skies, Gibraltar realised more fully that war was close at hand. Lying in the high road to the East, it saw daily the armed strength of England sweep proudly by. Now a squadron of men-of-war: not the hideous, shapeless ironclad of to-day, but the traditional three-decker, with its tiers of snarling teeth and its beauty of white-bellying canvas and majestic spar. Now a troopship with its consorts, two, or three, or more, tightly packed with their living cargo—whole regiments of red-coated soldiers on their way to Malta and beyond.
Such sights as these kept the garrison—friends and comrades of those bound eastward—in a state of constant high-pitched excitement. At first, forbidden by strict quarantine, there was no communication between the sea and the shore, but all day long there were crowds of idlers ready to line the sea-wall and greet every ship that came in close enough with hearty repeated cheers. When the vexatious health-rules were relaxed, and troopships landed some of their passengers, there was endless fraternisation, eager discussion of coming operations, and unlimited denunciation of the common foe.
Members of the garrison itself were, of course, frantically jealous of all who had the better luck to belong to the expeditionary force. That they were not under orders for the East was the daily burden of complaint in every barrack-room and guard-house upon the Rock. The British soldier is an inveterate grumbler; he quarrels perpetually with his quarters, his food, his clothing, and his general want of luck. Just now the bad luck of being refused a share in an arduous campaign, with its attendant chances of hardships, sufferings, perhaps a violent death, made every soldier condemned to remain in safety at Gibraltar discontented and sore at heart.
"No orders for us by the last mail, Hyde," said a young sergeant of the Royal Picts, as he walked briskly up to the entrance of the Waterport Guard.
A tall, well-grown, clean-limbed young fellow of twenty-four or five: one who prided himself on being a smart soldier, and fully deserved the name. He was admirably turned out; his coatee with wings, showing that he belonged to one of the flank companies, fitted him to perfection; the pale blue trousers, the hideous fashion of the day, for which Prince Albert was said to be responsible, were carefully cut; his white belts were beautifully pipe-clayed, and the use of pipe-clay was at that time an art; you could see your face in the polish of his boots. A smart soldier, and as fine-looking a young fellow as wore the Queen's uniform in 1854. He had an open, honest face, handsome withal; clear bright grey eyes, broad forehead, and a firm mouth and chin.
"Worrying yourself, as usual, for permission to have your throat cut. Can't you bide your time, Sergeant McKay?"
The answer came from another sergeant of the same regiment, an elder, sterner man—a veteran evidently, for he wore two medals for Indian campaigns, and his bronzed, weather-beaten face showed that he had seen service in many climes. As a soldier he was in no wise inferior to his comrade: his uniform and appointments were as clean and correct, but he lacked the extra polish—the military dandyism, so to speak—of the younger man.
"War is our regular trade. Isn't it natural we should want to be at it?" said Sergeant McKay.
"You talk like a youngster who doesn't know what it's like," replied Sergeant Hyde. "I've seen something of campaigning, and it's rough work at the best, even in India, where soldiers are as well off as officers here."
"Officers!" said McKay, rather bitterly. "They have the best of it everywhere."
"Hush! don't be an insubordinate young idiot," interposed his comrade, hastily. "Here come two of them."
The sergeants sprang hastily to their feet, and, standing strictly to attention, saluted their superiors in proper military form.
"That's what I hate," went on McKay.
"Then you are no true soldier, and don't know what proper discipline means. They are as much bound to salute us as we them."
"Yes, but they don't."
"That's their want of manners; so much the worse for them. Besides, I am quite sure Mr. Wilders didn't mean it; he is far too good an officer—always civil-spoken, too, and considerate to the men."
"I object to saluting him more than any one else."
"Why, McKay! what's the matter with you? What particular fault have you to find with Mr. Wilders?"
"I am just as good as he is."
"In your own opinion, perhaps; not in that of this garrison—certainly not under the Mutiny Act and Articles of War."
"I am just as good. I am his cousin—"
Sergeant McKay stopped suddenly, bit his lip, and flushed very red.
"So you have let the cat out of the bag at last, my young friend," said Sergeant Hyde, quietly. "I always thought this—that you were a gentleman—"
"Superior to my station, in fact."
"By no means, Sergeant McKay. I should be sorry to admit that any man, however highly born, had lost his right to be deemed a gentleman because he is a sergeant in the Royal Picts."
"You, Hyde, are a gentleman too. I am sure of that."
"I am a sergeant in the Royal Picts. That is enough for me and for you."
"Why did you enlist?"
Hyde shook his head gravely.
"There are pages in every man's life," he said, "which he does not care to lift again when they are once turned down. I have not asked you for your secret; respect mine."
"But I have nothing to conceal," said McKay, quickly. "I am ready enough to tell you why I enlisted."
"As you please; but, mind, I have not asked you."
There was little encouragement in this speech; but McKay ignored it, and went on—
"I enlisted because I could not enter the army in any other way. My friends could not afford to purchase me a commission."
"Why were you so wild to become a soldier?"
"It was my father's profession. He was a captain in—"
"That should have given you a claim for an ensigncy, as an officer's son."
"But my father was not in the English service. He was only half an Englishman, really."
"Indeed! How so?"
"Although Scotch by extraction, as our name will tell you, my father was born in Poland. He was a Russian subject, and as such was compelled to serve in the Russian army."
"For long?"
"Until he was mixed in an unfortunate national movement, and only escaped execution by flight. He lived afterwards at Geneva. It was there he met my mother."
"Is it through him or her that you are related to the Wilders?"
"Through my mother. She was daughter of the Honourable Anastasius, son of the twelfth earl."
"And what might be the distinguishing numeral of the present Essendine potentate?"
"He is fourteenth earl."
"Then he and your mother are first cousins?"
"Quite so; and I am his first cousin once removed."