HOW JACK MACKENZIE WON HIS EPAULETTES

By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN AND NEW YORK 1906

PREFACE.

There is a glamour and romance about war that appeals to the heart of every young man worthy of the name in these islands. This is as it should be. We are a nation of sailors, it is true, but many a blood-red field can bear witness that we are soldiers also, when we have the right man to lead us.

A weapon, however, that is left too long in its scabbard is apt to rust therein. This was the state in which we found the British sword when the fiery cross was sent round in 1853. We had not been at war for forty years before this, and even many of our generals had forgotten all about the art. Hence the terrible muddle and mismanagement witnessed in the Crimea. Our poor fellows were positively sent off as empty-handed as if going to a grand parade or soldiers' picnic, and indeed but for individual courage, and good luck, the invasion would have ended in national disaster and disgrace, for us as well as for our brave allies the French.

I have no desire to dispel the romance that surrounds as with a halo the noble and necessary art of war. But I think every young fellow should know that to be a real soldier it is necessary for him to be not only a fighting man and a brave man in the field, but a perfect camp's-man also; and he can never learn to be so in barracks, but on the tented field, in times of peace.

It is for this reason that the sailor, if I may be allowed to say a word in favour of the service to which I belong, makes the best soldier. Captain Peel's brigade proved this in the trenches.

In the second book of this story, the youthful reader will find fighting and bloodshed enough, and horrors too. But the tale is all true, sadly, terribly true. Hear what Sir Evelyn Wood says: "It may be asked, Why recall these dismal stories? Because ...... to the present generation our hideous sacrifice of soldiers in the Crimea is but little more known than the sufferings of our troops at Walcheren and in the Peninsula. I believe in the advantage of telling those who elect parliamentary representatives what has happened and what may happen again, unless a high standard of administrative efficiency is maintained. This cannot be attained unless the necessary departments are practised in their duties during peace."

* * * * * *

"Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war."

In my first book, then, I have endeavoured to give a sketch of the sailor's life in the piping times of peace, and most of the sketches and little adventures and yarns are drawn from the life. Dr. Reikie, who is constantly in the pursuit of science under difficulties, was a real character. So were Sturdy, Gribble, Fitzgerald, Captain Gillespie, and the marine Paddy O'Bayne.

CONTENTS.

Book First.

IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.

I. Wee Johnnie Greybreeks

II. Life in Summer Loaning

III. Mrs. Malony's Wedding-ring

IV. "I'll be a Sailor or a Soldier"

V. "Hullo, Johnnie Greybreeks! I'm your Uncle"

VI. "The Old Lady had a Woman's Heart after all"

VII. "Hard a-Port!"

VIII. Jack's Sea-daddy

IX. In the good old "Gurnet"

X. Paddy's Adventure—Fred Harris proves himself a Hero

XI. A Tragedy—Auld Reikie pursues Science under Difficulties

XII. Tom Finch and the Shark—Shooting in the Dismal Swamp—Death and Promotion

XIII. Paddy's Hybrid—"A quare, quare Baste, Sorr"—Tricky Niggers—Black Man as Cook—War declared

Book Second.

FOR HONOUR AND GLORY.

I. "Blow, Good Wind, and waft us East"

II. A Ghastly Adventure—The Embarkation—A Stormy Landing

III. A field of Heroes—"On, Lads, On!"—Brave Codrington—Panic and Terror

IV. The Kilted Warriors of the North—The Terrible Struggle for Kourgané Hill—The Impetuous 93rd—Victory!

V. A Walk across the Battle-field—Ghastly Sights—Brave Surgeon Thompson of the 44th—Jack's Strange Adventure

VI. The First Great Bombardment—Ships versus Forts—Poor Boy Harris—"Tell 'em I died like a Thousand o' Bricks"

VII. The Victorious Charge of the Heavy Brigade—The Scotch Wife and the Turks—The Light Brigade and their Awful Charge

VIII. The Truth from a Russian—Parable of the Stoat and the Wild Cat—Day-dawn of the Memorable Fifth

IX. The Battle of Inkermann—The Soldiers' Own

X. The Awful Gale—In Camp before Sebastopol—Letters from Home

XI. The Horrors of Scutari

XII. Pelissier to the Front—Death of Lord Raglan

XIII. The Russian Bear at Bay—The Last Act of the Tragic War

XIV. "Remember, we shall all meet again some Christmas Eve on High"

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

He dashed the stone into the dying embers . . . Frontispiece

He threw up his arms, and fell flat on his face . . . Vignette [missing from source book]

He crept nearer and nearer to the window

"This is Jack"

He felt a weight on his back

He has seized the colours, and his wild slogan can be heard high above the roar

She laid about her right and left

"Maggie!"—"Jack!"

HOW JACK MACKENZIE WON HIS EPAULETTES.

Book First.

IN PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.

CHAPTER I. WEE JOHNNIE GREYBREEKS.

It was what is called a real old-fashioned Yuletide. The snow had been falling, falling, falling all day long; it had begun at grey daylight in the morning, in little pellets like millet seed, which lay white and unmelted on the frozen pavements. But as the hours went by, these were changed for flakes as big and broad as butterflies' wings, that fell fast and "eident" all the day; and that night the more aristocratic thoroughfares of Glasgow were as silent as a city of the dead.

Not that they were deserted by any means, for passengers flitted about in garments draped with snow, and snow-laden cabs drove past, but not a sound could be heard from hoof of horse or foot of man.

It was not cold, however. There was no high wind to powder the flakes or grind them into ice-dust, or raise wreaths along the pathways; and so pure was the air, that but to breathe it for a little while was to purify every drop of blood in one's body from heart to head and heels, to heighten the vital flame, and to make one feel as happy and contented as one should ever be about a Christmas time.

From the windows of many a beautiful villa in this picture of a winter's night there shone, directly out upon the snow-clad lawns and ghost-like bushes, the ruddy light of cosily-furnished rooms, where rosy children romped and played, while around the fire sat their elders, "doucely" talking about the days of "auld lang syne."

One room in a villa of larger size and more pretentious architecture than its fellows looked particularly bright and cheerful. It was tastefully furnished, and here and there in corners stood tall lamps with coloured shades, while in the centre was placed a lordly Christmas tree. No wonder that the ring of prettily-attired children around gazed with admiration on this masterpiece of decoration. It was indeed very beautiful, its green and spreading branches laden with light and the sunshine of a hundred toys.

But listen! the music of a piano and harp strikes up, and now the children, big and little, join hands and go daftly dancing round the tree. Till one wee toddler tumbles; then the ring is broken, and half a dozen at least are piled on top of her. The very house seems to shake now with the sound of mirth and laughter, the shrill treble of the youngsters receiving a deep and hearty bass in the voices of two jolly-looking elderly gentlemen, who are standing on the hearth with their backs to the fire.

But once again the ring is formed, once again the music that had been partially interrupted is heard, and once again the children dance jubilantly round, madder and wilder now than ever, singing,—

"Here we go round and round and round, Here we go round the Christmas tree."

The elderly gentlemen who stood with their backs to the fire were spectators of all this fun, frolic, and jollity. But they were not the only ones.

For past the broad and open gate, as he had been creeping through the snow—oh so slowly and wearily—a tiny boy, attracted by the sound of the gladsome voices, had paused to listen. Listening or looking is such a cheap pleasure that even the very poorest can indulge in it. The snowflakes had for a time ceased falling, and from behind a mass of clouds the moon was struggling. But the red rays from the window more than rivalled its splendour, and very inviting indeed did they appear to the little wanderer. He first looked in through the gate, then he crept in through it. Nearer and nearer to the window, closer and closer to the joy within, till the lamplight shone directly on his white, pinched face, and glittered in his dark and wondering eyes, as he stood there keeping hold of a snowy branch with one hand, as if afraid of falling.

To listen and to look on while the rich enjoy themselves—oh yes, these are the privileges of the very poor! But somehow on the present occasion little Jack Mackenzie was doing more than simply listening and looking. Quite unintentionally, remember. He was associating himself with all the games and pleasure inside the room. He was no longer a thinly-clothed, bare-footed laddie, shivering in the winter's snow; he was one of that prettily-dressed crowd of beautiful children playing around the Christmas tree. Fairies he called them in his own mind; for he had once been treated to a gallery seat at a pantomime, and this was just like that, only ever so much more beautiful and natural. No wonder he felt interested and entranced, or that several times his lips parted to give utterance to the exclamation "Oh!" though he always restrained himself in time.

Was it any wonder this poor, half-starved boy was delighted with the scene before him? It was, he thought, as different from what he was used to behold in that part of the city he called his home, as the heaven his mother often spoke about must be from earth—that heaven to which his father had gone, long, long, long ago, so long ago that he couldn't remember him, and always thought of him only as a saint Up Yonder somewhere, where he himself would go one day if he was good.

So completely are Jack Mackenzie's senses enthralled, that he does not hear the sound of a manly voice singing adown the broad terrace, but coming nearer and nearer every moment,—

"'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, etc.

"An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain: O give me my lowly thatched cottage again!"

No, Jack doesn't hear the song. Nor does he see the singer, until he is suddenly caught by one shoulder and wheeled right round to confront a well-dressed and handsome man with a huge brown beard, on which melted snow-flakes sparkle like diamonds.

"Hullo! hullo! so I've caught you, have I?" The new-comer had bent down, and was gazing straight into Jack's face.

"Caught me, sir!" replied the boy, with fearless innocence; "did—did you want to catch me, sir?"

"Want to catch you, you young rascal! Come, give an account of yourself. What are you? A burglar's boy, eh?"

Jack looked a little puzzled. He put his hand up as if to feel that his cap was on. It was only a little old glengarry, with a hole where the top used to be, and through which a lock of the lad's hair always straggled.

"No, sir, I'm nothing yet. Was you looking for somebody to be a burglar's boy, sir? I would be it if it was nice. I want to work for mother and Siss, you know. But what do burglars do, sir? Mind, I'm not afraid of work, and I might get shoes and stockings then."

As he spoke, he held up one red and swollen foot. Not that he was courting sympathy. Oh no; only standing in the snow had made his feet cold.

"O you poor wee ragamuffin, are you really so destitute as all that, and on Christmas eve too? Come now, tell me your name and what you were after, and if it is all right I'll give you a penny and let you go."

"My name is Jack Mackenzie, sir; but mebbe, sir, you would know me better as little Johnnie Greybreeks, because that's what the boys all call me."

The big man laughed.

"Me know you! Well, that's good. But what were you doing?"

"Oh," cried the lad ecstatically, "I was looking in there at the fairies. O sir, isn't it grand and beautiful? If you stand here you can have a see too. They won't notice us."

"Ha, ha! Well, but suppose I don't want to have a 'see,' as you call it; suppose I live here?"

Johnnie didn't answer immediately. He heaved a big, double sort of a sigh, and on his eyelashes something appeared that glittered in the light like the melted snow-flakes on the stranger's brown beard.

"I wish my mother and Siss lived in there."

There was a ring of genuine sadness and pathos in the boy's voice that went straight to that tall man's heart, and he would not have trusted himself to speak just then for a good deal. He felt certain in his own mind that this poor, ragged lad was speaking the truth. Then he pictured to himself the contrast between the very poor and the rich in such a city as this. How could he help doing so, when he glanced from the white and weary face before him to the happy children at their innocent gambols within?

"It is a contrast," he murmured to himself, "that Heaven permits for some good purpose, though it is all dark, dark to my limited mental vision."

But, happy thought! he could do something even to-night to soothe the sorrows and sufferings of this one wee waif before him. It was Christmas eve too.

"Tell me, boy," he said first, "how comes it that you can talk such good English?"

"Because I'm talking to a gentleman."

"But can't you speak broad Scotch?"

"Bonnie yon, to the wee callants on the street. But mother makes us—Siss and me—speak English at home."

"And what does your father do?"

He crept nearer and nearer to the window.

"Oh, father's gone to heaven, you know, sir. He's going to stop there always."

"Does your mother—er—wash or char or anything?"

"Oh no, sir; mother's a real lady."

Mr. Tom Morgan—for that was his name—smiled.

"Now show me your hands. Why, they are quite clean! There, give me one, and now march along with me."

Jack drew back hesitatingly.

"I hope, sir," he said, with tears in his voice, "I haven't done any harm?"

"No, no, lad; I'm going to give you supper and send you off. Come."

Somehow, lines from Thorn's beautiful poem "The Mitherless Bairn" were borne to Mr. Morgan's mind, as he led the boy round through the garden to the back door of the villa.

Jack was not mitherless, but in other respects he resembled the subject of the sad song.

"Oh speak him not harshly—he trembles the while— He bends to your bidding and blesses your smile: In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn."

* * * * *

When little Johnnie Greybreeks had left his mother's room that evening, he had been on business bent. Business of a very important description, I can assure you, reader. Important to Johnnie, at all events. A few weeks before this, when wandering in the western outskirts of the town, which at the time our story commences—namely, away back in 1849—were beautifully wooded and with very few houses indeed to be seen, he had come upon the ruined walls of a mansion that had been destroyed by fire. It was open to the road, and probably people as poor as Johnnie had been here before, for every rag and piece of wood had been carried away. But to the boy's delight he had come across an ash heap, over which a large elder tree drooped, half hiding it, and here were at least two dozen medicine-bottles, many smashed but many whole. What a find if they could only be his! Next day he had wandered that way again, and was glad to find a man there who was about to clear the heap. The man laughed when Johnnie volunteered his assistance, but for sake of company, he said,

permitted the boy to help him. The job was finished in a couple of hours, and Johnnie had the bottles as his wages.

He took as many as he could down to the burn and washed them, then came back for more, and by-and-by they were all nice and clean and hidden away where he was sure no one could find them but himself. Then a good-natured chemist in the street where the boy lived had promised him ninepence for the lot. Ninepence! what a fortune! He had never seen so much money before. When he got it, he tied it up in a handkerchief—it was all in pennies and half-pennies—and resolved not to tell his mother till Christmas eve, when he would go quietly out and purchase something nice for next day's dinner.

And it was with the view of making these purchases that Johnnie had come out to-night. He had come too early though, for in the shops he was to favour with his custom, things were never at their very cheapest till nearly closing-time. So he had treated himself to a walk in the west end.

Then the snow began to fall, and we know the rest.

Mr. Tom Morgan had his reasons for taking Johnnie in by the back door and through the kitchen. He really wanted to know if the boy was in the slightest degree presentable.

He was better pleased with his appearance than he had expected to be. Johnnie's nether garments of hodden grey were patched at the knees and tattered and short at the ankles; his jacket was torn, too, and out at the elbows; but the lad was clean, even to his shirt, which left neck and red chest exposed to the weather.

Johnnie's features were regular and far from unpleasant, but his dark eyes were very large and sad.

"You'll do, lad, you'll do. Come along; it is Christmas eve, and mother is kind anyhow."

CHAPTER II LIFE IN SUMMER LOANING.

"O children," cried old Mrs. Morgan during a lull in the frolicsome riot, "here comes your uncle Tom. I can hear his voice in the hall. Now we'll have a song and a dance!"

She rose and walked towards the drawing-room door, and the bairns crowded after, with joyful, expectant faces.

But when the door was opened, and they found Uncle Tom standing there holding little ragged Johnnie by the hand, astonishment and wonder seemed to deprive everybody of speech. Miss Scraggs, an elderly spinster, nearly fainted.

"What on earth—" began one elderly gentleman.

"As I live—-" exclaimed the other.

Neither got any further, but both burst into a hearty fit of laughing.

Mrs. Morgan, Tom's mother, found voice first.

"Tom," she cried, "who or what have you gotten there?"

"Well, mother, I couldn't say—at least, not exactly. He is a sort of mitherless bairn—well, not exactly that either, because he has a mother, but no father. And you see how poor the child is. Look at his naked feet, mother and children all, and we so happy and jolly and everything. And this Christmas eve, too, mother. I thought we might—that is, I might—do some little thing for him—a supper, or anything like that—and then send him home."

"My own good-hearted Tom!" said the old lady, smiling. "And did you pick him up in the street?"

"No, not exactly in the street, mother. Fact is, he was in the grounds, and looking in at the window."

"In the grounds, Tom! Oh, do you think he was after the spoons, or—

"No, no, dear mother," interrupted the stalwart son. "He was peeping in at the dancing and the Christmas tree. He said the children were just like fairies."

"Droll boy. What is his name? Jack?—When did you see fairies?"

"When I was a god, big lady."

"When you were what?"

"He means," said Mr. Tom Morgan, "when he had a seat in the gallery of the theatre at a pantomime, I suppose."

"Oh yes.—Are you a good boy?"

"No, ma'am; very wicked. For 'there is none that doeth good and sinneth not, no, not one.'"

The elderly men-people behind laughed loudly and heartily.

"What do you think of that, Dawson?" said one, nudging the other in the ribs.

"Good, good!—Capital, Mrs. Morgan!"

But Miss Scraggs said, "Dreadful!"

"What are you going to be when you grow up to manhood?" continued Mrs. Morgan.

"I'm not quite sure, big lady. I think I'd like to be a bu'glar."