Chapter One.

“You, Tom Jones, let that pot-lid alone.”

It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly, and a big rough-looking bugler, in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers, with belts, buttons and facings looking very clean and bright, but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud, and sleeping in it anywhere, often without shelter, who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more, as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks, over a wood fire.

It was in a lovely part of Portugal, and the regiment was halting among the mountains after a long weary tramp; fires had been lit for cooking, and the men were lying and sitting about, sleeping, cleaning their firelocks, pipeclaying their belts, and trying to make themselves look as smart as they could considering that they were all more or less ragged and torn after a fortnight’s tramp in all weathers in pursuit of a portion of the French army which had been always a few hours ahead.

But it was easy enough to follow their steps, for everywhere they had plundered, and destroyed; villages and pleasant homes were burned; and blackened ruins, cut-up gardens and vineyards met the soldiers’ eyes wherever the enemy had been.

There had been a straggling little village by the side of the mountain stream, where the 200th had halted at midday after their long march under a burning sun, at a spot where there was plenty of fresh water, and it was the pot over one of these cooking fires whose lid Tom Jones had lifted off.

“On’y wanted to smell what was for dinner,” he said. “What have you got, Mother Beane?”

“Never you mind. Rare ohs for meddlers, and pump-handle sauce, perhaps; and look here, you sir, you come when we halt to-night and I’ll mend some of them rags. You’re a disgrace.”

“Ain’t worse than the rest of the fellows,” said Tom, grinning. “The Colonel’s horse went down ’s morn’.”

“Oh, dear, dear!” cried the woman excitedly; “is he hurt?”

“Broke both his knees, and bled ever so.”

“The Colonel?”

“Now-w-w! His horse. Colonel only went sliding down ’mong the stones, and ripped his jacket sleeve right up.”

“Oh, that’s a blessing,” said the woman. “You go to him when we camp, and say Mrs Corp’ral Beane’s dooty and she’s got a needle and silk ready, and may she mend his jacket.”

“All right, but you might tell us what’s for dinner.”

“Wait and see. And why don’t you go and forage about and see if you can’t find a bit o’ fruit or some vegetables?”

“’Tarn’t no good. Old Frog-soups clears everything.”

“Yes,” said the woman, with a sigh, as she re-arranged her battered old straw bonnet cocked up as if it were a hat, and took off the old scarlet uniform tail coat she wore over her very clean cotton gown, before going to the pot, wooden spoon in hand, to raise the lid and give the contents a stir round.

“Oh, I say, Mother Beane, it does smell good! What’s in it?”

“Shoulder o’ goat,” said the woman.

“Yah! Don’t care much for goat,” said the boy. “Arn’t half so good as mutton.”

“You must take what you can get, Tom. Two chickens.”

“Why, that they ain’t. I see ’em: they was an old cock and hen as we chivied into that burnt house this mornin’, and Corp’ral shot one, and Mick Toole run his bay’net through the other. Reg’lar stringies.”

“Never mind. I’m cooking ’em to make ’em taste like chicken, and it’s time they were all back to mess. Which way did my old man go?”

“Climbed up yonder. Said he knowed there’d be a house up somewheres there.”

“And why didn’t you go with him, sir?” said Mrs Corporal Beane. “Might have found a melon or some oranges.”

“Not me,” grumbled the boy. “Frenchies don’t leave nothing: hungry beggars. Murd’rin’ wermin. Wish we could ketch ’em.”

“Ah, so do I, and it makes my heart bleed to see what we do.”

“Ah, but you wait a bit. We shall ketch ’em one o’ these days.”

“You won’t. You’re too lazy.”

“That I ain’t. I’d ha’ gone foraging ’s morning, and there’s an old boot nail made a hole in one foot, and t’other’s all blisters.”

“Oh, my poor boy! And I haven’t finished that pair of stockings I was knitting for you. Look here, you go and sit down till the men come back, and bathe your feet in the stream.”

“Did,” said the boy, with a chuckle.

“Ah! Where abouts? Not above where we get our drinking water?”

“Course I didn’t,” said the boy scornfully. “I ain’t a Frenchy.”

“Ahoy-y-y-y!”

The hail came from high up in a woody ravine far above their heads, and the boy shaded his eyes and said excitedly—“Here, look. It’s Joe Beane, and he’s found something good. Got it on his shoulder.”

“What is it?” cried Mrs Beane. “A kid?”

“No, it’s a bag o’ something. It’s—no, he’s hid among the trees again. It was a bag, though—looked whitish.”

“It’s flour,” cried Mrs Beane triumphantly. “Oh, Tom! We’ll have cakes to-night, and you shall carry some to the officers’ mess.”

“Give us one if I do, Mother Beane?”

“Ah, pig! I never saw such a boy to eat.”

“Well, how can I help it? I get so holler,” grumbled the boy. “It’s ’cause I’m growing.”

Five minutes later a tall manly-looking soldier came down the rugged track, with his face and hands torn and bleeding, and dropped upon his knees before his astonished wife and a group of half a dozen men who hurried up.

“Oh, Joe,” cried the woman, “what have you got there?”

“Young shaver,” panted the man. “Found big house yonder, half burnt. Five dead folk, and this here.”

“Oh, Joe!” cried the woman, taking her husband’s burden from him, sinking upon her knees, and laying the head of a handsome little fellow of about eight against her breast, to begin rocking herself to and fro and sobbing bitterly. “Oh, the wicked cruel wretches! To go and murder a poor little boy like this! Look at his face! Look at his hair, half burned off, and the rest all blood. Oh! If you were men you’d ketch and kill some of ’em for this.”

A low growl arose from the soldiers around, and Tom Jones sniffed, drew his bugle round from where it hung at his back, and dropped two silent tears in its mouth.

“You Tom,” cried Mrs Beane, “don’t stand sniffing and snivelling there like a great bull calf. Take the tin dipper and fetch it full of clean water. Oh, Joe, Joe! It’s too late. The poor little darling’s dead.”

“Warn’t when I fun’ him,” said the corporal. “He’d crep’ away a bit, and he moved one hand.”

“Yes, and he’s warm still,” cried the woman excitedly. “Here, you men, clear off. You go and serve out the mess, Joe. Never mind me.”

“But you’ll want a bit o’ dinner, missus; and I found two ripe melons up in the garden there, but I left ’em behind.”

“Don’t talk to me about melons and dinners,” cried the woman angrily. “Go and get your own, all of you; and how much longer’s that boy going to be?”

Not many minutes before he appeared, not with the tin dipper but a whole bucketful of clear cold water, forgetting all about his sore feet; and while the men went and sat round the iron pot of savoury hotch-potch, Tom Jones stayed behind to help bathe and bandage the head of the handsome little fellow upon whose sunburned face more than one hot tear fell, as loving hands made him up a temporary bed of great-coats in the shade.

“Oh, Tom, Tom!” sobbed the big rough coarse woman, as she knelt there at last after doing all she could, “many’s the time that I’ve prayed that I might have a little boy to call my own; but Heaven knows best, and he might have lived to die like this.”

“He ain’t a-going to die,” said Tom, sniffing again.

“He is—he is; and no doctor near!”

“No,” said Tom, with another sniff; “he’s miles away, along o’ them poor wounded chaps we left behind.”

“I can do nothing, nothing more—and he’s somebody’s bairn!”

“Yes,” said the boy hoarsely, “and the Frenchies killed ’em, for Joe Beane telled the men as the sight he see was horrid.”

“Hush! Ah, look,” whispered the woman, and she bent over the poor little victim, who wailed faintly, “Oh, don’t—don’t—Ah!”

Then he lay silent and motionless, as his rough nurse softly laid her hand upon the fire-scorched forehead.

“Why, that there ain’t Portygeeze,” whispered Tom, staring.

“Well, old gal, what about him now?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Joe; I don’t know. He just spoke a little.”

“Poor little nipper. All right, my gal; you’ll bring him round.”

Tom had ceased sniffing and had turned to give a long stare at the men grouped round the pot, to see that they had done eating and were lighting their pipes.

“Might ha’ arxed a pore chap to have had a bit, corporal,” he said.

“Ay, we might, lad; but then you see we was all so hungry we mightn’t, and you’re only a boy.”

“Yes, that’s it,” grumbled Tom, wrenching his bugle round and giving it a vicious polish with his sleeve. “Allus the same; on’y a boy; just as if I could help that!”

“And such a hungry sort o’ boy; holler all through. It’s a waste to give you good food. That there stoo was evvinly.”

Joe turned away from Tom’s sour puckered face, to bend over the insensible little patient with a look full of pity, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I should just liked to have been there, missus, with my bay’net fixed when they cut that little fellow down. Here, I’ll sit and have a pipe and keep the flies off him, while you go and pick a bit. The boys wouldn’t touch a morsel till I’d put aside some for you and Tom.”

That night the 200th was still marching on where they were to camp in the mountains, while on a rough kind of litter formed of a long basket strapped upon the back of a mule, with a couple of great-coats and a blanket for bed, lay the poor child whose life Mrs Beane was trying to save.

It was a long and a weary forced march, for scouts had brought in news which made the officers hope to come in touch of the retreating army before morning, for the news had spread, and during the night the Colonel and officers found opportunities for coming and asking Mother Beane about her little patient.

But there was always the same reply, and Colonel Lavis did not have his uniform mended, neither were any stitches added to Tom Jones’s new worsted stockings, for the corporal’s wife had all her work to do to try and save her patient’s life, and the shake of the head she gave at daybreak told more forcibly than words or the bitter tears she shed, that she had given up all hope.

Chapter Two.

The 200th was in high glee to a man, which is including about twenty men who were wounded not so badly but that they could shout “Hurrah!” For there was a brush with the retreating French, who were driven from the strong camp they had formed, and the little patient had, to use Mrs Beane’s words, “begun to pick up a bit.”

During the next week of marching and counter-marching the wounded boy began to pick up a good many bits, for the doctor had rejoined the regiment, and he did something to the little fellow’s head where beneath the cruel cut he had received the bone was dinted in, and from that hour the change was wonderful. In another week he delighted Mrs Corporal Beane by watching her constantly with wondering eyes, and suddenly asking her who she was.

In her motherly delight she told him “Mother Beane,” and he began calling her mother directly, while in another week Corporal Joe had taught the patient to call him Dad, and wondering began.

“Haven’t you asked him?” said Joe.

“Yes, as much as I dared, old man, but I’m afraid to do much, because it seems to muddle his poor dear head, and he wrinkles up and tries to think, but he can’t.”

“But don’t he remember who cut him down?” said Joe.

“No.”

“Nor yet about the house bein’ set a-fire?”

“No.”

“Well, did you ask him his name?”

“Yes, and he only shook his head.”

“Did you ask him who his father and mother was?”

“Yes, but he didn’t know.”

“Well, it’s ama-a-azin’,” said Joe.

But it was true. The boy’s life had been saved just when it had been ebbing away, but that was all. With the cruel blow which struck him down all recollection of the past was cut away, and the boy had, as it were, to begin life all over again, not as a little child, for he could talk and chat merrily; but the dark cloud which came down so suddenly had shut everything else away.

“Well, it’s ama-a-azin’,” said Joe to his wife, “and it seems to me as we found him and saved him alive and all as belonged to him was killed dead, why, he must belong to us. What do you say to keeping him?”

“Oh, Joe, if we only could!” cried his wife.

“Ah, if we on’y could,” said Joe thoughtfully.

“I know,” cried Mrs Corporal; “I’ll ask the Colonel next time I take him his washing back.”

“You just don’t,” said Joe; “because if you do he’ll say as you mustn’t.”

“Oh!” sighed Mrs Corporal; “that’s just what I’m ’fraid of.”

They were very silent as they sat by the camp-fire that night in an orange-grove, with the big stars peeping down at them, and Tom Jones, who took a great interest in what was said, sat and waited for ever so long, and then being tired out with the long day’s tramp, lay down to listen, and dropped off fast asleep, just as Joe Beane said thoughtfully:—

“Look here, missus, if I was on’y a private instead of being an officer I should say something, but as I am full corporal, why, I can’t.”

“Just think you are a private, Joe, and say it,” whispered his wife.

“Shall I?” he said slowly.

“Yes, Joe, dear, do. He’s such a nice boy.”

“Ay, he is, missus.”

“And I love him a’ready.”

“Well, I won’t go so far as love him, ’cause I don’t like boys, but I like him because he’s such a good, happy-looking little chap, and how anyone as calls himself a man could have—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that before, Joe,” whispered his wife pettishly. “Tell me what you’d say if you warn’t a corporal.”

“Why, I’d say nothing,” said Joe.

“Oh, how can you be so stupid as to go on like that! I thought you’d got something sensible in your head.”

“So I have,” said Joe gruffly, “on’y you’re in such a hurry. I should say nothing to nobody, and go on just as if he warn’t here.”

“Oh, Joe, dear, would you?”

“Yes, that’s what I should say. We could manage right enough, and if at last the Colonel should come with: ‘Hallo there! What boy’s that?’—why, we could tell him then, and if he said: ‘Send him away’—”

“Yes, and what then, Joe?” cried Mrs Corporal excitedly.

“Why then,” said Joe, “we should have to obey orders.”

“Ah, and he mightn’t say that, Joe, as he’s such a nice little fellow.”

“Course, he mightn’t,” replied Joe.

“Hah!” ejaculated Mrs Corporal Beane, and she said no more. But at the next halting-place she began to think: and the result of her thinking was that she got hold of an old uniform suit and by working very hard every time the regiment halted she contrived to cut the suit down till it roughly fitted the little invalid, braiding it like the drum and bugle boys’, and making a little military cap as well, so that by the time he was able to trot along in the rear of the regiment he did not seem out of place.

“Joe,” said Mrs Corporal one morning, “look at him; don’t he look splendid? He’s our soldier boy now, and I shall call him Dick.”

“All right,” said the corporal; “Dick ain’t bad, but you might ha’ called him Joe the second.”

Chapter Three.

It was quite six weeks after Dick had been found, and he was weak still, but that only troubled him by making him feel tired, and at such times there was always a ride ready for him on the top of a pack carried by a mule.

And there he was happy enough, for he was rapidly growing into being the pet of the regiment, and first one of the men brought him fruit, and some one thing and some another; but Mrs Corporal was always pretty close at hand to take care that he was not spoiled or made ill, and Corporal Joe said over and over again to his wife, that it was “ama-a-azin’.”

“What’s amazing, Joe?” she said one day. “What do you keep saying that for?”

“’Cause it is,” he said.

“Yes, but why, Joe?”

“’Cause ever since I found that there boy you’ve been as proud as a peacock with two tails.”

“And enough to make me,” said Mrs Corporal tartly. “There never was such a boy before. Look at him!” and she pointed to where the little fellow, in full uniform, was perched on a mule-pack, and the baggage guard with fixed bayonets marched close beside.

“Yes,” said Joe drily, as he screwed up his face; “I’ve been a-looking at him a deal. His coatee fits horrid.”

“That it don’t,” said Mrs Corporal; “and it was the best I could do out of such old stuff.”

“Well, it weer old,” said her husband; “but it’s all crinkles and creases, and that boy puzzles me.”

“Why? How?”

“’Cause you’d think after he’d seen his people killed and the house burnt about his ears he’d ha’ been frightened like; but he don’t seem to mind nothing about it, not a bit.”

“Ah, it is strange,” said Mrs Corporal; “but there couldn’t be a braver nor a better little chap.”

“That there couldn’t,” said the Corporal proudly; “but I think I’ve found out what’s the matter with him. That crack on the head made him an idjit.”

“For shame, Joe!” cried his wife. “He’s as clever and bright a little fellow as ever stepped.”

“So he is, missus; but he puzzles me. It’s ama-a-azin’.”

The boy puzzled Tom Jones the bugler boy too, who whenever he got a chance came alongside of the mule or baggage wagon in the rear, and let the little invalid earn his bugle on condition that he did not try to blow it, and Tom made this an excuse for solemnly asking the same questions over and over again.

“I say, who’s your father?”

“Corporal Joe Beane,” said the boy promptly; “I say, Tom, mayn’t I have a blow now?”

“What? No, of course not. You don’t want to send the men at the double up a hill like this.”

“Why not? I should like to run too, only I so soon get tired.”

“You shall have a blow some day. But I say, who’s your mother?”

“Mrs Corporal Joe Beane,” was the prompt reply, and the boy drummed the mule’s sides to make it go faster, but without effect.

“Well, where did you live before Joe Beane found you?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, shaking his head, and Tom Jones stared hard with his mouth open before asking his next question.

“I say, how’s your head?”

“Quite well, thank you,” said the boy; “how’s yours?”

Tom scratched his as if he did not know.

“Look here,” he cried, after a pause, as a happy thought crossed his mind, and without pausing to state how his own head was, he fired off another question:—“I say, who did you live with before we found you?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, looking at him wonderingly, and as if he felt amused by his companion’s questions. “You ask mother.”

“Here! Quick,” whispered Tom. “Give me my bugle.”

“Shan’t. I want it,” replied the boy coolly.

“But you must. Here’s the Colonel and half the officers reined up at the side to see us go by.”

He snatched the bugle away as he spoke and threw the cord over his shoulder, drawing himself up smartly, and keeping step with the guard.

Mrs Corporal Beane had caught sight of the group of officers they were approaching, and with her heart in her mouth as she called it, she hurried up to the side of the mule, catching up to it just as they came abreast of the Colonel, a quiet stern-looking officer whose hair was sprinkled with grey.