Robert Michael Ballantyne
Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan
“Now—form square! and pick each man,” cried Miles, springing up and standing back to back with Armstrong. Molloy stood shoulder to shoulder with him and backed Bill Simkin, while Stevenson did the same for Moses Pyne. The bushes did not rise much above their waists, and as the dusky host suddenly beheld the knot of strange-looking men, whose bristling bayonets glistened in the setting sunshine, and whose active rifles were still dealing death among their ranks, they dashed at the hill-top with a yell of mingled rage and surprise. Another moment and spearmen were dancing round the little square like incarnate fiends, but the white men made no sound. Each confined himself to two acts—namely, load and fire—and at every shot a foremost savage fell, until the square became encircled with dead men.
Another moment and a party of Arab riflemen ran to the front and took aim. Just then a tremendous cheer was heard. The defenders of the hillock made a wild reply, which was drowned in a furious fusillade. The entire savage host seemed to rush over the spot, sweeping all before it, while smoke rolled after them as well as lead and fire. In the midst of the hideous turmoil, Miles received a blow which shattered his left wrist. Grasping his rifle with his right hand he laid about him as best he could. Next moment a blow on the head from behind stretched him senseless on the ground.
The return of our hero to consciousness revealed to him that he was still lying on the battle-field, that it was night, and that an intolerable weight oppressed his chest. This last was caused by a dead native having fallen across him. On trying to get rid of the corpse he made the further discovery that nearly all his strength was gone, and that he could scarcely move his right arm, although it was free, and, as far as he could make out, unwounded. Making a desperate effort, he partially relieved himself, and, raising his head, tried to look round. His ears had already told him that near to him wounded men were groaning away the little of life that remained to them; he now saw that he was surrounded by heaps of dead men. Excepting the groans referred to, the night was silent, and the moon shone down on hundreds of up-turned faces—the bloodless grey of the black men contrasting strangely with the deadly pallor of the white, all quiet and passionless enough now—here and there the head of a warrior resting peacefully on the bosom or shoulder of the foe who had killed him!
A slight noise on his right caused Miles to turn his head in that direction, where he saw a wounded comrade make feeble efforts to raise himself, and then fall back with a deep groan. In other circumstances our hero would have sprung to his assistance, but at that moment he felt as if absolutely helpless; indeed, he was nearly so from loss of blood. He made one or two efforts to rise, but the weight of the dead man held him down, and after a few brief attempts he fainted.
Recovering again, he looked round, attracted by the sound of a struggle on his right. One of those fiends in human form, the plunderers of a battle-field, had, in his ghoulish progress, come across the wounded man who lay close to Miles, and the man was resisting him. The other put a quick end to the strife by drawing a knife across the throat of the poor fellow. A horror of great darkness seemed to overwhelm Miles as he saw the blood gush in a deluge from the gaping wound. He tried to shout, but, as in a nightmare, he could neither speak nor move.
As the murderer went on rifling his victim, Miles partially recovered from his trance of horror, and anxiety for his own life nerved him to attempt action of some sort. He thought of the revolver for the first time at that moment, and the remembrance seemed to infuse new life into him. Putting his right hand to his belt, he found it there, but drew it with difficulty. Doubting his power to discharge it by means of the trigger alone, he made a desperate effort and cocked it.
The click made the murderer start. He raised himself and looked round. Our hero shut his eyes and lay perfectly still. Supposing probably that he must have been mistaken, the man resumed his work. Miles could have easily shot him where he kneeled if he had retained power to lift his arm and take an aim. As it was, he had strength only to retain the weapon in his grasp.
After a short time, that seemed an age to the helpless watcher, the murderer rose and turned his attention to another dead man, but passing him, came towards Miles, whose spirit turned for one moment to God in an agonising prayer for help. The help came in the form of revived courage. Calm, cool, firm self-possession seemed to overbear all other feelings. He half closed his eyes as the murderer approached, and gently turned the muzzle of the revolver upwards. He even let the man bend over him and look close into his face to see if he were dead, then he pulled the trigger.
Miles had aimed, he thought, at the man’s breast, but the bullet entered under his chin and went crashing into his brain. A gush of warm blood spouted over Miles’s face as the wretch plunged over him, head first, and fell close by his side. He did not die at once. The nature of the ground prevented Miles from seeing him, but he could hear him gradually gasp his life away.
A few minutes later and footsteps were heard ascending the hillock. Miles grasped his revolver with a hand that now trembled from increasing weakness, but he was by that time unable to put the weapon on full cock. Despair had well-nigh seized him, when a familiar voice was heard.
“This way, lads. I’m sure it was hereabouts that I saw the flash.”
“Macleod!” gasped Miles, as the big Scotsman was about to pass.
“Losh me! John Miles, is that you? Are ye leevin?”
“Scarcely!” was all that the poor youth could utter ere he became again insensible.
A fatigue party tramped up with a stretcher at the moment. Macleod with a handkerchief checked the ebbing tide of life, and they bore away from the bloody field what seemed little more than the mortal remains of poor Miles Milton.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Describes a few Meetings and several Surprises
The fight described in the last chapter was only one of the numerous skirmishes that were taking place almost daily near Suakim at that time. But it turned out to be a serious occasion to our hero, for it cost him one of his hands, and put an end to his soldiering days for ever.
On being taken to the British lines the surgeons saw at once that amputation a little above the wrist was absolutely necessary. Of course Miles—although overwhelmed with dismay on hearing the fiat of the doctors—could offer no objection. With the informal celerity of surgical operations as practised in the field, the shattered limb was removed, and almost before he could realise the full significance of what was being done our poor hero was minus his left hand! Besides this, he was so cut and battered about, that most of his hair had to be cut off, and his head bandaged and plastered so that those of his old comrades who chanced to be with the troops at the time could recognise him only by his voice. Even that was scarcely audible when he was carried into Suakim.
At this time the hospitals at Suakim were overcrowded to such an extent that many of the wounded and invalids had to be sent on by sea to Suez and the hospitals at Ramleh. Miles was sent on along with these, and finally found rest at Alexandria.
And great was the poor fellow’s need of rest, for, besides the terrible sufferings and hardships he had endured while in captivity, the wounds and bruises, the loss of blood and of his left hand, and the fatigue of the voyage, his mind was overwhelmed by the consideration that even if he should recover he was seriously maimed for life. In addition to all this suffering, Miles, while at Suakim, had received a blow which well-nigh killed him. A letter came informing him of the sudden death of his father, and bitter remorse was added to his misery as he lay helpless in his cot on the Red Sea.
The consequent depression, acting on his already exhausted powers after he reached Alexandria, brought him to the verge of the grave. Indeed, one of the nurses said one day to one of her fellows, with a shake of her head, “Ah! poor fellow, he won’t last long!”
“Won’t he!” thought Miles, with a feeling of strong indignation. “Much you know about it!”
You see Miles possessed a tendency to abstract reasoning, and could meditate upon his own case without, so to speak, much reference to himself! His indignation was roused by the fact that any one, calling herself a nurse, should be so stupid as to whisper beside a patient words that he should not hear. He did not know that the nurse in question was a new one—not thoroughly alive to her duties and responsibilities. Strange to say, her stupidity helped to render her own prophecy incorrect, for the indignation quickened the soldier’s feeble pulse, and that gave him a fillip in the right direction.
The prostration, however, was very great, and for some time the life of our hero seemed to hang by a thread. During this dark period the value of a godly mother’s teaching became deeply impressed on him, by the fact that texts from God’s Word, which had been taught him in childhood, and which he seemed to have quite forgotten, came trooping into his mind, and went a long way to calm and comfort him. He dwelt with special pleasure on those that told of love and mercy in Jesus to the thankless and undeserving; for, now that strength, health, and the high hopes of a brilliant career were shattered at one blow, his eyes were cleared of life’s glamour to see that in his existence hitherto he had been ungodly—not in the sense of his being much worse than ordinary people, but in the sense of his being quite indifferent to his Maker, and that his fancied condition of not-so-badness would not stand the test of a dying hour.
About this time, too, he became desperately anxious to write to his mother, not by dictation, but with his own hand. This being impossible in the circumstances, he began to fret, and his power to sleep at length failed him. Then a strange desire to possess a rose seized him—perhaps because he knew it to be his mother’s favourite flower. Whatever the cause, the longing increased his insomnia, and as he did not say, perhaps did not know, that the want of a rose had anything to do with his complaint, no one at first thought of procuring one for him.
He was lying meditating, wakefully, about many things one day when one of the nurses approached his bed. He did not see her at first, because his head was so swathed in bandages that only one eye was permitted to do duty, and that, as Molloy might have said, was on the lee-side of his nose—supposing the side next the nurse to represent the wind’ard side!
“I have been laid up a long time,” said a lady, who accompanied the nurse, “and have been longing to resume my visits here, as one or two patients whom I used to nurse are still in hospital.”
The heart of Miles gave a bound such as it had not attempted since the night he witnessed the murder on the battle-field, for the voice was that of Mrs Drew.
“This is one of our latest arrivals,” remarked the nurse, lowering her voice as they advanced. “A poor young soldier—lost a hand and badly wounded—can’t sleep. He has taken a strange longing of late for a rose, and I have asked a friend to fetch one for him.”
“How lucky that we happen to have one with us!” said Mrs Drew, looking back over her shoulder where her daughter stood, concealed from view by her ample person. “Marion, dear, will you part with your rose-bud to a wounded soldier?”
“Certainly, mother, I will give it him myself.”
She stepped quickly forward, and looked sadly at the solitary, glowing eye which gazed at her, as she unfastened a rose-bud from her bosom. It was evident that she did not recognise Miles, and no wonder, for, besides the mass of bandages from out of which his one eye glowed, there was a strip of plaster across the bridge of his nose, a puffy swelling in one of the cheeks, and the handsome mouth and chin were somewhat veiled by a rapidly developing moustache and beard.
Miles did not speak—he could not speak; he scarcely dared to breathe as the girl placed a red rose-bud in his thin hand. His trembling fingers not only took the rose, but the hand that gave it, and pressed it feebly to his lips.
With a few words of comfort and good wishes the ladies passed on. Then Miles drew the rose down under the bed-clothes, put it to his lips, and, with a fervently thankful mind, fell into the first profound slumber that he had enjoyed for many days.
This was a turning-point. From that day Miles began to mend. He did not see Marion again for some time, for her visit had been quite incidental, but he was satisfied to learn that she was staying at the Institute with her mother, assisting the workers there. He wisely resolved to do and say nothing at that time, but patiently to wait and get well, for he had a shrewd suspicion that to present himself to Marion under existing circumstances would be, to say the least, injudicious.
Meanwhile, time, which “waits for no man,” passed on. As Miles became stronger he began to go about the hospital, chatting with the convalescent patients and trying to make himself generally useful. On one of these occasions he met with a man who gave him the sorrowful news that Sergeant Hardy was dead, leaving Miles his executor and residuary legatee. He also learned, to his joy, that his five comrades, Armstrong, Molloy, Stevenson, Moses, and Simkin, had escaped with their lives from the fight on the hillock where he fell, and that, though all were more or less severely wounded, they were doing well at Suakim. “Moreover,” continued his informant, “I expect to hear more about ’em to-night, for the mail is due, and I’ve got a brother in Suakim.”
That night not only brought news of the five heroes, but also brought themselves, for, having all been wounded at the same time, all had been sent to Alexandria together. As they were informed at Suakim that their comrade Miles had been invalided home, they did not, of course, make further inquiry about him there.
While they stayed there, awaiting the troop-ship which was to take them home, they made Miss Robinson’s Institute their constant rendezvous, for there they not only found all the comforts of English life, but the joy of meeting with many old comrades, not a few of whom were either drawn, or being drawn, to God by the influences of the place.
It chanced that at the time of their arrival Mrs Drew and her daughter had gone to visit an English family living in the city, and did not for several days return to the Institute; thus the invalids failed to meet their lady friends at first. But about this time there was announced a source of attraction in the large hall which brought them together. This attraction—which unites all creeds and classes and nationalities in one great bond of sympathy—we need hardly say was music! A concert was to take place in the great hall of the Institute for some local charity, we believe, but are not sure, at which the élite of Alexandria was expected, and the musical talent of Alexandria was to perform—among others the band of the somethingth Regiment. And let us impress on you, reader, that the band of the somethingth Regiment was something to be proud of!
This brought numerous friends to the “Officers’ House,” and great numbers of soldiers and Jack-tars to the various rooms of the Institute.
In one of these rooms, towards evening, our friend Stevenson was engaged, at the request of the Superintendent, in relating to a number of earnest-minded men a brief account of the wonderful experiences that he and his comrades had recently had in the Soudan, and Jack Molloy sat near him, emphasising with a nod of his shaggy head, or a “Right you are, messmate,” or a slap on his thigh, all the marine’s points, especially those in which his friend, passing over second causes, referred all their blessings and deliverances direct to his loving God and Father. In another room a Bible-reading was going on, accompanied by prayer and praise. In the larger rooms, tea, coffee, etcetera, were being consumed to an extent that “no fellow can understand,” except those who did it! Games and newspapers and illustrated magazines, etcetera, were rife elsewhere, while a continuous roar, rather the conventional “buzz,” of conversation was going on everywhere. But, apparently, not a single oath in the midst of it all! The moral atmosphere of the place was so pure that even bad men respected—perhaps approved—it.
Just before the hour of the concert our friends, the five invalids, sat grouped round a table near the door. They were drinking tea, and most of them talking with tremendous animation—for not one of them had been wounded in the tongue! Indeed it did not appear that any of them had been very seriously wounded anywhere.
While they were yet in the midst of their talk two lady-workers came down the long room, followed by two other ladies in deep mourning, the younger of whom suddenly sprang towards our quintet, and, clasping her hands, stood speechless before them, staring particularly at Jack Molloy, who returned the gaze with interest.
“Beg pard’n, Miss Drew,” exclaimed the sailor, starting up in confusion, and pulling his forelock, “but you’ve hove me all aback!”
“Mr Molloy!” gasped Marion, grasping his hand and looking furtively round, “is it possible? Have you all escaped? Is—is—”
“Yes, Miss, we’ve all escaped, thank God, an’ we’re all here—’cept John Miles, in coorse, for he’s bin invalided home—”
“He’s no more invalided home than yourself, Jack,” said a seaman, who was enjoying his coffee at a neighbouring table; “leastwise I seed John Miles myself yesterday in hospital wi’ my own two eyes, as isn’t apt to deceive me.”
“Are ye sure o’ that, mate?” cried Molloy, turning in excitement to the man, and totally forgetting Marion.
“Mother, let us go out!” whispered the latter, leaning heavily on Mrs Drew’s arm.
They passed out to the verandah—scarcely observed, owing to the excitement of the quintet at the sailor’s news—and there she would have fallen down if she had not been caught in the arms of a soldier who was advancing towards the door.
“Mr Miles!” exclaimed Mrs Drew, as she looked up in amazement at the scarred and worn face.
“Ay, Mrs Drew, through God’s mercy I am here. But help me: I have not strength to carry her now.”
Marion had nearly fainted, and was led with the assistance of her mother to a retired part of the garden, and placed in an easy-chair. Seeing that the girl was recovering, the other ladies judiciously left them, and Miles explained to the mother, while she applied smelling-salts to Marion, that he had come on purpose to meet them, hoping and expecting that they would be attracted to the concert, like all the rest of the world, though he had scarcely looked for so peculiar a meeting!
“But how did you know we were here at all?” asked Mrs Drew in surprise.
“I saw you in the hospital,” replied Miles, with a peculiar look. “Your kind daughter gave me a rose!”
He pointed as he spoke to a withered bud which was fastened to his coat.
“But—but—that young man had lost his hand; the nurse told us so,” exclaimed Mrs Drew, with a puzzled look.
Miles silently pointed to the handless arm which hung at his left side.
Marion had turned towards him with a half-frightened look. She now leaned back in her chair and covered her face with both hands.
“Mr Miles,” said the wise old lady, with a sudden and violent change of subject, “your friends Armstrong and Molloy are in the Institute at this moment waiting for you!”
Our hero needed no second hint. Next minute he dashed into the entrance hall, with wonderful vigour for an invalid, for he heard the bass voice of Molloy exclaiming—
“I don’t care a button, leave or no leave, I’ll make my way to John Mi— Hallo!”
The “Hallo!” was caused by his being rushed into by the impetuous Miles with such force that they both staggered.
“Why, John, you’re like the ram of an iron-clad! Is it really yourself? Give us your flipper, my boy!”
But the flipper was already in that of Willie Armstrong, while the others crowded round him with congratulations.
“Wot on airth’s all the noise about in that there corner?” exclaimed a Jack-tar, who was trying hard to tell an interminable story to a quiet shipmate in spite of the din.
“It’s only that we’ve diskivered our captin,” cried Molloy, eager to get any one to sympathise.
“Wot captin’s that?” growled the Jack-tar.
“Why, him as led us on the hillock, to be sure, at Suakim.”
When acts of heroism and personal prowess are of frequent occurrence, deeds of daring are not apt to draw general attention, unless they rise above the average. The “affair of the hillock,” however, as it got to be called, although unnoticed in despatches, or the public prints, was well-known among the rank and file who did the work in those hot regions. When, therefore, it became known that the six heroes, who had distinguished themselves on that hillock, were present, a great deal of interest was exhibited. This culminated when a little man rushed suddenly into the room, and, with a wild “hooroo!” seized Molloy round the waist—he wasn’t tall enough to get him comfortably by the neck—and appeared to wrestle with him.
“It’s Corporal Flynn—or his ghost!” exclaimed Molloy.
“Sure an’ it’s both him an’ his ghost togither!” exclaimed the corporal, shaking hands violently all round.
“I thought ye was sent home,” said Moses.
“Niver a bit, man; they tell awful lies where you’ve come from. I wouldn’t take their consciences as a gift. I’m as well as iver, and better; but I’m goin’ home for all that, to see me owld grandmother. Ye needn’t laugh, you spalpeens. Come, three cheers, boys, for the ‘heroes o’ the hillock!’”
Most heartily did the men there assembled respond to this call, and then the entire assembly cleared off to the concert, with the exception of Miles Milton. “He,” as Corporal Flynn knowingly observed, “had other fish to fry.” He fried these fish in company with Mrs and Marion Drew; but as the details of this culinary proceeding were related to us in strict confidence, we refuse to divulge them, and now draw the curtain down on the ancient land of Egypt.
