Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan

“Pray make no apology, madam,” interrupted Armstrong. “I’m so thankful that all is well. I had begun to fear that something must be wrong, for my Emmy never disappoints me. If she thinks it wiser not to meet on the jetty, it is wiser!”

A crowd of men pushed between them at this moment. Immediately after, a female shout was heard, followed by the words, “There he is! Och, it’s himsilf—the darlint!”

Mrs Flynn had discovered the little corporal, and her trooper son, Terence, who had come down with her, stood by to see fair-play while the two embraced.

Drifting with a rather rapid tide of mingled human beings, Miles and his mother soon found themselves stranded beside the coffee-shed. Retiring behind this they continued their conference there, disturbed only by wind and weather, while the distribution of hot coffee was going on in front.

Meanwhile, when leave was obtained, Armstrong made his way to the Institute, where the old scene of bustle and hilarity on the arrival of a troop-ship was going on. Here, in a private room, he discovered Emmy and the cause of her not appearing on the jetty.

“Look at him—Willie the second!” cried the little woman, holding up a bundle of some sort. The soldier was staggered for a moment—the only infantry that had ever staggered him!—for his wife had said nothing about this bundle in her letters. He recovered, however, and striding across the room embraced the wife and the bundle in one tremendous hug!

The wife did not object, but the bundle did, and instantly set up a howl that quite alarmed the father, and was sweetest music in the mother’s ears!

“Now tell me,” said the little woman, after calming the baby and putting it in a crib; “have you brought Miles Milton home all safe?”

“Yes, all right, Emmy.”

“And is he married to that dear girl you wrote about?”

“No, not yet—of course.”

“But are they engaged?”

“No. Miles told me that he would not presume to ask her while he had no home to offer her.”

“Pooh! He’s a goose! He ought to make sure of her, and let the home look after itself. He may lose her. Girls, you know, are changeable, giddy things!”

“I know nothing of the sort, Emmy.”

The young wife laughed, and—well, there is no need to say what else she did.

About the same time, Mrs Milton and her son were seated in another private room of the Institute finishing off that interchange of confidences which had begun in such confusion. As it happened, they were conversing on the same subject that occupied Emmy and her husband.

“You have acted rightly, Miles,” said the mother, “for it would have been unfair and selfish to have induced the poor girl to accept you until you had some prospect of a home to give her. God will bless you for doing the right, and trusting to Him. And now, dear boy, are you prepared for bad news?”

“Prepared for anything!” answered Miles, pressing his mother’s hand, “but I hope the bad news does not affect you, mother.”

“It does. Your dear father died a bankrupt. I shrank from telling you this when you were wounded and ill. So you have to begin again the battle of life with only one hand, my poor boy, for the annuity I have of twenty pounds a year will not go far to keep us both.”

Mrs Milton tried to speak lightly on this point, by way of breaking it to her son, but she nearly broke down, for she had already begun to feel the pinch of extreme poverty, and knew it to be very, very different from what “well-off” people fancy. The grave manner in which her son received this news filled her with anxiety.

“Mother,” he said, after pondering in silence for a few moments, and taking her hand in his while he slipped the handless arm round her waist, “the news is indeed serious, but our Father whom you have trusted so long will not fail us now. Happily it is my right hand that has been spared, and wonders, you know, may be wrought with a strong right hand, especially if assisted by a strong left stump, into which spoons, forks, hooks, and all manner of ingenious contrivances can be fitted. Now, cheer up, little mother, and I’ll tell you what we will do. But first, is there nothing left? Do the creditors take everything?”

“All, I believe, except some of the furniture which has been kindly left for us to start afresh with. But we must quit the old home next month. At least, so I am told by my kind little lawyer, who looks after everything, for I understand nothing.”

“Your mention of a lawyer reminds me, mother, that a poor sergeant, who died a short time ago in Egypt, made me his executor, and as I am painfully ignorant of the duties of an executor I’ll go and see this ‘kind little lawyer’ if you will give me his address.”

Leaving Miles to consult his lawyer, we will now turn to a meeting—a grand tea-fight—in the great hall of the Institute, that took place a few days after the return of the troop-ship which brought our hero and his friends to England. Some telling incidents occurred at this fight which render it worthy of notice.

First, Miss Robinson herself presided and gave a stirring address, which, if not of much interest to readers who did not hear it, was a point of immense attraction to the hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilians to whom it was delivered, for it was full of sympathy, and information, and humour, and encouragement, and, above all, of the Gospel.

Everybody worth mentioning was there—that is, everybody connected with our tale who was in England at the time. Miles and his mother of course were there, and Armstrong with Emmy—ay, and with Willie the second too—who was pronounced on all hands to be the born image of his father. Alas for his father, if that had been true! A round piece of dough with three holes punched in it and a little knot in the midst would have borne as strong a resemblance to Miles as that baby did. Nevertheless, it was a “magnificent” baby! and “so good,” undeniably good, for it slept soundly in its little mother’s lap the whole evening!

Stevenson was also there, you may be sure; and so were Moses and Sutherland, and Rattling Bill Simkin and Corporal Flynn, with his mother and Terence the Irish trooper, who fraternised with Johnson the English trooper, who was also home on the sick-list—though he seemed to have a marvellous colour and appetite for a sick man.

“Is that the ‘Soldiers Friend?’” asked Simkin, in a whisper, of a man who stood near him, as a lady came on the platform and took the chair.

“Ay, that’s her,” answered the man—and the speaker was Thomas Tufnell, the ex-trooper of the Queen’s Bays, and the present manager of the Institute—“Ay, that’s the ‘Soldier’s Friend.’”

“Well, I might have guessed it,” returned Simkin, “from the kindly way in which she shook hands with a lot of soldiers just now.”

“Yes, she has shook hands with a good many red-coats in her day, has the ‘Soldier’s Friend,’” returned the manager. “Why, I remember on one occasion when she was giving a lecture to soldiers, and so many men came forward to shake hands with her that, as she told me herself, her hand was stiff and swelled all night after it!”

“But it’s not so much for what she has done for ourselves that we’re grateful to her,” remarked a corporal, who sat on Simkin’s right, “as for what she has done for our wives, widows, and children, through the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Wives’ Aid Association. Lookin’ arter them when we’re away fightin’ our country’s battles has endeared her to us more than anything else.”

Thus favourably predisposed, Simkin was open to good impressions that night. But, indeed, there was an atmosphere—a spirit of good-will—in the hall that night which rendered many others besides Simkin open to good impressions. Among the civilians there was a man named Sloper, who had for some time past been carefully fished for by an enthusiastic young red-coat whom he had basely misled and swindled. He had been at last hooked by the young red-coat, played, and finally landed in the hall, with his captor beside him to keep him there—for Sloper was a slippery fish, with much of the eel in his nature.

Perhaps the most unexpected visitors to the hall were two ladies in mourning, who had just arrived from Egypt by way of Brindisi. Mrs and Miss Drew, having occasion to pass through Portsmouth on their way home, learned that there was to be a tea-fight at the Institute, and Marion immediately said, “I should like so much to see it!”

However much “so much” was, Mrs Drew said she would like to see it as much, so away they went, and were conducted to the front row. There Miles saw them! With his heart in his mouth, and his head in confusion, he quietly rose, bade his wondering mother get up; conducted her to the front seat, and, setting her down beside the Drews, introduced them. Then, sitting down beside Marion, he went in for a pleasant evening.

And it was a pleasant evening! Besides preliminary tea and buns, there were speeches, songs, recitations, etcetera,—all being received with immense satisfaction by a crowded house, which had not yet risen to the unenviable heights of classical taste and blaséism. As for Miles and Marion, nothing came amiss to them! If a singer had put B flat in the place of A natural they would have accepted it as quite natural. If a humourist had said the circle was a square, they would have believed it—in a sense—and tried to square their reason accordingly.

But nothing is without alloy in this life. To the surprise of Miles and his mother, their “kind little lawyer” also made his appearance in the hall. More than that, he insisted, by signs, that Miles should go out and speak with him. But Miles was obdurate. He was anchored, and nothing but cutting the cable could move him from his anchorage.

At last the “kind little man” pushed his way through the crowd.

“I must have a word with you, my dear sir. It is of importance,” he said.

Thus adjured, Miles unwillingly cut the cable, and drifted into a passage.

“My dear sir,” said the little man, seizing his hand, “I congratulate you.”

“You’re very kind, but pray, explain why.”

“I find that you are heir to a considerable fortune.”

Miles was somewhat interested in this, and asked, “How’s that?”

“Well, you remember Hardy’s will, which you put into my hands a few days ago?”

“Yes; what then? That can’t be the fortune!”

“Indeed it is. Hardy, you remember, made you his residuary legatee. I find, on inquiry, that the old cousin you told me about, who meant to leave all his money to build a hospital, changed his mind at the last and made out a will in favour of Hardy, who was his only relative. So, you see, you, being Hardy’s heir, have come into possession of something like two thousand a year.”

To this Miles replied by a whistle of surprise, and then said, “Is that all?”

“Upon my word, sir,” said the ‘kind little lawyer,’ in a blaze of astonishment, “you appear to take this communication in a peculiar manner!”