Stables How Jack Mackenzie Won His Epaulettes

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98826-015-4
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 184 Seiten

Excerpt: ?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.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Stables, Gordon

Leseproben

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." It is no wonder that Miss Scraggs screamed, or that "big lady" lifted up her hands. "Oh, take the dreadful creature away!" cried Miss Scraggs; "he may kill us all before morning." But when Tom Morgan laughingly explained that poor little Jack knew not what he was saying, and had no idea what a burglar was, he was restored to favour. "Well, Tom," said the elder Mr. Morgan, who was Tom's father, "take your little sans-culotte away and give him a feed. I'll warrant he won't say 'no' to that on a Christmas eve." "And some dood tlothes too," lisped a wee maiden of six—"some dood tlothes, Uncle Tom." Then Jack made a bow such as he had seen actors outside caravans in the Green make. He took off the remains of his glengarry solemnly with his right hand, put his left hand to his heart, and bent his body low. "I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, as Tom led Jack off, "that isn't any ordinary boy. Blame me if I don't think there are the makings of a little gentleman about him. What think you?" "Well, Dawson, you never can tell what a boy of that age may turn to or be. He might turn out a burning and a shining light in church or state, he might become a leader of armies, or he might give—Jack Ketch a job." Young Tom Morgan—for he was not above four-and-twenty, although his beard was so big and strong—was the younger of two sons who both lived with their parents, the house being very large. The elder son, Grant Morgan, was married, and occupied the northern wing with his wife and three children. The wee lass who had proposed that Jack or Johnnie should have "dood tlothes" was the youngest; then there was a boy of eight and one of eleven. When Tom returned to the servants' hall, he succeeded in interesting every one there, even the somewhat supercilious butler, in Johnnie Greybreeks; and between the lot of them they succeeded in working quite a transformation in the boy. In fact, they took great fun in doing it. "Ulric's clothes will just fit him, cook," said Tom. "Yes, sir; but—" "Oh, bother the 'but'! this is Christmas eve, cook. There, now; you take him into your own room and see to his hair and his poor little feet. I'll be back in a minute." Half an hour after this nobody would have taken Johnnie for the same boy, but for his pale face and sad, dark, wondering eyes. "I'm not going to go away with all these grand things on, am I, sir?" he asked. "Oh yes, you are." "I can go to church now!" cried Jack jubilantly. "I tried one time before; but they thought I'd come after the coppers, and chased me away. O sir, mother and Sissie will be pleased; you've made such a happy boy of me!" Johnnie began bundling up his old clothes in his red handkerchief as he spoke; and when he departed, about an hour after this, he took that bundle with him, and another too, containing more provisions and nice things than would do for several days' dinner. "Now, Johnnie Greybreeks—" began Tom Morgan. "Oh, if you please, sir," said Johnnie, "that is only my sobriquet." "Well, Jack, then," laughed Tom, "I'm going to take you to have a look at the Christmas tree, and it is just possible you may have something off it for your Siss—eh?" Jack's heart was too full to speak, and there were tears in his eyes. Everybody said that Miss Scraggs was cocking her cap at young Tom Morgan, though everybody took care to add that she was old enough to be his grand—well, his aunt at least. Tom could not stand her. Not that he hated her—he was too good-hearted to hate anybody—but he just gave her a wide berth, as we say at sea. But when he returned to the drawing-room with the intention of placing his little protégé in a corner to look at the fun for a few minutes, Tom had his revenge, for he had not felt pleased at the way Miss Scraggs talked to or at the poor ragged boy. The spinster lady happened to be standing near to the door when Tom entered. She did not see Jack just at once, but as soon as she did she smiled most condescendingly on him. "How do you do, my little friend? I know your face, but can't recollect where I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.—Oh, goodness gracious!" she cried immediately after; "it's the horrid little burglar boy!" It was rude of Mr. Dawson and Tom Morgan to laugh so loudly, but they could not help it. As for poor Jack, he crimsoned to the very roots of his hair. I think there is always some good about a boy who can blush. However, Jack never forgot Miss Scraggs. But he thought no more about it for the present, because wee Violet Morgan tripped up to speak to him. There was no pride about Violet. "So," she said, "you's dot you dood tlothes on. You is so pletty now I tould almost tiss you." "Violet!" screamed Miss Scraggs; "come here this instant." But Violet had a will of her own; besides, it was Christmas eve, and she had a right to do whatever she pleased. "I won't tome there this instant," she said, stamping her tiny foot; "this is Tlismas eve, and 'ittle dirls can do as they pleases, Miss Staggs." But all eyes were now drawn towards Violet and Jack, and there was momentary silence. "I say, Morgan," cried Dawson, loud enough for every one to hear, "did ever you, in all your life, see such a remarkable resemblance?" "'Pon honour, Dawson, I never did!" "Why, Violet and that little fellow might be sister and brother!" Same contour, same hair, same eyes, same everything. "Hush! hush!" said Mr. Morgan the elder; "remember the boy's station in life." Jack drew back into his corner a little abashed. Half an hour afterwards, when Tom went round that way, the child stole his hand softly into the brown-bearded big man's. "Take me away now," he beseeched; "I'm tired." The fun was then getting fast and furious; but Tom and the boy slipped out as quietly as they had come, and in a few minutes more Johnnie Greybreeks found himself once more out in the snow. As he passed through the gate, he paused to look back. "Heigh-ho!" he sighed; "I've been in fairy-land. What a story I should have to tell mother and Siss! only, long before I get home I shall wake and find it is all a dream." Then away he went, feathering through the snow, and keeping a good hold on his bundle, but nevertheless expecting every minute to awake and find himself in his own bed. It is needless to say that Jack didn't awake, and that his adventure wasn't a dream; and it is quite impossible to describe the astonishment of his mother and sister when he told all his wonderful story. That Christmas dinner, next day, was the best and most delightful ever Jack or his little sister Maggie could remember partaking of since they had come to reside at No. 73 Summer Loaning. Summer Loaning, indeed! what a cruel misnomer! Well, to be sure, there might have been a time away back in the past when this street was a kind of loaning, or even a lover's lane leading right away out into the cool country. Green hedges might have grown...