The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Dragoon, by A.W. Drayson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Young Dragoon Every Day Life of a Soldier Author: A.W. Drayson Illustrator: Richard Huttula Release Date: August 29, 2011 [EBook #37255] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG DRAGOON *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England A.W. Drayson "The Young Dragoon" "Every Day Life of a Soldier" Chapter One. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please; How often have I loiter’d o’er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! Goldsmith. I am a soldier, Frederick Trenchard, at your service. The prospect before me in my early days was, that instead of following the drum I should have followed the plough. My father was a farmer, living in the Midland counties; and I am the only one of a numerous family and a wide circle of family friends who ever took the Queen’s Shilling, and turned the ploughshare into a sword. My grandfather was a farmer; my uncle was a farmer; my cousin who married the heiress was a gentleman farmer; my cousin who fell in love with beer and skittles was a farm labourer. We were all of us sons of the soil, and it was the popular opinion in our family, that even sailors were no better than they should be (and, Heaven help us all, I suppose we none of us are), but that soldiers were utter outcasts— Sawney Beans in her Majesty’s livery—vultures in red coats and pipeclay—at which even Job Chequers, of the Green Man, shook his head, objecting strongly to the billet, and assuring everybody whom it concerned, or did not, that he would sooner pay the billet twice than lodge a soldier once. There was a tradition in the village of a certain young Meadows who had gone for a soldier; what became of him I never heard, but always was taught to imagine the worst; as whenever it happened that any youngster had been engaged in a frolic, the wiseacres shook their heads, and said—“Ah! they saw how it would be—just like Meadows.” Now, I would not for a moment lead any of my readers to suppose that a soldiering life is the best a man can lead. Very far from that is the case. W hen I enlisted it was said of me, that I had given up a good home, sacrificed the esteem of every member of my family for the life of a vagabond. This was very far from being the case either. To be sure I gave up a good home, exchanging it for a life in barracks to begin with, and a life of peril to go on with; but I was not a vagabond, neither was there anything in what I had done to forfeit the esteem of good people. All sorts are wanted in this world. W hen we have all learned to be peaceable; when there is no foe to withstand, no skulking enemy to overcome, then I suppose Cincinnatus will return to his cabbages; till then the soldier is a necessity, and by his good sword and his strong arm the wealth of our country is preserved from the hand of the spoiler, and our honour maintained in the face of the world. I am thinking of that dear old home of mine; the quiet village street, the little church, the littler clerk (forgive the grammar) who said Amen on Sundays—I am thinking of the squire’s house, encircled by a brotherhood of ancient elms, of the green pastures that led down to the river, of the yellow uplands that made the farmer’s heart rejoice—I am thinking of our own quiet homestead. A middling-sized farm was ours, but it had been ours for many a long year, and it was not burdened by mortgage; we were able to pay our way, and if father, when he rode his old cob “Billy” to market on Mondays, and dined with other farmers at the “Stag’s Head,” grumbled, do not all farmers grumble? and I expect they have done so ever since the first sickle was thrust into ripened corn. Well, I was to be a farmer. I was getting into farming habits. I was speculating what I should do when my turn came to ride to market. To market, however, I never rode—my style of riding was learned in another school, and it would rather have startled the steady paced villagers of — to have seen me, as once on an October day I rode—dashing forward wildly with a whole body of brave- hearted fellows—right in the face of destruction, but steadily forward in the name of duty—even though duty meant death. And now, apologising for this introductory chapter, let me briefly tell you why I became a soldier. Chapter Two. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!— Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou comest in such a questionable shape! Shakespeare. Situate about a quarter of a mile from the village near which my father resided, was the parish church, a venerable structure clad with ivy. Near by a large yew-tree spread its branches over the centre of the churchyard. About one hundred yards from the church stood the cottage of Nicholas Hartley (more generally known by the name of “Old Nick”), the sexton and bell-ringer. He also carried on the business of a cobbler. “Old Nick” was by no means so sober a man as he ought to have been, considering the serious nature of his calling. He was quite as often to be found at the Green Man as at his own cottage. There were several youths in the village, including myself, who were prone to practical joking, and one unfortunate night we concocted a scheme to set the whole of the people in the village in wonder and fright. It was a dark and stormy night in December, more than twenty years ago, when our plans were matured and successfully accomplished. Eight of us met, by a preconcerted arrangement, in the old churchyard, a little before midnight. One of the actors in the drama was the son of the blacksmith, who had found a key to open the door of the belfry. W ith this we gained admission. Thence unbolting a door, we were enabled to reach the roof of the chancel; this was composed of lead, and was quite flat, with a high stone coping all round it. Having gone so far we descended to the churchyard, and tied fast together the legs of the chimney-sweeper’s donkey, that pastured among the grave-stones. Sheltered under the yew-tree, and binding him so as to prevent his struggling, we attached a stout waggon-rope, procured from my father’s barn, to Neddy’s body. Leaving one to guide his ascent with a guy rope, the rest of us hauled him up to the roof of the chancel. We then untied the rope that bound his legs, and enveloped him in a snow-white sheet, tying his long ears down to his neck with a piece of twine, and so adapting the sheet to his body as to prevent its getting disarranged by the very high wind. Thus was his “mokeship” left standing in the middle of the roof, apparently as contented as where we found him under the yew-tree. After this we fastened one end of the rope to the “pull” of the only bell in use, and passing the other through the grated hole in the wall of the belfry, carried it over the roof of the chancel and dropped it to the ground. The two doors were now made secure as we had found them, and one of us mounting with the rope to the very top branch of the yew-tree, we there made it fast; after this final step it was considered the best policy to move away as fast as we possibly could. Being placed on rather high ground, the wind swayed the old yew-tree to and fro without hindrance, the consequence being that the solitary bell tolled forth its notes with strange, supernatural, and most irregular tones, all the more astonishing from their occurring at that time of night. The inhabitants were soon aroused, as we could distinctly see from our hiding-place, by the number of lights in the windows, and the lanthorns flitting about the main street—no gas or oil-lamps existing in our village. At length, a strong muster of farm-labourers, with “Old Nick” and the parish constable at their head, repaired to the church, the principal instigators of the mischief bringing up the rear. Knowing, as I did, that there was nothing to be alarmed at, I volunteered to accompany the sexton and policeman into the belfry. This was a job neither of them relished when they found the door securely locked, for they had at first an idea that some drunken men had broken the lock and were amusing themselves at the expense of the whole village. Just at the moment we reached the door of the belfry, a piercing shriek was heard from a female in the midst of the crowd below—an arm was stretched out, with the finger pointed in the direction of the donkey, enshrouded in the snow-white habiliments as we had left him. Sir Moke played his part excellently well; one of his ears had escaped from under the twine, and moved to and fro in such a manner as quickly to be designated “one arm” of the “ghost” waving to the crowd to retire—and retire the more timid portion of them did, helter- skelter; but those with stouter nerves did not leave the churchyard. The wind moaned through the old yew-tree, and the ivy that covered the walls of the church-tower rustled and flapped in the strong midnight breeze; and the strange, irregular tolling of the bell continued, to the horror and surprise of the crowd. There stood the “ghost!” He had moved from the middle to the corner of the roof—his “arm” moving backwards and forwards, and the white sheet flapping in the wind like a pair of huge wings. Old Howard, whom people called an atheist, had died in the village about ten days previously. The minister had refused to bury him in the churchyard, so he was interred outside the wall by the roadside. His exit from the world was said to have been “awful” in the extreme; he left the bed upon which he had lain for weeks in great agony, was brought down stairs, and died on the kitchen sofa. He had been one of Tom Paine’s disciples, but he died, people said, fearfully convinced of his error. This circumstance had quite prepared the minds of the simple people for his re-appearance; “he could not rest in his grave,” and the excitement was intense. I was frightened myself—not at the “ghost,” but at the turn things were taking. My companions were all on the spot, and quite as uneasy as myself, with the exception of one Dick Smith, who said that “if he could be certain that the ‘ghost’ was old Howard’s, he would fetch his gun and shoot at it. It could not be murder to shoot a fellow that was already dead.” The proposition was negatived by every one present old enough to have a voice in the matter. The minister lectured Dick, and he slunk back into the crowd. Hours passed away, nobody was bold enough to enter the belfry, and the “ghost” stuck to its post on the roof of the chancel; however, the wind dropped about four o’clock, and consequently the tolling of the bell ceased, soon after which the “ghost,” being tired of standing, lay down, and its body being entirely hidden by the high stone coping was effectually concealed. It was said to have “vanished;” and the people retired to their homes, but many neither to bed nor to sleep. Just as daylight dawned next morning, John Durden, a carrier, on his way through the village to D— from an adjacent town, had to pass by the church with his donkey and cart. The “ghost,” recognising the footfall of an ass and a brother, rose from his hard bed to salute him with a very long-winded bray. Seeing the apparition on the church at such a time, Durden took to his heels; his donkey, profiting by the absence of the carrier’s cudgel, stood still, pricked up his ears, and returned the salute after his own familiar fashion. The villagers again crowded to the spot; all was discovered; daylight revealed the rope that connected the yew-tree with the bell-pull. The “ghost” had got his other ear at liberty, and his tail was wriggling, two hundred movements to the minute, with evident pleasure at beholding one of his race in the roadway below. W ith considerable labour he was lowered from his elevated position. And now commenced the more serious part of the business for myself and my fellow-conspirators. The sheet was marked at one corner in red silk, with the names of “J. and E. Smith.” Now as there was only one family of that name in the village, and as they only had one son—the aforesaid Dick—the constable forthwith took him into custody on more than suspicion of being concerned in the business of the preceding night. It was well known that he never could have raised the donkey to the roof of the church without assistance; therefore Master Dick was induced to give up the names of his wicked accomplices. Five of the number, including Dick, were apprehended. Myself and two others only escaped by flight. Chapter Three. Roger he swore he’d leave his plough, His team and tillage all, by gum; Of a country life he’d had enou’; - He’d leave it all and follow the drum. He’d leave his threshing in the barn, To thresh his foes he’d very soon larn; With sword in hand he would not parley, But thresh his foes instead of the barley. The names of my companions were Harry and Ned Glover, two brothers, the sons of the surgeon, or rather village apothecary, aged respectively sixteen and seventeen. Avoiding the main road as much as possible, we trudged on through the wet ground, over hedge and ditch, until we began to feel hungry. It was getting dark, and, on counting our coppers, we made the startling discovery, about which we had never previously thought, that we had but two shillings and eightpence halfpenny in our pockets, all counted. We held a consultation, and decided to sleep in a cow-shed, sitting under a hayrick adjacent to the shed where we intended to pass the night until quite dark. I went over the fields to the nearest point where I perceived a light, and found a provision shop; there I purchased three oaten cakes, at a penny each, and a pound of cheese for eightpence. I also made out that we were sixteen miles from our homes. Unfortunately I lost my way in returning to the place where I had left the two Glovers. After rambling among the fields, shouting and whistling until well-nigh exhausted, I came to a little mud hut inhabited by a besom-maker, and but for the oaten cake and cheese I believe I should have been worried by a large dog that resolutely opposed my approach nearer than about one hundred yards. Throwing down the cakes, however, the dog immediately seized them, and the man, coming out of the hut, warned me, whoever I might be, to “cut off, or he would put a bullet into me.” Forgetting everything in my fright, I held a parley with him at some distance in the dark. The dog having made short work of the cakes, barked as furiously and appeared as intent upon worrying me as before. I told him all, and finding that I was a mere lad, he consented, for a shilling, to let me come into the hut, where a good fire was burning. I told him that my companions could not be far off, and described the place where I had left them. The good old fellow returned me my shilling, and placed some barley bread before me to eat to my cheese, while, he said, he would soon fetch the other two; but as I did not relish staying in the hut alone, and not feeling comfortable to eat until my companions were found, I decided on accompanying him. The night was pitch dark; but, aided by his dog, the besom-maker was not long in finding the haystack under which I had left them sitting. Tired out with walking, and weary of waiting for me, they were fast asleep on some loose hay pulled out of the rick. We had some difficulty in waking them, after which we all proceeded to the hut, made a hearty supper of barley bread and cheese and spring water. Our host placed a log of wood on the fire, and we slept upon the bed of heather that formed the working material for his brooms until morning, when the kind-hearted old man trudged off to the village, and soon returned with a can of nice new milk and a huge loaf of barley bread, of which we ate our fill; and after promising him to return to our homes, where, he said, “all would blow over in the course of a day or two,” we left him, and made our way on to the high road. We then held a council as to whether we should return home, or continue our course as far as Sheffield, and enlist in a regiment that we knew to be quartered there. Hal Glover was the first to turn tail, and at once commenced his journey homewards. Ned bid him good-bye and called him “chicken-hearted,” and trudged on with me in a contrary direction. However, he frequently turned round to look at Harry’s fast receding form. At last we came to a sharp turn in the road. A tear stood in the boy’s eye as he came to a standstill. “I cannot leave Harry and my mother, Fred.” said he; “I will go back to W—, let the consequences be what they may. Good-bye, Trenchard,” and as he took my hand in his I could see the big tears rolling down his cheeks. He could not speak; but he pulled me towards him, as much as to say, “Come with me,” and if the truth must be told, I would rather have returned with him than have gone on; but I thought of the taunts and jeers that I should be sure to experience from the greater part of the lads in the village. So I wended my way to Sheffield. I arrived at Sheffield on the same night, and at once inquired my way to the barracks. The Second Dragoon Guards (Queen’s Bays) were lying there at that time. Entering the gates, I was at once interrogated by the sentry as to what I wanted. “I want to enlist,” said I. It was nightfall. A rousing fire was burning in the guard-room, through the window of which I could perceive a group of soldiers seated around, some smoking, some eating, others talking and laughing, more or less. I saw a slightly-built, gentlemanly looking figure at the door. “Corporal of the guard,” shouted the sentry, and that functionary instantly appeared. “This young fellow wants for to join the reg’ment.” “This way, my lad,” said the corporal; and forthwith he entered the guard-room. Presently he came out, and I never saw him again. I learned, however, that the next day an old limb of the law hunted him up, and induced him to give up his intention of enlisting, and made all things pleasant with the Queen’s Bays by leaving them a golden medal of their mistress. It was my turn now. I walked in. “Well, my hearty,” said one of the soldiers, “come up to the roast,” as he made way for me to be seated near him. The corporal cast his eye from my head to my feet as I neared the light. “Not big enough, nor never will be,” he said, folding his arms. The standard of dragoon guards at that period (more than twenty years ago) was not less than six feet for full grown, or five feet ten inches for growing lads whose appearance indicated that they would attain the desired height ere they had left off growing. I was under five feet seven, and was at once pronounced as “never likely to be a six-foot man,” and therefore not eligible for their regiment; however, the corporal said I could sleep in barracks that night, if I thought proper, and he would introduce me to the recruiting sergeant of another regiment—then in the town—on the following day. To this I consented; and the guard orderly escorted me to one of the barrack-rooms, in which there were eight beds ranged side by side. The bedsteads were of iron, and the beds stuffed with straw. To one of these I was shown as belonging to one of the men on guard and therefore vacant. There was an air of snug comfort in the room that contrasted favourably with the cold blustering wind outside. A good fire was burning in a large grate, the white belts, black sabretaches, and burnished scabbards hung around the room and glittered in the fire light. The carbines were neatly arranged in the “rack” with a bone “snapper” in each hammer—placed there in lieu of the flint—for the new percussion-caps were not in use at that period. The uniforms—scarlet coats with swallow-tails, and brass shoulder-scales—were neatly wrapped up and piled with the kit and spare clothing upon a shelf over each man’s bed. The men were apparently as happy as a family—some were smoking and chatting, one was reading a newspaper, another writing a letter, and one, a “mounted orderly” just come in from a long ride, was busy cooking two herrings for his supper. “Come to the fire,” said one of the men. I walked up and took my seat on one of the wood forms near the grate. “I feel very dry,” said the one who had now commenced to eat the herrings. “Divil doubt you, an’ so you ought to feel dhry, you murtherin cannibal, for there you sit ating two as fine fellows of your own spacies as ever tuk a bath in the salt say,” said an old looking soldier. “Jerry,” said the “orderly,” “have you any money?” “Niver a farden,” said Jerry—the man who had jokingly called him a “cannibal.” “I’ve got some,” said I, displaying one shilling and fivepence—all I had left. “Bravo, youngster,” said the orderly, “will you pay for a quart of ale?” “Yes, for two quarts if you like,” said I. “Might as well have a gallon while we are about it, that’ll jist be a pint apiece,” said a big lump of a fellow rising from one of the beds, where he had been lying and smoking a dirty short pipe without speaking a word until now. “Mind your own business, you moon-snuffing omedhaun, and let the lad do as he plases,” said the Irishman. “I’ve only this one shilling and fivepence in copper, or I would pay for two or three gallons of beer,” said I. “Do you live in Sheffield?” inquired the orderly. “I came here from W—, to enlist, but they say I’m not tall enough,” said I. “And what are you going to do next?” “’List in another regiment,” said I. “S’pose you don’t pass the doctor, what shall you do then?” I had never thought of that, and therefore could only say I didn’t know. I now began to see the extent of my folly in leaving home in such a pitiable plight, without money or friends. If I did not enlist and pass the doctor, only fivepence would stand between me and absolute starvation. The orderly no doubt perceived my embarrassment. “I’ll not hev any ale to-night. Hand me that pitcher of water there beside you,” said he. “Faix an’ you must be a foolish young gossoon to lave home widout money. You’ll be in a purty fix if you don’t pass the doctor widout aither money or frinds, an’ thirty miles from home.” My spirits were lowering fast. But, after all, I could walk home again; my seventeen pence would be enough to prevent me from starving by the way. Therefore, though I was not a little vexed and humiliated that the soldiers would not accept my treat, I was glad when I considered that the expenditure of my money would have reduced me to beggary, and I soon after retired to my bed of “long feathers” as the Irishman designated it. So long as the soldiers were up and moving about the room I never thought of home, but after the last trumpet had sounded, a little after nine o’clock, and the men were all in their beds, I began to think of my mother, brothers, and sisters, one of the latter being particularly attached to me, and I wished in my heart that I had returned to W— with Harry and Ned. Being very tired, however, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the morning. Chapter Four. “Who’ll serve the King?” said the Sergeant, aloud, Loud roll’d the drum, and the fife played sweetly. “Here, Mr Sergeant,” says I from the crowd, “Is a lad that will serve your turn completely!” Old Sons. I was aroused by the sound of the réveillé at six o’clock on the following morning. The soldiers all arose, rolled up their beds, or rather straw palliasses, turning up the bedsteads—made with a hinge in the middle—placed the roll of bedding upon it, folded the sheets, blankets, and coverlid neatly one by one, and arranged them on the beds in such a manner that the room presented the appearance of a draper’s shop in less than five minutes. They then went to stables, leaving me in bed. I soon got up and dressed myself, making a sorry attempt to put my bedding in the same state as the rest, and sauntered through the long passage down a flight of stone steps into the barrack-yard, until it was getting daylight. By this time I had made up my mind to return home at all risks, and in pursuance of this resolve, I started for the front gate, but having to pass the guard-room, I again came in contact with the corporal who had so kindly volunteered to find me a night’s lodging. He beckoned me towards him, and said that he had just sent for his friend the recruiting sergeant, of whom he had spoken the previous night, and that he expected him up every minute. W ishing to avoid him, I said that I would go out and get breakfast, and might come back in the course of an hour. But the corporal probably suspected I might not return, and managed to keep me in conversation until the arrival of his friend the recruiting sergeant of a regiment of hussars. Sergeant Brailsford, for that was his name, was a man eminently calculated for the duty to which he had been appointed. His splendid uniform, evidently got up for the purpose of dazzling the eyes of the unwary, was decidedly the handsomest suit of clothes I had ever seen. He asked me to breakfast with him at an adjacent public-house: we had ham, eggs, and coffee, after which he invited me to have a walk with him. I felt quite proud of being seen in his company, as I trudged along the street in my blue smock-frock, round white hat, strong hob-nailed boots, and thought little of how my countrified gait contrasted with his fine soldierly bearing. The sergeant was in the full dress of his regiment, termed “review order” when mounted; but I afterwards found that, for the sake of effect, he wore the uniform of a commissioned officer, with the single exception of the “bars” or stripes on his arm, to indicate his rank. A bell-topped shako, the front of which was emblazoned with gold mountings, surmounted by a huge plume of cocks’ feathers; a dark blue dress jacket literally covered with gold lace, a handsome sash, blue overalls with broad gold stripes, and nicely-polished boots and spurs, were sufficient of themselves to make a country “gawky’s” mouth water; but the crowning part of the dashing sergeant’s attire, and one that most took the attention of passers-by, particularly the girls, was the bright scarlet pelisse—loose jacket—profusely trimmed with gold lace and bear-skin, hanging carelessly over his left shoulder. He had a jet-black moustache, not then so common as it is now, and no doubt thought no “small beer” of himself as he stalked majestically over the pavement, glancing in the shop windows that reflected his figure as he passed them. On our return towards the point from whence we started, we met the regiment of “Queen’s Bays,” in “complete marching order,” a style in which cavalry frequently turn out and march a few miles, to perfect the men in packing their kit and being ready to move quickly in case of emergency. They were all mounted on bay horses with docked tails; the band was playing “Paddy, will you now?” and although a dull and foggy December morning, the black and smoky streets through which the troops marched looked gay and animated. Every one admired the soldiers. My resolution was fixed. I had never before seen a cavalry regiment mounted and in full dress. The sergeant probably noticed the effect produced on my weak mind, and struck while the iron was hot. “Better ’list and be a soldier,” said he. “I don’t mind if I do,” said I. On arriving at the rendezvous he took me up a narrow staircase, on the landing of which was a standard, fixed to indicate the height of intending recruits. I was one inch below the standard height of the regiment, he said, but being young and evidently growing fast, that was immaterial. We descended to a sort of tap-room, where a huge fire was burning, and several soldiers with dirty-looking female companions were seated around, smoking and drinking. The men rose, and proposed my health. At a sign, however, from the sergeant they were seated, and were comparatively silent. The sergeant, assuming a pompous air, then put the following questions to me:— “Are you married? Are you an apprentice? Did you ever serve in her Majesty’s army or navy? Have you ever been cupped or marked with the letter D?” To all these questions my answers were an emphatic “No.” “Are you free, able, and willing to enlist in her Majesty’s —th regiment of Hussars?” “I am,” said I. He then gave me a shilling, and informed me that I was a soldier, and that in addition to the shilling, he would advance me three or four days’ pay to stand treat to my comrades, several of whom— recruiting parties from infantry regiments—had by this time joined our company. The sergeant handed me four shillings; this, with the seventeen pence, amounted to six shillings and fivepence, and was soon spent in drink and tobacco. It was the beginning of a new era with me, and (shame though it be) I must tell the truth, and say that I rather liked it. I, however, managed to keep the enlistment shilling; and although now more than twenty years ago, during which I have passed through some strange scenes, I have still retained that identical coin, through which I had a hole drilled, and for the most part wore it suspended round my neck under my shirt by a lock of my youngest sister’s hair, sent to me about six months after in a letter, with a post-office order for five shillings to pay for its being plaited by the hairdresser. On the day following my enlistment I was introduced to the doctor appointed for the purpose, who requested me to strip perfectly naked, after which I was subjected to a close examination, and declared sound. Two days after this I was forwarded, with five more recruits, to Norwich, the head- quarters of my regiment, and on our arrival we were again examined by the regimental surgeon, and we all “passed.” My companions were mostly labourers, except one, who said he was a cutler out of work: he afterwards turned out to be a married man with one child, when he was punished and afterwards discharged. Being supplied with my regimentals, I was ordered to “make away” with my old clothing, dealers in which attended the barrack-rooms every morning in search of plunder. My suit was rather primitive, and not likely to fetch much; still it was worth more than that of a fellow recruit who happened to be domiciled in the same room with me, for he had been a sort of labouring boy in a tallow-chandlering concern, and the sergeant had ordered him to take his greasy clothes away out of the room and bury them in the dung-heap. He had, however, a good silver watch, and therefore his personal effects were worth more than mine. Like mine, his best clothes were at home; he had left home in a “hurry.” Every atom of clothing had to be sold. I tried hard to keep the blue worsted stockings which my poor old mother had knitted with her own blessed hands, and the calico shirt my sisters had made at the village school, but the hard- visaged, firm-toned sergeant of my squad was inexorable. “Bundle ’em up, bundle ’em up, and be handy about it; you will have more to think about besides yer mother now,” said he. I never liked the “old ruffian,” as the men frequently designated him, after that; and it was a relief to the whole troop when he fell one of the first victims to a fever that broke out in the camp at Chobham a few years afterwards. I looked affectionately at my old clothes: the blue smock-frock, artistically worked with white thread all over the part that covered the back, breast, and shoulders—the white “Jerry” hat, in the brim of which stuck a feather from the wing of a rook hatched in the old rookery that had for many years before I was born stood at the corner of the bridlepath leading from my father’s farm-yard to the hills we called the “sheep pastures;” but the sergeant was inexorable. “Bundle ’em up, bundle ’em up.” I snatched the feather from under the greasy band, and for years it was deposited in the bottom of my sabretache. That simple crow’s feather I thought had flown over the old house at home, and I looked upon it as a sort of connecting link between myself and my family, and often have I gazed upon it until sick at heart. It may seem strange; and those people who have an idea that a soldier has no feeling—I have often heard people say that soldiers have no souls—may feel disinclined to believe my statement when I say that nothing in the shape of money, unless it would have insured my discharge, would have induced me to have parted with that simple feather. But to return to my story. The hob-nailed boots stockings, shirt, fustian trousers, and waistcoat—I had no coat—were all sold to an Irishwoman for four shillings and sixpence: I spent the money among my comrades. My fellow recruit kept his watch, but freely assisted to drink the proceeds of my wardrobe. I duly received my “kit,” which I may here remark absorbed the whole of the “bounty” (at that period amounting to four pounds, eleven shillings, and sixpence), and left me upwards of two pounds in debt; this was deducted from my daily pay of sixteen pence. The rations consisted of three-quarters of a pound daily of boiled meat—soup, potatoes, coffee, and bread—all of good quality; and these only cost eightpence, which, together with the stoppages, left me in the receipt of a daily income of threepence. The obliging corporal of my squad handed me over that sum every morning at breakfast- time. One penny of this I generally invested in a herring, rasher of bacon, or a lump of rancid butter, at the little chandler’s shop adjacent to the canteen in the barrack-yard; the other twopence was generally expended in beer, for I had not then learned the expensive habit of smoking. The cleaning materials—such as Bath-brick, soap, pipeclay, chrome-yellow, oil, blacking, etc—we could any time procure on credit from the sergeant-major of the troop, who booked our account and rendered it monthly. For these we paid most extravagant prices; and it was more than eight months before the two pounds, in which I was indebted at commencement, was paid off. I had, however, a new pair of overalls at a guinea, and a pair of Wellington boots at sixteen shillings and eightpence, during the interval. It is not, I believe, generally understood that, in addition to his rations, the soldier has to pay for a good portion of his clothing. The regiment was composed of about equal numbers of Irish and English; and, to give the sons of Erin their due, I found them quite as agreeable and more obliging in their manner to recruits than their Saxon comrades. Strange to say, there was only one Scotchman in the corps, and he volunteered to the 9th, or Queen’s Lancers, and embarked with the regiment for India, in the winter of 184—. I soon became reconciled to my new life, and entered on my duty with a determination to excel, if possible, in that most difficult and arduous duty for a cavalry recruit—riding drills, in which I most erroneously imagined I should be all but perfect. I had ridden the cart-horses to water and pasture; had often trotted, and even galloped, my father’s old cob “Billy” to the shoeing smith’s, and had never yet been thrown. The first introduction, however, to those tormentors of the poor recruit—the “rough-riders”—soon convinced me that I was most woefully mistaken, as I found that all I had practised at home must be abandoned, indeed forgotten, before I could be properly said to have advanced one step in the military style of equitation. The staff of the riding-school consisted of the riding-master, who was also a lieutenant, a sergeant, one corporal, and a private. The riding-master, although an exceedingly clever man, was one of the most ugly and hard-hearted wretches that ever was born. He was only excelled in brutality, to the recruits committed to his charge, by the corporal, who was more like the being always represented as the “Devil,” than any human creature. The sergeant was a mild-spoken, kind-hearted man, who patiently instructed his pupils, whether horses in course of training, or recruits; and I need not add, that he was idolised by the whole regiment, especially the “gulpin” class, or raw recruits. The private was agreeable enough in the barrack-room, or any where out of the riding-school, particularly while being treated to drink by a recruit in the canteen, but being in a subordinate position to the corporal, he was scarcely less brutal than that fiend in human shape. Many a poor lad has been injured for life by this monster, who was one of the most drunken fellows in the regiment. He had been three times tried by court-martial, and reduced to the ranks, for habitual drunkenness. At last, five years after I enlisted, he was again confined on the charge of drunkenness, and assaulting a private soldier in the barrack-room with a sabre, the private keeping him at bay with some beautiful, but terrible practice, for ten minutes, during which neither was injured. Being at length overpowered by numbers, he was carried like a raving maniac to the guard-room, and there locked up; but on being visited in half an hour afterwards, was found dead with his throat cut. Chapter Five. When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, though false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander. But go, deceiver! go; The heart whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou shouldst break it. I was fortunate, I have already said, in having the sergeant rough-rider (a superior man to the corporal in every shape) for my instructor generally during my “griffinage.” “Well, youngster,” he would say, “suppose you give me your serious attention through this drill.” He fully and most patiently detailed his instructions in such a manner that I could properly understand both what he said and what he meant. “I know,” said he, “that it is a very difficult matter for you to practise the instructions I am giving you. Yet, by perseverance, and, above all, a determination to overcome every difficulty, you, like the rest of us, will ultimately succeed, and, I hope, become a very smart and well-conducted hussar.” I did persevere, and felt proud to do my best for such a man. My nerves were stronger, and my ideas more collected, than when subjected to the abuse of the corporal; the result being that the sergeant frequently applauded me. I soon became the leader of the “gulpin’s” ride, a post always allotted to the most intelligent recruit. Having passed through the ordeal of riding without saddle, as also in a saddle without stirrups, I was allowed to ride with a sword. By this time I had learnt the sword and carbine exercise on foot—had, in fact, gone through my “facings,” and been drilled to marching, etc, for two hours every day in the barrack-yard, under the immediate instruction and supervision of the “drill corporal,” “drill sergeant,” “regimental sergeant-major,” and “adjutant.” At length, being considered quite perfect as a rider in the saddle, I commenced my drills with the sword and carbine on horseback, loading and firing the latter at a fast canter, “attack and defence,” “pursuing practice,” etc, with the sabre; finally being put through all the difficult manoeuvres of the “double ride,” and the high school of equitation, leaping lessons, etc, until I was considered fit to rank as a soldier, and do my duty as such. Eight months had now elapsed since my enlistment, and I was much more reconciled to my soldier’s life; and now that I was a full-fledged hussar, I began to grow conceited. My appearance had undergone a complete change for the better: I could both ride and walk, and no mistake. My moustache was beginning to bud, and the short down was carefully dyed by the aid of an old toothbrush and a small square of india-ink, presented to me by a sweetheart. Every soldier must have a sweetheart: mine was old enough to be my mother, but I did not care, because I had now dropped all my country diffidence, and grown “cheeky,” as my comrades designated my impudence. She courted me, and frequently came to barracks for the purpose of inviting me to her house, where she carried on a very respectable business as a milliner and dressmaker. Strange fancy, perhaps, but she professed to be very fond of soldiers: she confessed to having had three or four soldier sweethearts. I met her in the pit of the theatre, in company with another milliner, to whom one of my comrades, who was with me, had been paying more than ordinary attention. I may as well confess that I did not care a rap for my girl (“Old Dorcas” my comrades used to call her, when chaffing me); but she was very kind to me at times. In fact, her house was my home on all occasions when I could be spared from my active duties. Every Sunday, Denis Mulroony (my comrade) and I took tea, and sometimes supper, with his Nelly and my Dorcas. We always had rum in our teas, plenty of ale to our suppers, and more rum after supper. At last the time came for us to part. Having learnt that my father was a well-to-do farmer, and that I had fairish expectations, “Old Dorcas” conceived the idea of purchasing my discharge, and offered to lodge the money (30 pounds) at once, if I would “marry her first.” Bah! I never thought of marrying—not I; indeed, I had never given her any cause to harbour such an unnatural design upon me—a mere boy. I was not partial to soldiering, and glad as I would have been for my discharge, I sickened at the idea of selling myself. Only fancy my going home again, with a woman fastened to me!—what would my father say? I shuddered as I thought of the heavy pig-whip, of which I had more than a slight acquaintance. I had been led into this dilemma by Denis Mulroony, who was eight years my senior. “Denny,” said I, after parting with the two women at the barrack-gate, one night at watch-setting, “what shall I say to ‘Old Dorcas,’ when I go again?” “Arrah, now, don’t be talking, you great mahoney. Can’t you get the money first, and marry her when it is more convanient? Shure she’ll give it you, no fear; and if she’ll not part wid the whole, no doubt she’ll be after giving you the half of it.” We were at that time under orders to march; in fact, the route had come for a change of quarters, and I had promised to see her again on the following night, when, as good luck would have it, Denny was on guard, and therefore could not go with me. I went, saw, and told her that I was too young to marry, and that I must decline her generous offer to purchase my freedom. This she took all in good part, and I left her. When Denny came off duty I told him all. “Faix, thin,” said he, “I wonder would she marry me? Throth I’ll go and thry her this very night.” “W hat’ll you do with Nelly, for she is sure to be there expecting you, it being the last night we have to stay here?” cried I. “Shure I’ll send Andy Ryan down to tell Old Dorcas that you want to spake to her onest more before you lave her for ever.” Andy Ryan was a fine, handsome man as ever stepped. He had been twelve years a soldier, and was near upon thirty years of age. Denny opened his mind and told him all the particulars, whereupon Andy started on his mission directly the trumpet had sounded the “dismiss from stables.” That was the last either I or Denny ever saw of Andy. He deserted, and most probably went abroad with or without “Old Dorcas.” Chapter Six. Bring forth the horse: the horse was brought; In truth he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, That seemed as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs. I think no part of a cavalry soldier’s duty is so agreeable to him as a long march during spring or summer weather. Apart from the change of scene and a variation to the dull monotony of barrack life, the ride through the country to some distant part, frequently of ten to thirty days’ duration, is always looked forward to with feelings of pleasure. Country people, who seldom see soldiers, look upon the marching of a squadron of cavalry through the small towns and villages as a sort of pageant, especially if it be the head-quarters of a corps, which is always accompanied by the band. Young and inexperienced as I then was, the prospect of a sixteen days’ march in the merry month of May through the most delightful part of England held out unusual charms for me. The dress of a soldier was my sole weakness—I cared for nothing else; and I cheerfully endured all the miseries of military slavery and short-comings of a comfortable home for the sake of being thought something or somebody above the majority of individuals in my walk of life. My sole object was to attract the attention and, if possible, the envy of others—an idea too frequently indulged by young soldiers, until dear-bought experience teaches them their mistake. I have stated before, that the costume of our regiment at the period to which I allude included a “pelisse” or loose jacket, slung carelessly over the left shoulder; but no man was allowed to wear this until he had been dismissed from drill, and deported himself in such a manner as became a smart, intelligent, and well-disciplined soldier. Those recruits who had enlisted about the same time as myself, but who were not yet proficient in horsemanship, etc, were told off to travel by railway; but to my great joy, the sergeant of my squad read out my name in orders at stable time the night before, to assemble with the detachment in “complete marching order” the following morning at seven o’clock. I had a most beautiful, blood-like, dark-chestnut gelding for my trooper: his coat shone like a mole, and his mane flowed from his finely-arched neck almost to his knees. He was known by the general appellation of “Number Seventeen, D Troop,” but I gave him the name of “Restless,” from his habit of capering and prancing at every unusual noise or object that presented itself. He was neither nervous nor vicious, but impatient and anxious to be moving when he ought to stand still; and though the slightest feel of the rein imaginable would restrain him, he would champ his bit and throw the foam from his mouth all over his breast and my uniform in flakes as white as snow. One tap of the drum or a blast of the trumpet was a signal for “Restless” to show off his splendid form in a succession of graceful capers, if on the move; or if standing on parade, he would soon get up a shower of foam, and bespatter the horses on each side, all the while paddling with his feet and scraping the ground continually. Notwithstanding that I was about the youngest “old soldier” in the regiment, and but a short time previously only a common “clod-hopper,” there was none more conceited or perhaps more vain than myself, when mounted on “Restless.” Not content with the light sprinkling of down which nature had planted and was nurturing on my upper lip, I spared from my scanty pay a sum of one shilling and sixpence for a bushy pair of false moustaches, which, however, all my efforts to make stick proved futile: they only made me sneeze; so I was obliged to fall back upon the old toothbrush and square of Indian ink presented to me by Dorcas, wherewith to blacken my young crop, to make believe that I was more of a man than a boy. The regiment was divided into three detachments of two troops each, and I belonged to the first that marched out of our old quarters, including the band. A large crowd had collected to witness our departure. A deal of hand-shaking and clinging to the stirrups was going on as we filed out of the barrack-gate to the tune of “The girl I left behind me;” and many a tear was shed by those who, having made a short acquaintance with some of the men while they had been quartered here, were destined never to see them again; indeed, I recollect that four of the number that marched with me on that morning died, a few years after, of a fever that broke out in the camp at Chobham; the bones of eight were left to whiten in the death-vale, after the battle of Balaklava; and three were killed during the Indian revolt, whither they had gone, transferred, at their own request, to other regiments. Few, however, of the whole regiment were left when actions, disease, and the short-comings of the commissariat had done their work, at the conclusion of the Crimean campaign. But of this I shall write in due course, and proceed with my narrative and detachment on our line of march. As is customary on a regiment leaving quarters, hundreds of the “tag, rag, and bob-tail” followed us through the streets to the outskirts of the town, the last to leave us being the girls; and they would have trudged on, keeping our company as long as they could have held out, but for the order to “trot,” which the trumpet sounded directly on leaving the street pavement. “Good-bye, Mary!” “good-bye, Helen!” “farewell, honey, dear!” was followed by a series of wild shrieks that could be heard for some distance above the clattering of hoofs and the clanking of sabres. Our first day’s march was a distance of eighteen miles. The billeting party had preceded us in the usual way on the day before, and quarters were provided for every man, in numbers of from one to half-a- dozen, according to the accommodation to be obtained at the various hotels and public-houses in the town where we halted. All the inhabitants appeared to have turned out to welcome us, and they lined the roadside for nearly a mile ere we...