Uncertain moonlight, with a multitude of cloudlets drifting slowly across the sky so as to reveal, veil, partially2 obscure, or sometimes totally blot3 out the orb4 of night, may be a somewhat romantic, but is not a desirable, state of things in an enemy’s country, especially when that enemy is prowling among the bushes.
But such was the state of things one very sultry night when our hero found himself standing5 in the open alone, and with thoughts of a varied6 and not wholly agreeable nature for his companions.
It was intensely dark when the clouds partially veiled the moon, for she was juvenile8 at the time—in her first quarter; and when the veil was partially removed, the desert, for it was little better, assumed an indistinct and ghostly-grey appearance.
Sombre thoughts naturally filled the mind of our young soldier as he stood there, alert, watchful9, with weapons ready, ears open to the slightest sound, and eyes glancing sharply at the perplexing shadows that chased each other over the ground like wanton Soudanese at play. His faculties10 were intensely strung at what may well be styled “attention,” and riveted11 on that desert land to which Fate—as he called his own conduct—had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysterious spirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenes of childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usually pleasant retrospect12. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightly reproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination he returned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasanter memories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of the Soldiers’ Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy with newspaper and illustrated13 magazine, while the sweet sound of familiar music came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, or rather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker14, were engaged with songs of praise.
Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping15 at his ribs16. An object seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonet was lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. The shadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush—that was all; yet it was strange how very like to a real object it seemed to his highly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him that nothing to cause alarm was visible.
Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stood there in body, but in mind he had again deserted17 his post. Yet not to so great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria, and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physical heat—that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen to the utmost attainable18 height—but a glow of soul. He became heroic! He remembered Marion’s burning words, and resolved that Duty should henceforth be his guiding-star!
Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Something within him became suddenly active, and whispered, “How about your duty to parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time in Portsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home, but you didn’t. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. You might have done it several times since you landed in this country, but you haven’t. You know quite well that you have not fully19 repented20 even yet!”
While the whispering was going on, the active fancy of the youth saw the lovely face of Marion looking at him with mournful interest, as it had been the face of an angel, and then there came to his memory words which had been spoken to him that very day by his earnest friend Stevenson the marine22: “No man can fully do his duty to his fellows until he has begun to do his duty to God.”
The words had not been used in reference to himself but in connection with a discussion as to the motives23 generally which influence men. But the words were made use of by the Spirit as arrows to pierce the youth’s heart.
“Guilty!” he exclaimed aloud, and almost involuntary followed, “God forgive me!”
Again the watchful ear distinguished24 unwonted sounds, and the sharp eye—wonderfully sharpened by frequent danger—perceived objects in motion on the plain. This time the objects were real. They approached. It was “the rounds” who visited the sentries25 six times during each night.
In another part of the ground, at a considerable distance from the spot where our hero mounted guard, stood a youthful soldier, also on guard, and thinking, no doubt, of home. He was much too young for service in such a climate—almost a boy. He was a ruddy, healthy lad, with plenty of courage and high spirit, who was willing to encounter anything cheerfully, so long as, in so doing, he could serve his Queen and country. But he was careless of his own comfort and safety. Several times he had been found fault with for going out in the sun without his white helmet. Miles had taken a fancy to the lad, and had spoken seriously but very kindly26 to him that very day about the folly27 of exposing himself in a way that had already cost so many men their lives.
But young Lewis laughed good-naturedly, and said that he was too tough to be killed by the sun.
The suffocating28 heat of that night told upon him, however, severely—tough though he was or supposed himself to be—while he kept his lonely watch on the sandy plain.
Presently a dark figure was seen approaching. The sentinel at once challenged, and brought his rifle to the “ready.” The man, who was a native, gave the password all right, and made some apparently29 commonplace remark as he passed, which, coupled with his easy manner and the correct countersign30, threw the young soldier off his guard. Suddenly a long sharp knife gleamed in the faint light and was drawn31 across the body of Lewis before he could raise a hand to defend himself. He fell instantly, mortally wounded, with his entrails cut open. At the same moment the tramp of the rounds was heard, and the native glided32 back into the darkness from which he had so recently emerged.
When the soldiers came to the post they found the poor young soldier dying. He was able to tell what had occurred while they were making preparations to carry him away, but when they reached the fort they found that his brief career had ended.
A damp was cast on the spirits of the men of his company when they learned next day what had occurred, for the lad had been a great favourite; but soldiers in time of war are too much accustomed to look upon death in every form to be deeply or for long affected33 by incidents of the kind. Only the comrades who had become unusually attached to this poor youth mourned his death as if he had been a brother in the flesh as well as in the ranks.
“He was a good lad,” said Sergeant34 Gilroy, as they kept watch on the roof of the fort that night. “Since we came here he has never missed writing to his mother a single mail. It is true, being an amiable35 lad, and easily led through his affections, he had given way to drink to some extent, but no later than yesterday I prevailed upon him to join our temperance band—”
“Ah, comrade; and I hope to live to see you join our band also, and become one of the bluest lights among us,” returned the sergeant good-humouredly.
“Never!” replied Sutherland, with emphasis; “you’ll never live to see that.”
“Perhaps not, but if I don’t live to see it some one else will,” rejoined the sergeant, laying his hand gently on the man’s shoulder.
“Is that you again? It’s wishin’ I am that I had you in ould Ireland,” growled37 Corporal Flynn, referring to Osman Digna, whose men had opened fire on the neighbouring fort, and again roused the whole garrison38. “Slape is out o’ the question wi’ such a muskitos buzzin’ about. Bad luck to ’ee!”
“What good would it do to send him to Ireland?” asked Simkin, as he yawned, rolled over, and, like the rest of his comrades, loaded his rifle.
“Why, man, don’t ye see, av he was in ould Ireland he couldn’t be disturbin’ our night’s rest here. Moreover, they’d make a dacent man of ’im there in no time. It’s always the way; if an English blackguard goes over to Ireland he’s almost sure to return home more or less of a gintleman. That’s why I’ve always advised you to go over, boy. An’ maybe if Osman wint he’d— Hallo!”
A flash of light and whistling of bullets overhead effectually stopped the Irishman’s discourse39. Not that he was at all alarmed by the familiar incident, but being a change of subject it became more absorbingly interesting than the conversation, besides necessitating40 some active precautions.
The firing seemed to indicate an attack in several places along the line of defence. At one of the posts called the New House the attack was very sharp. The enemy could not have been much, if at all, over three hundred yards distant in the shelter of three large pits. Of course the fire was vigorously returned. A colonel and major were there on the redoubt, with powerful field-glasses, and directed the men where to fire until the General himself appeared on the scene and took command. On the left, from Quarantine Island, the Royal Engineers kept up a heavy cross-fire, and on the right they were helped by a fort which was manned by Egyptian troops. From these three points a heavy fire was kept up, and continued till six o’clock in the morning.
By that time, the enemy having been finally driven out of the pits, a party was sent across to see what execution had been done. It was wonderfully little, considering the amount of ammunition41 and energy expended42. In the first pit one man was found dead; a bullet had entered his forehead and come out at the back of his head. Moving him a little on one side they found another man under him, shot in the same way. All round the pit inside were large pools of blood, but no bodies, for the natives invariably dragged or carried away their dead when that was possible. In the other two pits large pools of blood were also found, but no bodies. Beyond them, however, one man was discovered shot through the heart. He had evidently been dragged along the sand, but the tremendous fire of the defenders43 had compelled the enemy to drop him. Still further on they found twelve more corpses44 which had been dragged a short way and then left.
Close to these they observed that the sand had been disturbed, and on turning it up found that a dozen of bodies had been hastily buried there. Altogether they calculated that at least fifty of the enemy had been killed on that occasion—a calculation which was curiously45 verified by the friendly tribes asking permission to bury the dead according to the Soudanese custom. This was granted, of course, and thus the exact number killed was ascertained46, but how many had been wounded no one could tell.
“Fifty desolated47 homes!” remarked one of the men, when the number of killed was announced at mess that day. He was a cynical48, sour-visaged man, who had just come out of hospital after a pretty severe illness. “Fifty widows, may-hap,” he continued, “to say nothin’ o’ child’n—that are just as fond o’ husbands an’ fathers as ours are!”
“Why, Jack49 Hall, if these are your sentiments you should never have enlisted,” cried Simkin, with a laugh.
“Och, then, it sarves ye right!” said Flynn. “Even a pig would be ashamed to do anythin’ whin it was in liquor.”
The corporal’s remark prevented the conversation taking a lugubrious51 turn, to the satisfaction of a few of the men who could not endure to look at anything from a serious point of view.
“What’s the use,” one of them asked, “of pullin’ a long face over what you can’t change? Here we are, boys, to kill or be killed. My creed52 is, ‘Take things as they come, and be jolly!’ It won’t mend matters to think about wives and child’n.”
“Won’t it?” cried Armstrong, looking up with a bright expression from a sheet of paper on which he had just been writing. “Here am I writin’ home to my wife—in a hurry too, for I’ve only just heard that word has been passed, the mail for England goes to-day. I’m warned for guard to-night, too; an’ if the night takes after the day we’re in for a chance o’ suffocation53, to say nothing o’ insects—as you all know. Now, won’t it mend matters that I’ve got a dear girl over the sea to think about, and to say ‘God bless her, body and soul?’”
“No doubt,” retorted the take-things-as-they-come-and-be-jolly man, “but—but—”
“But,” cried Hall, coming promptly54 to his rescue, “have not the Soudanese got wives an’ children as well as us?”
“I daresay they have—some of ’em.”
“Well, does the thought of your respective wives an’ children prevent your shooting or sticking each other when you get the chance?”
“Of course it don’t!” returned Armstrong, with a laugh as he resumed his pencil. “What would be the use o’ comin’ here if we didn’t do that? But I haven’t time to argue with you just now, Hall. All I know is that it’s my duty to write to my wife, an’ I won’t let the chance slip when I’ve got it.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the cynic, relighting his pipe, which in the heat of debate he had allowed to go out.
Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by the conversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though their hands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was Miles Milton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word Duty, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote a distinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word of excuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. In short, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was—Guilty! and of course this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He had forgiveness—though he knew it not—long before he asked it. His broken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him in their hearts long before—even before they received that treasured fragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:
“Dearest Mother, I am sorry—”
After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with a feeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since that wretched day when he forsook55 his father’s house.
As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble56 in the town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with the Gardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask the sergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial57 Christian58, and Miles had lately begun to relish59 his earnest, intelligent talk, dashed as it was with many a touch of humour.
The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day before in ascertaining60 the exact range of several objects on the ground in front.
“I’ll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I’ve given this gun a clean-out,” said Gilroy. “Turn the handle, Sutherland.”
“I’ll turn the handle if it’s a’ richt,” said the cautious Scot, with some hesitation61.
“It is all right,” returned the sergeant. “We ran the feeder out last night, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away.”
Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle. The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant’s groin, making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.
He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some for water, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital. Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised his head and moistened his pale lips with water. He could hardly speak, but a smile passed over his face as he said faintly, “She’ll get my presents by this mail. Write, Miles—break it to her—we’ll meet again—by the side of Jesus—God be praised!”
Gilroy was a married man, with five children. Just before the accident he had written to his wife enclosing gifts for his little ones, and telling, in a thankful spirit, of continued health and safety. Before the mail-steamer with his letter on board was out of sight he was dead!
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1
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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countersign
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| v.副署，会签 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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37
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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40
necessitating
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的现在分词 ) | |
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41
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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42
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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43
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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44
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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45
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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46
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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48
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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49
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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50
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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51
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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52
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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53
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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54
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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55
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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56
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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58
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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60
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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61
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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