The fight described in the last chapter was only one of the numerous skirmishes that were taking place almost daily near Suakim at that time. But it turned out to be a serious occasion to our hero, for it cost him one of his hands, and put an end to his soldiering days for ever.
On being taken to the British lines the surgeons saw at once that amputation1 a little above the wrist was absolutely necessary. Of course Miles—although overwhelmed with dismay on hearing the fiat2 of the doctors—could offer no objection. With the informal celerity of surgical3 operations as practised in the field, the shattered limb was removed, and almost before he could realise the full significance of what was being done our poor hero was minus his left hand! Besides this, he was so cut and battered4 about, that most of his hair had to be cut off, and his head bandaged and plastered so that those of his old comrades who chanced to be with the troops at the time could recognise him only by his voice. Even that was scarcely audible when he was carried into Suakim.
At this time the hospitals at Suakim were overcrowded to such an extent that many of the wounded and invalids6 had to be sent on by sea to Suez and the hospitals at Ramleh. Miles was sent on along with these, and finally found rest at Alexandria.
And great was the poor fellow’s need of rest, for, besides the terrible sufferings and hardships he had endured while in captivity8, the wounds and bruises9, the loss of blood and of his left hand, and the fatigue10 of the voyage, his mind was overwhelmed by the consideration that even if he should recover he was seriously maimed for life. In addition to all this suffering, Miles, while at Suakim, had received a blow which well-nigh killed him. A letter came informing him of the sudden death of his father, and bitter remorse11 was added to his misery12 as he lay helpless in his cot on the Red Sea.
The consequent depression, acting13 on his already exhausted14 powers after he reached Alexandria, brought him to the verge15 of the grave. Indeed, one of the nurses said one day to one of her fellows, with a shake of her head, “Ah! poor fellow, he won’t last long!”
“Won’t he!” thought Miles, with a feeling of strong indignation. “Much you know about it!”
You see Miles possessed16 a tendency to abstract reasoning, and could meditate17 upon his own case without, so to speak, much reference to himself! His indignation was roused by the fact that any one, calling herself a nurse, should be so stupid as to whisper beside a patient words that he should not hear. He did not know that the nurse in question was a new one—not thoroughly18 alive to her duties and responsibilities. Strange to say, her stupidity helped to render her own prophecy incorrect, for the indignation quickened the soldier’s feeble pulse, and that gave him a fillip in the right direction.
The prostration19, however, was very great, and for some time the life of our hero seemed to hang by a thread. During this dark period the value of a godly mother’s teaching became deeply impressed on him, by the fact that texts from God’s Word, which had been taught him in childhood, and which he seemed to have quite forgotten, came trooping into his mind, and went a long way to calm and comfort him. He dwelt with special pleasure on those that told of love and mercy in Jesus to the thankless and undeserving; for, now that strength, health, and the high hopes of a brilliant career were shattered at one blow, his eyes were cleared of life’s glamour20 to see that in his existence hitherto he had been ungodly—not in the sense of his being much worse than ordinary people, but in the sense of his being quite indifferent to his Maker22, and that his fancied condition of not-so-badness would not stand the test of a dying hour.
About this time, too, he became desperately23 anxious to write to his mother, not by dictation, but with his own hand. This being impossible in the circumstances, he began to fret24, and his power to sleep at length failed him. Then a strange desire to possess a rose seized him—perhaps because he knew it to be his mother’s favourite flower. Whatever the cause, the longing25 increased his insomnia26, and as he did not say, perhaps did not know, that the want of a rose had anything to do with his complaint, no one at first thought of procuring27 one for him.
He was lying meditating28, wakefully, about many things one day when one of the nurses approached his bed. He did not see her at first, because his head was so swathed in bandages that only one eye was permitted to do duty, and that, as Molloy might have said, was on the lee-side of his nose—supposing the side next the nurse to represent the wind’ard side!
“I have been laid up a long time,” said a lady, who accompanied the nurse, “and have been longing to resume my visits here, as one or two patients whom I used to nurse are still in hospital.”
The heart of Miles gave a bound such as it had not attempted since the night he witnessed the murder on the battle-field, for the voice was that of Mrs Drew.
“This is one of our latest arrivals,” remarked the nurse, lowering her voice as they advanced. “A poor young soldier—lost a hand and badly wounded—can’t sleep. He has taken a strange longing of late for a rose, and I have asked a friend to fetch one for him.”
“How lucky that we happen to have one with us!” said Mrs Drew, looking back over her shoulder where her daughter stood, concealed29 from view by her ample person. “Marion, dear, will you part with your rose-bud to a wounded soldier?”
“Certainly, mother, I will give it him myself.”
She stepped quickly forward, and looked sadly at the solitary30, glowing eye which gazed at her, as she unfastened a rose-bud from her bosom31. It was evident that she did not recognise Miles, and no wonder, for, besides the mass of bandages from out of which his one eye glowed, there was a strip of plaster across the bridge of his nose, a puffy swelling32 in one of the cheeks, and the handsome mouth and chin were somewhat veiled by a rapidly developing moustache and beard.
Miles did not speak—he could not speak; he scarcely dared to breathe as the girl placed a red rose-bud in his thin hand. His trembling fingers not only took the rose, but the hand that gave it, and pressed it feebly to his lips.
With a few words of comfort and good wishes the ladies passed on. Then Miles drew the rose down under the bed-clothes, put it to his lips, and, with a fervently33 thankful mind, fell into the first profound slumber34 that he had enjoyed for many days.
This was a turning-point. From that day Miles began to mend. He did not see Marion again for some time, for her visit had been quite incidental, but he was satisfied to learn that she was staying at the Institute with her mother, assisting the workers there. He wisely resolved to do and say nothing at that time, but patiently to wait and get well, for he had a shrewd suspicion that to present himself to Marion under existing circumstances would be, to say the least, injudicious.
Meanwhile, time, which “waits for no man,” passed on. As Miles became stronger he began to go about the hospital, chatting with the convalescent patients and trying to make himself generally useful. On one of these occasions he met with a man who gave him the sorrowful news that Sergeant35 Hardy36 was dead, leaving Miles his executor and residuary legatee. He also learned, to his joy, that his five comrades, Armstrong, Molloy, Stevenson, Moses, and Simkin, had escaped with their lives from the fight on the hillock where he fell, and that, though all were more or less severely37 wounded, they were doing well at Suakim. “Moreover,” continued his informant, “I expect to hear more about ’em to-night, for the mail is due, and I’ve got a brother in Suakim.”
That night not only brought news of the five heroes, but also brought themselves, for, having all been wounded at the same time, all had been sent to Alexandria together. As they were informed at Suakim that their comrade Miles had been invalided38 home, they did not, of course, make further inquiry39 about him there.
While they stayed there, awaiting the troop-ship which was to take them home, they made Miss Robinson’s Institute their constant rendezvous41, for there they not only found all the comforts of English life, but the joy of meeting with many old comrades, not a few of whom were either drawn42, or being drawn, to God by the influences of the place.
It chanced that at the time of their arrival Mrs Drew and her daughter had gone to visit an English family living in the city, and did not for several days return to the Institute; thus the invalids failed to meet their lady friends at first. But about this time there was announced a source of attraction in the large hall which brought them together. This attraction—which unites all creeds43 and classes and nationalities in one great bond of sympathy—we need hardly say was music! A concert was to take place in the great hall of the Institute for some local charity, we believe, but are not sure, at which the élite of Alexandria was expected, and the musical talent of Alexandria was to perform—among others the band of the somethingth Regiment44. And let us impress on you, reader, that the band of the somethingth Regiment was something to be proud of!
This brought numerous friends to the “Officers’ House,” and great numbers of soldiers and Jack45-tars to the various rooms of the Institute.
In one of these rooms, towards evening, our friend Stevenson was engaged, at the request of the Superintendent46, in relating to a number of earnest-minded men a brief account of the wonderful experiences that he and his comrades had recently had in the Soudan, and Jack Molloy sat near him, emphasising with a nod of his shaggy head, or a “Right you are, messmate,” or a slap on his thigh47, all the marine’s points, especially those in which his friend, passing over second causes, referred all their blessings48 and deliverances direct to his loving God and Father. In another room a Bible-reading was going on, accompanied by prayer and praise. In the larger rooms, tea, coffee, etcetera, were being consumed to an extent that “no fellow can understand,” except those who did it! Games and newspapers and illustrated49 magazines, etcetera, were rife50 elsewhere, while a continuous roar, rather the conventional “buzz,” of conversation was going on everywhere. But, apparently51, not a single oath in the midst of it all! The moral atmosphere of the place was so pure that even bad men respected—perhaps approved—it.
Just before the hour of the concert our friends, the five invalids, sat grouped round a table near the door. They were drinking tea, and most of them talking with tremendous animation—for not one of them had been wounded in the tongue! Indeed it did not appear that any of them had been very seriously wounded anywhere.
While they were yet in the midst of their talk two lady-workers came down the long room, followed by two other ladies in deep mourning, the younger of whom suddenly sprang towards our quintet, and, clasping her hands, stood speechless before them, staring particularly at Jack Molloy, who returned the gaze with interest.
“Beg pard’n, Miss Drew,” exclaimed the sailor, starting up in confusion, and pulling his forelock, “but you’ve hove me all aback!”
“Mr Molloy!” gasped52 Marion, grasping his hand and looking furtively53 round, “is it possible? Have you all escaped? Is—is—”
“Yes, Miss, we’ve all escaped, thank God, an’ we’re all here—’cept John Miles, in coorse, for he’s bin40 invalided home—”
“He’s no more invalided home than yourself, Jack,” said a seaman54, who was enjoying his coffee at a neighbouring table; “leastwise I seed John Miles myself yesterday in hospital wi’ my own two eyes, as isn’t apt to deceive me.”
“Are ye sure o’ that, mate?” cried Molloy, turning in excitement to the man, and totally forgetting Marion.
“Mother, let us go out!” whispered the latter, leaning heavily on Mrs Drew’s arm.
They passed out to the verandah—scarcely observed, owing to the excitement of the quintet at the sailor’s news—and there she would have fallen down if she had not been caught in the arms of a soldier who was advancing towards the door.
“Ay, Mrs Drew, through God’s mercy I am here. But help me: I have not strength to carry her now.”
Marion had nearly fainted, and was led with the assistance of her mother to a retired56 part of the garden, and placed in an easy-chair. Seeing that the girl was recovering, the other ladies judiciously57 left them, and Miles explained to the mother, while she applied58 smelling-salts to Marion, that he had come on purpose to meet them, hoping and expecting that they would be attracted to the concert, like all the rest of the world, though he had scarcely looked for so peculiar59 a meeting!
“But how did you know we were here at all?” asked Mrs Drew in surprise.
“I saw you in the hospital,” replied Miles, with a peculiar look. “Your kind daughter gave me a rose!”
“But—but—that young man had lost his hand; the nurse told us so,” exclaimed Mrs Drew, with a puzzled look.
Miles silently pointed to the handless arm which hung at his left side.
Marion had turned towards him with a half-frightened look. She now leaned back in her chair and covered her face with both hands.
“Mr Miles,” said the wise old lady, with a sudden and violent change of subject, “your friends Armstrong and Molloy are in the Institute at this moment waiting for you!”
Our hero needed no second hint. Next minute he dashed into the entrance hall, with wonderful vigour63 for an invalid5, for he heard the bass64 voice of Molloy exclaiming—
“I don’t care a button, leave or no leave, I’ll make my way to John Mi— Hallo!”
The “Hallo!” was caused by his being rushed into by the impetuous Miles with such force that they both staggered.
“Why, John, you’re like the ram7 of an iron-clad! Is it really yourself? Give us your flipper65, my boy!”
But the flipper was already in that of Willie Armstrong, while the others crowded round him with congratulations.
“Wot on airth’s all the noise about in that there corner?” exclaimed a Jack-tar, who was trying hard to tell an interminable story to a quiet shipmate in spite of the din21.
“It’s only that we’ve diskivered our captin,” cried Molloy, eager to get any one to sympathise.
“Why, him as led us on the hillock, to be sure, at Suakim.”
When acts of heroism67 and personal prowess are of frequent occurrence, deeds of daring are not apt to draw general attention, unless they rise above the average. The “affair of the hillock,” however, as it got to be called, although unnoticed in despatches, or the public prints, was well-known among the rank and file who did the work in those hot regions. When, therefore, it became known that the six heroes, who had distinguished68 themselves on that hillock, were present, a great deal of interest was exhibited. This culminated69 when a little man rushed suddenly into the room, and, with a wild “hooroo!” seized Molloy round the waist—he wasn’t tall enough to get him comfortably by the neck—and appeared to wrestle70 with him.
“It’s Corporal Flynn—or his ghost!” exclaimed Molloy.
“Sure an’ it’s both him an’ his ghost togither!” exclaimed the corporal, shaking hands violently all round.
“I thought ye was sent home,” said Moses.
“Niver a bit, man; they tell awful lies where you’ve come from. I wouldn’t take their consciences as a gift. I’m as well as iver, and better; but I’m goin’ home for all that, to see me owld grandmother. Ye needn’t laugh, you spalpeens. Come, three cheers, boys, for the ‘heroes o’ the hillock!’”
Most heartily71 did the men there assembled respond to this call, and then the entire assembly cleared off to the concert, with the exception of Miles Milton. “He,” as Corporal Flynn knowingly observed, “had other fish to fry.” He fried these fish in company with Mrs and Marion Drew; but as the details of this culinary proceeding72 were related to us in strict confidence, we refuse to divulge73 them, and now draw the curtain down on the ancient land of Egypt.
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1
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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longing
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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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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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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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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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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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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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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flipper
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| n. 鳍状肢，潜水用橡皮制鳍状肢 | |
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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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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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69
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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71
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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72
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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73
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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