Portance in my travels’ history;
Wherein of antres vast and desarts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose tops touch heaven,
It was my wont to speak.

Shakespeare.

“Having done so well with our wild-beast speculation, we determined to return to, the Rocky Mountains on another cruise after bears, panthers, or anything we could manage to secure likely to make money.

“Providing ourselves with stores, ammunition, etc, we set out with a train of four waggons and eight horses. Two of these waggons were constructed for the safe keeping of wild animals: one was laden with stores, and the other was a covered van to live in.

“We engaged two assistants, named respectively Jake Barnes and Pete Tonsley. Onwards we trudged, slowly but surely, over our, at times, uncertain track in the wilderness. Jake and Pete, who were two overgrown lads, were continually breaking away into the bush after birds of beautiful plumage, which were continually flitting across our path, and armed with short pieces of stick they killed many that were valuable for the sake of their skins. Pete was the wildest of the two, and we had on several occasions to halt for hours awaiting his return ere the night set in. On one occasion Pete had been away most of the afternoon, promising before he started to take his bearings properly, and keep the smoke from the chimney of the caravan in sight; Jake, whom he left behind, promising to feed the fire well with green leaves, in order to make the smoke more dense.

“It was fast growing dark, the smoke was no longer visible, and we had reached a thick piece of wood where, Pete being still absent, we determined to come to a halt. Rifles were fired, and we had all shouted until we were quite hoarse. Poor Pete was evidently lost in the bush, or had fell a prey to panthers, or perhaps Indians. We determined to find him dead or alive, if possible. Feeling our way through the bush, each with a lantern and candle, Jake and I started in search of our missing mate, leaving the Emeralder in charge of the waggon-train. We had not proceeded far when a series of screams and smothered sounds, as if produced by some one in great distress, reached us from a point not far from our left.

“‘What’n all creation’s that?’ said Jake, coming to a sudden halt.

“‘Indians,’ said I, looking ahead as far as I could.

“‘Ingins! No, sir, it’s Pete; and that’s somethin’ a-hurting him. Let’s run out that way,’ said Jake.

“‘H-o-o-o-o! bah-h-h! he-e-e-oy! murder-r-r! hoo-o-o-oy!’ came the sounds, so thick and fast that it was scarcely possible to distinguish any space between them.

“We dashed off towards the point from whence the sounds issued.

“‘Bla-a-a-blah! bla-a-a-bloo! ho-o-o-oyh!’ went the sufferer, if such it really was, and ‘ipitty-tip’ through the thick shrubs went Jake and I, now nearly out of breath. Nearer and nearer came the sounds, until presently the light of a fire broke in upon our visions.

“‘What kin all this mean, guvner?’ said Jake.

“‘It’s an Indian decoy. We’re in for a fight,’ said I, loosening my bowie-knife.

“‘No. Don’t think it’s Ingins; tha wouldn’t a’ kindled a fire that-a-way. No; can’t be Ingins! ’Sides, tha is friendly now,’ said Jake, as he dodged behind in my footsteps, striving to appear brave.

“At length we reached within hail of the fire, but, although the sounds of distress continued, we could perceive nothing beyond a log and a little brushwood around it on fire. Not a human form was visible; yet the strange sounds came forth as fresh as formerly, and, what was more unaccountable, they appeared to issue immediately from the fire. What was it? – the Evil One, or an Indian decoy, surely, for, as the fire was not larger than a bushel measure, we believed that no creature with life could be in it.

“While we stood gazing, first at the fire, then at each other, Jake’s face, naturally dark, but now darker than usual, became suddenly lightened as with a new idea, and away he bounded to the other end of the log farthest from the fire.

“‘Claw away the fire! claw away the fire!’ shouted he, springing towards the end of the log, which the brushwood had set on fire and burnt away about a foot. I did not know what he wanted the fire ‘clawed away’ from, but I fell to work, and very naturally clawed it away from the log. ‘Wait’ll I come back with an axe,’ said Jake, bounding off towards the waggons, and leaving me alone beside the log, which was hollow and contained something alive – evidently a man – perhaps poor Pete; but the whole circumstance was wrapt in such a great degree of mystery that I could not attempt to unravel it, especially as the sounds of distress had ceased. Presently, Jake returned with a sharp axe, and, mounting on the log without saying a word to me, he brought the implement down with such force as to send the great chips whizzing in every direction.

“Suddenly there appeared something black; Jake had cut through. He stopped, raked the chips away with his bands, and peered into the hollow; a simple glance seemed, to satisfy his curiosity, and, leaping upon the log some six or eight feet farther back from the fire, he fell to chopping again with as much eagerness as before. In a little while the hollow appeared at that point, and then he commenced to split out the block between the two holes. A few strokes started a crack. A few more, very cautiously dealt, and out tumbled the block, as if a box-lid had been suddenly opened, leaving exposed to our wondering gaze the body of a man.

“‘Pete Tonsley, as I live!’ said Jake. ‘Pete, what in thunder are you doing here?’

“Pete rolled over two or three times, put his hand on his head to call our attention to the fact that his hair was pretty well singed off, and then said —

“‘Nothin’.’

“‘Wal, I think ye wasn’t a doin’ nothin’ only a-hollerin’,’ continued Jake; ‘and if we hadn’t just a-heard ye, ye wouldn’t soon a’ bin doin’ that. But tell us how ye come to be in that thar log?’

“‘Wal,’ said Pete, ‘I sees a ground-hog (hedgehog) a sort o’ slippin’ across this way, soon after I left the track this afternoon, and we had a mortal tight race out to this log here, and then it got here first, and got away. When I sees what the thing went and done, my dander riz, and sez I to myself, Pete Tonsley ’ll show you how to slide into a log next time; and then I kindles a fire up in the holler at this end of the log, a-thinkin’ I might smoke the varmint out at t’other. Wal, I smoked, and I smoked, but nary a ground-hog could I see come out, and then sez I to myself, it might be that the “wood chuck” had slipt out while I was lightin’ the fire, and I had best be going back to the track afore it gets dark. But I didn’t like to be beat by a ground-hog, so I got a long pole and punched into the log at t’other end, but nary nothin’ would come out, though it struck me I could feel it, and once I thought I heard it chatter, as if a sorter a-darin’ me. That made me mortal mad, and, seeing as how the holler was big enough to creep in at yon end furthest from the fire, I lay down, grit my teeth, and slid in, determined to fetch out the varmint, dead or alive. I wound into the log right up to the fire thar, and seed it was all a mistake. I could feel nary a ground-hog in it, and then I began to hitch back feet foremost, but one hitch was all I could make, for just as I was making the second scrouge out, a knot, or a sharp sliver, or somethin’ catched into the seat of my britches, and held me as tight as a wedge. The britches bein’ new, I could not tear loose. I kickt and I cust, and squirmed around in the log for some time, and then I found one of my legs got fast too. It seemed a funny thing at fust to be in this fix, but when the fire begun to blaze in at the end of the log thar, and to creep atords me, I kinder got to feelin’ very oneasy, and when it got right up, and kotched the handkerchief what I tied around my head, I felt mortal skeered. When it came to singin’ of my har, I began to holler, and that’s what brought you out here, I reckon.’

“It was a lucky moment for Pete that we found him, for fire in ten minutes more would have sent him to his long home.”

With these two narratives of the sergeant’s adventures abroad, I must close my remarks concerning him. How he lost his money, got into the Spanish service, and eventually in the British army, he never appeared ready to explain.

Chapter Twenty Five

Hear the shrill whistle, which doth order give
To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails.
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
Breasting the lofty surge.

Shakespeare.

Beyond the ordinary routine of barrack life, and the every-day duty of a dragoon, nothing very remarkable occurred during my term of service, in addition to what I have related, until the embarkation of my regiment for active service in the Crimea.

The reader will please to observe that I had never before been on a campaign, and the regiment in which I had the honour to serve had never been particularly distinguished in battle for a period of more than twenty years. It had been well understood for years, that whenever a serious war was declared we should be first on the roll of regiments for service. In fact, we had twice been under orders for India – once during the Affghanistan campaign in 1841-2, and again when the Sikh war broke out – but the cavalry already abroad turned out a sufficient force for the purpose.

I may safely remark that three-fourths of the soldiers in the British army would sooner serve on a campaign than endure the monotony of life in a barrack. The former kind of service is just the sort of life for which all really good men join the army. There are many very respectable, educated men serving in the ranks of our dragoon regiments that would cheerfully endure the hardships of a campaign and the privations of a camp life, surrounded by danger, disease, cold, hunger, and even death, in preference to years of drudgery and comparative inactivity in barracks.

It is wonderful to see with what rapidity the ranks of a cavalry regiment proceeding on active service are augmented from other corps not under orders to serve. As may be supposed, when a regiment is told off for service abroad, there are numbers who are physically incapable of enduring the change of climate, and others whose term of service having nearly expired, with other considerations, render it advisable for commanding officers to reject them; consequently, their places have to be filled up by a system of volunteering from other regiments.

On such occasions, orders are sent to the commanding officers of those corps remaining at home to supply a certain number of good men. These orders are read out to the soldiers when they assemble for roll-call at evening stable hour. The regiment, with the locality to which it is proceeding, and the nature of the service in which it is expected to be engaged, together with the number of men required, is distinctly specified; after which, it is stated that “those men willing to serve will step forward.” Instantly the words are delivered there is a rush to the front of many more than is required. In my opinion, nothing can be more noble: there stand the gallant fellows ready to sacrifice a life of comparative ease for hardships, danger, and, probably, death in a foreign land.

I have frequently noticed that the men so volunteering are chiefly the most intelligent and best soldiers in the regiment – men who, having enlisted as soldiers, wish to fulfil the purpose for which they joined the army, and not the idle “skulks” who enlist, thinking that a soldier’s life in barracks is easier than the occupation in which they are engaged as civilians.

By this system of volunteering, the best men and willing hearts have ever been secured for the desperate struggles in which they have from time, to time been engaged. The amount of enthusiasm which pervades the army and the greater part of the population on the declaration of war, is a striking instance of the bravery of the British race. The deserving soldier – always well treated by civilians in England, Ireland, and Scotland in time of peace – is absolutely idolised when proceeding on or returning from a campaign. I perfectly remember the – I might almost say – triumphant march of a portion of our regiment from barracks for many days, on our way for embarkation at Plymouth. The country people cheered us, shook hands, clung to our stirrups, gave us tobacco, and, at times, too much drink. The ladies – high, low, and middle-class – waved their handkerchiefs, threw us kisses, “wished they were going with us,” and many made us handsome presents of money, rings, etc. We were all in good health and spirits, and our horses fresh, sound, and full of spirits.

In this order we entered Plymouth, and were rapidly embarked aboard three transports, and sailed the evening of the day we arrived, amidst many a round of hearty cheers from the thousands of people who crowded on the beach.

Nothing very extraordinary occurred during the voyage to Varna, except that many of our men were dreadfully sea-sick, the nature of our duty on board rendering it impossible for us to lie down, which is the only effectual remedy for sea-sickness.

I was fortunate enough to obtain a mixture, containing a few drops of chloroform, from our surgeon, and I scarcely felt the effects of the buffeting which the vessel sustained a few days after we were fairly out at sea. The horses were sadly crowded, and many suffered from want of exercise and ventilation, a little nitre being served out to us in order to be mixed with the bran mashes, and their eyes, nostrils, and face being regularly sponged with sea-water, at stable hours, tended to refresh them and to allay inflammation, the most frequent of all disorders to which troopers are subject when confined for any length of time aboard ship. I have made no remarks in reference to my personal feelings on leaving friends and relatives in England, for by this time I had many comrades in the regiment to whom I was as much attached as to anyone else, except my mother. It was owing to no want of affection to the latter that, although I could have had a short “pass” before I left the country, I did not visit her. I knew she would feel it very acutely, and that the little word “good-bye” at parting would have been ringing in my ears during many a weary march.

I saw many a heart-rending scene on leaving barracks, along the line of march, with the friends and relations of our men resident in those country parts, and towns we passed through on our way to Plymouth, and on the evening of our embarkation. Therefore I was not sorry that I had not gone through the ordeal, for, like many of my comrades, I might, even in the garb of a soldier, have betrayed the weakness of a man.

The anticipation of a severe engagement and the shock of battle itself is nothing to the very trying ordeal of parting with a dear friend, probably for ever. The piercing screams of mothers, sisters, sweethearts and wives, are usual concomitants of the embarkation of British soldiers on active service. The grasp of a father’s or brother’s hand as they linger on the pier, the steady gaze into the soldier’s eye, the twitching of the mouth and the smothered sob, prevent the articulation of the word “good-bye!” The soldier’s natural pride mostly predominates over tears, and the display of sorrow indulged in by civilians under similar circumstances, but although I did not subject myself to the ordeal of such a leave-taking, I felt deeply for certain of my comrades, who, although as brave soldiers as ever leaped into a saddle or drew a sabre in action, were utterly prostrated with grief after leaving their friends on the beach.

This kind of grief proceeds from a sort of sorrow at having been the cause of suffering to those you love dearly and leave behind. For this I have sometimes thought the soldier is to blame, because, in order to gratify a roving disposition, or other causes, he leaves his home, blasting the hopes of a father who may have given him a good education, and looked forward to the time when the boy grown into a man may be a prop to him in his declining years. He tramples upon the deep and true affection of a mother, and throws to the winds the kindly words and devotion of his brothers and sisters. Next to a soldier’s mother, nothing on earth is more dear to him than a sister. Women are invariably fond of soldiers: some like them simply for their gaudy attire, others adore them for their splendid figure, but every woman respects the soldier who risks his life in the service of his country. The last to bid him adieu and the first to welcome him home will be the soldier’s sister, if he is blessed with one. The mother may be dead, the father hastening to the grave, from old age and infirmities, but if there is a sister alive, she will always welcome to the most humble cot her gallant soldier-brother, when, suffering from wounds and broken down in constitution, he returns from the wars. Thousands of men (I am too well aware) live and die regardless of the affections of mother, father, brother, or sister, but the majority of our brave fellows in all ranks of the service retain the affections and associations inculcated during early youth.

Superior intelligence in the soldier is as great a recommendation as mere brute strength, and, let the discontented say what they please, the duty of a soldier will never deaden the feelings of a man, who during the most arduous and dangerous campaign can always find time to think.

I never was fond of preaching morality to others. Always cheerful and fond of company, I would never debar the soldier from enjoyment, either in or out of barracks. I do not mind confessing that I have had many a “turn up” with policemen, especially when those so-called “guardians of the peace” have attempted to take an unwarrantable liberty with a comrade. But to those “ruffians” in the uniform of soldiers, who constantly figure in our police-courts on the cowardly charge of fighting with their belts and indiscriminately striking civilians in the streets with the frightful weapons, I would say, “You are no soldiers.” Indeed, the whole term of the service of such men is not worth a day’s pay. They are only the refuse of society, who have foisted themselves upon the public service with no other object than that they fancy they can eat the bread of idleness, and be better clothed and lodged than by remaining civilians. In the latter case, they would become a burden to the country through being lodged in some gaol or transported, and in the army they are not only a disgrace to their corps in time of peace, but are always the first to scheme and skulk when any fighting or long marching has to be done.

Such characters would laugh at and deride any display of affection, simply because they never knew it. They would ransack a cottage when campaigning, abuse the inmates, break up the furniture through sheer wantonness, and commit all sorts of frightful excesses; but show them an enemy in force, let the trumpet or bugle sound the “advance,” and they are the first to show the “white feather.”

Your genuine blackguard, whether he be a “rough” in a London mob, or a soldier in the ranks, is invariably a coward when he is equally matched. All attempts to reform him by discipline, good advice, and kind treatment, will fail in making a bad man good, but fear of death and the “cat-o’-nine-tails” will make him the most abject wretch alive. Lash him to the halberds after a drum-head court-martial on the line of march and he will writhe about like an eel, and scream like a jay before a lash is laid on his back. I am no advocate for flogging in time of peace, but if it were abolished in time of war, the gallows and the gibbet-post would have to be substituted. A long campaign with plenty of fighting is, however, the best purgative to get rid of these characters, because none of them will enlist or volunteer in time of war; those already in the service will desert or contrive to be taken prisoners if they can, and those who remain in the ranks are kept to their duty by the aid of the “cat,” without which I am certain they would neither march nor fight, but always be ready to plunder, and disgrace the British name.

To return, however, to our voyage. The men regained their usual spirits in the course of a few hours, and as the three vessels, which had embarked the greater part of our men and horses, sailed out of the Sound on a beautiful evening in the early part of May, 1854, the joke and song, with the merry laugh at some attempts to dance, told plainly that there was more of gladness than sorrow on board our transport. The sailors especially were very pleased with our company: they donned our clothes, examined our arms, patted our horses, and would have jumped on their backs had they been allowed. After we had been at sea a couple of days a stiff breeze sprung up, and many of the men being unable to drink their daily rations of excellent rum, the sailors tossed theirs off instead, with many a wish for their safe return from “a-lickin’ the Roosians.” The weather was, however, on the whole favourable, and the men having quite recovered from sickness, before a week had passed were enabled to drink their own rum and eat their rations with amazing relish; indeed, food is never so enjoyable as after a recovery from sea-sickness.