Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan by R. M. Ballantyne (famous ebook reader .txt) 📖

Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was Hardy the sergeant.

His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.

When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy’s captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain’s back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.

This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being “for ever with the Lord,” his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only “does not kill,”—it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant’s case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.

One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill’s zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant’s bed—cheering him up a bit, as they said—and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to come an’ cheer me up, lads,” said Hardy at last; “and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?”

“Of course we will,” said Gaspard quickly.

“If we can,” said the more cautious Scot.

“Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” answered the soldier; “but,” he added, looking round doubtfully, “I don’t know how they might like it here.”

“They’ll not object; besides, you can sing low. You’ve got the knack of singin’ soft—better than any man I ever heard.”

“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.

“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.

Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.

“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”

In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.

“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who saved me died for you as well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, as you know, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”

“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if I can.’ Noo, I can not pray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”

“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”

“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.

“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”

“That’s a wise-like sentiment,” returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.

“Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper,” continued Hardy, “it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you’ll help me?”

“I’m wullin’ to try, serjint, and ac’ the legal adviser—amytoor-like, ye ken.”

“Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?”

“No, serjint, I canna, because I’ve to start airly the morn’s mornin’ wi’ a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin’ back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I’ll come to ye.”

“That will do—thank you. And now, Gaspard, what’s the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in.”

“News that will make your blood boil,” said Gaspard sternly.

“It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me,” said Hardy, languidly.

“Well, I don’t know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d’you think