Part 5
“My son d’ seen to be a bit late too,” chimed in the lady whose doorstep was parallel to that of the last speaker; a somewhat vixenish-looking person this, with a pinched and pointed nose, and a sour mouth that seldom smiled. “He be kept awful busy up at the line,” she continued fretfully. “He do seem to work twice so hard as he did since that there old war began. I d’ wish it was ended, that I do.”
“There’s more than you wishes that, Mrs. Woolridge,” said the owner of the independent house, folding her arms and holding up her head with a certain assumption of dignity. “Them that has friends out there—them that has _sons_ out there, they be the folks as wish the war was well over; and they do do it, Mrs. Woolridge—I d’ ’low they do.”
“An’ so they may,” retorted Mrs. Woolridge acidly. “I’m sure I can’t think what ever makes folks go to be soldiers! I wouldn’t have my son a soldier—no, not if he was to go down on his bended knees I wouldn’t agree.”
“Well, I don’t go so far as that,” returned Mrs. Stuckhey. “It d’ seem a bit hard, I d’ ’low, to part wi’ ’em; but ’tis a fine thing for to serve Queen and country, and I d’ feel so to speak proud o’ my Joe. E-es, I mid say I am proud of him! It’s summat, after all, to think as he’s the only soldier in the place—the only soldier in Riverton.”
“An’ a good job too,” retorted Mrs. Woolridge; “I’m glad there bain’t no more on ’em. If there wasn’t no soldiers there wouldn’t be no wars; and to my mind wars is wicked things—reg’lar flying in the face o’ Providence.”
“Nay, now,” put in good-natured Mrs. Blanchard, “I’m sure everybody, high and low, the gentry and sich as we together, all d’ seem to think the world o’ the soldiers. And it be quite natural as you should feel a bit proud, Mrs. Stuckhey, my dear, seeing as your son is the only soldier as comes fro’ this here village. Why, we was a-prayin’ for the soldiers to-week, Mrs. Woolridge, so I can’t think as war can be anyways wicked.”
“E-es, indeed,” agreed Susan Stuckhey, addressing herself pointedly to the last speaker, for she had been somewhat hurt by Mrs. Woolridge’s remarks. “I d’ ’low I could very near ha’ cried o’ Sunday, when the service was gi’ed out for the soldiers, seein’ as all the prayers in this place was a-goin’ up for my Joe. I went round to the rectory afterwards, and I did thank the Reverend. ‘’Tis very kind o’ ye, I’m sure, sir,’ says I, ‘to take so much trouble for my son.’ ‘What trouble, Susan?’ says he, looking a bit dazy like. ‘Why, the service, sir,’ says I. ‘All the long prayers, and the collect, and all—for our soldiers, you know. My Joe be the only soldier from Riverton.’ So now when he do meet me he do al’ays ax, ‘Any noos, Susan, from our only soldier?’ That reminds me, postman be late to-day, bain’t he? The mail do come in from abroad to-day, d’ye see, and I’m on the look-out for a letter.”
Mrs. Blanchard and Mrs. Stuckhey craned their heads once more, peering anxiously up the road; but Mrs. Woolridge remained ostentatiously immovable.
“I thought that was what fetched you out,” she remarked ungraciously. “I suppose you’ll ’low as postmen be o’ some use. It d’ seem to me as they d’ serve their country just so well as soldiers; and there’s others as serves their country too. I reckon as my son Robert d’ serve his country better nor any soldier. What ’ud the country do wi’out trains?”
Mrs. Stuckhey smiled pityingly, and replied in a tone of dignified amusement, “They be useful too, no doubt, in their way; but ye’ll hear different to your notion, Mrs. Woolridge. ‘Soldiers of the Queen,’ you know: they stand high, d’ye see—more partic’lar jest now. ‘Your country’s love to you!’—nobody wouldn’t go for to say that to a postman, would they now? nor yet to a man what was workin’ on the line.”
“And that’s true,” agreed Mrs. Blanchard.
Mrs. Woolridge tossed her head.
“Well, I think there’s a deal too much fuss made about them soldiers,” she said—“not meanin’ your son in partic’lar, Mrs. Stuckhey, but the lot of ’em; and I can’t think as the Lard’s blessin’ can rest on this here war. It d’ stand to reason as it can’t—sendin’ up the price o’ everythin’, and makin’ it so hard for the poor to live. Why, the very price o’ coal be doubled very near. Don’t tell me as the A’mighty can approve o’ that.”
A faint colour overspread the sallow cheek of the soldier’s mother, and there is no knowing how severe might have been her retort had not the long-expected form of the one-armed postman chanced to round the corner at this juncture, escorted by some five or six juvenile Blanchards.
As he drew near he was observed to fumble in his bag, and presently halted before the group of matrons, his face wreathed with smiles.
“I’ve got summat for ’ee to-day, Mrs. Stuckhey. Noos fro’ the front; a letter fro’ the soldier.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Susan, and her small black eyes twinkled as she thrust forward an eager hand.
The postman detached one letter from the packet which he drew forth from his bag, and, after it had passed from his possession, proceeded to tighten the string which was tied round the remainder, his teeth coming very deftly to the assistance of his fingers.
“He be with Buller, bain’t he?” he inquired, casting a sidelong glance at the mother as she hastily unfastened the envelope.
“E-es, he’s wi’ _Mr._ Buller,” corrected Mrs. Stuckhey.
“Mr. Buller! Be that what ye d’ call him?” and the postman’s keen eyes twinkled.
“Well, it do seem more respectful like for I. Joe, he do say the General; but it seems more natural for me to say Mr. Buller.”
“I thought it was Lord Buller,” observed Mrs. Blanchard doubtfully.
“Well, never mind; Buller’s enough for I,” said the postman. “Does your son chance to say if they’re pretty near Ladysmith now?”
His much-frayed string seemed somewhat knotted, and opportunities of hearing news direct from the front were sufficiently rare to justify a little extra care in disentangling it.
Mrs. Stuckhey drew forth and unfolded the missive, and her audience duly composed themselves. Even Mrs. Woolridge was conscious of a certain unwilling interest which she endeavoured to disguise by an attitude of indifference—head thrown back, nose screwed up, hands planted negligently on hips.
“My dear Mother,” read Mrs. Stuckhey, “It is with the greatest of pleasure that I write these few lines hoping you are well as it leaves me at present.”
This was merely the formula by which Soldier Joe, who was a person of some education, considered it necessary to inaugurate his letters; and the information which it ostensibly conveyed was not intended to be taken literally, as was proved by the fact that on one occasion this conventional statement had been immediately followed by the announcement that he was wounded and in hospital.
“I have got Back to the front Again and we are going to make another start for Ladysmith before long.”
“Why, I thought they was close to Ladysmith by now,” interrupted the postman. “The papers said yesterday they was but eight mile away.”
“Ah, you can’t trust them papers,” said Mrs. Blanchard in a tone of conviction. “They do exaggerate, them papers; they just prints a lot o’ lies in ’em to make ’em sell.”
“Very like your son have made a mistake,” observed Mrs. Woolridge loftily. “Joe, he’s but young.”
“Well, it stands to reason as them that’s on the spot must know better what’s goin’ on nor them that’s miles an’ miles away,” retorted Mrs. Stuckhey with some heat. “This here noos comes direct.”
It did not seem to occur to any one that the tidings in question were three weeks old.
She fell to the reading of her letter again, spelling out the words slowly, and running the sentences one into another; indeed it might have been a little difficult to do otherwise, for Joe used capital letters impartially, and absolutely disdained stops.
“You may bet there won’t be no turning Back this time I hope you are saving the Papers for me and I hope when Ladysmith is Relieved you will hang out a Flag and give us Three cheers we deserve it I can Tell you dear Mother when the bullets are whistling round you it is not exactly Pleasant but they don’t like the cold Steel and I hope we shall get near enough to give them that I should like a Dig at the man what shot me give my best Love to Maria and Jane I Fancy you was all thinking of me on Christmas day I hope you had Roast beef and enjoyed yourselves we had only a Dirty old stew in hospital it will be a Good day when I come home you must have a Ox ready and as many spuds as would grow in the garden for two or three years dear Mother I think there is no more this time give my love to all friends and don’t Forget the Flag.
“From your loving son,
“JOSEPH STUCKHEY.”
“Ah!” commented the mother, wiping her eyes, “I d’ ’low we did think o’ him on Christmas Day. Maria—that’s my maid what’s in service at Bourne—she were here for her holiday; and Jane, my married daughter, you know, she come over wi’ her husband and childern. We’d ha’ been a merry party if Joe’d been here; but we did talk of him a’most wi’ every mouthful.”
The postman finished tying the last knot, and slung his bag round under his empty sleeve.
“I must be getting on,” he said. He would repeat items from Joe Stuckhey’s letter in the various villages through which he passed in making his round.
“Well, to be sure, ’tis nice to hear direct,” observed Mrs. Blanchard, slowly backing into her house, and almost tumbling over two of three of her offspring as she did so.
Mrs. Woolridge sniffed, scratched her elbows with an absent air, cast another frowning glance up the road, and finding her son was not in sight betook herself indoors.
The soldier’s mother went in too, sat down to her dinner—a cold one, for, being a washerwoman by profession, Monday was a busy day with her, and she would not waste time even in boiling herself a “spud” or two. She spread out Joe’s letter on the table and meditated over it while she ate.
“I’ll get a flag,” she said to herself. “E-es, I must get a little flag. And when my Joe do come back he shall have as good a bit of roast beef as I can buy, bless him!”
As she went about her work that day her gaze wandered, even more frequently than usual, to Joe’s portrait, which hung in a prominent position over the mantelpiece. This work of art had been presented by the young soldier to his mother soon after he had enlisted. He had not spared expense, and the result, though somewhat wooden in attitude and uneasy in expression, was eminently satisfactory to her.
While she wrung out her clothes or hung them on the line she crooned to herself the refrain of the popular ditty, “Tommy Atkins,” altering the name of the hero to suit her own taste:—
“Oh-h, Joey, Joey Stuckhey, You’re a good one, heart and hand, You’re a credit to your country, And to all your native land. May your luck be never-failing, May your love be ever true—
“And that it will, I’ll be bound; there never were a more lovin’ lad. How he did hug I, to be sure, afore he left last time.”
It will be observed that Susan’s reading of the line was not quite the same as that intended by the author of the song. She wiped her eyes, sighed, and resumed with renewed energy:—
“May your luck be never-failing, May your love be ever true. God bless you, Joey Stuckhey, Here’s your country’s lo-o-o-o-ve to you!”
She threw so much expression into the last line that the word _love_ expanded into a polysyllable.
A few days later news flew round the parish that Ladysmith had actually been relieved; the authority vouched for being no less than that of her Majesty the Queen. The baker brought the news to Riverton. His eyes appeared ready to jump from his head with excitement as he made the announcement.
“You’ll be hearin’ bells a-ringin’ to-night,” he said. “Ah, they be runnin’ up flags all over the place a’ready. And they do say as they be a-goin’ to ’luminate.”
“Flags!” ejaculated Mrs. Stuckhey. “I must get a flag at once. I’ll start so soon as I’ve a-had my tea. I wish I’d a-got it afore; but my son—him that’s the only soldier here, you know, baker—he did say when he last wrote as they was but startin’ to relieve Ladysmith.”
“I can scarce believe as the noos be true,” observed pessimistic Mrs. Woolridge. “I wouldn’t be in too great a hurry to get that flag if I was you.”
“Well, I should think the Queen ought to know,” retorted her neighbour with spirit. “I’m a-goin’ to get it, anyhow.”
“I’ll go along with ’ee, my dear,” cried Mrs. Blanchard, who was always ready for an outing. “I can’t afford no flags myself, but I’m sure I wish ’ee well, an’ am pleased at your son’s success. I’ve only got to give the childern their tea, and clean me a bit, and put on bonnet and shawl, and I’ll be ready.”
The baker’s cart jolted away and the two women hastened indoors. It took Mrs. Blanchard some time to complete her preparations, and it was past six o’clock by the time they reached the little town.
The market-place presented an unusually gay appearance: bunting floated from the church tower, the Corn Exchange, and all the principal buildings; rows of light were already appearing in many of the windows; groups of people stood about, laughing, talking, singing; many of them cheered as newcomers arrived upon the scene and were told the news.
Mrs. Stuckhey and her friend, having purchased the flag, attached themselves to one of the groups in question, and heard how the tidings had first come “down the line,” and how, subsequently, a telegram had arrived at the Royal George. Mrs. Stuckhey was in the act of expatiating on the information conveyed in her son’s letter when, with a mighty clang, the bells rang out.
“They’re at it,” cried a man, detaching himself from the knot of people the better to flourish his hat. “Three cheers for Buller and White. Hip—hip—hip—”
“Hurray!” roared the crowd.
Cling, cling, clang! chimed the bells.
Then all at once, no one knew how, the merry-making ceased, the cheerful jangling came to an end, the ringers loosing the ropes so suddenly that the bells continued to swing for some little time longer, sending forth occasional slow faint notes of most funereal sound. As anxious glances sought the church tower the flag was seen to have disappeared; moreover, it was observed that the kindred trophy which had proudly surmounted the Corn Exchange was being hauled down. What had happened—what was wrong?
The disappointing news soon flew from mouth to mouth: it was all a mistake. Ladysmith was not relieved after all. Someone had just telegraphed from London to say that there was no foundation for the report. The War Office had, in fact, declared it to be false.
“’Tis my belief as that there War Office don’t know so very much,” remarked Mrs. Stuckhey, indignant in her disappointment. “When my son Joe was wounded they did send me a very nice letter, to be sure—Lord Lansdowne I believe it was from, and a beautiful hand his lordship do write—but he didn’t tell I nothin’ about it—not whether ’twas in his arm, or leg, or nowhere in partic’lar. So there, I just sent him a telegraft to ax how my son were, and he never took no notice. Don’t ’ee tell I as he knows what’s going forrard better nor the Queen.”
“Well, but they do say now as the Queen didn’t say nothin’,” said somebody ruefully.
The lights were being blown out, the flags removed; people were returning homewards. Mrs. Stuckhey, still unconvinced and irate, was constrained to follow their example, clutching her little sixpenny flag in its paper wrapper.
“Lard! how awful molloncolly that there bell do sound,” groaned Mrs. Blanchard dolefully. “Dear, to be sure, a body mid think as it were tollin’ for a funeral.”
“There, my dear, don’t ’ee talk so foolish,” responded Susan with some acerbity. “’Tis but the ringers as has left the ropes a-swingin’. I should be ashamed, Mary Blanchard, to go a-givin’ way like that, and you with all them childern, as ought to know better.”
“I be that nervish, d’ye see. Lard, I do feel shaky all over. I have a kind o’ porsentiment as summat have a-happened—that I have, and I can’t say no different, Mrs. Stuckhey, not if it be to please you.”
At this moment the pair were overtaken by a stout, elderly man, who, recognising them as he passed, turned to greet the person whom the news might be supposed to concern most nearly.
“Good evenin’ to ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey; this here be very disapp’intin’, bain’t it?”
Susan responded with a little “dip,” for Farmer Joyce was the principal inhabitant of Riverton.
“E-es, sir, it be a bit disapp’intin’, I d’ ’low, but I reckon we’ll be hearin’ to-morrow as the good noos be true, and ’tis but the War Office what have made a mistake.”
“I dunno, I’m sure,” returned the farmer, heaving a deep sigh. “Them there Boers be a queer lot. I did never hear tell o’ sich folks. They do seem to be here, there, and everywhere, all at once as mid be—poppin’ up jist same as rabbits in warren. Ah,” he cried, delighted with his own simile, and anxious if possible to improve it, “it be jist same as if our troops were a-fightin’ o’ rabbits—rabbits wi’ guns,” he added with a chuckle.
“Well, my son do say as they don’t like the cold steel,” remarked Mrs. Stuckhey cautiously. “My son didn’t seem noways afeared on ’em. Says he, when he did last write, says he, ‘I should like a dig at the man what shot me’.”
“Ah, and did he?” said Mr. Joyce much impressed. “Well now, that was a good sayin’. A dig! Haw, haw?” here the farmer came to a standstill in the road to laugh more at his ease. “He’d like to give him a dig, would he?—haw, haw!—I d’ ’low he would. And ’tis but nat’ral, d’ye see, Mrs. Stuckhey,” he continued more seriously as he rolled forward again. “Nobody couldn’t blame the chap for wishin’ to stick the man as put a bullet in en—they couldn’t, indeed. Ye can’t expect a soldier to turn the other cheek, can ye now? But them Boers be jist same as rabbits—’tis what I do say constant. But we’ll ferret ’em out, yet—haw, haw, haw!—we’ll ferret ’em out, won’t us? Good-night to ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey, and good-night to you, Mrs. Blanchard. We’ll be a-lookin’ for good noos soon.”
But the next war-news which came to Riverton was tragic. To the country at large, indeed, the glorious capture of Hlangwane Hill was a triumph, but among the killed on that day chanced to be Private Joseph Stuckhey, Riverton’s only soldier.
The blinds were drawn down in his mother’s little cottage, and friends and neighbours went in and out with dolorous faces. Who shall tell how the tidings were first broken to her, the faltering incredulous words she said, her bewildered grief?
A day or two after her home was made desolate Farmer Joyce, standing by his gate, happened to see her returning from the town, accompanied by Mrs. Blanchard, both of them burdened with a multiplicity of small parcels.
“Ah,” he said, greeting her with a groan of sympathy, “ye’ll ha’ been gettin’ o’ your deep Mrs. Stuckhey.”
“E-es, sir, I did have a few little things to get afore Sunday. There weren’t no sich hurry as usual when there be a death in th’ family—no funeral, you know. Dear, to be sure, it do seem so strange to think as there bain’t no funeral! ’Tis what d’ seem to come harder nor anything. If there were but a grave as I could ’tend to: if I could but ha’ done his last, Mr. Joyce. If it had but pleased the Lard to ha’ took him from me in England.”
“Nay, now, don’t ’ee take on, Mrs. Stuckhey. They do say as the poor dead bodies be treated wonderful respectful abroad. E-es, they do say so, indeed; and if your son had a-died in England somewhere up the country as where his reg’ment mid be, you couldn’t ha’ done his last for en no more nor you can now. I’ve a-been told as there be some graveyards, Mrs. Stuckhey—and not so far away neither—as be just same as rabbit warrens; you wouldn’t never think there was no co’pses in them at all.”
“Dear, now, to think of that!” ejaculated Susan, almost forgetting her grief in her scandalised amazement.
“E-es, indeed, they telled I that. Things mid be worse, ye see. Not but what I do sympathise for ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey. It be a terrible visitation—an’ you a lone woman, and him your only son—I d’ ’low it be a terrible visitation. There bain’t a single person in Riverton village as don’t feel for ’ee.”
“Ah-h-h, ’tis true, sir, ’tis true,” put in Mrs. Blanchard, shaking her head. “There do seem to ha’ comed quite a gloom over the place since the sad noos come. E-es, I may say so, quite a gloom. And us as was all rej’ycin’ such a few days ago about Ladysmith, you know, as weren’t relieved at all. Dear, yes, how well I do mind it. I did say then, didn’t I, Mrs. Stuckhey? as bell sounded just same as if ’twere a-tollin’. Them was my very words, and I did go all shivery down my back and feeled quite nervish. ’Twas a token, I do r’aly believe. There was bell a-tollin’ o’ Wednesday as ’twere Monday poor Joe was killed.”
“Ah, dear, ’tis that what comes most cruel hard of all,” groaned the poor mother. “There was I laughin’ and talkin’ wi’ the rest, and my poor Joe stiff an’ cold.”
“E-es, indeed, Mrs. Stuckhey,” returned the farmer, winking away a tear from his own kindly eyes, “it do seem hard, I d’ ’low; the ways o’ Providence be oncomprehensible, as the Bible do say. I d’ ’low, this here do seem very providential.”
“I don’t think I’d ha’ minded so much if he’d a-been struck down after they’d won the victory, d’ye see,” went on Susan. “Nay, I could ha’ bore it better—I could have felt as his life weren’t took for nothin’; but to think as he were cut off when they’d only just started as he did tell I in his last letter. That they took en and shot en and ’tweren’t no use.”
“Nay, now, don’t ’ee say that, Mrs. Stuckhey, don’t ’ee go for to say that.” And Farmer Joyce brought down his fist emphatically on the low wall near which he was standing. “He gave his life for summat, you may depend. ’Twas in doin’ good work as he fell; and that there work ull go on, and ull end well, and your son ull ha’ helped to make it end well. Now, see here, this be the way to look at it. A wall’s a wall, bain’t it?” And he brought down his fist upon the coping again.
Both women, staring blankly at him, acceded to this incontrovertible statement.
“Well, and an army’s an army—ye’ll admit that.”
They admitted it.
“Well, and what be a wall made on? Stones or bricks. This here wall be made o’ stones. And what be an army made on? Men. Do ye take me? There wouldn’t be no wall if there weren’t no stones, and there wouldn’t be no army if there weren’t no men. And more”—raising his voice as he warmed to his subject—“there wouldn’t be no wall if some o’ them stones wasn’t laid underground for the foundations; and there wouldn’t be no army if there wasn’t no fightin’, an’ some o’ the men wasn’t killed. An’ ’tis my belief, Mrs. Stuckhey, as your Joe, what has got killed an’ been put underground, is one o’ the foundations o’ the British army. An’ when that there army marches into Ladysmith, as it be sure to do, your Joe ull ha’ done as much as any man to get it there.”
Poor Susan smiled and wiped her eyes, and held up her head with a sort of pitiful pride.
“Thank ’ee kindly, sir, for them words,” she said. “They be a’most the first bit o’ comfort I’ve a-had.”
“I’m sure Mr. J’yce do speak beautiful,” murmured Mrs. Blanchard admiringly. “There, I never heared the like, not without ’twas out of a noospaper. I’m sure it did ought to comfort ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey.”
“Nay, now, ’tis nothin’ to speak on,” returned Mr. Joyce modestly. “My mind do seem to turn to them parodies easy like. D’ye mind about the rabbits? ‘Rabbits wi’ guns,’ says I. Haw, haw! I can scarce tell how them notions do come to my mind.”