CHAPTER I.

THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND

It was an April evening; off the south coast of England. The sun had just made up his mind to struggle out from behind a particularly black shower-cloud, and give that part of the world a look before he bade it good-night.

“That is lucky,” said a little man, who was with difficulty hanging on to the bulwark netting of the H.M.S. _Conway Castle;_ “now, Mr. Jones, look if you can’t see them in the sunlight.”

Mr. Jones accordingly looked through his glasses again.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see them distinctly.”

“See what?” asked another passenger, coming up. “The cliffs of Old England,” answered the little man, joyously.

“Oh, is that all?” said the other; “curse the cliffs of Old England!”

“Nice remark that for a man who is going home to be married, eh?” said the little man, turning to where his companion had stood.

But Mr. Jones had shut up his glasses, and vanished aft.

Presently he reached a deck-cabin, and entered without knocking.

“England is in sight, old fellow,” he said, addressing somebody who lay back smoking in a cane-chair.

The person addressed made a movement as though to rise, then put up his hand to a shade that covered his eyes.

“I forgot,” he answered, with a smile; “it will have to be very much in sight before I can see it. By the way, Jeremy,” he went on, nervously, “I want to ask you something. These doctors tell such lies.” And he removed the shade. “Now, look at my eyes, and tell me honestly, am I disfigured? Are they shrunk, I mean, or have they got a squint, or anything of that sort?” and Ernest turned up his dark orbs, which, except that they had acquired that painful, expectant look peculiar to the blind, were just as they always had been.

Jeremy looked at them, first in one light, then in another.

“Well!” said Ernest, impatiently. “I can feel that you are staring me out of countenance.”

“Hamba gachlé,” replied the imperturbable one. “I am di—di—diagnosing the case. There, that will do. To all appearance, your optics are as sound as mine. You get a girl to look at them, and see what she says.”

“Ah, well; that is something to be thankful for.”

Just then somebody knocked at the cabin-door. It was a steward.

“You sent for me, Sir Ernest?”

“O yes, I remember. Will you be so good as to find my servant? I want him.”

“Yes, Sir Ernest.”

Ernest moved impatiently.

“Confound that fellow, with his everlasting ‘Sir Ernest’!”

“What, haven’t you got used to your handle yet?”

“No, I haven’t, and I wish it were at Jericho, and that is a fact. It is all your fault, Jeremy. If you had not told that confoundedly garrulous little doctor, who went and had the information printed in the _Natal Mercury,_ it would never have come out at all. I could have dropped the title in England; but now all these people know that I am Sir Ernest, and Sir Ernest I shall remain for the rest of my days.”

“Well, most people would not think that such a dreadful misfortune.”

“Yes, they would, if they had happened to shoot the real heir. By the way, what did the lawyer say in his letter? As we are so near home, I suppose I had better post myself up. You will find it in the despatch-box. Read it, there’s a good fellow.”

Jeremy opened the box, battered with many years of travel, and searched about for the letter. It contained a curious collection of articles, prominent among which was a handkerchief, which once belonged to Eva Ceswick; a long tress of chestnut hair tied up with a blue ribbon; ditto of golden, which had come—well, not from Eva’s locks; a whole botanical collection of dead flowers, tender souvenirs of goodness knows who, for, after awhile, these accumulated dried specimens are difficult to identify; and many letters and other curiosities.

At last Jeremy came to the desired document, written in a fair clerk’s hand; and having shovelled back the locks of hair, &c., began to read it aloud:

_St. Ethelred’s Court, Poultry,_

_22nd January, 1879._

“Sir,—”

“You see,” broke in Ernest, “while we were fighting over there at Isandhlwana, those beggars were writing to tell me that I was a baronet. Case of the ‘bloody hand’ with a vengeance, eh?”

“Sir” (began Jeremy again), “it is our duty to inform you of the death, on the 16th of the present month, of our esteemed client, Sir Hugh Kershaw, Bart., of Archdale Hall, Devonshire, and of the consequent devolution of the baronetcy to yourself, as only son of the late Sir Hugh’s only brother, Ernest Kershaw, Esq.

“Into the question of the unhappy manner in which you came to be placed in the immediate succession it does not become us to enter. We have before us at this moment a copy of Her Majesty’s pardon, granted to you under the Transvaal Amnesty Act, and forwarded to us by Reginald Cardus, Esq., of Dum’s Ness, Suffolk, which we have neither the wish nor the will to dispute. It is clear to us that, under this pardon, you are totally free from any responsibility for the breach of the law which you perpetrated some years since; and of this it is our duty to advise you your title to succeed is also a clear one.

“As was only to be expected under the circumstances, the late Sir Hugh did not bear any feeling of goodwill towards you. Indeed, we do not think that we shall be exaggerating if we say that the news of your free pardon materially hastened his end. On the attainment of full age by the late Hugh Kershaw, Esq., who fell by your hand, the entail of the family estates was cut, and only the mansion-house of Archdale Hall, the heirlooms, which are numerous and valuable, therein contained, and the deer-park, consisting of one hundred and eighty-five acres of land, were resettled. These consequently pass to you, and we shall be glad to receive your instructions concerning them, should you elect to honour us with your confidence. The estates pass, under the will of the late Baronet, to a distant cousin of his late wife’s, James Smith, Esq., 52 Camperdown Road, Upper Clapham. We now think that we have put you in possession of all the facts connected with your accession to the baronetcy, and, awaiting your instructions, have the honour to remain,

“Your obedient servants,

(Signed) “Paisley & Paisley.”

“Ah, so much for that!” was Ernest’s comment. “What am I to do with Archdale Hall, its heirlooms, and its deer-park of one hundred and eighty-five acres, I wonder? I shall sell them if I can. Mine is a pretty position: a baronet with about sixpence halfpenny per annum to support my rank on; a very pretty position!”

“Hamba gachlé,” replied Jeremy; “time enough to consider all that. But now, as we are on the reading lay, I may as well give you the benefit of my correspondence with the officer commanding Her Majesty’s forces in Natal and Zululand.”

“Fire away!” remarked Ernest, wearily.

“First letter, dated Newcastle, Natal, 27th January, from your humble servant to officer commanding, &c.:

“‘Sir,—I have the honour to report, by order of Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, of Alston’s Horse, at present incapacitated by lightning from doing so himself’——”

“Very neatly put that, I think!” interpolated Jeremy.

“Very. Go on.”

—“‘that on the 22nd inst., Alston’s Horse, having received orders to check the flanking movement of the Undi Corps, proceeded to try and do so. Coming to a ridge commanding the advance of the Undi, the corps, by order of their late commander, Captain Alston, dismounted, and opened fire on them at a distance of about three hundred yards, with considerable effect. This did not, however, check the Undi, who appeared to number between three and four thousand men, so Captain Alston issued an order to charge the enemy. This was done with some success. The Zulus lost a number of men; the corps, which passed right through the enemy, about twenty troopers, Captain Alston, and his son Roger Alston, who acted as his aide-de-camp. Several horses and one or two men were also severely wounded, which crippled the further movements of the corps.

“’Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, on taking command of the corps, determined to attempt to retreat. In this attempt, however, he failed, owing to the presence of dismounted and wounded men; to the detachment of a body of about three hundred Zulus to intercept any such retreat; and to the presence of a large body of Zulus on the farther side of the pass leading to the valley through which such retreat must be conducted.

“’Under these circumstances he determined to fight the remains of the corps to the last, and dismounting them, took possession of a fairly advantageous position. A desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued. It ended in the almost total extermination of Alston’s Horse, and in that of the greater part of the attacking Zulus. The names of the surviving members of Alston’s Horse are—Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones, Trooper Mazooku (the only native in the corps). These ultimately effected their escape, the enemy having either been all destroyed or having followed the track of the Undi. Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw regrets to have to state that in process of effecting his escape he was struck by lightning and blinded.

“’He estimates the total loss inflicted on the enemy by Alston’s Horse at from four hundred to four hundred and fifty men. In face of such determined bravery as was evinced by every one of his late gallant comrades, Lieutenant Kershaw feels that it would be invidious for him to mention any particular names. Every man fought desperately, and died with his face to the enemy. He begs to enclose a return of the names of those lost, the accuracy of which he cannot, however, guarantee, as it is compiled from memory, the papers of the corps having all been lost. Trusting that the manoeuvres attempted by Lieutenant Kershaw under somewhat difficult circumstances will meet with your approval, I have, &c.—By order of Lieutenant Kershaw,

(Signed) Jeremy Jones, _Sergeant-Major._

“Then follows the reply, dated Maritzburg, 2nd February:

“‘Sir,—1. I have to direct you to convey to Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, and the surviving members of the corps known as Alston’s Horse, the high sense entertained by the Officer, &c., of the gallant conduct of that corps in the face of overwhelming odds at Isandhlwana on the 22nd of January.

“‘2. It is with deep regret that the Officer, &c., learns of the heavy misfortune which has befallen Lieutenant Kershaw. He wishes to express his appreciation of the way in which that officer handled the remnants of his corps, and to inform him that his name will be forwarded to the proper quarter for the expression of Her Majesty’s pleasure with regard to his services.*

“‘3. I am directed to offer you a commission in any of the volunteer corps now on service in this campaign.—I have, &c.,

(Signed) “‘CHIEF OF THE STAFF.’”

Then comes a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones, gratefully acknowledging the expression of the high opinion of the Officer, &c., and declining the offer of a commission in another volunteer corps.

Next is a private letter from the Officer, &c., offering to recommend Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones for a commission in the army.

And, finally, a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones to the Officer, &c., gratefully declining the same.

Ernest looked up sharply. The _raison d’être_ of the movement was gone, for he could no longer see, but the habit remained.

* It may be stated here that, if this was ever done, the War Office did not consider Ernest’s service worthy of notice; for he never heard anything more about them.

“Why did you decline the commission, Jeremy?”

Jeremy moved uneasily, and looked through the little cabin-window.

“On general principles,” he answered, presently.

“Nonsense! I know you would have liked to go into the army. Don’t you remember, as we were riding up to the camp at Isandhlwana, you said that you proposed that if the corps did anything, we should try and work it?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, I said _we!_”

“I don’t quite follow you, Jeremy.”

“My dear Ernest, you can’t go in for a commission now, can you?”

Ernest laughed a little bitterly.

“What has that to do with it?”

“Everything. I am not going to leave you in your misfortune to go and enjoy myself in the army. I could not do it; I should be wretched if I