Storyteller.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 21, 19 August 1893, Page 13

Storyteller.

THE VAGABOND OF THE REGIMENT. I The hero of our story, Dick Morrison, was a private in the 110th. The previous night to the morning on which our tale opens, Morrison had been granted leave of absence till 12 p.m. for the| purpose of forming one of a convivial party to he held in the town. When the time came for Morrison to return to barracks he was not to be found, and it was not until nearly five o’clock next morning that he put in attendance. He was then found to he intoxicated, and what was a much worse offence against military discipline, he had been out in civilian’s clothes. On being apprised of Morrison’s appearance, Major Bromley ordered his confinement in the guard-room? pending a consultation with the next officer in command, Lieutenant Clayton, who attended at the major’s summons. “ He’s the most drunken vagabond in the regiment —a disgrace to the service,” remarked the major to the lieutenant, a few minutes later. “But a good soldier, major—when he is sober,” replied the lieutenant. “ Ah ! that’s it—-— when he’s scber.” growled the senior officer, puffiing fiercely at his cheroot. “ But how often does that happen ?” “ The occasion is rare, I admit, but one can forgive a great deal in a man who is ready—more than willing, when the hour comes. I believe, major, Morrison has a past, and, like better men, is glad to droAvn the memory of it sometimes.” “Hang his past,” exclaimed the Major, “ his present is the only thing that concerns me. Xou are far too easy-going, Clayton,” he added, with a half-smile. “ Not exactly easy-going,” drawled the younger officer, twisting his cigarette slowly round in his fingers ; “ but I somehow feel a keener interest in the man than in the majority of the rank and file. One cannot but feel that he has once been something far better, and, however he may have fallen, that there are moments when the memory of other days stirs within him, and he has to drown it—the poor devil must. The major, with an impatient explanation, summoned an orderly. “ Send Private Morrison here at once. To a casual observer the soldier, as he entered the room, in private dress, saluted, and stood at attention, might have appeared as one of the ordinary type of men. To a student of human nature, as Lieutenant Clayton unconsciously was, lie appeared something more. There was a grace about the man that no ordinary automaton, whatever his drilling, could have worn, despite the reckless bearing- and the traces of his dissolute life. “ So you are here again, Morrison, despite warnings, punishments, and everything else. I suppose you know how it will end.” The culprit was silent, his fine eyes —dark and liquid as a woman’s —gazing straight at the opposite wall, over his officer’s head. “ It Avill end,” continued the other, gravely, “in your disgrace before the regiment —a disgrace that I need not dwell upon a disgrace that you understand. Xou will feel it, Morrison, more deeply than most men in your position would do.” Still silent —only that now the fine eyes were looking at the bent head of the lieutenant wistfully, it might almost be said, as that officer sat drumming- quietly with his finger tips upon the table. “ As I have said, you have had warnings and punishments —punishments and warnings—and it all seems of no avail. Only last night it appears —; ” He paused, with a half-annoyed expression on his face, as the door swung open, and a child—a girl of some six or seven years—Mashed-' into

the room and ran up to the lieutenant. “ Papa, papa, there’s a great, big snake charmer man, from the hills, has just come up, and nurse won’t let him show the dear wriggly things he’s got in his basket, and ” “But, my darling,” said the confused, lieutenant, in a subdued voice, and with a deprecatory glance at his chief, “ you should not come rushing into a room in that way, when you see I am engaged.” The little creature blushed scarlet and hesitated, her hand still resting carelessly in that of the lieutenant. The major, tapping his foot impatiently, turned again to the waiting soldier. “ I repeat, Morrison, that only last night you ” The soldier, raising his hand in a hurried salute, and with a half-step towards his chief, exclaimed in a low, hurried voice : “For the love of God, sir, not before the little one —not before the child. Give me what you will, send me where you like, but don’t proclaim it before her.” The gesture with which he accompanied the words was passionate in its intensity of feeling, and the major paused, staring at the culprit in blank astonishment. Finally he gasped out: “I’m glad to. see that you are ashamed of something. Back to the guard-room ; you shall hear from me again.” With a final salute the man passed out of the room. 11. “ There, there, don’t thank me, man. Show your thanks, and run straight. I told Major Bromley that I thought you’d be all right for the future, and that I’d answnr for your g-ood conduct. So that you see you have not only to keep straight for yourself.” “ I would that I could thank you, sir. Xou are good, indeed, but I fear that it will only prove a lost effort. What is there to keep me straight ? I have sunk so low already, that it can make but little difference what happens —-before the end comes.” His voice shook slightly, and he turned his head away from the light. Lieutenant Clayton, sitting in his room, with the dissolute - lookingsoldier before him, remembered the man’s evident agitation, and fear that the child should hear of his fault. He looked for a moment at the private, and said : “ I was touched this morning, Morrison, by your earnest desire that my little one should know nothing of your disgrace—by the shame you evidently felt in her presence. I had thought that you Avere too hardened to have much thought of the opinion of others —still less that of a child.” There was a long pause, the lieutenant looking straight at the culprit —Morrison gazing out of the AvindoA\ r , across the barrack yard that stx-etched outside. At last he replied, sloAvly, and Avith an effort. “ I had a sister once, in the years that are ” —he paused, and made an expressive gesture with his hands — “ dead. A tiny child the fairest thing that ever blossomed in this Avilderness of a world. She’s dead, but the memory of her lives, at times, at least, and it Avas with me when I saw the little one to-day. I Avould not have had her know.” “ I am sorry for you, Morrison, and Avish that I could help you. That, hoAveA r er, must rest Avith yourself. Good night.” The soldier saluted, and passed out. As he crossed the small barrack square, he muttered': “ The first man that had a kindly word to say to a poor dog of a felloAv for months past. God bless him, and the little child ! There Avas a mist before the eyes of Private Morrison, as he turned into his quarters, and the usually sedate moon appeared to be performing extraordinary pranks over the roof of the long line of stables. 111. “ Morrison, I know you will be true as steel, and I Avould far rather ask you than any man in the place. Xou will knoAv Avhat to do. Xou have gone

tie road so many times, and that pld horse o£ yours knows the road even better than you do. You won’t start till nightfall, and the child will he as quiet with you as with her nurse.” “ I; shall be ready, sir, and you may rely, upon my taking her through safely It’s easy to a man that knows the country, and old Volatile will race the whole way.’ 1 “ Thank you, Morrison, thank you,” said the lieutenant, nervously. “I could not bear to keep her here. It sounds very selfish,” he went on, musingly, “ but she is the only thing I have left, since her poor mother died, and T could not bear to contemplate the possibility of her falling into the hands of these fiends. We are weak here,, and liable to be attacked at any moment ; over there they are strong, and she would be comparatively safe. I have the necessary permission: from the major for you, Morrison, and I leave my darling in your hands.” “I will guard her as my life, sir.” “I know you will; I know you will. You will deliver her into the care of her aunt, wait for nightfall, and ride back again.” He moved a step nearer to the other, and, forgetful of his rank, held out his hand. Morrison grasped it for” an ' instant, an exclaimed, in a hurried voice : “ I thank you, sir, for the trust. Do not fear; I will take her safely through.” lines of a set purpose hardening about And he passed out, with the deepening his careless, mouth, and in the grave, dark eyes. The mutiny had broken out —that mut'n/ that was to paralyse, with the horror of its atrocities, the whole of the civilised world, and Lieutenant Clayton had felt that, for the child’s own safety, he must part from her. It was night when the trooper rode out across the plain, with the child before him. He felt that death lurked in every rustling bush, behind every tree that whispered in the night wind, and he rode steadily, with a watchful eye on every moving thing ai’ound him. The horse, as he.had said, knew the road even better than its master, and carried its double burden with a long, swinging - stride that rapidly lessened the distance between them and safety. It would be hard to say what thoughts came to the soldier as he raced through the hot Indian night, with set face looking straight between his horse's ears. Once, on an impulse, he bent his head, and kissed the face of the sleeping child, and sighed softly as he looked down at her. But the worst part of the road had yet to be passed —a . long, narrow ravine, whose stony path must echo with every step of his flying horse, and the soldier set his teeth, and held his revolver ready cocked. It came, as he feared. When he had traversed but half of the ravine a rifle-shot rang out, and he saw dimly a dusky figure' scrambling down the side of the ravine. There were other figures too that seemed to spring all around him in a moment. He forced his way through, firing at the dusky fig’ures that were nearest, the child clinging to him with a plaintive cry. At the sound of that cry all the hot blood rushed through his veins, and he had hut one thought, stronger in its intensity than ever before, to save the child at any cost. He sprang clear of them, and urged the half-maddened horse down the narrow path that lay before them. A few strides, and they were free, and could hear only the baffled shouts behind —feel only the whistle of a few stray bullets about their ears. But the soldiei’s quick ear had caught the sound of other horses’ hoofs than those of Volatile, and he felt that it would indeed be a race for life. His own brave steed was balf exhausted, and stumbled blindly now and then, and the ringing sound of ‘ the pursuing* hoofs came nearer and nearer. With his resolve more firmly implanted chan 1 1' Tore, ho hurriedly pulled oil the eh 1 Is sash and his o.\n belt, and, leaving- the horse to take its own road, tied the little one as firmly

as -be couls. on the heavy cavalry saddle. To secure her safely he had to rein in the horse and dismount. The sound of the pursuers ;was very near .now, and the trooper laugh© 1 Storyteller .3 grimly as he tied the last knot, unsheathed his heavy cay airy sword, and paused for a moment to listen.

Then he stroked the fair head of The child, and pressed his sunburnt face for a moment against her soft one. She thought it all a huge joke, and smiled up to him. “Good-bye, little sweetheart,” he murmured, huskily, as he smote the frightened horse across the flank with the flat of the sabre, and watched it for a moment as it dashed with its light burden down the ravine, straight for the fort, on the road it knew so well. Then Private Morrison turned, with his white set face addressed to the savage foes that were sweepingnearer and nearer with every stride of their flying horses. . Behind him, cut off for ever by his own heroic act, lay safety —the warm pressure of friendly hands—the tones of welcome that he would never hear again. Before him was certain death ; yet in that hour, beneath those quiet stars, he had hut one thought, but one hope —that he might keep those fiends at bay until the child was safe. !V. In the quietest room of a quiet country house there is a strange memento hanging, amid its beautiful surroundings, in the place of honour. It is a child’s tawdry embroidered sash, roughly twisted round the white belt of a soldier, and the beautiful woman who rules in that quiet house never tires of telling her children the story of Private Morrison’s sacrifice. And there are always tears in the soft voice when she tells of his last wistful words : “ Good-bye, little sweetheart.—From Spare Moments.