LETTERS FROM HOME ­FLYNN IS EXALTED AND BROUGHT LOW ­RUMOURS OF WAR IN THE AIR

Events in life sometimes ripple along like the waters of a little stream in summer.  At other times they rush with the wild impetuosity of a hill-torrent in winter.

For some time after the incidents just narrated the life of our hero rippled ­but of course it must be clearly understood that a Suakim ripple bore some resemblance to a respectable freshet elsewhere!  Osman Digna either waited for reinforcements before delivering a grand assault, or found sufficient entertainment to his mind, and satisfaction to his ambition, in acting the part of a mosquito, by almost nightly harassment of the garrison, which was thus kept continually on the alert.

But there came a time at length when a change occurred in the soldier-life at Suakim.  Events began to evolve themselves in rapid succession, as well as in magnified intensity, until, on one particular day, there came ­metaphorically speaking ­what is known among the Scottish hills as a spate.

It began with the arrival of a mail from England.  This was not indeed a matter of rare occurrence, but it was one of those incidents of the campaign which never lost its freshness, and always sent a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of the men ­powerfully in the case of those who received letters and packets; sympathetically in those who got none.

“At long last!” exclaimed Corporal Flynn, who was observed by his comrades, after the delivery of the mail, to be tenderly struggling with the complicated folds of a remarkable letter ­remarkable for its crookedness, size, dirt, and hieroglyphic superscription.

“What is it, Flynn?” asked Moses ­one of the unfortunates who had received no letter by that mail.

“A letter, sure.  Haven’t ye got eyes, Moses?”

“From your wife, corporal?”

“Wife!” exclaimed Flynn, with scorn; “no!  It’s mesilf wouldn’t take the gift of a wife gratis.  The letter is from me owld grandmother, an’ she’s better to me than a dozen wives rowled into wan.  It’s hard work the writin’ of it cost her too ­poor owld sowl!  But she’d tear her eyes out to plaze me, she would. `Corporal, darlint,’ ­that’s always the way she begins her letters now; she’s that proud o’ me since I got the stripes.  I thowt me mother or brother would have writ me too, but they’re not half as proud of me as my ­”

“Shut up, Flynn!” cried one of the men, who was trying to decipher a letter, the penmanship of which was obviously the work of an unaccustomed hand.

“Howld it upside down; sometimes they’re easier to read that way ­more sinsible-like,” retorted the corporal.

“Blessin’s on your sweet face!” exclaimed Armstrong, looking at a photograph which he had just extracted from his letter.

“Hallo, Bill! that your sweetheart?” asked Sergeant Hardy, who was busy untying a parcel.

“Ay, sweetheart an’ wife too,” answered the young soldier, with animation.

“Let me see it, Willie,” said Miles, who was also one of the disconsolate non-receivers, disconsolate because he had fully expected a reply to the penitent letter which he had written to his mother.

“First-rate, that’s Emmy to a tee.  A splendid likeness!” exclaimed Miles, holding the photograph to the light.

“Arrah! then, it’s dead he must be!”

The extreme perplexity displayed in Flynn’s face as he said this and scratched his head produced a hearty laugh.

“It’s no laughin’ matter, boys,” cried the corporal, looking up with an expression so solemn that his comrades almost believed it to be genuine.  “There’s my owld uncle Macgrath gone to his long home, an’ he was the support o’ me grandmother.  Och! what’ll she do now wid him gone an’ me away at the wars?”

“Won’t some other relation look after her, Flynn?” suggested Moses.

“Other relation!” exclaimed the corporal; “I’ve got no other relations, an’ them that I have are as poor as rats.  No, uncle Macgrath was the only wan wid a kind heart an’ a big purse.  You see, boys, he was rich ­ for an Irishman.  He had a grand farm, an’ a beautiful bit o’ bog.  Och! it’ll go hard wid ­”

“Read on, Flynn, and hold your tongue,” cried one of his comrades; “p-r-aps he’s left the old woman a legacy.”

The corporal did read on, and during the perusal of the letter the change in his visage was marvellous, exhibiting as it did an almost magical transition from profound woe, through abrupt gradations of surprise, to intense joy.

“Hooray!” he shouted, leaping up and bestowing a vigorous slap on his thigh.  “He’s gone an’ left the whole farm an’ the beautiful bog to ME!”

“What hae ye got there, sergeant?” asked Saunders, refolding the letter he had been quietly perusing without paying any regard to the Irishman’s good news.

“A parcel of booklets from the Institute,” answered Hardy, turning over the leaves of one of the pamphlets.  “Ain’t it good of ’em?”

“Right you are, Hardy!  The ladies there never forget us,” said Moses Pyne.  “Hand ’em round, sergeant.  It does a fellow’s heart good to get a bit o’ readin’ in an out-o’-the-way place like this.”

“Comes like light in a dark place, don’t it, comrade?” said Stevenson, the marine, who paid them a visit at that moment, bringing a letter which had been carried to the wrong quarter by mistake.  It was for Miles Milton.  “I know’d you expected it, an’ would be awfully disappointed at finding nothing, so I brought it over at once.”

“You come like a gleam of sunshine in a dark place.  Thanks, Stevenson, many thanks,” said Miles, springing up and opening the letter eagerly.

The first words sent a chill to his heart, for it told of his father having been very ill, but words of comfort immediately followed ­he was getting slowly but surely better, and his own letter had done the old man more good in a few days than all the doctor’s physic had done in many weeks.  Forgiveness was freely granted, and unalterable love breathed in every line.  With a relieved and thankful heart he went on reading, when he was arrested by a sudden summons of his company to fall in.  Grasping his rifle he ran out with the rest.

“What is it?” he whispered to a sergeant, as he took his place in the ranks.  “Osman again?”

“No, he’s too sly a fox to show face in the day-time.  It’s a steamer coming with troops aboard.  We’re goin’ down to receive them, I believe.”

Soon after, the overworked garrison had the immense satisfaction and excitement of bidding welcome to reinforcements with a stirring British cheer.

These formed only the advance-guard.  For some time after that troops were landed at Suakim every day.  Among them the 15th Sikhs, a splendid body of men, with grand physique and fierce aspect, like men who “meant business.”  Then came the Coldstream Guards, the Scots and the Grenadier Guards, closely followed by the Engineers and Hospital and Transport Corps, the Shropshire Regiment, and many others.  The desire of these fresh troops to meet the enemy was naturally strong, and the earnest hope of every one was that they would soon sally forth and “have a go,” as Corporal Flynn expressed it, “at Osman Digna on his own ground.”

Poor Corporal Flynn!  His days of soldiering were nearly over!

Whether it was the excess of strong feeling raised in the poor fellow’s breast by the news of the grand and unexpected legacy, or the excitement caused by the arrival of so many splendid troops and the prospect of immediate action ­or all put together ­we cannot say, but certain it is that the corporal fell sick, and when the doctors examined the men with a view to decide who should march to the front, and who should remain to guard the town, he was pronounced unfit for active service.  Worse than that, he was reported to have entered upon that journey from which no traveller returns.

But poor Flynn would not admit it, though he grew weaker from day to day.  At last it was reported that he was dying, and Sergeant Hardy got leave to go off to the hospital ship to see him, and convey to him many a kind message from his sorrowful comrades, who felt that the regiment could ill spare his lively, humorous spirit.

The sergeant found him the picture of death, and almost too weak to speak.

“My dear fellow,” said Hardy, sitting down by his cot and gently taking his hand, “I’m sorry to see you like this.  I’m afraid you are goin’ to leave us.”

The corporal made a slight motion with his head, as if of dissent, and his lips moved.

Hardy bent his ear over them.

“Niver a bit, owld man,” whispered Flynn.

“Shall I read the Bible to you, lad?” inquired the sergeant.

The corporal smiled faintly, and nodded.

After reading a few verses Hardy began to talk kindly and earnestly to the dying man, who lay with his eyes closed.

When he was about to leave, Flynn looked up, and, giving his comrade’s hand a gentle squeeze, said, in a stronger whisper than before ­

“Thankee, sergeant.  It’s kind o’ ye to be so consarned about my sowl, and I agrees wid ivery word ye say; but I’m not goin’ away yit, av ye plaze.”

He ceased to speak, and again closed his eyes.  The doctor and the chaplain chanced to enter the hospital together as Hardy retired.  The result of their visit was that they said the corporal was dead, and orders were given to make his coffin.  A firing party was also told off to bury him the next morning with military honours.  Early next morning, accordingly, the firing party started for the hospital ship with the coffin, but, before getting half-way to it, they were signalled to go back, for the man was not yet dead!

In short, Corporal Flynn had begun to talk in a wild way about his estate in Ireland, and his owld grandmother; and either the influence of these thoughts, or Hardy’s visit, had given him such a fillip that from that day he began to revive.  Nevertheless he had received a very severe shake, and, not very long after, was invalided home.  Meanwhile, as we have said, busy preparations were being made by General Graham ­who had arrived and taken command of the forces ­to offer battle to Osman’s troops.

In the midst of all the excitement and turmoil, however, the new chaplain, who turned out to be “a trump,” managed to hold a temperance meeting; and the men who desired to serve God as well as their Queen and country became more energetic than ever in trying to influence their fellows and save themselves from the curse of strong drink, which had already played such havoc among the troops at Suakim.

Miles attended the meeting, and, according to promise, signed the total-abstinence pledge.  Owing to the postponement of meetings and the press of duty he had not been able to do it sooner.

Shortly after that he was passed by the doctors as fit for duty in the field.  So were Armstrong, Moses Pyne, and most of those strong and healthy men whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Then came the bustle and excitement of preparation to go out and attack the enemy, and in the midst of it all the air was full of conflicting rumours ­to the effect that Osman Digna was about to surrender unconditionally; that he would attack the town in force; that he was dead; or that he had been summoned to a conference by the Mahdi!

“You may rest assured,” said Sergeant Hardy one day to his comrades, as they were smoking their pipes after dinner, “that nobody knows anything at all for certain about the rebel chief.”

“I heard that a spy has just come in with the information that he has determined not to wait for our attack, if we go out, but to attack us in our zereba,” said Miles.  “He is evidently resolved not to commit the same mistake he made last year of letting us attack him.”

“He has pluck for anything,” remarked Moses.

Osman proved, that same evening, that he had at least pluck enough to send a pithy defiance to his foes, for an insulting letter was received by General Graham, in which Osman, recounting the victories he had gained over Hicks and Baker Pasha, boasted of his having destroyed their armies, and dared the general to come out and fight him.  To this the British General replied, reminding Osman of our victories of El-Teb and Tamai, and advising him to surrender unless he wanted a worse beating than he had got before!

Mutual defiance having been thus comfortably hurled, the troops were at once detailed for service in the field, and the very next day set forth.  As our hero did not, however, accompany that expedition, and as it returned to Suakim without doing anything remarkable ­except some energetic and even heroic fighting, which is by no means remarkable in British troops, ­we will pass on to the expedition which was sent out immediately after it, and in which Miles Milton not only took an active part, but distinguished himself.  With several of his comrades he also entered on a new and somewhat unusual phase of a soldier’s career.