Gil the Gunner - George Manville Fenn (people reading books .TXT) 📗
- Author: George Manville Fenn
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“Humph! Wonder he did not break your neck!”
“Oh no, sir,” I replied; “but I have broken my arm, and had some falls.”
“Ah, well; be content with your commission in the foot. Some day, perhaps, you may get into the horse, especially if you ride well, and have some interest to back you up. Well, I congratulate you, Vincent, my lad, and I am well satisfied with your progress.”
“Satisfied, sir?” I said, as I recalled the scolding of an hour earlier.
“Oh yes, on the whole, my boy. You’ve got the makings of a good soldier in you. Little too fond of fighting. Ought to be in your favour, eh? But it isn’t. A good officer never fights if he can help it; but when he does, why, of course, he fights skilfully, and lets the enemy know that he is in earnest. But seriously, Vincent, you have one great failing.”
“More than one, sir, I’m afraid,” I said dolefully.
“Never mind the others; perhaps they’ll cure themselves. But you must keep a strict watch over that temper of yours, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” I said penitently; “I have a horrible temper.”
“A temper, Vincent, not a horrible temper. And I don’t know that you need regret it so long as you learn to subdue it. Tight-curb, that’s all. Make a better soldier of you. It means spirit and decision, properly schooled. Oh, you’ll do, boy. I should like to turn out another hundred of you.”
I stared at him in surprise, for I had been working under my military tutor always troubled by the impression that I was the most troublesome pupil he had, and that I was getting on worse than any fellow there.
“I mean it, boy,” he said, smiling and taking another tiny pinch of snuff. “Well, Vincent, my lad, I congratulate you. An hour ago you were my student and pupil; this despatch tells me that you are now my brother-officer. So good speed to you, and God bless you!”
His eyes looked a little moist as he shook hands with me warmly, and, though my own eyes felt a little misty from emotion, a cloud seemed to pass from them, and I began to realise that I had been fancying all kinds of things which were not true.
“Sit down, my dear lad, and let’s have a bit of a chat,” continued the general. “This is a short notice.”
“Short, sir?” I said wonderingly.
“Oh yes; very. You are to go out in the Jumna on the twenty-ninth. There’s just three weeks for preparation and the good-byes.”
“So soon, sir?” I cried excitedly.
“Yes, so soon. There’s a Captain Brace going out in charge of a draft of men from Warley—recruits, of course. You go under his charge; so you will have to be brisk in ordering your outfit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I must write to my father to-day about money.”
“By all means,” said the general, smiling; and I saw what a stupid thing I had said. “You sail in three weeks, long before your father could get your letter, eh?”
“Yes, sir, of course,” I said confusedly.
“But that’s all right, my boy. Your father authorised me in his last letters to see that you had a proper military outfit, and draw upon him; so you need be under no apprehension. You will have to run the colonel up a pretty good bill; so be careful not to get superfluous things. By the way, there’s a letter for you. Have you got it?”
“No, sir,” I said; “I’ve been in my room. I’ll go and—”
“No, no; sit still,” said the general, ringing. “I’ll have it brought here.”
He told the servant to fetch the letter, and sat chatting pleasantly till the man returned with an old-fashioned-looking missive, ornamented with a great red seal.
“From my uncle, sir!” I said excitedly.
“Well, open and read it, boy. It may be more news.”
I opened the letter with trembling fingers, and read as follows:—
“119, Queen’s Square,—
“May 8th, 18—.
“Dear Nephew,—
“I hear that you have your commission. I stirred up some old friends. You go out with the next draft. Be a good boy, act like a gentleman, and keep up the honour of your family. You’ll find it very hot. I did when I was out there. Don’t eat too much, and don’t drink, or you’ll come home with a bad liver, like your affectionate uncle,
“Joseph Vincent.
“Gilbert Vincent, Esq.
“P.S.—I mean Lieutenant Vincent. Don’t come to see me, for I’m off to-night to Carlsbad to drink rusty waters instead of port. Remember me to your father and mother, if you meet them, and Miss Grace. By the way, boy, you’ll want some clothes and a sword. I’ve told Ferries and Harquars to honour your cheques up to two hundred and fifty pounds, so that you need not draw on your father. You don’t deserve it, because you have such a bad temper; but if ever you can get promoted into the Horse Artillery, I’ll buy you a horse. Mind and get an Arab; they suit the country. I always rode one; but not in your break-neck way. I tried to get them to let you have a commission in the horse, but they wouldn’t stand it. Said it was a feather in a man’s cap to get that; so look sharp and grow, and make yourself fit to wear that feather. You’ll get it if you deserve it. I’ll see that you do. My postscript is longer than my letter. So with compliments to General Crucie, I am, etc.”
I handed the letter to the general, who read it through and nodded.
“Hah! that’s right,” he said, handing it back. “Nothing like having an uncle rich, and a director at the India House. You’ll get into the horse by-and-by. Let’s see, what was your uncle?”
“An indigo-planter, sir.”
“Hah! that means money, Vincent. Well, I shall not have to draw on your father. So much the better. There, you had better begin making your preparations at once, and if there is anything I can do in the way of help or advice, come to me without scruple. Seems only the other day that I was ordering my own kit, Vincent, previous to sailing for Bombay. There, off with you. I’m sure you want to digest the news.”
I did—badly, but I could not do it, for the news had already leaked out, and there was Morton at the head of all the other fellows, ready to raise a hearty cheer for the new officer about to depart from their midst.
The cheering was followed by a chairing, and when at last I escaped, I hurried off to my room with the whirl of confusion greater than ever, so that I began to wonder whether it was not all a dream.
I was horribly suspicious about that military tailor in Saint James’s Street. Over and over again I felt that he must be laughing at me, as he passed his tape round my chest and waist.
But he was a pattern of smooth politeness, and as serious as a judge, while I sought for little bits of encouragement, painfully conscious as I was about my physique.
He was so quiet and confidential, and took such pains to suggest the various articles I should require, that I felt bound to place myself in his hands, and to a certain extent he won my confidence sufficiently to make me ask a few questions, to set myself a little at my ease.
“Don’t often have any one so thin and young as I am to measure for a uniform, do you?” I said.
He looked at me with astonishment—real or assumed.
“Thin as you, sir! Oh, you are nothing to some gentlemen—I mean,” he added hastily, “as to being slender. Why, some officers who come here are little better than schoolboys.”
“But I am thin,” I said.
“Slight, sir,” he said reprovingly—“slight. I should hardly call you thin. You’d look a little thin in evening-dress, but in uniform only slight. You see, we are obliged to pad a little in the chest, and to square the shoulders a little, and, one way and another, sir, when we have finished you, you will be surprised.”
I was. But just then I only coughed, and felt glad that I was not the youngest and thinnest officer the tailor had fitted out. “Oh, by the way,” I said as indifferently as I could, “what about swords?”
I felt proud of my nonchalantly easy way of dealing so familiarly with the arme blanche, as the French call it, in the plural number.
“Oh, we shall supply your sword, sir; everything, if you entrust us with your commands. There are some gentlemen who advise that you should not go to a military tailor, but to a sword-cutler; and, of course, every gentleman has a right to go where he pleases, but if you will trust me, sir, you shall have a proved blade, of which you will be proud.”
“Oh, of course I shall trust you,” I said hurriedly. “But about size. I think I should like, er—a light, rather smaller-sized sword.”
“Oh no; excuse me, sir,” said the tailor apologetically. “Speaking from experience, sir, no. There was Lieutenant Verney, sir, younger and lighter than you sir, and not so big-boned—Major Verney he is now, a regular customer—said just the same as you did, sir, and we gave way. Consequently he was greatly dissatisfied. He grew, but the sword did not, and he soon had to have another. Now, if I might advise, I should say have a full-size regulation weapon, well balanced with a good heavy hilt. You’ll be surprised, big-boned as you are, sir, how soon you will put on muscle and spread out.”
Of course I gave way, being naturally proud of being considered capable of wielding a full-sized sword, and in due time, though not until I had fretted myself into a great state of excitement, the accoutrements were sent home.
It was hard work to assume that indifference which I did not feel, and I’m afraid that I did not deceive anybody save myself.
I knew when the things came, for one of the servants came and told me, and I said in a tone suggestive of the idea that I was in the habit of having uniforms sent home, “Have the things placed in my room.”
The servant stared at me, and I turned away, feeling furiously hot as I longed to run up and tear open the packages and tin boxes to gloat over their contents. But I taught myself to feel that I could not do that now—it would be too boyish, so I suffered tortures as I went out into the grounds to talk to some of our fellows, and try to keep my mind to what was being said.
Then came relief in the shape of Morton, who hurried up to the group where I stood. “Hi! Gil Vincent,” he cried excitedly. “What’s the matter?” I said in what was intended to be a cool way, but decidedly was not.
“What’s the matter, indeed! They’re taking your gorgeous array up into your room. Tin cases and swords, and goodness knows what. Come on!”
“Come on?” I said coolly; “what do you mean?”
“Hark at him!” cried Morton. “Here he is, as cool as a fish. Don’t you want to tog out?”
“No. What nonsense!” I said; but I can remember feeling excited as he spoke.
“Get out! Don’t be a humbug. You’re red hot to get into them.”
“Absurd! Why, I shall be always wearing that sort of thing soon.”
“Gammon!” cried Morton. “Oh, I say, what a jolly impostor you are, Gil. Come on, lads, let’s have him in, and make him paint himself up for our glorification.”
“Oh, if you all particularly wish it,” I said, “I don’t mind.”
There was a roar of laughter at this; and to hide my annoyance, I
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