HomeMy WebLinkAboutExeter Times, 1912-9-19, Page 2:HE
WHITE LADY;
OR, WHAT TUB THRUSH SAID.
1H.AP'1`L1i. XVII.--(Oentinued),
But when this furious bombardment
slaokened, when . the magazines were get,
ting depleted; when the guns were near
red-hot; when Sebastopol was tottering
ante ruins,its. defencee all rent and shak-
en. its streets full of dead, its hospitals
crammed with sick and wounded, its
stores we11-nigh consumed, and its armies
decimated and exhausted, there were the
grey coats and fiat caps on the walls,
there the sputtering fire of musketry from
all its ports, there the eagle floating over
its bastions, and no eign to us of sur-
render visible.
The allies brought up more Dannon, and
the siege went on. A week, a fortuight,
three weeks more the fierce bombardment
lasted, and then a feeling—hardly a ru-
mor, just a feeling—permeated the canape
that the end . was near.
It was September—the 7th of September,
1055,
The siege had lasted nearly a year. The
day was eold and dull, and a shrewish
wind was blowing from. the sea. Joyce
and I sat on a mound, the one where I
had seen the Zouave watching the enemy,
and looked down on the darkening town.
For an hour we sat there, smoking and
bisteniug to the clatter of the infernal
tempest; then Joyce turned his face to
zne and said quietly, "This is the end of
it, Willie—the end."
"The end of what?" I asked.
"Tire end of the siege," he answered.
"Did you see the ammunition carts com-
ing into camp to -day? Did you notice
the gallopers tearing about from point
to point? '
"Yes, of course," I said, "and it looks
as if something was coming."
"Ah!" said Joyce, in a peculiar tong.
"Something is coming. The end is com-
ing. To -morrow we shall have another.
try at the Redan."
I looked across at the unhappy fortress.
It loomed up grey and shadowy through
the mist and smoke. A bell was tolling
in the streets, a flickering glow of dull
red on the far side indicated that some
building was in flames. At intervals a
gun was aired from the walls. Away on
ssepw ssight t 1,1, ���oueh, n' fdntry uglea w@re
blowing a llively quick -step, A little be-
low our mound a group of sailors were
Ditching quoits—the whistling dicks had
Ceased from troubling, and the howlers
were nearly all at rest.
"Willie," said my friend, filling his
pipe and smiling as he spoke, "the Re-
dan is our mark. It will be a warm
task, and sono of us will get our dis-
charge. Yon remember?"
"I remember,' I said, knowing very
well what he meant.
"Right," said Joyce, "and now let us
go down to camp. I want to write some
letters.'
We went down to our lines, and Joyce
wrote to Amy, lying on the ground mean-
while, and using his knapsack as a desk,
and as lie wrote. uttering the gentle
thoughts of a brave man to the woman
he loved, the cannon thundered on be-
hind us, and the great shell rushed hiss-
ing and roaring above our heads.
CHAPTER XVIII.
By ten o'clock next morning we here
standing iq the advanced parallels mass-
ed in readiness for attack. Our work
was to capture the Redan, the French
were to go for the yIalakoif.
It was a modelled off air, and doomed to
Matz Olu' frce was much too small,
ar�zan
the s'irongest and freshest regiments
were kept back in reserve. The attacks
should have been simultaneous; it teas
madness for us to wait upon the salvoes
of the French assault. But on these points
enough has been said. Never did Eng-
land send into the field a finer army
than that of the Crimea; never were Brit-
ish troops so neglected, misled, and mis-
managed.
Just about noon the battle began, the
French leaping over their parapets and leper. Fight as I would against the feel -
rolling into the Malakoff like a tidal ing. 1 could not shake off the idea that
wave. They were in directly, and before my friendship brought death along with
a. shot was fired. The Russians were tak- it. Of all the men with whom I had held
en by surprise; and the French trenches cordial relations in our company not one
were but a few yards from the walls. remained alive. Rochfort had died under
We saw them, the agile, fierce latae my feet in the Redan, Harrington had
Zouaves, swarming over the works, dash- died by my side in a night attack, Downs
ane up the hill. We heard the fusilade and Andy White bad been shot in the
break out, caught the glinting* of the trenches, Richards and Ballard died of
bayonets, and the flashing of the rifles, dveentry in camp, and Joyce had been
and knew that now was our turn. shot through the heart almost before the
I looked round at Joyce and nodded. He last smile he gave me had faded from
smiled back at me. I heard x, horse's his face.
hoofs thundering past our rear, a shrill Many an hour did I drag myself around
voice crying, "Forward, forward!" and end about the decks fretting over the loss
then we all sprang out of the trenches
and went for the slope of the Redan at a
ri;i<n.
At the same instant, from every loop-
hole and embrasure, from every wall and
gabion of the Russian works. buret forth
a perfect stream of fire. The rush of
round shot, canister, grape, and shell, and
the rain of bullets was something ter -
rifle. It cleft our ranks in all directions,
mowing men clown in ewethee. It tore sweetheart.
un sand and stones and turf, filling the How I dreaded this task I cannot tette;
air with clouds of splinters that shrieked It lay on me all day like a shadow, and
and bowled like a legion of fiends. Before haunted me at night in my dreams. I
that
melt. dl Tfire our meagre line seemed ! felt that I could not berg to meet that
o ground was thick with poor girl, that I could not endure the
fallen comrades; nearly all the leading sight of her grief.
1
officere were killed or wounded, and ere
we reached the walls of the Redan we
knew that we, like the cavalry of Bala-
clava,
alaclava, were being hurled to inevitable
destruction.
1
It was soon over. Our regiment was
in the right attack. We ran up the sa-'
lient, and rushed the embrasures of the
left defences with the bayonet. I was
amongst the first to enter. We tumbled
auto the place, and were met by a with-
ering volley. Before me I saw a cloud of
smoke. I plunged into it, I was wound-
ed. The blood was running in a hot, oily
stream dawn my side; my left arm felt
on fire. I threw myself against a solid
mass of Russians, was sent reeling back
by a blow on the ohest with a musket -
stock; went in again, massed bayonets
with the desperate enemy, saw Jaek
Rochfort. close on my right, throw up his
arms; felt him under my feet, hoard the
pausing, swearing, shouting men of our
company all round me; went on hacking,
stabbing and parrying; was knocked down
and trampled over, but scrambled up
again, and then felt myself borue off nay
feet and carried backwards, as a wave,
until I was again upon the salient, and
the grey -coated Russians came swarming
out of the embrasure, yelling, firing, strik-
ing—mad with rage and fury.
All this, es it seemed to um, in a few
moments. We were repulsed. I was
wounded. I seemed to bleed from every
pore. I was choked with blood, and
blinded with . it. My head was spinning;
I saw green. I laughed hysterically, and
hurled my rine, which a bullet had shat-
tered, at the advancing foe. Our .color -
sergeant staggered out of the swirling me-
lee, his hand across his face, blood flow-
ing• from his breast and throat. A Rue-
sian ran at him, with butt upraised. The
dead lay thick around me. I stooped
quickly, wrenched a rifle from a stiffened
hand, struck at the Russian, and seemed
in the action to lose my balance and fall
into a black abyss. I had fainted.
When I . recovered consciousness I was
lying on the salient, with the mangled
corpses of enemies and friends all round'
me. The sun was setting. The Russian
works were silent, only our guns were i
booming their shot crashing into the
walls before me.
For a while I lay still. Indeed, I felt y
incapable of motion. And when I tried d
to stir, the pain made me utter a groan
of anguish.
Yet I must move. I must. Pain or no t
pain, I must drink. My throat was on
fire. I had a water -bottle at my hip. I t
tried my right hand, and found it still
gripped the rifle. As I drew it slowly up
the butt end came in view, and on the c
heel -plate, shining in the red light of the p
setting sun, I read the number -66. t
No. 66. I had torn that weapon from t
the hand of a dead man. The number
was the number of Joyce's rifle. Joyce th
was dead.
Dead! I could not realize the fact. I
seemed to have dreamed it. I seemed to
have dreamed that I had hacked and w
crabbed; that I was wounded; that some- p
thing hurt me; that my throat was afire, q
my brain all mist, and the place and
figures round me a picture of lianas of t
green. � h
1 There was a little tavern on the beach.
y r. had never drunk ikquorlit . sayrlife brandy.
I
h Mut I felt that. I nnust drink now.
They brought me it glass of cognac, and
e 1 gulped it down, ordered another, and
s, another, and gulped those dein; then,
✓ half -mad and half -dared, I set out to walk
"What 812411 I say to her? What she 1
I say to herr tithe question rani in in,
mind coutiuually, and found no anevre
It was the most terrible task with whit
I bad ever been confronted.
We made a rapid passage, and by th
end of March laid Crossed the Bay of Bi
cry, passed Cherbourg, and were beatin
up the Channel. I fairly dreaded the firs
sight of the English coast. I wont bolo
to avoid the view of the southern hills
and when at last we cast anchor in Port
month Harbor I was in te perfect fov .
of nervousness.
We had many invalids and wounds*
men aboard, but no cripples. 13ut .on th
duty of our arrival another vessel, whie
bad reached port the night before, begs
to land her cargo of victims, and I se
such sights as .even I must feel. Here
blfrtd man led aeltoro; here a poor wreck,
deprived of both legs; here another de.
prived of both arms; here a boy with
half his jaw shut away and one sleeve
empty. it was a terrible procession, and
as 1 watched it I remembered the day
on which we bad marched through this
very town, and how the bells had pealed
and the people had cheered, and salvoes
of artillery had. shook .he air—for for this.
My own left arm was crippled, part of
the elbow having been shot away, and I
knew that I should be discharged. But
when I saw these unfortunate comrades
earned from the ship I wished I had been
killed. and envied Joyce his placid sleep
beneath the turf at Balaclava. There
were no cheers now, no cannon roaring,
no Clashing of bells. The crowd stood
silent, looking sorrowfully upon those bit-
ter evidences of glorious war. England
had paid a bitter blood -tax, and was sad
enough at heart; but even death is not
so horrible as mutilation.
We did not go ashore until the next
day, and a week elapsed before I found
myself at liberty to proceed on furlough
—to see my friends.
And now the time had come for me to
discharge my painful duty, and I set out
for the railway station resolved to start
at once for Seaford, where Amy Dawson
lived.
There were two trains in the station—
one for Brighton, the other for Exeter.
At the last moment my courage' failed
me, and I jumped lute the latter. I
thought I would go to Dartmoor and see
Mr. Liskard and Rachel. The sight of
friendly faces and the sound of friendly
voices would cheer me, the quiet hills and
soft. Devonshire air would help one to re.
cover; for I was still very weak and
nernoup. So 1 put off the evil hour and
made for rest and cheerfulness.
It was a pleasant ride on a bright day
n early spring, through the awakening
country. where the meadow daisies were
eeping through thee froth grass, and the
young buds were bursting through their
usky envelopes, and all the birds were
usy building; and it was doubly plea -
ant when, having left the train at Exe-
er, I drove in a small trap through the
still evening. along the deep Devon lanes
o Dartmoor.
Arrived within a mile of the little farm
left the trap and the driver, and pro-
eeded on foot. Around me stretched the
lain of deep green heather, above me
he vast dome of violet sky; for the first
ime since Joyce was killed I felt calm;
for the first time in my life I realized
e meaning of the word home.
In a few moments I should stand in
the porch of an English farm, I should
meet friends. I should see the old farmer
ith his hearty hand held out, and the
ratty Rachel, shy and smiling. I
uickened my pace. I felt almost cheer.
£ul. There were the tops of the sputa
rees showing over the mounds; I could
ear the blackbird piping in the garden;
nother fifty paces and I should see the
low of the house fire through the twi-
ght. I hurried on—I almost ran. I
urged the mound, and saw—the gate and
oor shut fast, the windows blank, the
chimneys smokeless, and staring at me
over the fuchsia hedge by the well a
board, on which in big black lettere were
the words, "To Let."
For 'era& time I stood staring vacantly
at this board and at the untitled garden
and uneurtained windows; then, with a
sigh, I turned away. I might have
known it—I mieht have known it. There
is a curse upon me.
The birds sang in the garden. I heard
the wheels of the trap grinding the sand
in the road, and the voice of the driver
admonishing his horse to ' git forward,
lazy." My friends were gone. I was an
outcast and a stranger in the world, as
before. I must go on to the bitter end,
carrying the burden of life alone.
So I crushed down my misery and went
to meet the trap. The driver expressed
much regret when he learned that I had
come to see the Liskards. He could have
saved me. my journey, he said, if I had
spoken. Old Liskard had been dead some
time, and his widow and child had left
the place, and gone away into Cornwall.
The driver was very sorry about old Lis-
kard. He. had been a good ser.. And then
he cracked his whip, and we went off at a
brick trot for Plymouth. .
Two days later I found myself walking
rapidly along the road which skirts the
bay at Seaford, in fiussex. Again it was
evening, calm and quiet. The bluff, on
the east side, with its tawny rock and
verdant grass, and small thatched cot-
tages, and low trees splashed with open-
ing blossoms, was reflected vividly in the
cool, still water. A few boats, with their.
brown sails hanging limn, lay off the
shore, and round the tower of the little
church the dews were flying. Everything
*looked peaceful, and prosperous and well.
And yet; to whom was I going? To an
unhappy woman, whose life had been
wrecked by war.
"What shall I say to her? What shall.
I say to her?" I could not command my
thoughts. Only I was resolved to go. I
set my teeth and walked firmly on, I
had in my heart a strauge sense of
guiltiness as though I were now to answer
for the death of my friend. But it must
be done.
I climbed -the •little hill. I turned into
the village. There was the street of de-
tached cottages, wit trim gardens be-
fore them and behind the orchards byrat-
ing into bloom. The house was ntsWe ber
twenty. I counted them as I went along.
It was too dark, to see the figures on the
doors. "Eighteen, nineteen." Now—now
for the pitiful duty. I turned into the
garden of Amy Dawson's home, .and strode
up the path with more Pear in my heart
than I had ever felt before the Russian
t to Brighton.
Woe
As I passed the bend of the road I
looked back once heroes the harbor. Lights
e. were twinkling in the 'houses now, heir
ex r lleetions denting on the water. The
bluff looked like a cloud. Beyond, the
sea spread out under the pale Crescent
d moon like a vast shield of graven silver.
o I stood for a moment looking stupidly at
h thee! things, and then began to laugh.
What a mad, hateful world! And I had
31
w paled the dead. And thou I remembered
a the wild, miserable eyes of the poor lad
I lied Just left, and, laughing bitterly, I
turned my baok upon Seaford. -
(To be continued.)
CHAPTER XIX. a
tr
I was wounded ill five places, and that ell
so seriously that it was three months ere
I was well enough to be movtsd from Bala- d
clava to Scutari. During all that time,
and throughout the subsequent three
months spent in the general hospital, I
remained almost apathetic.
But its my lnhya1cal wounds healed my,
mental wounds opened, and when at length
I found myself aboard ship, invalided
home, I had fully awakened to the mis-
ery which had come upon me.
It seemed to me then, as 1 walked
slowly about the deck, and watched . the
rolling leagues of dull grey sea, as if
some curse hung over me. I felt like a
of my old friend: asking over and over
again the gneeti -} why he was taken and
net I. Many a r inn did I boo over the
side at the hn 'Inning weer add think
how easy a release lay there, and how
hopeless and weary a life was before me.
But I had a duty yet to fulfil, a promise
to make good. Joyce's watch had been
brought to me by one of.the hearers, and
I had given my word to take it to his
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It was a pretty cottage, with a deep
Canada
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porch, over which the ivy was thickly
In this porch a man and a woman were
standing. They held each other by the
hand, and were so engrossed in conversa-
tion that they did not notice my approach,
until I was close upon them: Then they
both turned round to face me. The man
was a fine young fellow of a yeoman class,
with a frank and pleasing face. The
woman was young, not above twenty,
alight and tali, with a pale and very
pretty face. She was dressed in white,
and had a crimson how at her throat,
and in her dark hair a silver star.
I stopped within it couple of paces .of
the porch, ,and said nervously:
"I beg yodr pardon); I want, to see Mae
Dawson. bliss Amy Dawson. Is she in?"
They both answered at once, "'Yes:" and
then the girl said, rather haughtily, "I
am Amy Dawson."
There was a long and painful silence.
The yeoman looked at me and then at
Amy in surprise. I made an effort and
controlled myeelf.
I am sorry to disturb you," I said. "I
have a message for you." C
The girl's eyes drooped. "Yes," she said
n a whisper.
I took out the little packet in which
was poor Phil's watch,
I have brought this," I said coldly,
'from Philip Joyce."
The young yeoman stood perplexed and
dent. The girl bluehed crimson, but net
Cher looker: at me nor answered.
There was a little seat in the porch. I
stepped forward, laid the packet on the
seat, lifted my cap, seta 1 wish you
rood•night," turned on my heel, and strode
awaAt the gate the young yeoman overtook
me.
"Who is Philip ,1-oyceP" the demanded.
""A dead' soldier, I rep 'ed. I looked
ack, Amy had sunk down upon the seat
and -covered her face with her bands..
"Tell me," said the yeoman again, "who
ryas Philip Joyce?"
And I answered sternly, "Ile was it bet-
ter man than • you or X."
Soldier," said the yeenian, "what deco
this mean? Was Joyce -----P"
I turned my eves again towards the
era. Ask her," I said, and left him.
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11
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sat Barad Bldg. Montreal.. .
A.
p�N'rnRt:V/ / tree book,
'WhattheFtlnner,
can dowithConcretc
will be sent to all .
who regues details
of th+�J a Contest.
011eleefiedlielltettelleatesee
j On the Farm
THE MAN BEHIND THE OOW,
In live .stook and dairying braises
are more used to -day than brawn.
Not so very long ago it seemed ra-
ther important that "the man be-
hind the cow" should be an athlete,
at least able to do not only one
hard day's work, but many of them.
Sixty for seventy years ago, when
our cities and railroads were young,
as was also the dairy business, the
principal surplusage of dairy pro-
ducts game from where the greater
part of the summer had to be spenb•
in raising, harvesting and storing
up feed for the long, cold winter;
and the man who could swing a.
scythe from.4 to 11 a.m, and wield
a fork from 1 to 9 p.m., or till the
last load was safe in the barn, was
generally considered to be about
the right sort of a man to make it
success of a dairy farm,
Feed must still be stored up for
the winter and times of short pa.s-
tune, but the many machines now
to be had to facilitate this wont
have reduced the actual.labor part
of this work almost beyond compu-
tation. Young men • may hardly
realize it, but there are a few .yet.
alive who can remember what it
was to lead a gang of mowers in
°heavy clover and herds -grass; it•
was notcalled timothy then. It
may net require any higher degree.
of brain power to run these new
machines than it did to rightly
sharpen and hang a scythe, for this
could not be well,•done by anyone.
who was either mentally or physi-
cally weak. Nov the mowing ma-
chine, tedder and rake are all.
equipped with easy spring seats,
-while the power -loader and horse -
fork do the rest; and, weather per-
mitting, the hay drop is easily se-
cured on time and in good order.
Then, if the dairyman has a silo, he
can command .succulent Cow feed.
as good or better than green grass.
for every day of the year, and he
needs it, and .by keeping an rue- .
count of each cow he need not sweat.
much for fear of the sheriff.
It has taken centuries of experi-
mental breeding to make the dairy
cow the wonderful animal that she
now is; yet a few minutes' time and. •
a very small outlay for stamps will
bring from the Department of Ag
riculture and the , experimental
farm to "man behind the cow" to-
day the records of these years; and
show him just how he can find the
weak spots in his own herd or me-
thods of care and feeding, and ime-
prove them if he will. In short, it
is up to him:
KEEPING THE CHURN CLEAN.
Quite often the flavor of butter as
spoiled on account of the churn notes
being in a good, clean and sweet
condition. This is especially true .
when a churn is used only once or
twice per week, as is often the case
on the farm. Flavor is the quulity
which gives butter its value over
other fats. A little carelessness in
regard to keeping the churn clean
and in a sweet condition will often
spoil this desirable flavor in but-
, ter.
After the buttermilk and butter
have been removed from the churn,
it should be scalded out with hot ,
water, so as to remove all ofthe
grease_ If any particles of the
butter are left in the churn, they
aro liable to become oily, and the
churn also assumes a musty condi-
tion on the inside. The heat from
the scalding water causes the churn
to dry out to some extent after the
water has been removed. If the
churn is. fairly dry when put aside,
it is not so liable to become musty.
A musty churn should be thor
onghly renovated before it is used.
If the ehurn has becomemusty
from •standing idle for a consider-
able length of time, a good way to
sweeten it up is to slake a few
lumps of lime in it. The lime should
be diluted with water to bring it
to a creamy consistency. This
should then be churned while still
hot, leaving the air vent open to
allow the escape of the gas. Thee-
limeshould be left in the churn ,for
about an hour and should be churn-
ed oecasionally. The lirae should
be• removed then and the churn •
rinsed out with pure water. If the
churn is extremely musty, this
treatment should be repeated each
day for several days in succession.
Scalding the musty churn with hot..:
water is quite effective, but in ex-
treme cases lime should be used.
The churn should be kept open
sufficiently when standing idle so
as to allow a circulation of air, This
may be accomplished by raising the
lid an inch or two on one side.
Perhaps girls kiss each other
merely' to keep in practice.
A man dislikes faint praise • al -
mat as Hauch as he hates abuse.
lie god --and your' . w'ife. may be
.hapDly.
There're 4, good deal of human: nay.
Lure it'l .xaonzan's inhumanity to w,0-
1114/1.