and began began to walk back. an odd tin or two of bully to Cockerell rose to his weary give away, sir? My fellows feet and walked to meet him. are about——” The officer wore a major's For answer, the Major took crown upon the shoulder- the Lieutenant by the arm straps of his sheepskin-lined and led him towards the "British Warm," and and the lorry. badge of the Army Service Corps upon his cap. Cockerell, indignant at the manner in which his platoon had been hustled off the road, saluted stiffly, and muttered: "Good morning, sir!" "Good morning!" said the Major. He was a stout man of nearly fifty, with twinkling blue eyes and a short-clipped moustache. Cockerell judged him to be one of the few remnants of the original British Army. "I stopped," explained the older man, "to apologise for "to apologise for the scandalous way that fellow drove over you. It was perfectly damnable; but you know what these converted taxi-drivers are! This swine forgot for the moment that he had an officer on board, and hogged it as usual. He goes under arrest as soon as we get back to billets." "Thank you very much, sir," said Master Cockerell, entirely thawed. "I'm afraid my chaps were lying all over the road; but they are pretty well down and out at present. "Where have you come from?" inquired the Major, turning a curious eye upon Cockerell's prostrate followers. Cockerell explained. When he had finished, he added wistfully "I suppose you have not got "You have come," he announced, "to the very man you want. I am practically Mr Harrod. Mr Harrod. In fact, I am a Brigade Supply Officer. How would a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?" Cockerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases which crowded to his tongue, replied that that was just what the doctor had ordered. "Where are you bound for?" continued the Major. "St Gregoire." "Of course. You were pulled out from there, weren't you? I am going to St Gregoire myself as soon as I have finished my round. Home to bed, in fact. I haven't had any sleep worth writing home about for four nights. It is no joke tearing about a country full of shell-holes, hunting for a Brigade that has shifted its ration-dump seven times in four days. However, I suppose things will settle down again, now that you fellows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney Bean. Pretty fine work, too! Tell me, what is your strength, here and now?" "One officer," said Cockerell soberly, "and eighteen other ranks." "All that's left of your platoon?" Cockerell nodded. The stout Major began to beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his stick. "Sergeant Smurthwaite!" he shouted. There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of the lorry. Then a round and ruddy face rose like a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a stertorous voice replied respectfully"Sir?" "Let down this tailboard; load this officer's platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maconochie and a tot of rum a piece; and don't forget to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving when we get back to billets." Ten minutes later the survivors of Number Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly incredulous, but at peace with all the world, reclined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying lorry. Each man held an open tin of Mr Maconochie's admirable ration between his knees. Perfect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere. In front, beside the chastened Mr Smee, sat the Major and Master Cockerell. The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette. upon his tunio the ribbons of both South African Medals and the Distinguished Service Order-and threw it round Cockerell's shoulders. "I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. You are chilled to the bone. Button this round you." Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short. "Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks after you've done your job." Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allowance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted system. "I see you have been wounded, sir," he observed, noting with a little surprise two gold stripes upon his host's left sleeve-the sleeve of a "non-combatant." "Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at Le Cateau. He was only a little fellow; but the second, which arrived at the Second Show at Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an old crock now. I was second-in-command of an Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' service. How old are you?" "Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired to feel as ashamed as he usually did at having to confess to the tenderness of his years. The Major nodded thought fully. that would be about the figure. My son would have been twenty this month, only-he was at Neuve Chapelle. He was very like you in appearance-very. You might as well take a nap for half an hour. I have two more calls to make, and we shan't get home till nearly seven. Lean on me, old man. I'll see you don't tumble overboard. . . .” So Lieutenant Cockerell, conqueror of the Kidney Bean, fell asleep, his head resting, with scandalous disregard for military etiquette, upon the shoulder of the stout Major. V. An hour or two later, in the day, when he arrives. Number Nine Platoon, dis- This is my pied-à-terre "-raptended with concentrated ping on the door. "You won't nourishment and painfully find many billets like it. As straightening its cramped you see, it stands in this little limbs, decanted itself from the backwater, and is not included lorry into a little cul-de-sac in any of the regular billeting opening off the Rue Jean areas of the town. The Town Jacques Rousseau in St Major has allotted it to me Gregoire. The name of the permanently. Pretty decent cul-de-sac was the Rue Gam- of him, wasn't it ? betta. Madame Vinot is 8 Here she is ! Bonjour, Madame Vinot! Avez-vous un feuer-inflammé pour moi dans la chambre?" Evidently the Major's French was on a par with Cockerell's. Their commander, awake and greatly refreshed, looked round him and realised, with a sudden sense of uneasiness, that he was in familiar surroundings. The lorry had stopped at the door of Number Five. "I don't suppose your Battalion will get back for some time," said the Major. "Tell your Sergeant to put your men into the stable behind this house there's plenty of straw there-and "Their own billet is just round the corner, sir," replied Cockerell. "They might as well go there, thank you." "Very good. But come in with me yourself, and doss here for a few hours. You can report to your C.O. later And dear. REMINISCENCES OF THE KABUL CAMPAIGN, 1879-80. BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR H. MORTIMER DURAND, IN the summer of 1879, when Lord Lytton was Viceroy of India, I was serving in the Foreign Office at Simla under its distinguished chief, Alfred Lyall.1 Lord Lytton had come out to India three years before with instructions to enter upon a decided policy in Central Asia, and especially to reestablish our influence in Afghanistan beyond our NorthWest Frontier. He had carried out his instructions with ability and apparent success. It had been found necessary to declare war against the Afghan Amir, but the campaign had been short and decisive. The regular army which he had created had been shattered to pieces, the Amir himself had died a heart-broken fugitive, and his successor had made peace with us on our own terms. Sir Louis Cavagnari, a brave and capable frontier officer, had been appointed Envoy at his Court, and it seemed as if all our objects had been gained by one determined blow. At Simla, among the pines and the tall rhododendron trees of the Himalayas, Lord Lytton was resting from his labours and enjoying the triumph of his policy. Early in July the British Mission left India for Kabul. It was a dangerous post, for the Afghans were a turbulent fanatical race; and when we said good-bye to Cavagnari on Lyall's tennis - ground at "Innes's Own," some of us went back to our game with a feeling of depression which we found it difficult to shake off. But Cavagnari himself seemed perfectly confident, and for some weeks after his departure the reports from Kabul were satisfactory enough. At the beginning of September the rainy season was drawing to a close. There had been thunderstorms and delicious breaks of fine weather, when a fresh breeze blew from the northward, from the long line of snowy peaks which glistened against the cloudless sky. On the morning of the 5th I had gone out for my early ride in the Simla Simla woods, where the delicate tree-ferns were fading and turning golden in the sunshine. When I got back I found a note from Lyall asking me to go over at once to his house, and remounting my pony I cantered down the narrow road as fast as I could. On arrival I saw from Lyall's face that something dreadful had happened, and then he told me. He said there was bad news from 1 Afterwards the Right Hon. Sir Alfred Lyall, K.C.B., G.C.I.E. |