In the Track of the Troops by Robert Michael Ballantyne (big screen ebook reader TXT) 📕

a postscript which had escaped me on the first perusal. It ran thus--

"P.S. I see no reason why I should not ask you to wish me joy. I'm going to be married, my boy, to Blue-eyes! I could not forget her. I had no hope whatever of discovering her. I had settled in my mind to live and die an old bachelor, when I suddenly met her. It was in Piccadilly, when I was home, some months ago, in reference to an increase of my nominal salary from the _EI_ (which by the way came to nothing--its original figure). I entered a 'bus and ran my head against that of a lady who was coming out. I looked up to apologise, and was struck dumb. It was Blue-eyes! I assisted her to alight, and stammered, I know not what, something like--`A thousand pardons-- surely we have met--excuse me--a mistake--_Thunderer_--captain, great guns, torpedoes, and blazes--' in the midst of which she smiled, bowed, and moved on. I moved after her. I traced her (reverentially) to a house. It was that of a personal friend! I visited that friend, I became particularly intimate with that friend, I positively bored that friend until he detested me. At last I met her at the house of that friend and--but why go on? I am now `captain' of the Blue-eyes, and would not exchange places with any officer in the Royal Navy; we are to be married on my return, if I'm not shot, assassinated, or hanged in the meantime. U.B."

"Ah, Jeff," said my mother, "how I wish that you would--"

She stopped.

"I know what you're going to say," I returned, with a smile; "and there _is_ a charming little--"

"Well, Jeff, why don't you go on?"

"Well, I don't see why I should not tell you, mother, that there _is_ a charming little woman--the very best woman in the world--who has expressed herself willing to--you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

Reader, I would gladly make a confidant of yourself in this matter, and tell you all about this charming little woman, if it were not for the fact that she is standing at my elbow at this very minute, causing me to make blots, and telling me not to write nonsense!

Before dismissing U. Biquitous, I may as well introduce here the last meeting I had with him. It was a considerable time after the war was over--after the "Congress" had closed its labours, and my friend had settled--if such a term could be applied to one who never settled--near London. Nicholas and I were sitting in a bower at the end of our garden, conversing on the war which had been happily brought to a close. Bella and my mother were seated opposite to us, the latter knitting a piece of worsted-work, the size of whose stitches and needles was suited to the weakness of her eyes, and the former busy with a pencil sketch of the superb view of undulating woodland which stretched away for miles in front of our house.

"No doubt it is as you state, Jeff," said Nicholas, in reply to my last remark; "war is a miserable method of settling a dispute, quite unworthy of civilised, to say nothing of Christian, men; but, then, how are we to get along without it? It's of no use saying that an evil must be put down--put a stop to--until you are able to show _how_ it is to be stopped."

"That does not follow," said I, quickly; "it may be quite possible for me to see, point out, and condemn an evil although I cannot suggest a remedy and my earnest remonstrances regarding it may be useful in the way of helping to raise a general outcry of condemnation, which may have the effect of turning more capable minds than my own to the devising of a remedy. Sea-sickness is a horrible malady; I perceive it, I know it to be so. I loudly draw attention to the fact; I won't be silenced. Hundreds, thousands, of other miserables take heart and join me. We can't stand it! we shan't! is the general cry. The attention of an able engineer is attracted by the noise we make, and the _Calais-Douvre_ steamboat springs into being, a vessel which is supposed to render sea-sickness an impossibility. Whether it accomplishes this end or not is beside the question. The point is, that, by the vigorous use of our tongues and pens in condemnation of an admitted evil, we have drawn forth a vigorous _attempt_ to get the better of it."

"But you don't expect to do away with war altogether?" said Nicholas.

"Certainly not; I am not mad, I am only hopeful. As long as sin reigns in this world we shall have more or less of war, and I don't expect universal peace until the Prince of Peace reigns. Nevertheless, it is my duty to `seek peace,' and in every way to promote it."

"Come, now, let us have this matter out," said Nicholas, lighting a cigar.

"You are as fond of argument as a Scotsman, Nic," murmured Bella, putting a powerful touch in the foreground of her sketch.

"Suppose, now," continued Nicholas, "that you had the power to influence nations, what would you suggest instead of war?"

"Arbitration," said I, promptly; "I would have the nations of Europe to band together and agree _never_ to fight but _always_ to appeal to reason, in the settlement of disputes. I would have them reduce standing armies to the condition of peace establishments--that is, just enough to garrison our strongholds, and be ready to back up our police in keeping ruffians in order. This small army would form a nucleus round which the young men of the nation would rally in the event of _unavoidable_ war."

"Ha!" exclaimed Nicholas, with a smile of sarcasm, "you would then have us all disarm, beat our swords into reaping-hooks, and melt our bayonets and cannon into pots and pans. A charming idea! Now, suppose there was one of the nations--say Russia or Turkey--that declined to join this peaceful alliance, and, when she saw England in her disarmed condition, took it into her head to pay off old scores, and sent ironclads and thousands of well-trained and well-appointed troops to invade you, what would you do?"

"Defend myself," said I.

"What! with your peace-nucleus, surrounded by your rabble of untrained young men?"

"Nicholas," said my mother, in a mild voice, pausing in her work, "you may be as fond of argument as a Scotsman, but you are not quite as fair. You have put into Jeff's mouth sentiments which he did not express, and made assumptions which his words do not warrant. He made no reference to swords, reaping-hooks, bayonets, cannon, pots or pans, and did not recommend that the young men of nations should remain untrained."

"Bravo! mother; thank you," said I, as the dear old creature dropped her mild eyes once more on her work; "you have done me nothing but justice. There is one point, however, on which I and those who are opposed to me coincide exactly; it is this, that the best way to maintain peace is to make yourself thoroughly capable and ready for war."

"With your peculiar views, that would be rather difficult, I should fancy," said Nicholas, with a puzzled look.

"You fancy so, because you misunderstand my views," said I; "besides, I have not yet fully explained them--but here comes one who will explain them better than I can do myself."

As I spoke a man was seen to approach, with a smart free-and-easy air.

"It is my friend U. Biquitous," said I, rising and hastening to meet him.

"Ah, Jeff, my boy, glad I've found you all together," cried my friend, wringing my hand and raising his hat to the ladies. "Just come over to say good-bye. I'm engaged again on the _Evergreen Isle_--same salary and privileges as before--freer scope, if possible, than ever."

"And where are you going to, Mr Biquitous?" asked my mother.

"To Cyprus, madam,--the land of the--of the--the something or other; not got coached up yet, but you shall have it all _in extenso_ ere long in the _Evergreen_, with sketches of the scenery and natives. I'll order a copy to be sent you."

"Very kind, thank you," said my mother; "you are fond of travelling, I think?"

"Fond of it!" exclaimed my friend; "yes, but that feebly expresses my sentiments,--I _revel_ in travelling, I am mad about it. To roam over the world, by land and sea, gathering information, recording it, collating it, extending it, condensing it, and publishing it, for the benefit of the readers of the _Evergreen Isle_, is my chief terrestrial joy."

"Why, Mr Biquitous," said Bella, looking up from her drawing, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, "I thought you were a married man."

"Ah! Mrs Naranovitsch, I understand your reproofs; but _that_, madam, I call a celestial joy. Looking into my wife's blue eyes is what I call star-gazing, and that is a celestial, not a terrestrial, occupation. Next to making the stars twinkle, I take pleasure in travelling--flying through space,--


"Crashing on the railroads,
Skimming on the seas,
Bounding on the mountain-tops,
Battling with the breeze.
Roaming through the forest,
Scampering on the plain,
Never stopping, always going,
Round and round again."


"How very beautiful,--so poetical!" said Bella.

"So suggestively peaceful," murmured Nicholas.

"Your own composition?" asked my mother.

"A mere _morceau_," replied my friend, modestly, "tossed off to fill up a gap in the _Evergreen_."

"You should write poetry," said I.

"Think so? Well, I've had some notion at times, of trying my hand at an ode, or an epic, but, man, I find too many difficulties in the way. As to `feet,' now, I can't manage feet in poetry. If it were inches or yards, one might get along, but feet are neither one thing nor another. Then, rhyme bothers me. I've often to run over every letter in the alphabet to get hold of a rhyme--click, thick, pick, rick, chick, brick--that sort of thing, you know. Sentiment, too, is very troublesome. Either I put too much or too little sentiment into my verses; sometimes they are all sentiment together; not unfrequently they have none at all; or the sentiment is false, which spoils them, you know. Yes, much though I should like to be a poet, I must content myself with prose. Just fancy, now, my attempting a poem on Cyprus! What rhymes with Cyprus? Fyprus, gyprus, highprus, kyprus, lyprus, tryprus, and so on to the end. It's all the same; nothing will do. No doubt Hook would have managed it; Theodore could do anything in that way, but _I_ can't."

"Most unfortunate! But for these difficulties you might have been a second Milton. You leave your wife behind, I suppose," said Bella, completing her sketch and shutting the book.

"What!" exclaimed my volatile friend, becoming suddenly grave, "leave Blue-eyes behind me! leave the mitigator of my woes, the doubler of