Read Ebook: !Tention: A Story of Boy-Life during the Peninsular War by Fenn George Manville Sheldon Charles Mills Illustrator

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Ebook has 2812 lines and 95679 words, and 57 pages

"Yes!" half-groaned the boy; and then with a sudden access of excitement, "Here, I say, where's my bugle?"

"Oh, never mind your bugle. Where are you hurt?" cried the boy's comrade.

"In my bugle--I mean, somewhere in my back. But where's my instrument?"

"There it is, in the grass, hanging by the cord."

"Oh, that's better," groaned the boy. "I thought all our chaps had gone on and left me to die."

"And now you see that they hav'n't," said the boy's companion. "There, don't try to move. We mustn't be seen."

"Yes," almost babbled the boy, speaking piteously, "I thought they had all gone, and left me here. I did try to ketch up to them; but--oh, I am so faint and sick that it's all going round and round! Here, Private Gray, you are a good chap, shove the cord over my head, and take care the enemy don't get my bugle. Ah! Water--water, please! It's all going round and round."

Penton Gray made no effort now to look round for danger, but, unstopping his water-bottle, he crept closer to his companion in adversity, passed the strap of the boy's shako from under his chin, thrust his cap from his head to lie amongst the grass, and then opened the collar of his coatee and began to trickle a little water between the poor fellow's lips and sprinkled a little upon his temples.

"Ah!" sighed the boy, as he began to revive, "that's good! I don't mind now."

"But you are hurt. Where's your wound?" said the young private eagerly.

"Somewhere just under the shoulder," replied the boy. "'Tain't bleeding much, is it?"

"I don't know yet.--I won't hurt you more than I can help."

"Whatcher going to do?"

"Draw off your jacket so that I can see whether the hurt's bad."

"'Tain't very," said the boy, speaking feebly of body but stout of heart. "I don't mind, comrade. Soldiers don't mind a wound.--Oh, I say!" he cried, with more vigour than he had previously evinced.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes, you just did. Were you cutting it with your knife?"

"No," said his comrade with a half-laugh, as he drew his hand from where he had passed it under the boy's shoulder. "That's what cut you, Punch," and he held up a ragged-looking bullet which had dropped into his fingers as he manipulated the wound.

"Thought you was cutting me with your knife," said the boy, speaking with some energy now. "But, I say, don't you chuck that away; I want that.--What did they want to shoot me there for--the cowards! Just as if I was running away, when I was only obeying orders. If they had shot me in front I could have seen to it myself.--I say, does it bleed much?"

"No, my lad; but it's an ugly place."

"Well, who wants it to be handsome? I ain't a girl. Think you can stop it, private?"

"I think I can bind it up, Punch, and the bleeding will stop of itself."

"That's good. I say, though, private--sure to die after it, ain't I?"

"Yes, some day," said the young soldier, smiling encouragingly at the speaker; and then by the help of a shirt-sleeve and a bandage which he drew from his knapsack, the young soldier managed pretty deftly to bind up his comrade's wound, and then place him in a more comfortable position, lying upon his side.

"Thank ye!" said the boy with a sigh. "But, I say, you have give it me hot."

"I am very sorry, boy."

"Oh, never mind that. But just wipe my face; it's all as wet as wet, and the drops keep running together and tickling."

This little service was performed, and then the boy turned his head uneasily aside.

"What is it, Punch?"

"That there bullet--where is it?"

"I have got it safe."

"That's right. Now, where's my bugle?"

"There it is, quite safe too."

"Yes, that's right," said the boy faintly. "I don't want to lose that; but--Oh, I say, look at that there dent! What'll the colonel say when he sees that?"

"Shall I tell you, Punch?" said the young man, who bent over him, watching every change in his face.

"Yes--no. I know: `Careless young whelp,' or something; and the sergeant--"

"Never mind the sergeant," said the young sharpshooter. "I want to tell you what the colonel will say, like the gentleman he is."

"Then, what'll he say?" said the wounded lad drowsily.

"That he has a very brave boy in his regiment, and--Poor chap, he has fainted again! My word, what a position to be in! Our fellows will never be able to get back, and if I shout for help it means hospital for him, prison for me. What shall I do?"

There was nothing to be done, as Pen Gray soon realised as he lay upon his side in the shade of the steep valley, watching his wounded comrade, who gradually sank into the sleep of exhaustion, while the private listened for every sound that might suggest the coming on or retreating of the French troops. His hopes rose once, for it seemed to him that the tide of war was ebbing and flowing lower down the valley, and his spirits rose as the mountain-breeze brought the sounds of firing apparently nearer and nearer, till he felt that the English troops had not only rallied, but were driving back the French over the ground by which they had come. But as the day wore on he found that his hopes were false; and, to make their position worse, fresh troops had come down the valley and were halted about a quarter of a mile from where he and his sleeping companion lay; while, lower down, the firing, which had grown fiercer and fiercer, gradually died out.

He was intently straining his ears, when to his surprise the afternoon sun began to flash upon the weapons of armed men, and once more his hopes revived in the belief that the French were being driven back; but to his astonishment and dismay, as they came more and more into sight, a halt seemed to have been called, and they too settled down into a bivouac, and communications by means of mounted men took place between them and the halted party higher up the valley; the young rifleman, by using great care, watching the going to and fro unseen.

Evening was coming on, and Pen Gray was still watching and wondering whether it would be possible to take advantage of the darkness, when it fell, to try and pass down the valley, circumvent the enemy, and overtake their friends, when the wounded boy's eyes unclosed, and he lay gazing wonderingly in his comrade's eyes.

"Better, Punch?" said Pen softly.

"What's the matter?" was the reply; and the boy gazed in his face in a dazed, half-stupid way.

"Don't you remember, lad?"

"No," was the reply. "Where's the ridgment?"

"Over yonder. Somewhere about the mouth of the valley, I expect."

"Oh, all right. What time is it?"

"I should think about five. Why?"

"Why?" said the boy. "Because there will be a row. Why are we here?"

"Waiting till you are better before trying to join our company."

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