That there are
poltroons, and plenty of them, amongst our soldiers and
sailors, I do not dispute. But with the fear of shame on one
hand, the hope of reward on the other, the merest dastard
will fight like a wild beast, when his blood is up. The
extraordinary merit of his conduct is not so obvious to the
peaceful thinker. I speak not of such heroism as that of the
Japanese, - their deeds will henceforth be bracketed with
those of Leonidas and his three hundred, who died for a like
cause. With the Japanese, as it was with the Spartans, every
man is a patriot; nor is the proportionate force of their
barbaric invaders altogether dissimilar.
Is then the Victoria Cross an error? To say so would be an
outrage in this age of militarism. And what would all the
Queens of Beauty think, from Sir Wilfred Ivanhoe's days to
ours, if mighty warriors ceased to poke each other in the
ribs, and send one another's souls untimely to the 'viewless
shades,' for the sake of their 'doux yeux?' Ah! who knows
how many a mutilation, how many a life, has been the price of
that requital? Ye gentle creatures who swoon at the sight of
blood, is it not the hero who lets most of it that finds most
favour in your eyes? Possibly it may be to the heroes of
moral courage that some distant age will award its choicest
decorations. As it is, the courage that seeks the rewards of
Fame seems to me about on a par with the virtue that invests
in Heaven.
Though an anachronism as regards this stage of my career, I
cannot resist a little episode which pleasantly illustrates
moral courage, or chivalry at least, combined with physical
bravery.
In December, 1899, I was a passenger on board a Norddeutscher
Lloyd on my way to Ceylon. The steamer was crowded with
Germans; there were comparatively few English. Things had
been going very badly with us in the Transvaal, and the
telegrams both at Port Said and at Suez supplemented the
previous ill-news. At the latter place we heard of the
catastrophe at Magersfontein, of poor Wauchope's death, and
of the disaster to the Highland Light Infantry. The moment
it became known the Germans threw their caps into the air,
and yelled as if it were they who had defeated us.
Amongst the steerage passengers was a Major - in the English
army - returning from leave to rejoin his regiment at
Colombo. If one might judge by his choice of a second-class
fare, and by his much worn apparel, he was what one would
call a professional soldier. He was a tall, powerfully-
built, handsome man, with a weather-beaten determined face,
and keen eye. I was so taken with his looks that I often
went to the fore part of the ship on the chance of getting a
word with him. But he was either shy or proud, certainly
reserved; and always addressed me as 'Sir,' which was not
encouraging.
That same evening, after dinner in the steerage cabin, a
German got up and, beginning with some offensive allusions to
the British army, proposed the health of General Cronje and
the heroic Boers. This was received with deafening 'Hochs.'
To cap the enthusiasm up jumped another German, and proposed
'ungluck - bad luck to all Englanders and to their Queen.'
This also was cordially toasted. When the ceremony was ended
and silence restored, my reserved friend calmly rose, tapped
the table with the handle of his knife (another steerage
passenger - an Australian - told me what happened), took his
watch from his pocket, and slowly said: 'It is just six
minutes to eight. If the person who proposed the last toast
has not made a satisfactory apology to me before the hand of
my watch points to the hour, I will thrash him till he does.
I am an officer in the English army, and always keep my
word.' A small band of Australians was in the cabin. One
and all of them applauded this laconic speech. It was
probably due in part to these that the offender did not wait
till the six minutes had expired.
Next day I congratulated my reserved friend. He was reticent
as usual. All I could get out of him was, 'I never allow a
lady to be insulted in my presence, sir.' It was his Queen,
not his cloth, that had roused the virility in this quiet
man.
Let us turn to another aspect of the deeds of war. About
daylight on the morning following our bombardment, it being
my morning watch, I was ordered to take the surgeon and
assistant surgeon ashore. There were many corpses, but no
living or wounded to be seen. One object only dwells
visually in my memory.
At least a quarter of a mile from the dead soldiers, a stray
shell had killed a grey-bearded old man and a young woman.
They were side by side. The woman was still in her teens and
pretty. She lay upon her back. Blood was oozing from her
side. A swarm of flies were buzzing in and out of her open
mouth. Her little deformed feet, cased in the high-heeled
and embroidered tiny shoes, extended far beyond her
petticoats. It was these feet that interested the men of
science. They are now, I believe, in a jar of spirits at
Haslar hospital. At least, my friend the assistant surgeon
told me, as we returned to the ship, that that was their
ultimate destination.
