DOYLE, Arthur Conan - That Veteran

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THAT VETERAN

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That Veteran

By A. Conan Doyle

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

THAT VETERAN

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That Veteran

By A. Conan Doyle

First published All the Year Round : 31 March 1883

"Served, sir? Yes, sir," said my tattered vis-à-vis, drawing himself up and touching his apology

for a hat. "Crimea and Mutiny, sir."

"What arm?" I asked lazily.

"Royal Horse Artillery. Thank you, sir, I take it hot with sugar."

It was pleasant to meet anyone who could talk English among those barren Welsh mountains,

and pleasanter still to find one who had anything to talk about. I had been toiling along for the

last ten miles, vowing in my heart never to take a solitary walking-tour again, and above all

never, under any circumstances, to cross the borders of the principality. My opinions of the

original Celt, his manners, customs, and above all his language, were very much too forcible to

be expressed in decent society. The ruling passion of my life seemed to have become a deep and

all-absorbing hatred towards Jones, Davis, Morris, and every other branch of the great Cymric

trunk. Now, however, sitting at my ease in the little inn at Langerod, with a tumbler of smoking

punch at my elbow, and my pipe between my teeth, I was inclined to take a more rosy view of

men and things. Perhaps it was this spirit of reconciliation which induced me to address the

weather-beaten scarecrow in front of me, or perhaps it was that his resolute face and lean

muscular figure attracted my curiosity.

"You don't seem much the better for it," I remarked.

"It's this, sir, it's this," he answered, touching his glass with the spoon. "I'd have had my seven

shillings a day, as retired sergeant-major, if it wasn't for this. One after another I've forfeited

them — my badges and my good service allowance and my pension, until they had nothing more

to take from me, and turned me adrift into the world at forty-nine. I was wounded once in the

trenches and once at Delhi, and this is what I got for it, just because I couldn't keep away from

the drink. You don't happen to have a fill of 'baccy about you. Thank you sir; you are the first

gentleman I have met this many a day.

"Sebastopol? Why, Lord bless you, I knows it as well as I know this here village. You've read

about it, may be, but I could make it clear to you in a brace of shakes. This here fender is the

French attack, you see, and this poker is the Russian lines. Here's the Mamelon opposite the

French, and the Redan opposite the English. This spittoon stands for the harbour of Balaclava.

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There's the quarries midway between the Russians and us, and here's Cathcart's hill, and this is

the twenty-four gun battery. That's the one I served in towards the end of the war. You see it all

now, don't you sir?"

"More or less," I answered doubtfully.

"The enemy held those quarries at the commencement, and very strong they made them with

trenches and rifle-pits all round. It was a terrible thorn in our side, for you couldn't show your

nose in our advanced works, but a bullet from the quarries would be through it. So at last the

general, he would stand it no longer, so we dug a covering trench until we were within a hundred

yards of them, and then waited for a dark night. We got our chance at last, and five hundred men

were got together quietly under cover. When the word was given they made for the quarries as

hard as they could run, jumped down, and began bayonetting every man they met. There was

never a shot fired on our side, sir, but it was all done as quiet as may be. The Russians stood like

men — they never failed to do that — and there was a rare bit of give-an'-take fighting before we

cleared them out. Up to the end they never turned, and our fellows had to pitchfork them out of

the places like so many trusses of hay. That was the Thirtieth that was engaged that night. There

was a young lieutenant in that corps, I disremember his name, but he was a terrible one for a

fight. He wasn't more'n nineteen, but as tall as you, sir, and a deal stouter. They say that he never

drew his sword during the whole war, but he used an ash stick, supple and strong, with a knob

the size of a cocoa-nut at the end of it. It was a nasty weapon in hands like his. If a man came at

him with a firelock, he could down him before the bayonet was near him, for he was long in the

arm and active as well. I've heard from men in his company that he laid about him like a demon

in the quarries that night, and crippled twenty, if he hit one."

It seemed to me that the veteran was beginning to warm to his subject, partly, perhaps, from the

effects of the brandy-and-water, and partly from having found a sympathetic listener. One or two

leading questions were all that he would require. I refilled my pipe, settled myself down in my

chair, put my weary feet upon the fender, and prepared to listen.

"They were splendid soldiers, the Russians, and no man that ever fought against them would

deny it. It was queer what a fancy they had for the English and we for them. Our fellows that

were taken by them were uncommon well used, and when there was an armistice we could get on

well together. All they wanted was dash. Where they were put they would stick, and they could

shoot right well, but they didn't seem to have it in them to make a rush, and that was where we

had them. They could drive the French before them, though, when we were not by. I've seen

them come out for a sortie, and kill them like flies. They were terribly bad soldiers — the worst I

ever saw — all except the Zouaves, who were a different race to the rest. They were all great

thieves and rogues, too, and you were never safe if you were near them."

"You don't mean to say they would harm their own allies?" said I.

"They would that, sir, if there was anything to be got by it. Look at what happened to poor Bill

Cameron, of our battery. He got a letter that his wife was ailing and as he wasn't very strong

himself, they gave him leave to go back to England. He drew his twenty-eight pound pay, and

was to sail in a transport next day; but, as luck would have it, he goes over to the French canteen

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that night, just to have a last wet, and he lets out there that he had the money about him. We

found him next morning lying as dead as mutton between the lines, and so kicked and bruised

that you could hardly tell he was a human being. There was many an Englishman murdered that

winter, sir, and many a Frenchman who had a good British pea-jacket to keep out the cold.

"I'll tell you a story about that, if I am not wearying you. Thank you, sir; I thought I'd just make

sure. Well, four of our fellows Sam Kelcey and myself, and Jack Burns and Prout — were over

in the French lines on a bit of a spree. When we were coming back, this chap Prout suddenly gets

an idea. He was an Irishman, and uncommon clever.

"`See here, boys,' says he; `if you can raise sixpence among you, I'll put you in the way of

making some money to-night, and a bit of fun into the bargain.'

"Well, we all agreed to this, and turned out our pockets, but we only had about fourpence

altogether.

"`Niver mind,' says Prout. `Come on with me to the French canteen. All you've to do is to seem

very drunk, and to keep saying ‘yes’ to all I ask.'

"All this time, sir, we hadn't a ghost of an idea of what he was driving at, but we went stumbling

and rolling into the canteen, among a crowd of loafing Frenchmen, and spent our coppers in a

drain of liquor.

"`Now,' says Prout, loud out, so as everyone could hear, `are you ready to come back to camp?'

"`Yes,' says we.

"`Have you got your thirty pounds safe in your pocket, Sam?'

"`Yes,' says Sam.

"`And you, Bill,' he says to me, `have you got your three months' pay all right?'

"`Yes,' I answers.

"`Well, come on, then, an don't tumble down more'n you can help;' and with that we staggers out

of the canteen and away off into the darkness.

"By this time we had a pretty good suspicion of what he was after, but when we were well out of

sight of everybody, he halted and explained to us.

"`They're bound to follow us after what we've said, and it's queer if the four of us can't manage to

best them. They keep their money in little bags round their necks, and all you've got to do is to

cut the string.'

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