DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Straggler of '15

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A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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A Straggler of '15

By A. Conan Doyle

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

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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

A Straggler of '15

by A. Conan Doyle

First published: Black and White, 21 March 1891 with three illustrations by W.B. Wollen

(U.S.) Harper’s Weekly, 21 March 1891

It was a dull October morning, and heavy, rolling fog-wreaths lay low over the wet, grey roofs of

the Woolwich houses. Down in the long, brick-lined streets all was sodden and greasy and

cheerless. From the high buildings of the Arsenal came the whir of many wheels, the thudding of

weights, and the buzz and babel of human toil. Beyond, the dwellings of the working-men,

smoke-stained and unlovely, radiated away in a lessening perspective of narrowing road and

dwindling wall.

There were few folk in the streets, for the toilers had all been absorbed since break of day by the

huge, smoke-spouting monster, which sucked in the manhood of the town, to belch it forth,

weary and work-stained, every night. Stout women, with thick red arms, and dirty aprons, stood

upon the whitened doorsteps, leaning upon their brooms, and shrieking their morning greetings

across the road. One had gathered a small knot of cronies around her, and was talking

energetically, with little shrill titters from her audience to punctuate her remarks.

"Old enough to know better!" she cried, in answer to an exclamation from one of the listeners.

"Why, 'ow old is he at all? Blessed if I could ever make out."

"Well, it ain't so hard to reckon," said a sharp-featured, pale-faced woman, with watery-blue

eyes. "He's been at the battle o' Waterloo, and has the pension and medal to prove it."

"That were a ter'ble long time agone," remarked a third. "It were afore I were born."

"It were fifteen year after the beginnin' of the century," cried a younger woman, who had stood

leaning against the wall, with a smile of superior knowledge upon her face. "My Bill was a-

saying so last Sabbath, when I spoke to him o' old Daddy Brewster, here."

"And suppose he spoke truth, Missus Simpson, 'ow long agone do that make it?"

"It's eighty-one now," said the original speaker, checking off the years upon her coarse, red

fingers, "and that were fifteen. Ten, and ten, and ten, and ten, and ten — why, it's only sixty and

six year, so he ain't so old after all."

"But he weren't a new-born babe at the battle, silly," cried the young woman, with a chuckle.

"S'pose he were only twenty, then he couldn't be less than six-and-eighty now, at the lowest."

"Ay, he's that —every day of it," cried several.

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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"I've had 'bout enough of it," remarked the large woman gloomily. "Unless his young niece, or

grand-niece, or whatever she is, come to-day, I'm off; and he can find someone else to do his

work. Your own 'ome first, says I."

"Ain't he quiet, then, Missus Simpson?" asked the youngest of the group.

"Listen to him now," she answered, with her hand half raised, and her head turned slantwise

towards the open door. From the upper floor came a shuffling, sliding sound, with a sharp

tapping of a stick. "There he go back and forrards doing what he call his sentry-go. 'Arf the night

through he's at that game, the silly old juggins. At six o'clock this very mornin' there he was

beatin' with a stick at my door. `Turn out guard,' he cried, and a lot more jargon that I could

make nothing of. Then what with his coughin' and 'awkin' and spittin', there ain't no gettin' a

wink o' sleep. Hark to him now!"

"Missus Simpson! Missus Simpson!" cried a cracked and querulous voice from above.

"That's him," she cried, nodding her head with an air of triumph. "He do go on somethin'

scandalous. Yes, Mister Brewster, sir."

"I want my morning ration, Missus Simpson."

"It's just ready, Mister Brewster, sir."

"Blessed if he ain't like a baby cryin' for its pap," said the young woman.

"I feel as if I could shake his old bones up sometimes," cried Mrs. Simpson, viciously. "But

who's for a 'arf of fourpenny?"

The whole company were about to shuffle off to the public-house, when a young girl stepped

across the road and touched the housekeeper timidly upon the arm. "I think that is No. 56

Arsenal View," she said. "Can you tell me if Mr. Brewster lives here?"

The housekeeper looked critically at the newcomer. She was a girl of about twenty, broad faced

and comely, with a turned-up nose, and large, honest, grey eyes. Her print dress, her straw hat

with its bunch of glaring poppies, and the bundle which she carried had all a smack of the

country.

"You're Norah Brewster, I s'pose," said Mrs. Simpson, eyeing her up and down with no friendly

gaze.

"Yes; I've come to look after my grand-uncle Gregory."

"And a good job, too," cried the housekeeper, with a toss of her head. "It's about time that some

of his own folk took a turn at it, for I've had enough of it. There you are, young woman! in you

go, and make yourself at home. There's tea in the caddy and bacon on the dresser, and the old

man will be about you if you don't fetch him his breakfast. I'll send for my things in the evenin'."

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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With a nod she strolled off with her attendant gossips in the direction of the public-house.

Thus left to her own devices, the country girl walked into the front room and took off her hat and

jacket. It was a low-roofed apartment with a sputtering fire, upon which a small brass kettle was

singing cheerily. A stained cloth lay over half the table, with an empty brown teapot, a loaf of

bread, and some coarse crockery. Norah Brewster looked rapidly about her, and in an instant

took over her new duties. Ere five minutes had passed the tea was made, two slices of bacon

were frizzling on the pan, the table was re-arranged, the antimacassars straightened over the

sombre brown furniture, and the whole room had taken a new air of comfort and neatness. This

done, she looked round curiously at the prints upon the walls. Over the fireplace, in a small,

square case, a brown medal caught her eye, hanging from a strip of purple ribbon. Beneath was a

slip of newspaper cutting. She stood on her tiptoes, with her fingers on the edge of the

mantelpiece, and craned her neck up to see it, glancing down from time to time at the bacon

which simmered and hissed beneath her. The cutting was yellow with age, and ran in this way:

"On Tuesday an interesting ceremony was performed at the barracks of the third

regiment of guards, when, in the presence of the Prince Regent, Lord Hill, Lord

Saltoun, and an assemblage which comprised beauty as well as valour, a special

medal was presented to Corporal Gregory Brewster, of Captain Haldane's flank

company, in recognition of his gallantry in the recent great battle in the Lowlands.

It appears that on the ever-memorable 18th of June, four companies of the third

guards and of the Coldstreams, under the command of Colonels Maitland and

Byng, held the important farmhouse of Hougoumont at the right of the British

position. At a critical point of the action these troops found themselves short of

powder. Seeing that Generals Foy and Jerome Buonaparte were again massing

their infantry for an attack on the position, Colonel Byng dispatched Corporal

Brewster to the rear to hasten up the reserve ammunition. Brewster came upon

two powder tumbrils of the Nassau division, and succeeded, after menacing the

drivers with his musket, in inducing them to convey their powder to Hougoumont.

In his absence, however, the hedges surrounding the position had been set on fire

by a howitzer battery of the French, and the passage of the carts full of powder

became a most hazardous matter. The first tumbril exploded, blowing the driver to

fragments. Daunted by the fate of his comrade, the second driver turned his

horses, but Corporal Brewster, springing upon his seat, hurled the man down, and

urging the powder cart through the flames, succeeded in forcing a way to his

companions. To this gallant deed may be directly attributed the success of the

British arms, for without powder it would have been impossible to have held

Hougoumont, and the Duke of Wellington had repeatedly declared that had

Hougoumont fallen, as well as La Haye Sainte, he would have found it impossible

to have held his ground. Long may the heroic Brewster live to treasure the medal

which he has so bravely won, and to look back with pride to the day when in the

presence of his comrades he received this tribute to his valour from the august

hands of the first gentleman of the realm."

The reading of this old cutting increased in the girl's mind the veneration which she had always

had for her warrior kinsman. From her infancy he had been her hero, and she remembered how

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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her father used to speak of his courage and his strength, how he could strike down a bullock with

a blow of his fist, and carry a fat sheep under either arm. True that she had never seen him, but a

rude painting at home, which depicted a square-faced, clean-shaven, stalwart man with a great

bearskin cap, rose ever before her memory when she thought of him.

She was still gazing at the brown medal and wondering what the "dulce et decorum est" might

mean, which was inscribed upon the edge, when there came a sudden tapping and shuffling upon

the stair, and there at the door was standing the very man who had been so often in her thoughts.

But could this indeed be he? Where was the martial air, the flashing eye, the warrior face which

she had pictured. There, framed in the doorway, was a huge, twisted old man, gaunt and

puckered, with twitching hands, and shuffling, purposeless feet. A cloud of fluffy white hair, a

red-veined nose, two thick tufts of eyebrow and a pair of dimly-questioning, watery-blue eyes —

these were what met her gaze. He leaned forward upon a stick, while his shoulders rose and fell

with his crackling, rasping breathing.

"I want my morning rations," he crooned, as he stumped forward to his chair. "The cold nips me

without 'em. See to my fingers!"

He held out his distorted hands, all blue at the tips, wrinkled and gnarled, with huge, projecting

knuckles.

"It's nigh ready," answered the girl, gazing at him with wonder in her eyes. "Don't you know who

I am, grand-uncle? I am Norah Brewster from Witham."

"Rum is warm," mumbled the old man, rocking to and fro in his chair, "and schnapps is warm,

and there's 'eat in soup, but it's a dish o' tea for me. What did you say your name was?"

"Norah Brewster."

"You can speak out, lass. Seems to me folk's voices isn't as loud as they used."

"I'm Norah Brewster, uncle. I'm your grand-niece come from down Essex way to live with you."

"You'll be brother Jarge's girl! Lor', to think o' little Jarge having a girl."

He chuckled hoarsely to himself, and the long, stringy sinews of his throat jerked and quivered.

"I am the daughter of your brother George's son," said she as she turned the bacon.

"Lor' but little Jarge was a rare 'un," he continued. "Eh, by Jimini, there was no chousing Jarge.

He's got a bull pup o' mine, that I gave him when I took the bounty. You've heard him speak of

it, likely."

"Why, grandpa George has been dead this twenty years," said she, pouring out the tea.

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DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Straggler of '15

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