CHAPTER II
THE QUEEN'S SHILLING SUNDERS FRIENDS
Down the South Head Road, down the long, narrow length of George Street, headed by its splendid band, swept the famous regiment, a glittering streak of scarlet and steel; and all the way from Paddington Barracks to the great wharf at the Circular Quay, where lay the waiting transport, the people cheered themselves hoarse, waving banners and scattering flowers under the marching feet. For the gallant 600th were going to New Zealand—going to the war.
Everywhere was orderly bustle as the men embarked, and no one found time to heed the behaviour of two young civilians, who had managed to get on board, and who at once made a hurried descent into the darkest corner of the forehatch; nor did they emerge even when the noisy bell clanged out a warning to those who belonged to the shore to make all haste and get there.
The transport, led by a proud little tug, was passing Farm Cove, the beautiful anchorage for ships of the naval squadron, which fronts the ornamental grounds of Government House, when the disciplined quiet of the frigate was disturbed by an outcry in the neighbourhood of the fo'c'sle, and Sergeant-major Horn, hurrying to ascertain the cause, was met, to his great surprise, by a couple of his men, who haled between them a pair of dishevelled youths.
'Silence, you there!' commanded the sergeant-major sternly. Then to George and Terence—for they, indeed, were the stowaways: 'What's the meaning of this? Who are you? Where do you come from? What brought you here?' His quick eye at once discerned that the young men he addressed were not of the same class as those who detained them.
George had not reckoned upon being compelled to make a public declaration. He had looked for a quiet word with the sergeant-major, whom he hoped to win to his side. Consequently, he was for a moment at a loss; but, while he was framing a reply, Terence, with a comical glance at the men, struck in, employing his richest brogue.
'Aw! Sargint, darlin', listen to me, now. We're gintlemin out av work. We've come out of two dir-r-rty barr'ls in the forehatch. We wor brought here be the boys in rid. And as to the manin' av ut all, why, I'll tell ye that, too, so I will; but only in your own ear, me jool.'
'None of your impudence, now,' quoth Horn darkly, and scowled at the men, who were grinning broadly at Terence's absurd appearance. For his shock of red hair was more tousled than ever, and the assumed simplicity of his expression would, according to one of the men, have made a cat laugh.
'Luk at that, now!' cried Terence, deftly shifting the burden of reproof from his own shoulders. 'B'ys, I wonder at ye, so I do, laughin' at your shuparior offisher an' all'; which was too much for the men, who sent back a storm of chaff.
'Silence!' roared Horn, 'Now then, you two, give an account of yourselves, or over the side you go.'
Terence had no intention of allowing his sense of fun to spoil their chance, so he shot a look at George, who replied quietly: 'We came on board, hoping that you would see your way to enlist us in the regiment.'
'Oh! I thought you might be trying to snatch a passage to New Zealand,' returned Horn, inwardly admiring the splendid physique of the speaker, with whose features he was vaguely familiar. 'If to enlist is your game, why didn't you come up to the barracks yesterday, instead of sneaking on board like this?'
The pair flushed at this offensive way of putting it; but George could hardly admit that they had avoided the barracks for fear of being recognised, since many of the officers were personal friends of his father and himself, and all were on visiting terms at his home. So he replied simply: 'The truth is, it was quite impossible for us to enlist yesterday.'
Horn was puzzled. The couple in front of him were fine specimens of physical manhood, but what they asked for smacked strongly of irregularity. Besides, they might have been up to some mischief, and he did not wish to incur a responsibility which might get him into more or less serious trouble. But he wanted these two likely fellows; so he determined to speak to the adjutant about them.
But George read his thoughts, and, unobtrusively slipping a sovereign into his hand, said in a low voice: 'Don't report the matter just yet, Sergeant-major. We don't want to run any risk of being stopped.'
Horn took another good look at them as he deftly pouched the gold. 'No,' said he; 'I don't believe that either of you would play a dirty trick. I'll chance it, though I expect there'll be a row. Line up here.'
George was radiant. He shook Terence heartily by the hand, and in so doing shifted his position so as to bring his friend opposite to the sergeant-major, who very naturally addressed him first, putting several questions to him, all of which Terence answered in his own humorous fashion.
'I'll get even with you presently, my fine fellow,' said Horn dryly, and finally inquired: 'Do you join of your own free will, being sober, and not under compulsion?'
'Sober!' echoed Terence, to the huge delight of his audience. 'Why, I'm as dhry as a cow widout a calf; and as to compulsion—
'None of your lip,' cut in Horn, handing him a shilling with the verbal bonus: 'And now look here, young shaver, if I have any more of your cheek, you'll begin your military career in the punishment cells on bread and water. So now you know.'
The look which accompanied these harsh-sounding words was genial enough, and Terence had the wit to understand the hint conveyed, namely, that he now belonged to a disciplined body, whose dealings with their superiors were very nicely regulated.
'Now then, you,' said Horn to George. 'What's your name?'
Confident that before he had been many hours a soldier some of the officers would be sure to recognise him, George thought it useless to assume a nom de guerre. So he answered in a clear voice, 'George Haughton.'
'George Haughton!' sounded like an echo behind him. 'So it is! And what brings you here, George?'
And at the sound of that too-familiar voice, which he recognised as that of his father's old friend, Colonel Cranstoun, commanding the 600th, George realised with bitter disappointment that his chance of taking the Queen's shilling that day was as good as gone.
Colonel Cranstoun had watched the scene on the foredeck under the impression that the sergeant-major was interrogating a couple of stowaways, but when he saw the pair line up, he suspected some irregularity, and hastened to investigate the matter. He was short-sighted, so that it was not until he neared the group that he was struck by something familiar in the appearance of the two young men; but, as he came up behind them, it was only when he heard George's name that he realised, to his unbounded surprise, that the would-be recruit was the son of his old friend and sword-brother, Colonel Haughton.
'What on earth are you doing here, George?' repeated the amazed chief, as the men fell back respectfully.
'I was just going to enlist, sir,' George answered quietly, though inwardly he was raging.
'Oh! Were you indeed?' said Colonel Cranstoun dryly. 'And Mr. Moore? Does he, too, wish to enlist?'
'Begging your pardon, sir,' put in Horn, saluting, 'he has this moment enlisted.'
Colonel Cranstoun looked deeply annoyed. 'Who authorised you to turn the fore-deck into a recruiting depot?' he demanded sternly of Horn, who cast an imploring look at George.
'It was my fault, Colonel,' interposed George at once, adding naïvely, 'I was afraid that if you knew you would prevent us.'
Under pretence of giving his moustache a twist, Colonel Cranstoun hid a smile behind his hand. 'Follow me to my cabin, George,' he said, and, curtly returning the dejected Horn's salute, walked off, followed by George, who felt decidedly cheap.
Terence, left behind, looked after his friend with an air of comical resignation, and inquired of the sergeant-major in a dolorous whine: 'Aw, sergeant dear, can I offer you a guinea to take back the shilling I had of you just now?'
'Oh, dry up!' snapped the disgusted Horn. 'Why couldn't you say you knew the colonel? I'll get my head blown off. But how was I to know? You're booked anyhow,' he wound up, with a snarl.
'Faith, 'tis cooked as well as booked I am,' sighed Terence. 'He'll never let George enlist, and then what will I do at all, at all?'
'Take him out of this!' vociferated Horn. 'No; let him stay. The colonel may want him when he's done with that other lump of mischief.' He stalked off in high dudgeon.
Meantime Colonel Cranstoun had shut himself in his cabin with George. 'Tell me the meaning of all this, my boy,' he said kindly. 'Is it a case of bolt?'
George nodded gloomily; then burst out with impetuous pleading: 'Don't ask me to go back, Colonel Cranstoun, for I can't and I won't.'
'Let me hear your story,' said the colonel; and as briefly as possible George gave him the details of his difference with his father. When he had finished, Colonel Cranstoun laid a hand upon his shoulder.
'It must be clear to you, George, that I cannot countenance this escapade. What should I say to my old friend—if we ever meet again—were I to allow his son to do a foolish thing, and put forth no hand to save him from his folly?'
One glance at the fine, inflexible face told George that pleading would be thrown away; so he said as quietly as he could: 'Very good, sir. I would rather serve under you than under any one; but since you won't have me, I shall enlist as soon as we reach New Zealand.'
'You are not going there in this ship,' the colonel said curtly.
This was a facer, and George caught his breath. He had reckoned without his host. He had a sickening sense of what was coming.
'Now, George, you know your duty as well as I do,' went on the colonel. 'Make your father understand that you can't adopt the—er—profession he has in view for you—I don't blame you for that; quite the contrary—but don't try to persuade yourself that you are doing anything heroic in running away from home like a schoolboy.'
'Well, sir,' answered George in his quietest manner, 'if I can't go in this ship, I will in another.'
Colonel Cranstoun's gesture indicated impatience. 'I must inspect the men before we pass the Heads,' he said. 'Listen to me, George. I am going to send you back in the tug; but I want you to promise me that when you reach Sydney you will go straight home.'
'No, sir; I will make no such promise.'
The colonel's temper departed with startling suddenness. 'You obstinate young dog!' he roared. 'I don't wonder your father thrashed you. Give me your promise, or I'll have you clapped in irons and handed over to the master of the tug.'
'I shall make no promise, whatever you do,' retorted George.
'Then make none, and be hanged to you!' snapped the colonel. 'I shall know how to deal with you. Dash it, sir! don't imagine that you can play fast and loose with me.'
He flung out of the cabin in a royal rage; but George was at the door before he could close it. 'What about Terence, sir? He only enlisted because he believed that I should do so, too—as I most certainly should have done, had not you, unfortunately, put in an appearance when you were least wanted.'
The remark was unfortunate, at all events, and there was a wicked gleam in the colonel's eye as he said relentlessly: 'Your friend has taken the Queen's shilling, sir, and I shall make it my business to see that Her Majesty gets value for her money. I'll not interfere.'
He did not tell George that, owing to the irregularity of the whole proceeding, he could, as colonel, have quashed the enlistment with a word. 'Besides,' he went on, 'I suspect that young Moore has been leading you into mischief, and I dare say your father will thank me for taking him out of your way for a time. What, sir? Not a word! No; I'll not hear another word.'
'Yes; you shall hear just one,' cried George, now in a rage on his part. 'It is most unjust of you to revenge yourself upon my innocent friend, and to accuse him in this monstrous fashion because I won't give in to you. But whatever you do'—he laughed defiantly—'I'll get to New Zealand in spite of you.'
The colonel glared at him; but George met him eye to eye, and presently, age and experience gaining the upper hand, Colonel Cranstoun marched out of the cabin with a dignity which somehow made George feel small. In a quarter of an hour he was back again, saying, as if nothing had happened: 'The tug is ready, George. I take it that you will give me the promise I asked for.'
'No, sir; I can't do that,' George answered respectfully; 'but I beg your pardon for the manner in which I spoke to you just now.' Then he fell in behind the colonel and marched to the side, where he found that the old warrior had so far relented as to allow Terence to stand by to bid him adieu. Some of the men giggled, but most of them looked sorry for him, and his friends among the officers nodded sympathetically as he passed them.
Silently the friends clasped hands, and George said in low tones: 'Keep a bright look-out for me, Terence; I shall not be long in following you.'
Colonel Cranstoun overheard the remark as he came up with outstretched hand; but he merely smiled and said: 'Good-bye, George. Don't bear malice. I am only doing my duty, you know.'
George shook hands cordially enough with him, and with another grip of his chum's hard fist jumped aboard the tug, which immediately cast off. For some time young Haughton watched his friend, who had climbed into the rigging and was waving frantically; but when the frigate came up to the wind and Terence was no longer visible, he flung himself down upon a coil of rope and bitterly reviled his own hard lot.
Presently he rose again and gazed seawards over the heaving Pacific. The fine frigate, under a cloud of canvas, was already far distant. With longing eyes George looked after her, and, as she skimmed away upon the starboard tack, leaned over the taffrail and gave himself up to gloomy meditation.
The rough-and-tumble motion of the tug suited the turbulent thoughts which filled George's mind, but as the little vessel passed back through the Heads and came suddenly to an even keel, as suddenly did the unwilling passenger realise that, while every moment was bearing Terence nearer to the goal of their hopes, he himself, balked and trapped, was being sent ignominiously home like a bale of damaged goods.
He turned and began to pace the deck with quick, decided steps. He would not, he could not, go home. On that point he was determined. Right or wrong, he had made his choice and would abide by it. Besides, there was Terence to be thought of; Terence, who so willingly had sacrificed a paying occupation to follow the fortunes of his friend, and who now was left in the lurch by this unkind trick of fate. No; by hook or by crook he must get to New Zealand. But how? There was the rub.
'What ship is that?' he asked a sailor, pointing to a smart brig anchored about half a mile from the quay, and flying the 'Blue Peter.'
'The Stella, sir,' the man answered, 'and a handy craft she is. She sails at six o'clock to-morrow morning for Chatham Island, with stores for the prisoners there.'
George's heart gave a great leap, and the sailor, greatly to his surprise, received half a crown for this very trifling piece of information. But it was by no means trifling to George, whose despondency evaporated like dew in the sunshine, as he told himself that, come what might in the way of opposition, he would sail in that brig and somehow reach New Zealand. For in the Chatham Islands, some three hundred miles east of their coast, the New Zealand Government had established a penal settlement for Maoris, at which ships occasionally called with provisions and other necessaries. And of this fortunate circumstance George then and there made up his mind to take the fullest advantage.
The skipper of the tug had received a sovereign from Colonel Cranstoun as passage money for 'the young gentleman,' and fully expected to receive another from Colonel Haughton on delivering the said young gentleman in good order at his own front door. But this money was never earned, for it cost George but little effort to evade the clumsy seaman, and, as soon as the tug touched the quay, he leaped ashore and ran for his liberty.
Once out of sight he defied capture, though no attempt was made to take him, and, having written his father a letter, in which he described his adventure and stated his intentions, he returned to the quay after nightfall, hired a dingy, and pulled out to the brig, where he had a satisfactory interview with her skipper.
The outcome of this was an arrangement whereby George was to help as far as he could on the voyage to Chatham Island, to pay the cost of his food, and to give the skipper a bonus of two pounds. In return he was to receive a free passage to whatever New Zealand port the brig should first touch at on her return voyage. The agreement made, George and the skipper shook hands heartily with mutual esteem, each complimenting himself upon his shrewdness in driving an excellent bargain.
And so George fulfilled his promise to Terence that he would not be long in following him; though, little as he expected it, he was destined to meet with some strange adventures before he once again clasped hands with his friend.