Poor old Larkins and his wife were completely broken by Mimie’s terrible mishap. They could not find it in their hearts to speak harshly of their unhappy child; but they were loudly indignant against the man who had tempted her to leave her home. Herbert, too, came in for his share of their reproaches, when he confessed that he had been for some time aware of the intimacy between Mimie and Ernest Farrington, and had long dreaded some such catastrophe.

‘Oh, Herbert!’ Mrs. Larkins had said to him more than once, ‘to think you should[2] have seen her in such danger, and never to let on a word. I thought better of you—after all—’

‘I know I am greatly to blame, mother. You cannot say anything harder of me than I do of myself. But she promised me never—never to meet him again, and I trusted her. Wasn’t it natural?’

‘Trust her? I’d have trusted her with untold gold. I thought she was as good as gold herself, and better. That’s what stings me. To think that she should have held herself so cheap as to be led astray by such a fellow as that, and a Farrington, too.’

‘Farrington or no Farrington, he shall answer for this to me, mother, and that I swear.’

‘Hush, Herbert lad, remember who he is, and who you are.’

‘I warned him that if she came to any[3] harm, I’d be even with him, and I will, so help me Heaven,’

‘Don’t, Herbert, don’t talk like that. You might be court-martialled, and for ever disgraced, even for those words. Do you think he will not be punished some day as he deserves, and that, whether you raise a little finger against him or no? We must leave him in other hands.’

Mrs. Larkins’ resignation hardly chimed in with Herbert’s impetuous mood.

‘I’d be after him now; aye, although I’m a soldier, and tied by the leg. I’d show a clean pair of heels, only—’

It was clear that desertion was in his mind.

‘Promise me, Herbert, swear to me, Herbert, that you will do nothing rash. Don’t desert your colours. Don’t forget your sacred duty, even for us.’

[4]

‘I had made up my mind to follow them last night. I could have got a passage home, and plain clothes and everything, but the steamer did not start, and to-day it’s too late.’

‘Too late? Thank God for that; but why?’

‘Haven’t you heard the news, mother?’ Then he bethought himself that in her grievous trial there was but little likelihood of the gossip of the garrison reaching her ears.

‘The route’s in,’ Herbert went on, using the catch phrase of the soldier. ‘The regiment’s under orders for active service, and we start directly the steamer arrives.’

‘Start? For where?’

‘Ashanti. It was in orders last night, and the generals coming to inspect us this afternoon, with the P.M.O., to see who’s fit[5] for service and who’s not. The whole barrack’s upside down. Officers and men mad with delight. So should I be for this chance, which may not come twice.’

‘Mayhap when you meet him next it will be on more equal terms.’

‘Aye, but when will that be? I may have to wait months before I get my knuckles at his throat.’

‘Surely these orders will bring him out to head-quarters at once?’

‘They ought to; but he’s mean enough to try and shirk the whole business, I’ve heard officers of the regiment say as much—and in any case he can’t arrive before we start for the Coast.’

The staunch old couple came down themselves to the new Mole to bid their boy Godspeed.

‘There’ll be more Larkins’ out there[6] than you, Herkles, boy,’ said the old Sergeant, with a fierce light in his eye. He had made no great demonstrations; but Mimie’s conduct had, perhaps, wounded him more deeply than his wife. Now, for a moment, he brightened up like an old war-horse, but it was with more than the scent of the coming fray. ‘Rechab’s ship ordered to the coast, and maybe they’ll send him ashore with the Naval Brigade. He’s carpenter’s mate and a right handy lad. So you’ll foregather, and between you you might have a chance of bringing yon scoundrel to book.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Herbert, with his teeth set.

‘If he’d only make an honest woman of my sweet bird. If he’d only marry and behave decently to her.’

‘Decently!’ cried Mrs. Larkins, interposing[7] in a strong indignant voice. ‘Was there ever a Farrington who behaved decently to one of us?’

‘I’d like to force him and all his relations too. But time’s up. God bless you, mother, and you, sergeant, and bring all things right in the end.’

With that, amidst thundering cheers and the invigorating strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘The Girl I left behind me,’ the good ship slowly got under weigh.

It is no part of my intention to dilate upon the events of the Ashanti war. It will be in all men’s minds how early mischances brought the enemy close to our gates and rendered imperative the despatch of some capable leader to grapple with the emergency; how Sir Garnet Wolseley, the hero of the hour, accompanied by a brilliant staff, was desired to drive back the foe[8] with such forces as he found to his hand; how Fantee allies proved the most despicable cowards, and the small force of British seamen and marines were clearly unequal single-handed to the task of marching upon Coomassie, the objective point; how the demand for British regiments was at length complied with by the home Government, and how, when these had arrived and all was ready for the forward movement, a sudden collapse in transport arrangements threatened to paralyse the whole of the operations. Hence it was that the British regiments were not immediately disembarked, but cruised the seas till a new and more vigorous organisation of transport could be devised and carried out. We will take up the thread of our narrative at a time when the little invading army was across the Prah and almost within striking[9] distance of Coomassie. No serious collision with the enemy had as yet occurred, but some sharp fighting was obviously imminent. It was thought that the Ashantis would hold the Adansi Hills, and, even if forced therefrom, would make more than one subsequent stand; and it was probable that by nothing less than obstinate fighting would the ends of the campaign be achieved.

They had been long days of weary waiting for all concerned. The country was hateful and noxious in the extreme; yet all fought bravely, not against the foe, with whom they had scarcely been pitted, but against the malaria, the ever present fever, the intolerable heat. None behaved more pluckily than the Duke’s Own. Wellington once said, ‘Give me the dandies for hard work,’ and the apothegm might be[10] extended, into including crack corps. Now that they were at the real business of war, they bore hardships, privations and continuous discomfort without a murmur. The once sp............