HOW HE DIED

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1425, 22 June 1899, Page 10

HOW HE DIED

He had lived in an infant vil'.-ig? of Scotland, lying in the bosom of the hills, wrapped in green trees, and soothed by the prattle of a running brook an;l the weird singings and sighings of Nature. He had lived in the peace of solifcide, with the mountains for Ins great shaggy playfellows, and he scrambled among their great beards, and forests, like a little flea. The burn was his bath, and he and his companions would run a round it like young white deer, diving like white arrows into the water, or framing l ; its clear mirror like a group of beautiful nude angels whose wings were at die washing. Here his memory was born, and the birthplace of memory is its shriue for evermore. Such was liis nursery—the humming of bees, the singing of birds, the murmuring brook, the fanning of

green branches—the nursery of life ; faraway from the humming of bullets, the blare of trumpets, the rolling of^rums—the nursery of death. Now lie was dying. The dying have good memories. Death’s door is a mirror. He had worked on a little farm with his elder brother. His name was John—no, it was “Jock.” He had worked there till lie was twenty. Ho rose at five in the morning and yoked “Bess,” the old mare, into the plough. They ploughed together for two hours. One of “Bess’s” eyes was blind—the leftone. They had breakfast at eight, and Jock asked the blessing. “ We thank thee. 0 Father, for giving us our daily bread.” That was all. He remembered it every word. He wondered if Jock asked the blessing yet. He had a letter in his pocket from his mother and Jock. Neither of them could write ,so the minister had written if for them. But his mother had spoken it all—he knew her in every word—except teat bit. at the end telling how old Tom, the dog, had got its leg broken in the act of hanging on to Bess’s tail. This was .Jock’s contribution. Those terible flies Ho couldn’t turn round, either. Something wi-mg with his back. He couldn’t feel anything. He seemed to be resting on air, and the air hurt him. He was lying beside a rock. It was black—smooth —hard. It gleamed with the many colours of an opal when the sun struck it. The sun was going down. It seemed to he hot with the day’s work. It buried its red face in the sand. How silent everything was ! It was like the kirk on the Sabbath. How large the rock was when he lay at its feet ! Like life. He had never thought it so large when lie walked about it four hours ago. Like life again. He had walked about A on life again. He had walked about it on feet- ! Where were these soldiers, his mates? Were they all killed? He was alive, but dying. His heart throbbed too fast. How still everything was—no humming in the air, no yelling of the black whiteclad devils, or oaths, or squirtings of blood—nothing but silence. Could he turn his head? He could, but something like hot water trickeled over his brow. There was a dead black Arab about two yards away—a ghastly bunch of mortality. How black lie was ! “Jock” had never seen a black man. His eyes were staring at him like balls of glass. What were they staring at him for? His teeth were clenched, and ins right hand held a spear. The spear point was red. One dark leg was drawn up. He looked line a waxwork figure with a red gash like a mouth. A ragged mouth with red lips—red, juicy lips for Death to kiss. The black flies framed it like a moustache. When did he leave home? Two years age—two years ago—two years ago.

Something in his ears seemed to draw out the words with elastic and ring then like bells. What was he thinking of? His memory seemed to faint and then recover. Two years since then ? Was that *11? He remembered that morning v<*iy well. . A bonny morning. The birds were singing and the burn murmuring to itself. It would be murmuring now. Jock would be in bed by this time. The great mountains . were clothed in purple—crimson thrones. The sheep dotted them like white spots, and they were very silent and lonesome. He had his red coat on, and his sword and all; but he cried as he went over the brae. He remembered it very well. “S’long, Jock,” he had said, but they never shook hands. “ S’long, Dick,” said Jock, and combed down the mare. “S’long, mother.” His mother was making Jock’s porridge—stirring it on the fire. Tom, the cat, squirmed in and out and around his legs, his tail in air, as though he were drunk. Uli, God ! Rover followed him up the brae. Rover was his collie, his dog. They had worked together-many a morning up on the hills. He had snared his breakfast many a time. That nigger’s eyes—how they .stared ! Rover stared at him like that. “Hame,” he cried, “hame wi ye, Rover !” The dog looked at him with surprised eyes, but did not budge. 1 ‘Hame, Rover! ” The dog whined, but did not move. He took up a stone and threw it ,at the dog. He struck it. He cowered under the blow. “ Hame, Rover,” he •cried sternly, and the tears ran down his •cheeks. The dog ran back a little way, faced about, plumbed down on the heather and watched him. When he turned .at the top of the brae and looked back, it was watching him still. A brown fly was standing on the black rock about a foot from his face. It stood very still. It might have been painted. He watched it intently. Its wings were like glistening armour. Its feet and legs were bright red. It had been wading in blood. Would it never go ? He could not raise his hand to brush it away. He blew it with his breath—gaspingly, but it .did not budge. Suddenly it darted away. Was the world dead that everything was so hushed ? Something howled very far away—a dog, perhaps. How beautiful the desert was—like a great beach with the ocean rolled away out of sight. A golden floor, like the floor of Heaven. But one did not die in Heaven. A star glimmered very far away, like a shimmering jewel in a deep blue evening robe. The moon rose up to the roof of the world like a yellow Chinese lantern. Why was he lying here ? How had it happened ? Then he remembered—the regiment standing in the sandy desert like a great red rose, with thorns of :steel. They - stood for ten minutes, waiting for the rush. How strange it all . was! The silence was terrible. A man .behind him began to laugh. Another .swore oaths in a low voice. Another ;saicl: “ Got a bite o’ baccy, mate P ” 'Then, from behind the rocks, a long row of white smoke-puffs curled up, like •■smoke from gigantic pipes. Red tongues ■spit at them. Tne air hummed and whistled. A man’s hat went off. A bayonet fell with a jingle, and a man sat •down upon the sand with a scared, white face, fiddling with the buttons of his coat. Somebody began to moan. The captain ;said: “ Steady, men; take the beggars low down.” Then the great dark wave white-crested cam racing across the yellow beach. It * broke upon the red rock—fierce, angry faces, blazing eyes, white teeth, big flapping met. He set his teeth and drove his bayonet into a big black body. How soft it was ! It squirmed on the end of it like a fly on i e end of a pin. A man in a red coat fell back, clutching at Heath's arm. He saw the red spear reeking. Then he killed another man. He fell down like a pricked bag of air. Some hood squirted over his face like hot water. A man was moaning the name of Mary. Some one roared on his right: “ Come on, you durned Jocks ! ” Then the blow came—a terrible shock. It seemed to ife him into the air and flung him backwards. Something stopped his ears. The reeling Black and red figures flashed downwards. Now he was lying beside the rock. How strange he felt! That dead soldier in the red coat—how white his face was. A little hole in his forehead —a little red pea. Life had leapt through that. What a small thing life was ! Who was moaning for water? Was it he or someone behind him? He could not tell. It was getting cold. The stare were all watch-

ing him. The beautiful desert. That was Rover howling. He was very near. How loud the howling was. Death’s watchdogs. He was near death’s house. “ S’long, Jock.” How dizzy he felt ! He could not see very well. “ S’long, mother.” A black mist rushed over the sand. His head tumbled backward as though a prop had been suddenly removed. The diamond eyes turned into glass of a pale blue and green colour. Extract from the newspapers—the soldier’s epittaph; “Killed in the Soudan, Atichard M’Donald, aged 22.”—“San Francisco News Letter.’'