AN INCIDENT OF THE SOUDAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 1812, 13 August 1886, Page 34

AN INCIDENT OF THE SOUDAN.

The late war in the Soudan was marked by many incidents of heroism, of self-sacrifice, noble loyalty, and bull-dog courage; and among these, the tale of an outlying picket on the outskirts of the British camp in the far desert is calculated to draw a word of sympathy for the unfortunate who is the hero of the following story ; — The troops were encamped for the night amid a sea of yellow sand. The sentinels were set as usual, and to effectually guard against surprise, a picket was placed at a distance from the main body, a position of great peril, but also ope of great honour. At midnight orders were unexpectedly given for the march to be resumed, and the tents silently fell and were packed away, and the dense body of armed men moved noiselessly out into and were swallowed up in darkness. And what of the lonely sentry, as he paced to and fro thinking of the happy home he left behind, of wife and children waiting his return 1 Did no one think of him ? When morning 'dawned his weary eyes are turned to where the tents of, his comrades had been pitched. Thay encounter an unbroken expanse of glittering sand. He rubs his eyes and looks again and now the appalling truth iSibut too plain. He is alone, without water, without food — a speck upon the ocean of glaring sand. " Mercy ! Mercy on me, God above 1" he moans, then sinks upon the sand in sudden awful terror. He rises now, his white, drawn face and gleaming eye betokening desperation, and with a steady tread he goes out on his hopeless search. The- sun rises higher and higher, and throws his burning rays like fiery darts into the plain, and still he goes on, and on, and on. And night comes on apace, and fleeting by, another, day arises on the scene. Now the scorching pangs of thirst appear, and gnaw the vitals of. his manhood's strength. His parched tongue and throat of leather seem to burn with fire. He staggers on his way, but presses blindly on, What is it that rises up before him in the plain ? A river ? Yes, a river; there, with verdant banks and cool, refreshing water, flowing on 'mong towering trees and peaceful homes of men. The weary wanderer, with a gladsome cry of joy, rashes on to plunge his fevered limbs into its cooling depths; and drink and drink again to cool the burning of his fiery mouth. Joy lends him wings, and soon he reaches— what 1 The dreary sandy plain, that stretches forth again its awful surface quivering 'neath the burning rays, and looking yet more mocking, yet more cruel than Defore. A hollow moan escaped his quivering lips ; he cannot cry now only staggers wildly on anywhere, and oft' his wandering mind will conjure up visions of fertile valleys lulled to rest with heavenly music of rippling waters from the hills or quiet streamlets gently flowing 'tween their banks of moss and flowers, with children playing and cattle browsing on their pastures 'mong the trees. He stretches out his arm to seize the proffered cup the reaper holds, and grasps a handful of the mocking sand. But hark I his wandering senses catch a sound. The clash of steels, the heavy muffled tread of troops. Can it be they, his comrades, back torescue from the yawning jaws of death their dear old comrade. He rises up, and Straining all his eyes, eagerly looks into the quivering haze to see a band of mounted Arabs come no doubt to to finish what the day begun. With strength borri of despair he lifts the rifle lying by his side, and pointing at bis foremoEt focraan, fires. With piercing.cry the wounded Arab fall?, bub not alone," for whizzing javelins launched

from swarthy hands have drunk the heart's blood of their helpless foe. At last his sufferings cease. He rests now quietly and the moon looks down wonderingly upon the slain, bathing in her softened light the noble dead. Beneath a pall of yellow burning sand, He rests serenely in his boundless grave : No better soldier in that gallant band, No braver 'mong old Albion's honoured bra\ c. The dreaded desert wind sweeps fiercely o'er And whirls the hot sand in its deadly grasp ; No terror has it now or evermore,

For the lifeless soldier in its fiery clasp. Years roll on, and at some distant day,

Perchance a wandering Arab may espy A crumbling skeleton lying by the way : One careless luok he casts, then passes by. And leaves it, as he has done thousands more, To bleach and moulder 'neath that fiery sun. Obeying but the laws which Nature bore, A carnal temple lost, a, golden mansion won. But, ah ! the blanks it leaves in one bright home, • Where fond friends wait for he who ne'er returns , Alas, each hope will meet its silent doom As days and weeks and years steal silently along. And this is glory ; this the sounding name For which men peril all they have on earth ; Ib cannot dry the mourning widows' tears, Nor cheer the lonely group around that silent hearth.

Blderslie, Southland, July 9.