Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - Hetty Wesley

S >> Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> Hetty Wesley

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As they ran to view the damage, the two riders came cantering across
the gully and joined them. By good fortune, at the base of the rock
there welled a tiny spring and spread itself in a miniature bog
before making up its mind to leap down the mountain-side and feed the
infant waters of the Taptee. Into this plashy soil the gun had
plunged and the carriage lay some yards away up-ended on a broken
wheel, but otherwise uninjured. Beside the carriage, when the
General reached it, an artillery sergeant and three of the team of
No. 2 gun were lifting the injured man.

"Badly hurt?"

The sergeant saluted. "We doubt it's over with him, sir. His back's
broken, seemingly."

The General turned away to examine the face of the cliff, and almost
at once gave vent to a low whistle.

"See here, Ellerton, the rock is caverned and the gun must have
broken through the roof. It doesn't look to me like a natural
cavern, either. Hi! half a dozen of you, clear away this rubbish and
let me have a nearer look."

The men turned to and heaved away the fallen stones under which the
water oozed muddily.

"Just as I thought! Nature never made a hole like this."

An exclamation interrupted him. It came from one of the relief party
who had clambered into the cavern and was spading there in the loose
soil.

"What is it?"

"A skeleton, sir!--stretched here as natural as life."

The General dismounted and clambered to the entrance, followed by his
staff officer. As they reached it, the man stooped again and rose
with something in his hand.

"Eh? A begging-bowl?"

"Not a doubt of it," said the staff officer, as his chief passed it
to him. He examined it, turning it slowly over in his hands.
"It's clear enough, though curious. We have struck the den of some
old hermit of the hills, some holy man--"

"Who pitched his camp here for the sake of the water-spring, no
doubt."

"Queer taste," said the staff officer sagely. "I wonder how the
deuce he picked up his food."

"Oh, the hill-men hereabouts will travel leagues to visit and feed
such a man."

"That doesn't explain why his bones lie unburied."

"No." The General mused for a moment. "Found anything else?" he
demanded sharply.

The searchers reported "Nothing," and wished to know if they should
bring the skeleton out into the light.

"No: cover him up decently, and fall in to limber up the gun!"
He took his horse's bridle and walked back to the group about the
injured man.

"Who is he?"

He was told, a corporal of the 94th who had volunteered for the gun
team two days before. The sergeant who reported this added
diffidently, "He had half a dozen of his religious mates in the team.
He's a Wesleyan Methodist, sir, begging your pardon."

"Are you one?"

The sergeant saluted.

"He was the best man in his company and--and," he added with a touch
of awe, "he was converted by Charles Wesley himself--at Bristol in
'eighty, so he's told us--and him aged but sixteen."

The General bent with sudden interest as the dying man opened his
eyes. After scanning his face for a moment or two he said gently:

"My man, they tell me you knew Charles Wesley."

The corporal painfully bent his brows, on which the last sweat was
gathering. "Is that--the General?" he gasped with a feeble effort to
salute. Then his brain seemed to clear suddenly and he answered, not
as soldier to commanding officer, but as man to man. "He converted
me. Praise be to God!"

"You are going to him. You know?"

The corporal nodded.

"And you may take him a message from me: for he once did me a
handsome turn, too--though not in that way. You may tell him--for I
watched you with the guns to-day--that I pass you for a good soldier.
You may tell him and his brother John that I wish to command no
better followers than theirs. Now, is there anything I can do for
you?"

The man looked up into the eyes of the sergeant bending over him,
muttered a word or two, slowly drew his palm up to his forehead; and
so, with the self-same salute, parted from his earthly captain and
met his eternal Captain in Heaven.

"What did he say?" asked the General.

"He was wishful not to be put away without a hymn, sir," answered the
sergeant, drawing himself erect to "Attention" and answering
respectfully through his captain who had drawn near, having limbered
up his gun.

The General nodded and turned away to watch the lowering of the
remaining guns. A new track had been cut and down it they were
trailed without accident. One by one they crossed the gully.
Then the rear regiments hove in sight with the ambulance. The dead
man was lifted in and his carrying-party, Wesleyans all, fell into
rank behind the light wagon as that, too, moved on.

"Ellerton," said the General suddenly as he gazed after them,
"did you hear what I said to that poor fellow just now?"

"Yes, General, and wondered."

"It was true, though. If it hadn't been for Charles Wesley, I should
never be here commanding these troops. Wesley or Wellesley, sir--
spell the name as you will: the man who adopted my great-grandfather
spelt it Wesley: and he moved heaven and earth to make Charles Wesley
his heir before he condescended to us. The offer stood open for
years, but Charles Wesley refused it. I never heard why."

What--the hymn-man?"

"Even so. Odd story, is it not?"

The man who was to be the great Duke of Wellington stared for a
moment, lost in thought, at his rear-guard mounting the farther slope
of the gully. And as the British guns rolled onward into the dusk,
back from the glimmering pass were borne the words of Wesley,
Handel's music wafting them on its majestic wings:

"Rejoice, the Lord is King!
Your Lord and King adore:
Mortals, give thanks and sing
And triumph evermore.
Lift up your heart, lift up your voice--
Rejoice! again I say, Rejoice!"

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