CHAPTER 3. BILL'S TOMBSTONE
There were soldiers riding down the road, on horses two and two. Thatis the horses were two and two, and the men not. Because each man wasriding one horse and leading another. To exercise them. They came fromChatham Barracks. We all drew up in a line outside the churchyard wall,and saluted as they went by, though we had not read Toady Lion then. Wehave since. It is the only decent book I have ever read written by ToadyLion's author. The others are mere piffle. But many people like them. InSir Toady Lion the officer salutes the child.
There was only a lieutenant with those soldiers, and he did not saluteme. He kissed his hand to the girls; and a lot of the soldiers behindkissed theirs too. We waved ours back.
Next day we made a Union Jack out of pocket-handkerchiefs and part of ared flannel petticoat of the White Mouse's, which she did not want justthen, and some blue ribbon we got at the village shop.
Then we watched for the soldiers, and after three days they went byagain, by twos and twos as before. It was A1.
We waved our flag, and we shouted. We gave them three cheers. Oswald canshout loudest. So as soon as the first man was level with us (not theadvance guard, but the first of the battery)--he shouted--
'Three cheers for the Queen and the British Army!' And then we waved theflag, and bellowed. Oswald stood on the wall to bellow better, and Dennywaved the flag because he was a visitor, and so politeness made us lethim enjoy the fat of whatever there was going.
The soldiers did not cheer that day; they only grinned and kissed theirhands.
The next day we all got up as much like soldiers as we could. H. O. andNoel had tin swords, and we asked Albert's uncle to let us wear some ofthe real arms that are on the wall in the dining-room.
And he said, 'Yes', if we would clean them up afterwards. But wejolly well cleaned them up first with Brooke's soap and brick dust andvinegar, and the knife polish (invented by the great and immortal Dukeof Wellington in his spare time when he was not conquering Napoleon.Three cheers for our Iron Duke!), and with emery paper and wash leatherand whitening. Oswald wore a cavalry sabre in its sheath. Alice and theMouse had pistols in their belts, large old flint-locks, with bitsof red flannel behind the flints. Denny had a naval cutlass, a verybeautiful blade, and old enough to have been at Trafalgar. I hopeit was. The others had French sword-bayonets that were used in theFranco-German war. They are very bright when you get them bright, butthe sheaths are hard to polish. Each sword-bayonet has the name on theblade of the warrior who once wielded it. I wonder where they are now.Perhaps some of them died in the war. Poor chaps! But it is a very longtime ago.
I should like to be a soldier. It is better than going to the bestschools, and to Oxford afterwards, even if it is Balliol you go to.Oswald wanted to go to South Africa for a bugler, but father would notlet him. And it is true that Oswald does not yet know how to bugle,though he can play the infantry 'advance', and the 'charge' and the'halt' on a penny whistle. Alice taught them to him with the piano, outof the red book Father's cousin had when he was in the Fighting Fifth.Oswald cannot play the 'retire', and he would scorn to do so. But Isuppose a bugler has to play what he is told, no matter how galling tothe young boy's proud spirit.
The next day, being thoroughly armed, we put on everything red, whiteand blue that we could think of--night-shirts are good for white, andyou don't know what you can do with red socks and blue jerseys till youtry--and we waited by the churchyard wall for the soldiers. When theadvance guard (or whatever you call it of artillery--it's that forinfantry, I know) came by, we got ready, and when the first man of thefirst battery was level with us Oswald played on his penny whistle the'advance' and the 'charge'--and then shouted--
'Three cheers for the Queen and the British Army!' This time they hadthe guns with them. And every man of the battery cheered too. It wasglorious. It made you tremble all over. The girls said it made themwant to cry--but no boy would own to this, even if it were true. It isbabyish to cry. But it was glorious, and Oswald felt differently to whathe ever did before.
Then suddenly the officer in front said, 'Battery! Halt!' and all thesoldiers pulled their horses up, and the great guns stopped too. Thenthe officer said, 'Sit at ease,' and something else, and the sergeantrepeated it, and some of the men got off their horses and lit theirpipes, and some sat down on the grass edge of the road, holding theirhorses' bridles.
We could see all the arms and accoutrements as plain as plain.
Then the officer came up to us. We were all standing on the wall thatday, except Dora, who had to sit, because her foot was bad, but we lether have the three-edged rapier to wear, and the blunderbuss to hold aswell--it has a brass mouth and is like in Mr Caldecott's pictures.
He was a beautiful man the officer. Like a Viking. Very tall and fair,with moustaches very long, and bright blue eyes. He said--
'Good morning.'
So did we.
Then he said--
'You seem to be a military lot.'
We said we wished we were.
'And patriotic,' said he.
Alice said she should jolly well think so.
Then he said he had noticed us there for several days, and he had haltedthe battery because he thought we might like to look at the guns.
Alas! there are but too few grown-up people so far-seeing and thoughtfulas this brave and distinguished officer.
We said, 'Oh, yes', and then we got off the wall, and that goodand noble man showed us the string that moves the detonator and thebreech-block (when you take it out and carry it away the gun is in vainto the enemy, even if he takes it); and he let us look down the gun tosee the rifling, all clean and shiny--and he showed us the ammunitionboxes, but there was nothing in them. He also told us how the gun wasunlimbered (this means separating the gun from the ammunition carriage),and how quick it could be done--but he did not make the men do thisthen, because they were resting. There were six guns. Each had paintedon the carriage, in white letters, 15 Pr., which the captain told usmeant fifteen-pounder.
'I should have thought the gun weighed more than fifteen pounds,' Dorasaid. 'It would if it was beef, but I suppose wood and gun are lighter.'
And the officer explained to her very kindly and patiently that 15 Pr.meant the gun could throw a SHELL weighing fifteen pounds.
When we had told him how jolly it was to see the soldiers go by sooften, he said--
'You won't see us many more times. We're ordered to the front; and wesail on Tuesday week; and the guns will be painted mud-colour, and themen will wear mud-colour too, and so shall I.'
The men looked very nice, though they were not wearing their busbies,but only Tommy caps, put on all sorts of ways.
We were very sorry they were going, but Oswald, as well as others,looked with envy on those who would soon be allowed--being grown up, andno nonsense about your education--to go and fight for their Queen andcountry.
Then suddenly Alice whispered to Oswald, and he said--
'All right; but tell him yourself.'
So Alice said to the captain--
'Will you stop next time you pass?'
He said, 'I'm afraid I can't promise that.'
Alice said, 'You might; there's a particular reason.'
He said, 'What?' which was a natural remark; not rude, as it is withchildren. Alice said--
'We want to give the soldiers a keepsake and will write to ask myfather. He is very well off just now. Look here--if we're not on thewall when you come by, don't stop; but if we are, please, PLEASE do!'
The officer pulled his moustache and looked as if he did not know;but at last he said 'Yes', and we were very glad, though but Alice andOswald knew the dark but pleasant scheme at present fermenting in theiryouthful nuts.
The captain talked a lot to us. At last Noel said--
'I think you are like Diarmid of the Golden Collar. But I should like tosee your sword out, and shining in the sun like burnished silver.'
The captain laughed and grasped the hilt of his
good blade. But Oswaldsaid hurriedly--
'Don't. Not yet. We shan't ever have a chance like this. If you'd onlyshow us the pursuing practice! Albert's uncle knows it; but he only doesit on an armchair, because he hasn't a horse.'
And that brave and swagger captain did really do it. He rode his horseright into our gate when we opened it, and showed us all the cuts,thrusts, and guards. There are four of each kind. It was splendid. Themorning sun shone on his flashing blade, and his good steed stood withall its legs far apart and stiff on the lawn.
Then we opened the paddock gate, and he did it again, while the horsegalloped as if upon the bloody battlefield among the fierce foes of hisnative land, and this was far more ripping still.
Then we thanked him very much, and he went away, taking his men withhim. And the guns of course.
Then we wrote to my father, and he said 'Yes', as we knew he would, andnext time the soldiers came by--but they had no guns this time, onlythe captive Arabs of the desert--we had the keepsakes ready in awheelbarrow, and we were on the churchyard wall.
And the bold captain called an immediate halt.
Then the girls had the splendid honour and pleasure of giving a pipe andfour whole ounces of tobacco to each soldier.
Then we shook hands with the captain, and the sergeant and thecorporals, and the girls kissed the captain--I can't think why girlswill kiss everybody--and we all cheered for the Queen. It was grand. AndI wish my father had been there to see how much you can do with L12 ifyou order the things from the Stores.
We have never seen those brave soldiers again.
I have told you all this to show you how we got so keen about soldiers,and why we sought to aid and abet the poor widow at the white cottage inher desolate and oppressedness.
Her name was Simpkins, and her cottage was just beyond the churchyard,on the other side from our house. On the different military occasionswhich I have remarked upon this widow woman stood at her garden gate andlooked on. And after the cheering she rubbed her eyes with her apron.Alice noticed this slight but signifying action.
We feel quite sure Mrs Simpkins liked soldiers, and so we felt friendlyto her. But when we tried to talk to her she would not. She told us togo along with us, do, and not bother her. And Oswald, with his usualdelicacy and good breeding, made the others do as she said.
But we were not to be thus repulsed with impunity. We made complete butcautious inquiries, and found out that the reason she cried when she sawsoldiers was that she had only one son, a boy. He was twenty-two, and hehad gone to the War last April. So that she thought of him when she sawthe soldiers, and that was why she cried. Because when your son is atthe wars you always think he is being killed. I don't know why. A greatmany of them are not. If I had a son at the wars I should never thinkhe was dead till I heard he was, and perhaps not then, consideringeverything. After we had found this out we held a council.
Dora said, 'We must do something for the soldier's widowed mother.'
We all agreed, but added 'What?'
Alice said, 'The gift of money might be deemed an insult by that proud,patriotic spirit. Besides, we haven't more than eighteenpence among us.'
We had put what we had to father's L12 to buy the baccy and pipes.
The Mouse then said, 'Couldn't we make her a flannel petticoat and leaveit without a word upon her doorstep?'
But everyone said, 'Flannel petticoats in this weather?' so that was nogo.
Noel said he would write her a poem, but Oswald had a deep, inwardfeeling that Mrs Simpkins would not understand poetry. Many people donot.
H. O. said, 'Why not sing "Rule Britannia" under her window after shehad gone to bed, like waits,' but no one else thought so.
Denny thought we might get up a subscription for her among the wealthyand affluent, but we said again that we knew money would be no balm tothe haughty mother of a brave British soldier.
'What we want,' Alice said, 'is something that will be a good deal oftrouble to us and some good to her.'
'A little help is worth a deal of poetry,' said Denny.
I should not have said that myself. Noel did look sick.
'What DOES she do that we can help in?' Dora asked. 'Besides, she won'tlet us help.'
H. O. said, 'She does nothing but work in the garden. At least if shedoes anything inside you can't see it, because she keeps the door shut.'
Then at once we saw. And we agreed to get up the very next day, ereyet the rosy dawn had flushed the east, and have a go at Mrs Simpkins'sgarden.
We got up. We really did. But too often when you mean to, overnight,it seems so silly to do it when you come to waking in the dewy morn. Wecrept downstairs with our boots in our hands. Denny is rather unlucky,though a most careful boy. It was he who dropped his boot, and it wentblundering down the stairs, echoing like thunderbolts, and waking upAlbert's uncle. But when we explained to him that we were going to dosome gardening he let us, and went back to bed.
Everything is very pretty and different in the early morning, beforepeople are up. I have been told this is because the shadows go adifferent way from what they do in the awake part of the day. But Idon't know. Noel says the fairies have just finished tidying up then.Anyhow it all feels quite otherwise.
We put on our boots in the porch, and we got our gardening tools and wewent down to the white cottage. It is a nice cottage, with a thatchedroof, like in the drawing copies you get at girls' schools, and youdo the thatch--if you can--with a B.B. pencil. If you cannot, you justleave it. It looks just as well, somehow, when it is mounted and framed.
We looked at the garden. It was very neat. Only one patch was coming upthick with weeds. I could see groundsel and chickweed, and others that Idid not know. We set to work with a will. We used all our tools--spades,forks, hoes, and rakes--and Dora worked with the trowel, sitting down,because her foot was hurt. We cleared the weedy patch beautifully,scraping off all the nasty weeds and leaving the nice clean brown dirt.We worked as hard as ever we could. And we were happy, because it wasunselfish toil, and no one thought then of putting it in the Book ofGolden Deeds, where we had agreed to write down our virtuous actions andthe good doings of each other, when we happen to notice them.
We had just done, and we were looking at the beautiful production ofour honest labour, when the cottage door burst open, and the soldier'swidowed mother came out like a wild tornado, and her eyes looked likeupas trees--death to the beholder.
'You wicked, meddlesome, nasty children!' she said, ain't you got enoughof your own good ground to runch up and spoil, but you must come into MYlittle lot?'
Some of us were deeply alarmed, but we stood firm.
'We have only been weeding your garden,' Dora said; 'we wanted to dosomething to help you.'
'Dratted little busybodies,' she said. It was indeed hard, but everyonein Kent says 'dratted' when they are cross. 'It's my turnips,' she wenton, 'you've hoed up, and my cabbages. My turnips that my boy sowedafore he went. There, get along with you do, afore I come at you with mybroom-handle.'
She did come at us with her broom-handle as she spoke, and even theboldest turned and fled. Oswald was even the boldest. 'They looked likeweeds right enough,' he said.
And Dicky said, 'It all comes of trying to do golden deeds.' This waswhen we were out in the road.
As we went along, in a silence full of gloomy remorse, we met thepostman. He said--
'Here's the letters for the Moat,' and passed on hastily. He was a bitlate.
When we came to look through the letters, which were nearly all forAlbert's uncle, we found there was a postcard that had got stuck in amagazine wrapper. Alice pulled it out. It was addressed to Mrs Simpkins.We honourably only looked at the address, although it is allowed by therules of honourableness to read postcards that come to your house if youlike, even if they are not for you.
After a heated discussion, Alice and Oswald said they were not afraid,whoever was, and they retraced their steps, Alice holding the postcardright way up, so that we should no
t look at the lettery part of it, butonly the address.
With quickly-beating heart, but outwardly unmoved, they walked up to thewhite cottage door.
It opened with a bang when we knocked.
'Well?' Mrs Simpkins said, and I think she said it what people in bookscall 'sourly'.
Oswald said, 'We are very, very sorry we spoiled your turnips, and wewill ask my father to try and make it up to you some other way.'
She muttered something about not wanting to be beholden to anybody.
'We came back,' Oswald went on, with his always unruffled politeness,'because the postman gave us a postcard in mistake with our letters, andit is addressed to you.'
'We haven't read it,' Alice said quickly. I think she needn't have saidthat. Of course we hadn't. But perhaps girls know better than we do whatwomen are likely to think you capable of.
The soldier's mother took the postcard (she snatched it really, but'took' is a kinder word, considering everything) and she looked at theaddress a long time. Then she turned it over and read what was on theback. Then she drew her breath in as far as it would go, and caught holdof the door-post. Her face got awful. It was like the wax face of a deadking I saw once at Madame Tussaud's.
Alice understood. She caught hold of the soldier's mother's hand andsaid--
'Oh, NO--it's NOT your boy Bill!'
And the woman said nothing, but shoved the postcard into Alice's hand,and we both read it--and it WAS her boy Bill.
Alice gave her back the card. She had held on to the woman's hand allthe time, and now she squeezed the hand, and held it against her face.But she could not say a word because she was crying so. The soldier'smother took the card again and she pushed Alice away, but it was not anunkind push, and she went in and shut the door; and as Alice and Oswaldwent down the road Oswald looked back, and one of the windows of thecottage had a white blind. Afterwards the other windows had too. Therewere no blinds really to the cottage. It was aprons and things she hadpinned up.
Alice cried most of the morning, and so did the other girls. We wantedto do something for the soldier's mother, but you can do nothing whenpeople's sons are shot. It is the most dreadful thing to want to dosomething for people who are unhappy, and not to know what to do.
It was Noel who thought of what we COIULD do at last.
He said, 'I suppose they don't put up tombstones to soldiers when theydie in war. But there--I mean Oswald said, 'Of course not.'
Noel said, 'I daresay you'll think it's silly, but I don't care. Don'tyou think she'd like it, if we put one up to HIM? Not in the churchyard,of course, because we shouldn't be let, but in our garden, just where itjoins on to the churchyard?'
And we all thought it was a first-rate idea.
This is what we meant to put on the tombstone:
'Here lies
BILL SIMPKINS
Who died fighting for Queen
and Country.'
'A faithful son, A son so dear, A soldier brave Lies buried here.'
Then we remembered that poor brave Bill was really buried far away inthe Southern hemisphere, if at all. So we altered it to--
'A soldier brave We weep for here.'
Then we looked out a nice flagstone in the stable-yard, and we got acold chisel out of the Dentist's toolbox, and began.
But stone-cutting is difficult and dangerous work.
Oswald went at it a bit, but he chipped his thumb, and it bled so he hadto chuck it. Then Dicky tried, and then Denny, but Dicky hammered hisfinger, and Denny took all day over every stroke, so that by tea-timewe had only done the H, and about half the E--and the E was awfullycrooked. Oswald chipped his thumb over the H.
We looked at it the next morning, and even the most sanguinary of us sawthat it was a hopeless task.
Then Denny said, 'Why not wood and paint?' and he showed us how. Wegot a board and two stumps from the carpenter's in the village, and wepainted it all white, and when that was dry Denny did the words on it.
It was something like this:
'IN MEMORY OF BILL SIMPKINS
DEAD FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY.
HONOUR TO HIS NAME AND ALL
OTHER BRAVE SOLDIERS.'
We could not get in what we meant to at first, so we had to give up thepoetry.
We fixed it up when it was dry. We had to dig jolly deep to get theposts to stand up, but the gardener helped us.
Then the girls made wreaths of white flowers, roses and Canterburybells, and lilies and pinks, and sweet-peas and daisies, and put themover the posts. And I think if Bill Simpkins had known how sorry wewere, he would have been glad. Oswald only hopes if he falls on the wildbattlefield, which is his highest ambition, that somebody will be assorry about him as he was about Bill, that's all!
When all was done, and what flowers there were over from the wreathsscattered under the tombstone between the posts, we wrote a letter toMrs Simpkins, and said--
DEAR MRS SIMPKINS--
We are very, very sorry about the turnips and things, and we beg yourpardon humbly. We have put up a tombstone to your brave son.
And we signed our names. Alice took the letter.
The soldier's mother read it, and said something about our oughting toknow better than to make fun of people's troubles with our tombstonesand tomfoolery.
Alice told me she could not help crying.
She said--
'It's not! it's NOT! Dear, DEAR Mrs Simpkins, do come with me and see!You don't know how sorry we are about Bill. Do come and see.
We can go through the churchyard, and the others have all gone in, so asto leave it quiet for you. Do come.'
And Mrs Simpkins did. And when she read what we had put up, and Alicetold her the verse we had not had room for, she leant against the wallby the grave--I mean the tombstone--and Alice hugged her, and they bothcried bitterly. The poor soldier's mother was very, very pleased, andshe forgave us about the turnips, and we were friends after that, butshe always liked Alice the best. A great many people do, somehow.
After that we used to put fresh flowers every day on Bill's tombstone,and I do believe his mother was pleased, though she got us to move itaway from the churchyard edge and put it in a corner of our garden undera laburnum, where people could not see it from the church. But you couldfrom the road, though I think she thought you couldn't. She came everyday to look at the new wreaths. When the white flowers gave out we putcoloured, and she liked it just as well.
About a fortnight after the erecting of the tombstone the girls wereputting fresh wreaths on it when a soldier in a red coat came down theroad, and he stopped and looked at us. He walked with a stick, and hehad a bundle in a blue cotton handkerchief, and one arm in a sling.
And he looked again, and he came nearer, and he leaned on the wall, sothat he could read the black printing on the white paint.
And he grinned all over his face, and he said--
'Well, I AM blessed!'
And he read it all out in a sort of half whisper, and when he came tothe end, where it says, 'and all such brave soldiers', he said--
'Well, I really AM!' I suppose he meant he really was blessed. Oswaldthought it was like the soldier's cheek, so he said--
'I daresay you aren't so very blessed as you think. What's it to do withyou, anyway, eh, Tommy?'
Of course Oswald knew from Kipling that an infantry soldier is calledthat. The soldier said--
'Tommy yourself, young man. That's ME!' and he pointed to the tombstone.
We stood rooted to the spot. Alice spoke first.
'Then you're Bill, and you're not dead,' she said. 'Oh, Bill, I am soglad! Do let ME tell your mother.'
She started running, and so did we all. Bill had to go slowly because ofhis leg, but I tell you he went as fast as ever he could.
We all hammered at the soldier's mother's door, and shouted--
'Come ou
t! come out!' and when she opened the door we were going tospeak, but she pushed us away, and went tearing down the garden pathlike winking. I never saw a grown-up woman run like it, because she sawBill coming.
She met him at the gate, running right into him, and caught hold of him,and she cried much more than when she thought he was dead.
And we all shook his hand and said how glad we were.
The soldier's mother kept hold of him with both hands, and I couldn'thelp looking at her face. It was like wax that had been painted on bothpink cheeks, and the eyes shining like candles. And when we had all saidhow glad we were, she said--
'Thank the dear Lord for His mercies,' and she took her boy Bill intothe cottage and shut the door.
We went home and chopped up the tombstone with the wood-axe and had ablazing big bonfire, and cheered till we could hardly speak.
The postcard was a mistake; he was only missing. There was a pipe anda whole pound of tobacco left over from our keepsake to the othersoldiers. We gave it to Bill. Father is going to have him forunder-gardener when his wounds get well. He'll always be a bit lame, sohe cannot fight any more.