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    Our Soldier Boy
    Our Soldier Boy
    Our Soldier Boy
    Ebook51 pages41 minutes

    Our Soldier Boy

    By George Manville Fenn

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    About this ebook

    Excerpt: "“You, Tom Jones, let that pot-lid alone.” It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly, and a big rough-looking bugler, in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers, with belts, buttons and facings looking very clean and bright, but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud, and sleeping in it anywhere, often without shelter, who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more, as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks, over a wood fire."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOtbebookpublishing
    Release dateNov 14, 2018
    ISBN9783962726713
    Our Soldier Boy
    Author

    George Manville Fenn

    George Manville Fenn (1831-1909) was an English author, journalist, and educator. Although he is best known for his boy’s adventure stories, Fenn authored over 175 books in his lifetime, including his very popular historical naval fiction for adult readers. Fenn wrote a number of weekly newspaper columns, and subsequently became the publisher of various magazines, many which became a platform for his social and economic views of Victorian England.

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      Book preview

      Our Soldier Boy - George Manville Fenn

      Fenn

      Chapter One.

      You, Tom Jones, let that pot-lid alone.

      It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly, and a big rough-looking bugler, in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers, with belts, buttons and facings looking very clean and bright, but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud, and sleeping in it anywhere, often without shelter, who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more, as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks, over a wood fire.

      It was in a lovely part of Portugal, and the regiment was halting among the mountains after a long weary tramp; fires had been lit for cooking, and the men were lying and sitting about, sleeping, cleaning their firelocks, pipeclaying their belts, and trying to make themselves look as smart as they could considering that they were all more or less ragged and torn after a fortnight’s tramp in all weathers in pursuit of a portion of the French army which had been always a few hours ahead.

      But it was easy enough to follow their steps, for everywhere they had plundered, and destroyed; villages and pleasant homes were burned; and blackened ruins, cut-up gardens and vineyards met the soldiers’ eyes wherever the enemy had been.

      There had been a straggling little village by the side of the mountain stream, where the 200th had halted at midday after their long march under a burning sun, at a spot where there was plenty of fresh water, and it was the pot over one of these cooking fires whose lid Tom Jones had lifted off.

      On’y wanted to smell what was for dinner, he said. What have you got, Mother Beane?

      Never you mind. Rare ohs for meddlers, and pump-handle sauce, perhaps; and look here, you sir, you come when we halt to-night and I’ll mend some of them rags. You’re a disgrace.

      Ain’t worse than the rest of the fellows, said Tom, grinning. The Colonel’s horse went down ’s morn’.

      Oh, dear, dear! cried the woman excitedly; is he hurt?

      Broke both his knees, and bled ever so.

      The Colonel?

      Now-w-w! His horse. Colonel only went sliding down ’mong the stones, and ripped his jacket sleeve right up.

      Oh, that’s a blessing, said the woman. You go to him when we camp, and say Mrs Corp’ral Beane’s dooty and she’s got a needle and silk ready, and may she mend his jacket.

      All right, but you might tell us what’s for dinner.

      Wait and see. And why don’t you go and forage about and see if you can’t find a bit o’ fruit or some vegetables?

      ’Tarn’t no good. Old Frog-soups clears everything.

      Yes, said the woman, with a sigh, as she re-arranged her battered old straw bonnet cocked up as if it were a hat, and took off the old scarlet uniform tail coat she wore over her very clean cotton gown, before going to the pot, wooden spoon in hand, to raise the lid and give the contents a stir round.

      Oh, I say, Mother Beane, it does smell good! What’s in it?

      Shoulder o’ goat, said the woman.

      Yah! Don’t care much for goat, said the boy. Arn’t half so good as mutton.

      You must take what you can get, Tom. Two chickens.

      "Why, that they ain’t. I see ’em: they was an old cock and hen as we chivied into that burnt house this mornin’, and Corp’ral

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