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The Little Bugler
of Kassassin.

A TRUE STORY OF THE WAR IN EGYPT,
1882.

BY
MRS. BALLARD.

FIFTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND.

LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO.,
21, BERNERS STREET, W.

He was but a boy. I could hardly believe when I first came upon that little wan face in the ward of the great Military Hospital, that he had gazed on death in the battle-field; or, that the childlike hand, wasted with fever, had grasped the bugle that called our men to the front.

   Weary, but watchful, his mother hung over his cot, treasuring every word, for he was the light of her life, "and she was a widow." Sometimes a gleam of glad surprise came over his face as for a moment he recognised her, — but oftener he seemed to be wandering in terrible scenes of danger and death, and to hear only the roll of the drum in his fevered dream.

   The little bugler had many kind friends among the men with whom he served, and with those who made the homeward voyage with him and it is believed that they will read with interest some account of his short but noble life.

   Walter John Cameron was born in York in 1868. His father, a Scotchman, had settled in business there. His characteristic trait in his boyhood was unswerving truthfulness. He did not fear punishment, he feared telling a lie, — and his mother cannot recall one occasion in which he deceived her. He was a very little fellow when playing one day carelessly with some companions in a street in York, his hockey-stick went through a window, breaking a large pane of glass. No one was standing near and the boys cried, "Cut and run before anybody comes!" "Make a clean bolt of it!" "Won't you catch it if your mother has to pay for that window, it will cost something considerable!" "But," said the lad to his mother "I couldn't do a mean thing like that." He at once went into the shop and said to the woman in charge, "I have broken your window; I am sorry for it, but I will go home at once and tell my mother, and she will send somebody to mend it. My name is Cameron."

   His parents were glad to see that the boy felt quite sure they would rather pay the money than that their boy should do a dishonourable action.

   From his childhood he wished to be a soldier, but his mother says he was always taught that it was a greater honour to be a Soldier of the Cross than even to be a soldier of the Queen. Though his home was a humble one he was so trained in reverence for truth, and had so high a sense of honour, that one of his comrades in the army afterwards remarked to his mother, "We all used to say he was a real little gentleman."

   He was gifted with a beautiful voice and a true and delicate ear for music, and when only seven years old he joined the choir in the old Church of St. Mary's, Castlegate. He delighted in the services; for eighteen months he was never once absent or fate at either of the three services each Sunday. The sudden death of his father was a great sorrow and unspeakable loss to the boy, but he seems early to have realised that much of his mother's future happiness now lay in his keeping, and that nothing could cheer her so much as his well doing.

   While he was a chorister in St. Mary's he seems to have listened with great interest and intelligence to the teaching and preaching of the Rector, Rev. F. Lawrence, and to have carried away a lasting remembrance of what he had heard. A deep impression was also made on his mind by the sermons of the Rev. Canon Fleming. Boy though he was he wrote full notes of what he could remember of those sermons, and carried those notes with his Bible along with him when he went on active service. How little the preacher thought that his words had sunk so deep into one young heart, to be recalled in the desert and on the battle plain! Of two of those sermons he retained a vivid recollection; one on the words, "Son, remember," and the other a sermon preached to soldiers. The preacher forcibly pointed out to them the difference between physical and moral courage, and reminded them that many a man who is not afraid of a cannon ball is yet a coward at heart when called to stand the jeer or taunt of companions when trying to do right. He told them of a brave young soldier, brave in the higher sense, who had calmly continued his evening prayer regardless of the scoffs of his comrades, till they said, "He can stand fire," and left him in peace to follow his conscience. This story and the words "He can stand fire," became a sort of watchword between Walter Cameron and his mother, so that when she asked him, on his return from Egypt, "Well, my boy, and can you stand fire?" he replied at once, with an answering eye, "Yes, mother, I always said my prayers."

   Walter enlisted in 1881 in the Commissariat Corps, 10th Company. His mother had changed her residence at his father's death, and his home, which was now on the outskirts of the city, was close to the barracks. He had often found his way there and had been treated most kindly by the men. His cheery manner and musical gifts made him a favourite everywhere, but his mother dreaded that his songs and his popularity might lead him into temptation. She was, therefore, very thankful when he told her on his return to England, "The men often asked me to sing; I used to sing to them every evening on board. I sang 'Tom Bowling' and 'The Midshipmite,' but I did not let them treat me, for I knew you did not want me to be treated to beer for my songs."

   A time of great trial, however, came to the little fellow in the barracks. Many articles belonging to the men had disappeared unaccountably, and it was suspected that one or two new recruits who had lately joined, and of whose previous character nobody knew anything, were dishonest. At last a watch was missing, and Walter overheard one of those men say to the rest, "It's no wonder things get prigged with little chaps about everywhere," and he felt that an attempt would be made to throw the blame on him. It was an ungenerous attempt to get a poor little fatherless boy into trouble, but the God of the fatherless watched over him.

   One evening while sitting in the barrack­room, cleaning part of his kit, alone, the man who had made the remark came in, evidently wishing Walter away, and suggested to him in very rough language that it was time to go out. Walter, however, continued his work. Soon it occurred to him that someone had disturbed his package of bedding, and he unstrapped it. What was his dismay to find two half-crowns hidden in a corner of his blanket. What did it mean? he asked himself. He told his mother he felt a sort of terror as he looked at the money, and realised that he must have an enemy at hand, who wished either to tempt him or get him into trouble. Fortunately a moment's thought showed him at once the course to take. He went straight to his superior officer and told him exactly what had taken place, and put the money in his hands, and eventually the real culprit was detected.

   He was now attached as bugler to the 2nd Company of the Commissariat Corps. After being nearly twelve months in the service he was ordered, with his company, to Cyprus, and sailed in the Courland on the 1st of August, 1882. He departed with many tears and prayers from his mother, who thought him too young for the risks and fatigues of active service, as indeed proved to be the case. She only withdrew her objection on its being represented to her that she was standing in the way of his promotion, and that it would be selfish to deprive him of the opportunity of serving his country and distinguishing himself. She had also the gratification of learning that he was wanted because he could be trusted to do his duty, and that he had acquired the various bugle calls so rapidly and so correctly that they could not afford to leave him behind.

   It may seem to many that his place in the great army was a very humble one, — that he was but a voice to give a message. But when we consider how important it was that his message should be truly and clearly given, that there should be no doubt on any man's mind what the bugle said, we shall see that his place, though humble, was not without responsibility. And surely not without significance is the lesson of a life, in which the one great object was to do his duty and to give the message truly and clearly, cost what it might, leaving God to care for the messenger.

   Walter Cameron's first letter from Cyprus was very cheerful, — he wrote that he had enjoyed the voyage. In a letter, dated September 2nd, 1882, he wrote from Ismailia:—

   DEAREST MOTHER. — I am very sorry I have not written to you sooner, for I know how anxious you will feel about me, but I missed the last two mails home on account of my being kicked in the back, and I could not get about for some time, but, thank God, I am all right again now. Ismailia is fearfully hot and sandy, and we are tormented by thousands of horrid flies all day long. We know very little about the war here, although we are only twenty miles away, — we get very little news. They bring the sick and wounded down here to the hospital, and they, poor fellows, tell us as much as they know themselves. You, from the papers at home, will know far more than we do out here. Things are much dearer here than in Cyprus, where we could get twelve eggs for sixpence; a helmet full of grapes for a penny, and immense melons for threepence. I like this place for one thing — that is, there are 15,000 troops here, many of them the native Indian troops. I have seen the Bengal Lancers, the biggest men I ever saw; also some of the heavy cavalry. The native infantry wear red trousers, and it makes them look very warm. At night, when all is quiet, oh, dear mother, how I do think of you, and I know you do of me. . . The 4th Dragoons are out here, so I may perhaps see some of the old faces again to remind me of York."

   The history of the following month is known to all. How we fought at Kassassin, and "how we won Tel-el-Kebir," need not be related here. The little bugler had not time to write more than a few lines to his mother to tell her that he hoped to see her again soon, and that she must wait for all news till they should meet.

   After Walter was at Kassassin he appears to have felt the fatigue of a long march very exhausting, — this was when he accompanied the Commissariat to meet the troops after the attack on Tel-el-Kebir. He retained a terrible remembrance of the horror with which he looked on the dead and wounded brought in. The white faces upturned on the sand haunted his dreams, for "every battle of the warrior is with confused noise, and garments rolled in blood." This, then, was the reality of war; hitherto he had seen only the glitter of the parade ground.

   Gladly the troops embarked for the homeward voyage, and we know what a shout of welcome awaited them in England. Cheerily the little bugler used to sing in the evenings to the men on board. Many among them recall kindly how they used to enjoy that fresh, clear young voice ringing out over the waves, "Cheerily, my lads, yo ho," or "When Johnnie comes marching home." Then came the excitement of landing. "Such cheers and flags," he said; "people rushing out to meet us, and shake hands with the men. I hardly knew whether my head or my heels were uppermost."

   "Then again at Woolwich," he described, "we were all in a whirl; such shouts and cheers all along the streets, I felt as if I were in a dream. But I didn't think I was really at home, mother, till I felt your arms round my neck." His mother had now come up to London, where she was living in lodgings to be near him. But through all this joy and excitement the remembrance of the dead and the wounded mingled sadly. Those memories of Kassassin "still like muffled drums were beating." "I don't know why it is," he said to his mother, "whenever I think of these poor chaps I feel sick and faint. I can't swallow anything when I have been thinking of them."

   The next great event for the troops was the review before Her Majesty. Walter Cameron understood that he was to have the honour of receiving his medal from the hands of his Sovereign, as he was the youngest soldier who had served in the campaign. But no earthly glory was to be his. Two days before the review, in November, 1882, he was brought to the Herbert Hospital, near Woolwich, "sick unto death." He had been seized with illness which developed into enteric fever, — that terrible fever which has cut off so many of our brave men since the war ended, — the result of exposure, fatigue, and of the poisonous state of the water in Egypt.

   For a time Walter seemed hardly to know where he was, or why he was there; he wandered in thought and memory, often asking for the much-prized medal. "I haven't got my medal," he would say, piteously; "am I too little to get a medal? The men used to call me Shrimp, — I know I am only a little chap. Did the Queen say I was too little for a medal? But, indeed, I tried to do my duty, and the biggest fellow could do no more. I tried never to say I was tired in that march." He was soothingly told to keep still and try to get well, and the Queen would be sure to give him his medal when he was better. "Attention!" he would say as the chief medical officer entered the ward, and the little feverish hand was always raised to salute. "Let me stand up; do you think I don't know a field officer when I see him?" "What do all these fellows mean by lying still?" he would ask, as he looked along the ward filled with the sick and dying, for the "E" ward had been specially set apart for the wounded from Egypt.

   For seven long weeks Walter lay ill — his youth struggled with the malady, and many were the ups and downs it took. All around were interested in the little bugler, and he had the kindest attention from Doctors and Chaplain, and tender watchful care from the Sisters and Orderlies. His mother often expressed her gratitude for all that was done for him in the Herbert Hospital. Sometimes he recognised her, and would speak of the scenes in Egypt; sometimes his dreams were soothing and full of home memories. "Who do you think," he said one day, "came to see me last night? It was my father! Oh, he was so pleased to see me again."

   At last, in the Christmas week, it appeared that the young life was fast ebbing away, and no human skill could avail. It was kindly arranged for Walter's mother that she might remain and nurse him to the end. One night he looked at her earnestly and said, "Mother, this is a cruel fever. Mother, I have something to say to you." He put up his arms round her neck, and she stooped to hear him whisper, "Mother, I am dying, dying."

   "Are you afraid, my darling?" she asked.

   "Oh, no! no! not afraid, mother," he whispered again; "mother, Jesus knows about you, but I am going to tell Him a lot more."

   And now the last day of December had come, and "the year was dying in the night." The long ward was filled with sufferers where the mother was watching alone by her boy. The winter wind moaned and shrieked through the long corridor, as if the dying year were rising from earth with its record of war and tumult; within the dimly lighted ward only an occasional moan broke the stillness. Was it the wild wind that mingled with the boy's dreams, bringing thoughts of desolation? "See, see," he whispered, with a shudder, "they are bringing more. Are they all dead? My God! what a sight — cover them up. God have pity on their mothers." Then, with a violent effort, he raised himself. "Let me get up, I have a long way to go. I am going to my father."

   He sank back exhausted; and as consciousness returned, he looked up in his mother's face, and said, feebly, "Take me in your arms, mother; I could sleep if you put your arms round me." She slipped her arm under his head, and he fell asleep on her breast so sweetly that she almost hoped once again that he was to be given back to her. But when he awoke she could not deceive herself, — his face wore that solemn and lonely look which can never be forgotten by those who have watched a soul enter Eternity. He gazed intently upwards; the wild wind wailed outside, and shook the casements but he heard it not. Above the storm his ear caught a higher strain, which he tried to join. With a feeble but clear voice he sang:—

   Now the battle-field and all its tumult had passed away — the blood-stained desert and the weary march were forgotten — and he seemed to think himself again a little white­robed chorister, singing at evening prayer. One petition after another was repeated, and responses, as though in answer to a voice unheard, excepting by himself. How clear and solemn, in the midst of those sufferers, rose the boy's voice as he prayed, "Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord."

   One more hymn, and it was to be his last on the shores of Time, he sang —

   The promise was fulfilled — a "glad new year" dawned for the boy, where sorrow and sighing have fled away.

   His mother had watched, without resting, for three days and nights by his side, and the intense effort so to control her grief that it might not disturb the other sufferers, seemed to have frozen every emotion, leaving her only the burning, aching pain of a tearless sorrow. Those who looked on pityingly, thought of the words, "She must weep, or she will die;" but their sympathy did not touch her. But as she left the hospital where her task was done, to return to her desolate lodging, she crossed the Woolwich Common, and just then a sudden, solitary bugle sounded. Sharp and clear it rang through the winter air. How little the bugler thought that his note was bringing to one lonely widow's heart the tenderest memories, and the relief of a flood of tears. So strangely, and often unconsciously, are we linked together in this mysterious life's journey.

   Not many days after, a brilliant company swept through the Hospital gate, when H.R.H. the Prince of Wales visited the patients and gave medals to the wounded. Some of us who watched the noble procession with interest, yet felt as if the voice of the little bugler still echoed in our thoughts, "Am I too little for a medal? but indeed I tried to do my duty too." When we told his mother how we had missed the lad then, she stilled every murmur by the reply, "His comrades have seen the Prince, but my boy has seen 'The King in His beauty.'"