Gil the Gunner: The Youngest Officer in the EastFenn, George Manville
General
Gil the Gunner: The Youngest Officer in the East
Fenn, George Manville
Great Britain. Army -- Colonial forces -- India -- Juvenile fiction; Young men -- Juvenile fiction
"Then he is a precious clever fellow, Vincent, and I should like to know
him. By George, sir, he has saved your limb. Get back it's use? Oh
yes, with care. Why, my dear fellow, I should have been proud of saving
an arm like that. Here, let me help you on with your dandy jacket. So
you would be Ny Deen's artillery general, eh?"
I only gave him a look.
"Not right, boy; but I suppose you could not help yourself. There, I
must go."
We went back into the other room, where Brace, and nearly all the
officers, had left.
"Father," I said, "Captain Brace will not have me back. Can I come with
you as a sort of aide-de-camp?"
"Of course. Yes, my boy; but try and keep out of danger."
The next minute we were following the column out over the bridge, the
head wing already raising a long cloud of dust, the horse artillery
rattling away in front, and the lancers off scouting in front, and
sending out flankers, to take care that no approach was made on either
side of the flying column.
By my father's orders, a magnificent horse had been brought from the
rajah's stables, and, mounted upon this, though I felt very sore about
the treatment I had received, I was getting into excellent spirits; and
as I was not to be a gunner, I was quite content to ride on in my
dashing uniform, though I saw the cavalry and infantry officers exchange
smiles.
It was very early yet, and the plain was quite deserted, while the hot
sun formed a haze that the eyes could only penetrate to a certain
distance.
Every one was on the look-out for the shimmering river and the patch of
forest beyond, where we knew, from our spies, that the rajah had halted
to gather his men together in as strong a position as he could find; and
here my father expected that he would hold out while efforts were made
to dislodge him from a place where our cavalry would be of no service.
They would have to wait until the ranks were driven from among the
trees, when the sharp charges of the lancers would scatter them in all
directions.
At last, river and green woods were in view, both welcome sights, with
their promises of shade and bathing, to men parched by the torrid
sunshine, and half choked by the dust turned up by elephant, camel,
horse, and men's trampling feet.
I watched my father's actions with all the interest of a young soldier,
and saw how he divided his little force of cavalry, sending them
forward, where they would be out of musket shot, but ready to slip like
greyhounds on their swift Arab troopers, as soon as the mutineers broke
out and tried to flee.
Then he sent forward the horse artillery--and how I longed to be with
them--and company after company of foot, to act as supports to save the
guns from capture; and as soon as the troop had taken up position, we
waited for the order to fire to be sent.
But it was not despatched, for scores of the lancers came riding in,
after galloping by the edge of the forest, to announce that the enemy
was not there.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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