"Parade—dismiss." As each company went by they gave old Corkleg a smart salute, and sang, "For he’s a jolly good fellow."
Bludgeon got a bottle of Scotch, a box of cigars, and a new blackthorn cudgel, "for services rendered," as the colonel tersely put it, when handing over the gifts.
"Welcome! Welcome! And when we all meet down below, Bludgeon, I’ll have you appointed provost-sergeant to Old Nick."
_The_ preceding chapters have given you the fun of the game, but do not imagine the training of this corps was fun—and nothing more. The Glesca Mileeshy spent many weary days and nights preparing for war. Every weakness was found and ruthlessly eradicated. Every loafer and weed was booted out. At the end of their training, one and all were as tough as tinkers, and fit to shoot the tail of a sparrow at 500 yards. Better still, every man was out to conquer and to kill. Colonel Corkleg was proud of them, and he deserved to be, for, as old "Sunny Jim," the G.O.C., had said, "They were the pride of the Mixed Division." Imagine their bearing and think of their cheers on being ordered to move. Of course, the Kirk-session of Mudtown made no protest about their departure. The regiment mustered 1020 strong, and on their backs was piled everything, from a shovel to a beer bottle. A thrill of pride ran up the backbone of every officer as they viewed the throng, while old Colonel Corkleg felt the strings of emotion pulling at his old heart. Keen he was to fight and win; keen even to die at the cannon’s mouth. But he knew the cost of war, and realised that ere the game was done many of his gallants would bite the dust, thus adding to the roll of the widows and fatherless. However, duty was a stern call. He received the adjutant’s report of "All present" with the same stiff air which marked his attitude on all parades.
"Battalion—’Shun! Advance in fours from the right of companies—Number one leading."
"Quick march," ordered the leading commander. The band struck up "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and with many a laugh and cheer the heroes stepped to war. If you have never known this great experience you will never understand. But a soldier knows it well. It is the greatest moment in his life. His pride is dominant, his step jaunty and gay, and his whole body permeated with an electric-like thrill peculiar to his kind. And there is a look in a woman’s eye which is a fine reward. Soldiers, on such occasions, rouse all that is great in a woman’s soul. She feels she is gazing at men. She realises that such men guard her from the brutalities of the Huns; she knows the children of her blood will not be bayoneted like the babes of Liége and Namur. Deep in her heart there is also sympathy and love, for women have a keen perception. Though she never lives in the tented field, she fully understands the horrors of it all. To one who has a lover in the van it is more trying still. Even the poorest are capable of great devotion. To see the object of their affection march to the field is a proud, yet a heart-gripping affair. If many of these men were scallywags, they were delightful scallywags, if one may use the term. And in their own way they could express that love which is mightier than the sword. Words will, therefore, hardly depict the sadness of parting. Thousands of fathers, mothers, and sweethearts had gathered to see their heroes off. No rudeness; no mock hilarity was seen. Even the men grew somewhat sad at leaving their all in all. As they swung through the station in their sections of fours, women burst into tears, some even swooned away.