The Hillsborough Recorder

THE PARTING.
From "Recollections of Eventful Life." By a Soldier.
[A recent British Publication.]

We had been about three months in the Island of Jersey, when the order came for our embarkation for Portugal; but only six women to every hundred men were allowed to accompany us.—As there were, however, a great many more than that number, it was ordered that they should draw lots, to see who should remain. The women of the company to which I belonged, were assembled in the pay sergeant's room for that purpose. The men of the company had gathered around them to see the result, with various degrees of interest depicted in their countenances. The proportionate number of tickets were made, with "to go," or "not to go," written on them. They were then placed in a hat, and the women were called by their seniors to draw their tickets. I looked around me before they began. It was an interesting scene. The sergeant stood in the middle with the hat in his hand, the women around him with their hearts palpitating, and anxiety and suspense in every countenance. Here and there you would see the head of a married man pushed forward through the crowd, in the attitude of intense anxiety and attention.

The first woman called was the sergeant's wife; she drew "not to go." It seemed to give little concern to any one but herself and her husband. The next, was a corporal's wife—she drew "to go." This was received by all with nearly as much apathy as the first. She was little beloved either.

The next was an old hand, a most outrageous virago, who thought nothing of giving her husband a knock down when he offended her, and who used to make great disturbance about the fire in the cooking way. Every one uttered their wishes audibly that she would lose; and her husband, if we could judge from his countenance, seemed to wish so too. She boldly plunged her hand into the hat and drew out a ticket; on opening it, she held it up triumphantly, and displayed "to go." "Old Meg will go yet," said she, "and live to scald more of you about the fire-side." A general murmur of disappointment ran through the whole. "She has the devil's luck and her own," said one of them.

The next in turn was the wife of a young man who was much respected in the company for his steadiness and good behaviour. She was remarkable for her affection for her husband, and beloved by the whole company for her modest and obliging disposition. She advanced with a palpitating heart and trembling hand to decide on (what was to her I believe) her future happiness or misery. Every one prayed for her success.—Trembling between fear and hope, she drew out one of the tickets, and attempted to open it: but her hand shook so she could not do it. She handed it to one of the men to open. When he opened it, his countenance fell, and he hesitated to say what it was. She cried out to him, in a tone of agony, "tell, for God's sake, what it is?" "Not to go," said he, in a compassionate tone of voice. "Oh God, help me! Oh Sandy!" she exclaimed, and sunk lifeless in the arms of her husband, who had sprung forward to her assistance, and in whose face was now depicted every variety of wretchedness. The drawing was interrupted, and she was carried by her husband to his birth, where he hung over her in frantic agony. By the assistance of those around her, she was soon recovered from her swoon, but she awoke only to a sense of her misery. The first thing she did was to look round for her husband—when she perceived him, she seized his hand and held it, as if she was afraid that he was going to leave her. "Oh Sandy, you'll not leave me and your poor babie, will you?" The poor fellow looked in her face with a look of agony and despair.

The scene drew tears from every eye in the room, with the exception of the termagant whom I have already mentioned, who said, "What are ye a'makin such a wark aboot? Let the babie get her greet out! I suppose she thinks there's naebody ever parted with the men but her, wi' her faintin', and her airs, and her wark!"

The drawing was again commenced, and various were the expressions of feelings evinced by those concerned. The Irish women in particular were loud in their grief. It always appeared to me that the Irish either feel more acutely than the Scotch or English, or they have less restraint on themselves in expressing it.—The barrack, through the rest of that day, was one continued scene of lamentation.

We were to march the next morning early.—Most of the single men were away drinking. I slept in the birth above Sandy and his wife. They never went to bed, but sat the whole night in their birth, with their only child between them, alternately embracing their child and each other, and lamenting their cruel fortune. I never witnessed in my life such a heart-rending scene. The poor fellow tried to assume some firmness, but in vain; some feeling expression from her would throw him off his guard, and at last his grief became quite uncontrollable.

When the first bugle sounded, he got up and prepared his things. Here a new source of grief sprung up. In laying aside the articles which he intended to leave, and which they had used together, the idea seemed fixed in his mind that they would never use them in that way again, and as she put them aside, she watered them with her tears. Her tea pot, her cups, and every thing that they had used in common, all had their apostrophe of sorrow. He tried to persuade her to remain in the barracks, as we had six miles to travel to the place of embarkation: but she said she would take the last minute in his company that she could.

The regiment fell in, and marched off, amid the waiting of those who, having two or three children, could not accompany us to the place of embarkation. Many of the men had got so much intoxicated, that they were scarcely able to walk. The commanding officer was so displeased at their conduct, that, in going through St. Helier's, he would not allow the band to play.

When we arrived at the place where we were to embark, most distressing scenes took place, in the men parting with their wives. Some of them, indeed, it did not appear to affect much; others had got themselves nearly tipgy; but most of them seemed to feel it acutely.

When Sandy's wife came to take her last farewell, she lost all government of her grief. She clung to him with a despairing hold. "Oh! dinna, dinna leave me," she cried. The vessel was hauling out. One of the sergeants came to tell her that she would have to go ashore. "Oh! they'll nev. er be so hard-hearted as to part us!" said she; and running aft to the quarter deck, where the commanding officer was standing, she sunk down on her knees with her child in her arms. "Oh! will you not let me gang wi' my husband? Will you tear him from his wife and his wean? He has nae frien's but us—nor we only but him—and. Oh! will you make a' frien' less? See my wee babie pleadin' for us!"

The officer felt a painful struggle between his duty and his feelings; the tears came into his eyes. She eagerly caught at this as favourable to her cause. "Oh! aye, I see you have a feeling heart—you'll let me gang wi' him! You have nae wife; but if you had, I am sure you wad think it unco hard to be torn frae her this way—and this wee darling." "My good woman," said the officer, "I feel for you much, but my orders are peremptory, that no more than six women to each hundred men to go with their husbands. You have had your chance as well as the other women; and although it is hard enough on you to be separated from your husband, yet, there are many more in the same predicament, and it is totally out of my power to help it."

"Well, well," said she, rising from her knees, and straining her infant to her breast, "it's a' o'er wi' us, my puir babie! This leaves us frien'less on the wide world." "God will be your friend," said I, as I took the child from her until she should get into the boat.—Sandy had stood like a person bewildered all this time, without saying a word. "Farewell, then, a last farewell, then!" said she to him.… "Where's my babe?" she cried. I handed him to her—"Give him a last kiss, Sandy." He pressed the infant to his bosom in silent agony. "Now 'tis o'er! Farewell, Sandy! We'll may be meet in season;" and she stepped into the boat with a wild despairing look. The vessel was now turning the pier, and she was almost out of our sight in an instant; but as we got the last glimpse of her, she uttered a shriek, the knell of a broken heart, which rings in my ears at this moment. Sandy rushed down below, and threw himself into one of the births in a state of feeling which defies description. Poor fellow! his wife's forebodings were too true!—He was amongst the first that were killed in Portugal. What became of her I have never been able to learn.