"That's hard work, Jack," remarked
Henry.
"But are ye goin' to the wars, my wean? Doctor dear, tell me, will he be
fightin' them savage Indians?"
"We believe so, Jack. We are to join the 5th Fusiliers, and they are to
fight the warlike Hill Tribes, fine soldiers--tall, fine men they are,
we are told."
"Alase-a-nie! You'll nae be fightin' yoursel, Doctor?"
"No," smiled McGregor, "my duty will be to cure, not to kill."
"Then, man alive, ye'll hae an eye to Henry."
So the young men tore themselves away from the sobbing mother, and,
through her blinding tears, she watched them mount the steep road
leading to Letterkenny first and then to the outside world, where danger
must be faced and glory won. Her husband's loving people collected that
evening in her cottage garden to condole with her and offer their
roughly-expressed but heartfelt sympathy.
"Dinna be cryin' that way, mistress dear," said old Jack. "Sure thon's a
quare steady fellow, thon Doctor, an' he will hae an eye to Henry."
* * * * *
It was November, 1888, when our troops were obliged to retreat from the
Black Mountain, and Mrs. Archer's son and his friend were among them.
Need it be recorded here how bravely Englishmen had fought, how
unmurmuringly they had endured the extremity of cold and fatigue? Their
Gourka allies had stood by them well; but the wild Hill Tribes, the
"fine soldiers" of whom McGregor had told Jack Dunn, were getting the
best of it, and we were forced to retreat.
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