The
British soldier is an inveterate grumbler; he quarrels perpetually
with his quarters, his food, his clothing, and his general want of
luck. Just now the bad luck of being refused a share in an arduous
campaign, with its attendant chances of hardships, sufferings, perhaps
a violent death, made every soldier condemned to remain in safety at
Gibraltar discontented and sore at heart.
"No orders for us by the last mail, Hyde," said a young sergeant of
the Royal Picts, as he walked briskly up to the entrance of the
Waterport Guard.
A tall, well-grown, clean-limbed young fellow of twenty-four or five:
one who prided himself on being a smart soldier, and fully deserved
the name. He was admirably turned out; his coatee with wings, showing
that he belonged to one of the flank companies, fitted him to
perfection; the pale blue trousers, the hideous fashion of the day,
for which Prince Albert was said to be responsible, were carefully
cut; his white belts were beautifully pipe-clayed, and the use of
pipe-clay was at that time an art; you could see your face in the
polish of his boots. A smart soldier, and as fine-looking a young
fellow as wore the Queen's uniform in 1854. He had an open, honest
face, handsome withal; clear bright grey eyes, broad forehead, and a
firm mouth and chin.
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