THE MISSING SENTINEL, A GARRISON YARN. “ "BLOOD-AN'-OUNS!"-"Blood-an'-ouns!" again vociferated Private Patrick Mullowny, No. 452 of H. M.'s 112th Regiment of Foot, stationed at Portsmouth, as with a start, a shiver, a yawn, and a sudden spring to the military attitude of "Attention," he awoke at an uncertain hour of a November night, in one of the earliest years of the present century. And well might a full private of foot, under like circumstances, give vent to some such ejaculation as the aforesaid; and well might he spring to the attitude of attention,-for the slumbers of Private Patrick Mullowny had been of the longest and soundest; his dreams had been of the last general parade, on which the Articles of War had been read to the regiment by the Adjutant; and more especially of a certain highly pregnant clause thereof, wherein it is made and provided that "Any soldier who, being a sentinel, shall be found sleeping on his post, or shall leave it before being regularly relieved, shall suffer DEATH, or such other punishment as by a General Court-martial shall be awarded;" and, to crown all, his couch for the nonce had been the floor of his sentrybox,-nor could he by possibility conjecture for how long a time it had officiated in that unseemly capacity. Private Patrick Mullowny sprung then to his feet, and to attention, and bringing his firelock to the "port," with a degree of energy that would have delighted the heart of a drill-sergeant, he roared out at the top of a voice by no means delicate, though just now somewhat shaky, the words "Halt,-who goes there?" and, having repeated this challenge without receiving any answer, he proceeded to rub, and finally to open his eyelids to their widest extent, an operation which led to the discovery that nobody in life was "going there," or anywhere else within ear-shot of his post, and consequently that there was a physical impediment to anybody "halting" at his word of command. Musha! so much the better; for if that thievin' Corporal Blinkum had cotched me stoopin' down to lace me boot, as I was just then, he'd a sworn it was sitting in the sentry box I was, and as for the bit of a prayer I was muttering to meself quiet and asy, he'd a-tuk his book oath before the Coort-bad luck to him!--that it was snoring I was, and sleeping on me post!" The now thoroughly aroused sentinel was trembling in every limb, and his teeth chattering with a mixture of fear and cold; so, shouldering his musket, he betook himself to marching briskly up and down in front of his station, cheering his "lonely round" (as poets have taken out a licence to style this purely to-and-fro movement) with snatches of the Rakes o' Mallow, and other favourite national melodies. Circulation being thus restored to his chilled frame, he ceased to suffer from the effects of the atmosphere; but he now "Began to feel, as well he might and especially of thirst, which was usually the more pressing corporeal want of our friend the sentinel. He began to wonder, too, that the relief had not yet come round,-for although the trifling relaxation of vigilance just adverted to had somewhat impaired his powers of computing time, he was cock-sure, to use his own expression, that his two hours of sentry-duty had expired; "and fair measure, too, they 've given me!" added he, with some muttered aspirations relative to the Corporal's present and future state, which it would have been the height of temerity to have uttered aloud in that non-commissioned officer's presence. And now, in attempting to rally his thoughts-an evolution at which he was, at the best and brightest of times, no great adept — it occurred to Private Patrick Mullowny that the character of the night had much changed for the worse since he was planted on his post; for the weather was then, as he remembered, temperate, the sea dead calm, and the moon shining right over his head; whereas at the present moment, sky, and earth, and sea, were dark as pitch,-sharp gusts of wind blew round his ears and whistled athwart the edges of his bayonet,-the surf tumbled noisily on the shingle,-and the moon, like Paddy himself, seemed to have gone to sleep on her post-and gone to bed also. He took a dozen steps of thirty inches to his front, and found his feet in the salt water: that was what he expected. He took a dozen steps of thirty inches to the right of his sentry-box, and pitched on his head over a heap of broken rocks, which by broad daylight he had assuredly never noticed. On resuming his perpendicular, and his beat towards the opposite flank, he ran stem on" against a fishing-yawl hauled high and dry on the beach, and which he was ready to swear was not there in the morning. 66 Whilst recovering himself and his arms, he heard a clock strike the hour, but, in his confusion he lost the number of the strokes, and, to his bewildered senses the well-known chime of St. ——'s seemed to come from the seaward rather than from the direction of the town. He listened attentively, and his heart thumped against his ribs, as he fancied he heard something moving in the stranded vessel;-and so he did; but it was only the fold of a fishing-net flapping against the gunwale. He thought he heard a strange noise amongst the rocks on which he had just left the skin of his nose ;-and so he did; for the crabs, unused to the nocturnal visitation of a bear-skin cap filled with brogue and blasphemy, were scuttling away as fast as they could on their native side-cars to quieter quarters. He heard, as he imagined, the whirring of huge wings, and the screaming of unearthly screams in the air around him; there were indeed both; for the gulls and cormorants, resenting the military occupation of their favourite haunts, whirled and shrieked about his head in hellish discord. He cast a glance through the gloom of night at his sentry-box, as if expecting thence some sympathy and support;-he did not half like the look of it! It seemed all askew, and appeared to be "mopping and mowing" at the much-bothered Hibernian. Now, though Patrick Mullowny was as bold as a lion in open day, and against any mortal foe or natural danger, he was never quite himself in the dark; and when the faintest shadow of the supernatural crossed his mind, poor Pat became an arrant poltroon. His hair then stood an end so stiff as to lift his bear-skin several inches above his cranium-for our sentinel was a grenadier, and, by the same token, six feet two in his stocking-soles; yet, despite his stature and calling, he experienceed at this juncture, as he afterwards deposed, a kind of "all-overishness," which seemed to take all the "starch" out of his legs and transfer it to his locks. "Mille murthers !" cried he, in the depth of his tribulation"Mille murthers! where am I at all? Has the divil been divartin' hisself at my expinse? or has the 'good people'-G-d help me! -been with poor Pat Mullowny this blessed night? And how 'd I know that it's my mother's son that's in it all, at all? Maybe it's somebody else, and somewheres else I am all the while! And, troth, I don't feel a taste in life like the big bould boy I was in the morning. If it wasn't so tearin' dark I'd know myself by the number of me accouthremints, let alone the picture of Kathleen of Ballyragget-more power to her!-done in gunpowther on me arram. Hurroo! there's the clock agin, the Lord be praised! and out at say agin, too! One, two, three, four, five! Bloody wars! look at that now! and I posted here since ten! "Sentry go! -Sentry go!" bawled the now completely puzzled Patrick, in continuation of his soliloquy. He might have bawled himself black in the face, and bawled till doomsday, yet bawled in vainno answer-no relief! Our ill-starred sentinel had now reached the sticking-place of doubt, fear, and trouble. All his personal resources, mental and corporeal, were exhausted. As a last effort, he mustered together, with more haste than discrimination, everything that he could remember in the way of prayers. He ran over several dozens of " Pather an' Aves," scrambled through a score or two of " Credos,” and a very incomplete and mutilated set of "Peccatum meums;" besides, amid many crossings and genuflexions, invoking the aid of his patron saint, as well as a strongish squad of canonised worthies, male and female, with whom he was less closely acquainted. And thus meritoriously, and, no doubt, efficaciously engaged, we leave for the present Private Patrick Mullowny. H.M.S."Brazenface" (42) rode at single anchor off the 66 Spit," under orders to sail, wind and weather permitting, the following morning, for the East Indian station. The captain was ashore; the first lieutenant in his cabin, up to his elbows in the multifarious business inseparable from his posi national melodies. Circulation being thus restored to his chilled frame, he ceased to suffer from the effects of the atmosphere; but and especially of thirst, which was usually the more pressing corporeal want of our friend the sentinel. He began to wonder, too, that the relief had not yet come round,-for although the trifling relaxation of vigilance just adverted to had somewhat impaired his powers of computing time, he was cock-sure, to use his own expression, that his two hours of sentry-duty had expired; "and fair measure, too, they've given me!" added he, with some muttered aspirations relative to the Corporal's present and future state, which it would have been the height of temerity to have uttered aloud in that non-commissioned officer's presence. And now, in attempting to rally his thoughts-an evolution at which he was, at the best and brightest of times, no great adeptit occurred to Private Patrick Mullowny that the character of the night had much changed for the worse since he was planted on his post; for the weather was then, as he remembered, temperate, the sea dead calm, and the moon shining right over his head; whereas at the present moment, sky, and earth, and sea, were dark as pitch,-sharp gusts of wind blew round his ears and whistled athwart the edges of his bayonet,-the surf tumbled noisily on the shingle,-and the moon, like Paddy himself, seemed to have gone to sleep on her post-and gone to bed also. He took a dozen steps of thirty inches to his front, and found his feet in the salt water: that was what he expected. He took a dozen steps of thirty inches to the right of his sentry-box, and pitched on his head over a heap of broken rocks, which by broad daylight he had assuredly never noticed. On resuming his perpendicular, and his beat towards the opposite flank, he ran "stem on" against a fishing-yawl hauled high and dry on the beach, and which he was ready to swear was not there in the morning. Whilst recovering himself and his arms, he heard a clock strike the hour, but, in his confusion he lost the number of the strokes, and, to his bewildered senses the well-known chime of St. 's seemed to come from the seaward rather than from the direction of the town. He listened attentively, and his heart thumped against his ribs, as he fancied he heard something moving in the stranded vessel;-and so he did; but it was only the fold of a fishing-net flapping against the gunwale. He thought he heard a strange noise amongst the rocks on which he had just left the skin of his nose; and so he did; for the crabs, unused to the nocturnal visitation of a bear-skin cap filled with brogue and blasphemy, were scuttling away as fast as they could on their native side-cars to quieter quarters. He heard, as he imagined, the whirring of huge wings, and the screaming of unearthly screams in the air around him; there were indeed both; for the gulls and cormorants, resenting the military occupation of their favourite haunts, whirled and shrieked about his head in hellish discord. He cast a glance through the gloom of night at his sentry-box, as if expecting thence some sympathy and support;-he did not half like the look of it! It seemed all askew, and appeared to be mopping and mowing" at the much-bothered Hibernian. 66 Now, though Patrick Mullowny was as bold as a lion in open day, and against any mortal foe or natural danger, he was never quite himself in the dark; and when the faintest shadow of the supernatural crossed his mind, poor Pat became an arrant poltroon. His hair then stood an end so stiff as to lift his bear-skin several inches above his cranium-for our sentinel was a grenadier, and, by the same token, six feet two in his stocking-soles; yet, despite his stature and calling, he experienceed at this juncture, as he afterwards deposed, a kind of "all-overishness," which seemed to take all the "starch" out of his legs and transfer it to his locks. "Mille murthers!" cried he, in the depth of his tribulation"Mille murthers! where am I at all? Has the divil been divartin' hisself at my expinse? or has the 'good people'-G-d help me! -been with poor Pat Mullowny this blessed night? And how'd I know that it's my mother's son that's in it all, at all? Maybe it's somebody else, and somewheres else I am all the while! And, troth, I don't feel a taste in life like the big bould boy I was in the morning. If it wasn't so tearin' dark I'd know myself by the number of me accouthremints, let alone the picture of Kathleen of Bally ragget more power to her!-done in gunpowther on me arram. Hurroo! there's the clock agin, the Lord be praised! and out at say agin, too! One, two, three, four, five! Bloody wars! look at that now! and I posted here since ten! "Sentry go! -Sentry go!" bawled the now completely puzzled Patrick, in continuation of his soliloquy. He might have bawled himself black in the face, and bawled till doomsday, yet bawled in vain— no answer-no relief! Our ill-starred sentinel had now reached the sticking-place of doubt, fear, and trouble. All his personal resources, mental and corporeal, were exhausted. As a last effort, he mustered together, with more haste than discrimination, everything that he could remember in the way of prayers. He ran over several dozens of "Pather an' Aves," scrambled through a score or two of "Credos," and a very incomplete and mutilated set of "Peccatum meums;" besides, amid many crossings and genuflexions, invoking the aid of his patron saint, as well as a strongish squad of canonised worthies, male and female, with whom he was less closely acquainted. And thus meritoriously, and, no doubt, efficaciously engaged, we leave for the present Private Patrick Mullowny. H.M.S." Brazenface" (42) rode at single anchor off the Spit," under orders to sail, wind and weather permitting, the following morning, for the East Indian station. The captain was ashore; the first lieutenant in his cabin, up to his elbows in the multifarious business inseparable from his posi |