of the lamps to guide her as she picked her steps.

The lane ended beside a sheet of water, pitch-black under the shadow
of a wooded shore, and glimmering beyond it with the reflections of a
few stars. Mr. Rogers gave a whistle; and a soft whistle answered
him. I heard a boat's nose grate on the shingle and take ground.

"All right, Sergeant?"

"Right, sir. Got the boy?"

"Climb down, Harry," whispered Mr. Rogers. "Shake hands and good
luck to you!"

I was given a hand over the bows by a man whose face I could not see.
The boat was full of men, and one dark figure handed me to another
till I reached the stern-sheets.

"Give way, lads!" called a voice beside me, as the bow-man pushed us
off. We were travelling fast when at a bend of the creek a line of
lights shot into view--innumerable small sparks clustered low on the
water ahead and shining steadily across it. I knew them at once.
They were the lights of Plymouth Dock.

"Where are you taking me?" I cried.

"That's no question for a soldier," said a voice which I recognised
as the sergeant's. And one or two of the crew laughed.

CHAPTER XXI.

I GO CAMPAIGNING WITH LORD WELLINGTON.

The vessel to which they rowed me was the _Bute_ transport, bound for
Portugal with one hundred and fifty officers and men of the 52nd
Regiment, one hundred and twenty of the third battalion 95th Rifles,
and a young cornet and three farriers of the 7th Light Dragoons in
charge of fifty remounts for that regiment.

We weighed anchor at daybreak (the date, I may mention, was July
28th), and cleared the Sound. At ten o'clock or thereabouts the wind
fell, and for two days and nights we drifted aimlessly about the
Channel at the will of the tides, while the sergeant--a veteran named
Henderson, who had started twenty-five years before by blowing a
bugle in the 52nd, and therefore served me as index and example of
what by patience I might attain to--filled the most of my time
between sleep and meals with lessons upon that instrument. From a
hencoop abaft the mainmast (the _Bute_ was a brig, by the way) I blew
back inarticulate farewells to the shores receding from us
imperceptibly, if at all; and so illustrated a profound remark of the
war's great historian, that the English are a bellicose rather than a
martial race, and by consequence sometimes find themselves committed
to military enterprises without having counted the cost or made
complete preparation.

On the t