Chapter XXX · A SOLDIER’S FUNERAL.

When a soldier dies notice is at once given to the officer in command of his troop or company, and an inventory is taken of his effects.

The coffin is made (and paid for by means of the effects of the man, which are sold by auction in the garrison after his funeral), and this, with a few trifling fees, is the only expense. The coffin is carried to the grave either on a gun carriage or by men belonging to the man’s company, according to the service to which the man belongs.

The band, or the drums and fifes or bugles, of the regiment to which the man belonged attend the funeral, and lead, playing the dead march; then come a firing party, which are provided with three rounds of blank cartridge; then the coffin and pall bearers, after which the mourners.

When any of the relatives of a soldier attend his funeral they follow immediately behind the coffin; then come the men of the troop or company, the order at a funeral being, that the juniors march nearest the coffin, the seniors last. In all cases of the funeral of private soldiers there is an officer in attendance, usually a subaltern officer, who commands the party, and in the march follows in rear.

The firing party mainly indicates the military rank of the deceased soldier. A private soldier or corporal being entitled to thirteen rank and file; a sergeant to nineteen; a cornet or ensign to thirty; a lieutenant to forty; a captain to one hundred; a major to two hundred; a lieutenant-colonel to three-hundred, and a colonel by his own regiment.

When an officer above the rank of colonel is buried, there are cannon employed instead of small arms. A brigadier’s funeral is attended by two squadrons and one battalion, and a salute of nine cannon is given. A major-general’s is attended by three squadrons and two battalions and eleven pieces of cannon. A lieutenant-general’s thirteen pieces of cannon, three battalions and four squadrons. A general’s with fifteen pieces, four battalions, and six squadrons. And a field-marshal’s saluted with seventeen pieces of cannon, and attended by six battalions and eight squadrons.

When a general or flag officer is being conveyed to the grave, minute guns are fired; but these are not to exceed the number to which the officer was entitled when alive.

When an officer dies in any garrison town, it is customary to send round with the orders, which are read by every officer each evening, a notice to the effect that the funeral will take place on a particular day, and any officers wishing to attend are to be at a place named at a given hour. It is usual for every officer belonging to the regiment or corps of the deceased in the garrison to attend, if not otherwise occupied, and personal friends of the deceased follow also.

All officers who attend funerals appear in full dress with a piece of black crape above the elbow of the left arm, this being the only mourning allowed in the army. The pall-bearers, who should be of the same rank as the deceased, usually wear a crape scarf in addition to the crape on the arm.

When the officer belonged to the royal artillery or cavalry his charger is led to the grave, saddled and equipped, the boots of his master being suspended on each side of the saddle, the heels turned to the front. On the coffin, the busby, helmet, or shako is placed, and the officer’s sword-belt and gloves.

There are few things more imposing in outward appearance than a soldier’s funeral. The slow, measured beat of the drum, the firing party marching with their arms reversed, a position highly emblematic of grief, the strange mixture of uniform and black pall, invariably tend to make the bystanders feel that a soldier’s funeral is far more solemn and impressive than is that of a civilian.

When the procession approaches the grave the firing party file to the right and left, and thus form on either side; they then rest upon their arms reversed, whilst the coffin is borne between the ranks. When the coffin has been lowered into the grave and the service completed, three rounds of blank cartridge are fired in the air as a feu de joie—a somewhat inappropriate term for the occasion—but modified by an old corporal who instructed us in the goose step, and who used to order us to fire a “few de joy—as for the Queen’s birthday,” or “a feu de wo for a funerial.”

A soldier’s life is, when on service, passed amidst scenes of danger, and thus probably he to a certain extent becomes indifferent to death; to say the least, he has not time to grieve very long. Thus no sooner has the ceremony of depositing his comrade in the earth been accomplished, than the band, or drums and fifes, which so solemnly performed the dead march when proceeding to the burial place, strike up a cheerful quick march, and the soldiers return to barracks to the tune of “Here we are again,” forgetful of the scene in which they have lately been actors, and regardless of the probability of themselves being the next claimants for six feet of earth.

The most important military funeral of late years, and one which everybody went to see who could do so, was that of the Duke of Wellington. Famed throughout the world for his brilliant military and civil career, as well as for the genius which characterized all his acts, the nation with one voice called for a public and gorgeous funeral, as a last tribute of its estimation of so far-famed a chieftain.

It was on a dark November morning that hundreds and thousands of persons, long before dawn, wended their way through the streets of London, intent on obtaining a good position on the pavement or to be sure of reaching the house and thence the window, which had been previously secured and from which the procession could be best seen.

Even as early as six o’clock in the morning, large bodies of cavalry and infantry are marching through the streets, whilst officers in uniforms ride up and down, giving orders and arranging the positions for various bodies of men who are yet to make their appearance. In all the principal open spaces troops are mustering; behind the Horse Guards and in St. James’s Park, all branches of the service being represented, from the little known uniforms of Indian soldiers to that of our own guards; for the Great Duke had culled his first laurels on the fields of India, and soldiers from the then East India Company’s service attended as representatives of that branch of our army.

The course taken by the procession was from the Horse Guards to St. Paul’s, and an enormous number of troops were required to keep the ground along the course, this crowd being immense. Not only were the streets crowded, walking being almost impossible, but it was estimated that upwards of two hundred thousand seats were sold to sight-seers.

In the actual procession were six battalions of infantry, nine guns from the field batteries, five squadrons of cavalry, and eight guns from the horse artillery.

The Duke’s regiments were of course represented on the occasion, and gave an additional interest to the scene. There was the “Brigade,” of which Arthur Duke of Wellington was Colonel-in-Chief, and also the regiment in which young Arthur Wellesley learned the goose step and how to “shoulder arms.”

The military, however, formed only a portion of the procession, for the Great Duke was a man of many honours; for Russia, Prussia, Spain, Portugal, Hanover, and the Netherlands had conferred upon him the marshal’s bâton, and these nations were each represented on the occasion. Besides these foreigners, many of whom had served with the Duke, there were men of our own country, whose names were well known, and whose reputation would have shone brighter had they not been dimmed by comparison with that of the Duke. In the procession and around the grave there might be seen one of our most far-seeing and able Generals, Sir Charles Napier, the man whom the Duke had selected to go to India at a period of emergency, and to whom he looked as one alone capable of playing the requisite part at that time. Near him was the dashing gallant Lord Gough, who loved to fight side by side with his men; Lord Seaton, Viscount Combermere, Sir W. Cotton, Sir A. Woodford, &c., names familiar as household words, were grouped around the grave of their loved chief.

The contrast on this day was marked indeed between the grandeur and brilliancy that appeared in St. Paul’s, and the silent deserted appearance of Apsley House, where every blind was down and every shutter closed.

It was remarked that as the procession wended its way through the streets, and as the somewhat gorgeous-looking vehicle that contained the coffin passed, every person from the highest to the most humble, bared his head and seemed to be awe-struck, and reminded that fame, rank, and genius are no more free from the call of death than are poverty, misery, and insignificance.

The Duke’s titles having been repeated by Garter, King of Arms, the ceremony was concluded, but will long be remembered by those who were witnesses to the imposing scene.

On the 6th April, 1864, a military funeral took place at Woolwich which was attended by a large body of officers, and was a good specimen of a military funeral.

Colonel Bingham, the Deputy Adjutant-General of the Royal Artillery, died at Brighton, to which place he had gone for change of air. His body was conveyed to Woolwich for the purpose of being interred with military honours, and he was buried at Old Plumstead Church. In consequence of the rank of the deceased officer, but more especially from the great respect in which he was personally held, every officer who could obtain leave from out-stations was present on the occasion. Not only did every officer of his own regiment attend, but very many from other branches of the service, so that altogether upwards of three hundred officers followed in the procession.

The weather on the occasion was fine and bright and well-suited for a military display. At one o’clock the troops in garrison paraded, and a large body was told off to line the road from Woolwich Common to the Church, a distance of nearly three miles. At two o’clock the coffin was brought from the house and placed on a gun carriage, covered with a Union Jack, the drums in attendance giving muffled rolls. On the coffin were placed the Colonel’s cocked hat and sword, and the carriage was drawn by six horses. The procession then moved on in the following order—

Detachments of Horse Artillery, mounted.

Eight Batteries of Royal Artillery, on foot, with arms reversed.

The Royal Marine Band, playing the Dead March.

Nine Guns of Royal Horse Artillery.

The Royal Artillery and the Bugle Band.

The Garrison Chaplains.

The Corpse.

On either side of the Coffin, four Colonels Royal Artillery as Pall-bearers.

The Deceased’s Horse.

Private Mourners.

Officers of the Adjutant-General’s Department.

The Gentlemen Cadets.

The Clerks of the Adjutant-General’s Departments.

The various Officers who attended.

Mounted Detachments of Royal Horse Artillery.

Private Carriages.

The procession altogether extended considerably over a mile, and at the slow pace at which the march was carried on nearly an hour and a half elapsed before the church was reached.

The small church of Plumstead had rarely if ever been filled by so many military celebrities as on this occasion. Among those whose names are familiar to the public were Field-Marshal the Duke of Cambridge, Sir Richard Airey, Sir J. Scarlet, Sir Edward Lugard, General Foster, General Bloomfield, and others.

The troops were formed in the churchyard and in a field near. The nine guns were drawn up on a higher portion of ground, and at some distance from the church, for the discharge of a cannon not uncommonly breaks windows, and thus these implements of warfare were removed to a safe distance. When the funeral service had been read and the body lowered into the grave the Armstrong guns fired their salute, and the last offices were paid to a good and noble soldier as well as to a most just and honourable man.

The funeral of a soldier who dies amidst scenes of civilization, where the last honours can be paid to him in the manner just described, is certainly an imposing scene, but to some minds it seems less solemn than it might be, and too much of a show. The high probability that among many of those who attend such a funeral there are several who knew little or nothing personally of the man whose body they are following to the grave, may possibly tend to do away with a portion of the real grief which some people are accustomed to see habitually displayed at a funeral. The gaping crowd also, who are usually free critics on the dress and personal appearance of the various members of the procession, render a large military funeral by no means that quiet scene which we all thirst for when the heart has been saddened by the departure of a loved friend. But we can conscientiously state that at those funerals of which we have been eye-witnesses the conduct of those personally engaged, as well as of the lookers-on, has been such as to harmonize with the sensitive state of those who were nearly allied by blood or friendship to the deceased.

When a soldier meets a soldier’s death, and is buried “with his martial cloak around him,” and when no band of music attends his funeral, or other pomp is added to his last honors, the last offices are not less solemn, the whole scene not less impressed on the memory, and the sudden reminder that in the midst of life we are in death not less efficient in its results. When we see a friend gradually sicken and day by day become weaker, whilst doctors shake their heads and relatives despond, we are prepared at last for the final scene. When, however, we breakfast with a comrade, walk with him to the parade, march beside him as we approach an enemy’s position, hear him suddenly cease speaking when in the middle of a sentence, and look round to see him sinking to the earth lifeless; and when, after a smart brush with an enemy, we return to attend the funeral of this comrade, who has been to us perhaps more than a brother for months or years—we seem to be nearly allied to death, for we may on the following night be consigned in the same way to six feet of ground, our security for life being no greater than was our comrade’s.

In many cases, where the number of slain can be counted by hundreds, the day following a great battle is a sad one. Experienced was the general who exclaimed—“Nothing but a defeat is more sad than a victory, for the losses of the latter are only exceeded by those of the former.” To give each man a separate grave, or to pronounce a funeral service over each man, would occupy more time than could be spared; thus, a large hole, and a funeral service for 100 men, who are rapidly covered with earth, and who, shroudless and coffinless, are thus disposed of, is the other side of the scene of pomp which we have described as a soldier’s funeral at home.