[The story of Willie Holt, the young bugler, has been often told throughout the years. Those who have heard it in the past agree that it is still well worth repeating, for through it God has brought many to the Savior.]
During my military service in India, in those stirring times of mutiny and murder, I had in my regiment a little bugler. I had often noticed him and feared that he was too fragile and delicate for the life he had to lead.
The lad had been born in the regiment, and we felt bound to make the best of him. His father, as brave a man as ever lived, had been killed in action; then his mother had drooped and died six months later.
She had been the daughter of an army chaplain, and was a delicate, refined woman. To the best of her ability she had brought up the boy strictly, according to her light. In spite of her religiousness she was generally liked and respected. The boy was like her and preferred going to prayer-meeting rather than joining in the horseplay of the other boys. Because of this he was not popular, and suffered from many coarse taunts and mocking gibes. After his mother died—I heard all this afterward—his life was made miserable by the scoffing sneers and ribald jokes of the older men, whose target he was.
About two years later, when Willie Holt was fourteen years old, the regiment was bivouacking some miles from camp for rifle practice. I had intended leaving the lad behind, thinking him too delicate for such work—the ground was swampy and unhealthy—but my sergeant-major begged hard "to take him along.”
"There is mischief in the air, Colonel," he said; "and rough as they treat the lad—and they do lead him a life—his pluck and his patience amaze them; for the boy is a saint, sir; he is indeed.”
I had a rough lot of recruits just then. Before we had been out but a fortnight several acts of insubordination had been brought to my notice. Those were ticklish times and I had felt compelled to make an example of the very next offense by having the culprit flogged.
One morning it was reported to me that during the night the targets had been thrown down and otherwise mutilated, and the usual practice could not take place. This was serious indeed, and on investigation the mischievous act was traced to a man or men in the very tent where Willie Holt was billeted. Two of them were indeed the worst characters in the regiment. When enough evidence was produced to prove conclusively that one or more of them were guilty of the crime, the whole lot were instantly put under arrest to be tried by court-martial. In vain they were appealed to produce the man responsible.
At last I said: "We have all heard the evidence that proves the perpetrator of last night's vandalism to be one of the men before us.”
Then turning to the prisoners, I added: "If any one of you who slept in No. 4 tent last night will come forward and take his punishment like a man, the rest will get off free. If not, there remains no alternative but to punish you all, each man in turn to receive ten strokes of the 'cat.'”
For the space of a couple of minutes dead silence followed. Then, from the midst of the prisoners, where his slight form had been completely hidden, Willie Holt came forward.
"Colonel," said he, "you have passed your word that if any one of those who slept in No. 4 tent last night comes forward to take his punishment, the rest shall get off free. I am ready, sir! Please, may I take it now?”
For a moment I was speechless, so utterly was I taken by surprise. Then in a fury of anger and disgust, I turned upon the prisoners:— "Is there no man among you worthy of the name? Are you all cowards enough to let this lad suffer for your sins? That he is guiltless you know as well as I." But, sullen and silent, they stood with never a word.
Then I turned to the boy whose pleading eyes were fixed on me, and never in all my life have I found myself so painfully situated. I knew my word must stand. The lad knew it too, as he repeated, "I am ready, sir.”
Sick at heart, I gave the order, and he was led away for punishment. Bravely he stood with bared back, as one—two— three strokes descended. At the fourth a faint moan escaped his white lips; but ere the fifth fell a hoarse cry burst from the crowd of prisoners who had been forced to witness the scene. With one bound Jim Sykes (the black sheep of the regiment) seized the cat-o-nine-tails. With choking voice he shouted: "Stop it, Colonel, stop it! Tie me up instead. He never did it, but I did"; and with convulsed and anguished face he flung his arms around the boy.
Fainting and almost speechless, Willie lifted his eyes to the man's face and smiled— such a smile. "No, Jim," he whispered, "you are safe now. The Colonel's word will stand." Then his head fell forward. He had fainted.
The next day, as I was making for the hospital tent where the boy lay, I met the doctor. "How is the lad?" I asked. "Sinking, Colonel," he said quietly.
"What!" I ejaculated, horrified and startled at the words.
"Yes. The shock of yesterday was too much for his feeble strength. I have known for quite a while it was only a question of time," he added. "This affair has only hastened matters. He is nearer heaven than earth, sir." With suspicious moisture in his kind old eyes he stood aside while I stepped into the tent.
The dying lad lay propped up on the pillows. At his side, half kneeling, half crouching, was Jim Sykes. The change in the boy's face startled me; it was deadly white, but his eyes were shining with a wonderful light, strangely sweet. The kneeling man lifted his head, and I saw drops of sweat standing on his brow as he muttered brokenly: "Why did ye do it, lad? Why did ye do it?”
"Because I wanted to take it for you, Jim," Willie's Weak voice answered tenderly. "I thought it might help you to understand why Christ died for you.”
"Christ died for me?" the man repeated.
"Yes, He died for you, Jim; but Christ loves you much more. I only suffered for one sin, but Christ took the punishment for all the sins you have ever committed. That penalty was death, Jim, and Christ died for you.”
"Christ has naught to do with such as me, lad; I'm one of the bad 'uns; you ought to know that.”
"But He died to save bad ones," answered Willie. "He says, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.' `Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.' Oh, Jim, listen! He is calling you. He has poured out His lifeblood for you. He is knocking at the door of your heart. Won't you let Him in?”
The lad's voice failed him, but he laid his hand gently on the man's bowed head.
Standing there in the shadow, I felt my own heart strangely stirred. I had heard such things long, long ago. Thoughts of my own dear mother came floating back out of the dead past, and the words seemed a faint echo of her own.
How long I stood there I know not. I was roused by a cry from the man, and I saw Willie had fallen back on his pillow, fainting. I thought the lad was gone, but a few drops of cordial from the table at his side soon revived him. He opened his eyes, but they were dim and sightless. "Sing to me, mother," he whispered, "'The Gates of Pearl'; I am so tired.”
The words flashed back to my memory. I had heard them often in the shadowy past, and I myself repeated them softly to the dying boy:—
"Though the day be never so long,
It ringeth at length to even song;
And the weary worker goes to his rest
With words of peace and pardon blest.
"Though the path be never so steep,
And rough to walk on and hard to keep
It will lead, when the weary road is trod,
To the Gates of Pearl—the City of God.”
"Thank you, Colonel," he whispered, "I shall soon be there.”
His confidence seemed so strange to me that I said, "Where?”
"In heaven, Colonel." Then he repeated, as if to himself:
"Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bid'st me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God— I come!”
After a while we saw a glorious light in his dying eyes, and with a happy cry, he flung out his arms as if in welcome: "Mother!—Mother!”
His voice rang out, thrilling the heart of everyone who heard it. Then gradually the weak arms dropped. The light faded from the shining eyes. The brave spirit of the martyr-boy had fled to God.