by Max Hennessy
‘One never knows,’ von Hartmann said seriously. ‘Are you still reporting the war?’
‘I seem to be fighting it at the moment. And it looks very much as if it’s going to start here shortly, so I’d advise you to clear off, because I don’t want to be responsible for you.’
Von Hartmann smiled and turned his horse away. ‘I shall head south into Mexico,’ he said. ‘The French are trying to set up a puppet monarchy there. It might be instructive to watch them at it.’
As he waved and vanished, Colby looked round. Nearby was an abandoned inn, the paintless ghost of a previous era. The country was gently rolling with green fields, cultivated farms and gardens and there was a stream nearby where thirsty horses were already drinking. As the sun got up and the day grew warmer, they could hear firing to the north. As they waited in the sunshine, men and horses wearied by the headlong ride, a few small fires were built and the men moved around the abandoned tavern looking for the best of the scanty cover. Ackroyd produced coffee and as they drank he looked at Colby.
‘We goin’ to win this one, sir?’ he asked.
Colby shrugged. ‘Not with two understrength brigades, Tyas.’
The troops were ranged in a right angle to the north of the inn, with skirmishers in gulleys and among the trees. Artillery was on the left of the line and, behind, black servants and orderlies held the horses which snatched eagerly at the sparse grass, switching their tails at the first flies of the summer.
As the Federals appeared, they split into two columns, one pushing south to Richmond. Stuart was close by as they watched a line of mounted men appear, sitting his horse near a group of aspen trees lining the road. As the bullets started, the pickets bolted for shelter and Stuart and his staff moved forward, Stuart with one leg over the saddle writing a despatch.
The Federal horsemen were edging forward, and there was a yell as they broke into a gallop. Stopped by the volley of musketry, the charge degenerated into hand-to-hand fighting.
‘Go in there, Mr Goff, and help!’
Stuart was gesturing forward and Colby turned to Love’s men. ‘Mount!’
As the horses were brought up, they swung to the saddle, and, moving into a gallop in a few strides, they smashed into the Northern troopers, who turned and bolted before they could get properly among them. Scattered shooting emptied a few saddles as they rode back. Stuart met them as they came.
‘I think that will do nicely,’ he said. His face was unsmiling and grave as he watched them pass. ‘Custer’s over there,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen his yellow hair through my glass. We must watch ourselves today.’
As they reformed, there was a yell and Colby turned in the saddle to see an infantry regiment running towards them. There was no need to issue orders. The horses were cantered away to the rear in bunches, while their riders flung themselves down and started firing. The artillery was hammering away with shell and canister. In front of the battery the road ran over a fenced bridge where only three or four men could pass at a time. The Blue-coat cavalry crashed towards it in column of squadrons, trumpeters blaring away behind. They lost heavily as they thundered across and several horses crashed down. As they cleared it they opened into line and began to gallop. Sheer force of numbers carried them through the battery, firing and slashing at the gunners.
They were swarming thickly in the woods now and during a lull Ackroyd came up to Colby. ‘There’s a rumour that the buggers are in our rear,’ he said.
‘Stuart doesn’t seem too worried,’ Colby said.
‘I am,’ Ackroyd said flatly, ‘This isn’t no place for a British soldier who wants to go ’ome and get married.’
Another wave of skirmishers had spilled from the woods now and a mounted brigade was hurtling towards them at full gallop.
‘Don’t stop to count them, boys,’ Stuart shouted. ‘Shoot them!’
The Northerners were using sabres and, as they reached the heavy fence where the Southerners were established, they tried to reach over and slash at them, but they were soon piled up in heaps of dead and struggling wounded. Stuart came riding back alone. He was whistling as he took up a position behind the firing line.
‘Give it to ’em, boys,’ he was calling. ‘Hold ’em there, Mr Goff!’
He emptied his big silver-chased revolver at the Federals and men on horses began to canter slowly away from the firing, dismounted men stumbling after them among the riderless chargers.
‘Steady, men, steady!’ Stuart was still shouting orders when one of the dismounted horsemen turned and fired on the run and Colby saw him press a hand to his side. As he bent forward in the saddle, his hat fell off.
‘General–’ one of the Southern soldiers turned and ran to him ‘– are you hit?’
‘Yes.’ Stuart’s voice came in a thick, strained way.
‘You wounded bad?’
‘I’m afraid I am. It’s God’s will.’
Two mounted troopers moved forward and he was taken to the rear, the blood darkening the yellow sash round his waist. The sight distracted some of Love’s troopers and Colby went along the line. ‘Look to your front! Do your duty as he has!’
But Stuart’s wound had demoralised them and they began to edge back. Colby was just struggling with a soldier who was trying to hide in a culvert when he felt a blow on the head that spun him round. For a moment he thought one of the retreating men had turned on him and hit him with a rifle, but they were all moving away, and as he realised he was seeing them through a film of blood, it dawned on him that he’d been wounded.
That’s a bloody stupid thing to do, he thought. Get hurt in somebody else’s war!
He straightened up with an effort but as he did so there was another blow on his left thigh that whipped his leg from under him so that he was lying flat on his back in the grass half-under the fence. Alongside his face was the face of a dead man, its eyes blue, staring and covered with grit. God, he thought, if I stay here I’ll die, too, and he struggled from under the fence and forced himself to his feet. His left leg seemed to be on fire and, glancing down, he saw his trouser leg was in tatters and blood was pouring down it into his boot. The men around him seemed to have disappeared and there was a general movement backwards which he tried to join. Then, thankfully, weak with gratitude, he saw Ackroyd, bent double and coming towards him at a run. He tried to take a step towards him but his leg was numb and gradually, as it buckled under him, he began to sink to the ground.
Part Two
One
‘Them’ll be your ’orses when you starts riding school. You look arter them and they’ll look arter you.’
Listening to the sergeant, Colby allowed himself a faint smile.
‘Gentle as doves, they are,’ the sergeant was saying, and the new recruits listened with their jaws open, their eyes wide.
‘Know the drill better’n I do,’ the sergeant continued, slapping at a sleek rump. ‘It’ll be your job to groom ’em, wisp ’em and make their coats shine like a shilling up a sweep’s arse. Ain’t that so, sir?’
Spotting Colby standing by the door, he turned to him for confirmation.
Colby nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, indeed, Sergeant. That it is.’
‘You’ll bed ’em down on nice soft straw,’ the sergeant went on, ‘fill their guts with good oats, linseed, bran mash and ’ay, and lead ’em to water and let ’em piss it off.’
Then one day, when you aren’t looking, Colby thought dryly, one of the bastards’ll lash out with both his hinds and kick your brains out.
“’Orses never let you down,’ the sergeant went on, his words coming gently as he crooned over a big bay gelding. ‘Easier to ’andle than men.’ He pushed across a bulging canvas bag. ‘Here’s a grooming kit. You’ll all get one. One body brush, one dandy brush, one ’oof pick, one curry-comb, one dock sponge. The brush and comb is for groomin’, the hoof-pick’s for cleanin’ ’is nails, the dandy’s for ’is mane, tail and fetlocks, and the wisp’s to shine ’is coat and increase ’is circulation so ’e’ll fe
el more frisky. The dock sponge’s for sponging out ’is mouf, nostrils and dock.’ The sergeant’s voice grew harsher. ‘In that order,’ he pointed out firmly. ‘So don’t you go doing it different. His dock’s his arse so don’t go usin’ it on that first. You wouldn’t like ’aving your teef cleaned wiv a ’orse-pissy sponge and no more does he.’
Colby listened to the jeremiad patiently. He had heard it regularly ever since returning from the States.
‘You was right to join the lancers,’ the sergeant’s voice droned on. ‘Lancers is the coming thing. Lances wasn’t used in the British cavalry until 1816, the decision ’avin’ been taken because of the maulin’ them silly people in the ’Eavy and Union Brigades suffered at the ’ands of the Polish lancers at Waterloo, from which we, with the 12th and the 16th, ’ad to rescue ’em. A fine, expert and vigorous lancer can annihilate any three experienced dragoons or ’ussars any day of the week. Lancers ‘ave the longest weapons in the army an’ they’re always good wiv ’em. You ask the girls.’
There was an uncertain snigger, and the sergeant’s voice changed again, growing harsher. ‘And now – just git over there in a line! The major’d like a word wiv you. An’ you just listen to ’im proper. ’E knows what ’e’s talkin’ about because ’e knows more about cavalry than most people ever learn. ’E rode with Lord Cardigan at Balaclava and wiv Jeb Stuart– ’oo I suppose you ignorant lot ’ave never ’eard of – in America. ’E’s a brave man.’
Not so brave as all that, Colby thought, remembering his fear as Ackroyd had removed him from the field of Yellow Tavern. He’d been convinced as he recovered consciousness that he’d died and gone to hell. ‘Is the death pallor in my face?’ he had asked and only Ackroyd’s laugh had brought him back to reality. ‘You look as though you’d just come in first in the Braxby point-to-point,’ he had said. ‘It’ll set you back a few lengths for a bit, but that’s all.’
It was six years now since Yellow Tavern, and Stuart, like Cardigan, was long dead, while he himself was known these days to the men as Balaclava Bill.
‘One thing more–’ the sergeant’s voice grew firmer, ‘–when it comes to ’osses, nobody knows more’n what ’e does. Two ’undred and seventy-one kilometres across France in under thirty-two hours on the same ’orse last summer. Everybody knows about that. It was in all the papers. It’s a record.’
Which, Colby thought, hadn’t been quite what he’d intended. With Ackroyd to help by arranging water, oats, bran, beans and eggs, he had set out merely to show what good selection of sire and dam could do.
He cleared his throat, studying the line of youngsters in front of him in their ill-fitting stable jackets. His welcoming speech had become a regular feature of recruit training. ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘think yourselves lucky that this regiment has condescended to allow you to join its ranks. We’re a good regiment – the only cavalry regiment in the British army to wear green. And why? Because, as the sergeant’s told you, we routed the Polish lancers at Waterloo and when we became lancers ourselves we decided to adopt their uniform. Goff’s Greens. Goff’s Gamecocks. The Widowmakers. The Clutchers. We have all those names. How did we come by them? I’ll tell you. In those days our motto – motto, remember, never badge; and title, never motto – was a buffalo head. But since we became lancers we have used the French eagle we captured when we charged in support of the Heavies at Waterloo. To make it look fiercer, we gave it large claws – hence, The Clutchers, which was added to The Widowmakers, which we acquired after the Peninsula.’ He paused. ‘There is yet another name: The Pot Carriers, which we earned by announcing after Salamanca that we had captured Marshal Marmont’s treasure wagon. Unfortunately, this name is used more often by the rest of the army than by us because we had made a mistake and the treasure wagon turned out to be his private commode, and a chamberpot is hardly the sort of thing you wear on your drum cloths.’
It raised a laugh and he was pleased. ‘We have one other distinction,’ he went on. ‘We are one of the only two regiments in the army to share a number. These are the 19th Hussars and the 19th Lancers. It sprang entirely from the mistake of a Whitehall clerk and has never been rectified. Now that it has become tradition, it never will be, because every regiment in the army has a peculiarity of costume or equipment or name, associated with some event in its history, and they are usually retained with the tenacity of a tigress defending her young.
He touched the badge on his forage cap. ‘Under the motto on your lance caps you’ll see the words, Aut Primus Aut Nullus. That’s Latin, and it means The Best or Nothing. That’s what we believe in, isn’t it, sergeant?’
‘Sir!’
‘The 2nd Dragoons, the Greys, have the motto, Nulli Secundus, which means Second to None, but of course that’s rubbish because they’re second to us. And don’t believe those people who’ll try to tell you we’re a junior cavalry regiment, because we’re not. We were formed first in 1642 and it was only due to the lack of foresight of someone who allowed us to be disbanded that we were a little late in the field when Joshua Goff reformed us in 1760.’
It was all nonsense he knew, but it mattered, because a man’s loyalty had to be not to the Queen or the army but to his regiment, and for that he had to know everything about it as well as he knew his own family.
‘It has been said,’ he went on, ‘that cavalry exists to look pretty in peacetime and get killed in war. What that means is that we’re expected to look smart on parade but that, since we’re the screen of the army, both in advance and retreat, we’re always the first to bump into the enemy. In moments of crisis, the cavalry is called on to charge. To relieve pressure, to restore a desperate situation, to lead a forlorn hope, doing the things that will bring success out of failure. It’s a responsible job and we must never forget it.’
He paused long enough to look at them and to let them get a look at him. ‘But,’ he went on, ‘no matter how often you’ve swung your leg over a polished saddle, a trooper can’t lay claim to true cavalrymanship until he has enough music in his horsey soul to appreciate the majesty of “Stables.”’
‘This,’ he continued, ‘means that you will leap from your beds at Reveille, which in the cavalry sounds at 5.30 – earlier than the infantry because you have horses to attend to. To the fastidious, mucking out might seem a revolting way to start the day, especially as you’ll find there are always too few forks.’ He held up his hands, the fingers outspread. ‘But, have no fear. I carry my personal mucking out equipment on my hands. And so do you.
‘Before you get your mounts, however, you will learn to conduct yourselves like soldiers, and to remember that cleanliness is next to Godliness. Here, that means bright buttons and glistening souls. You belong in the Queen’s best regiment of horse and in the best squadron in that regiment – mine!’ He gave them a long hard look. ‘So God help any man who ever forgets it. Dismiss ’em, Sergeant.’
Leaving the stables, Colby walked towards the Riding School. The riding instructor’s voice could be heard even outside the huge shed with its outward-sloping walls and tanbark floor.
‘Get up, dammit! You can get the bark out of your ear later. And sit in the bloody saddle, not on it! Now trot and sit straight. Grip with your knees. Head up. Heels down. AND SIT STILL! You’re darting about in the saddle like a fart in a bottle!’
Recruit riding was in progress, men shaking down in the saddle in a test of grip and endurance, turning, inclining, circling, evolutions performed at a walk, trot and canter, with or without stirrups. As they finished, the order ‘Bring in the jump’ produced a hurdle topped with gorse, and they crossed their stirrups and swung into a canter.
‘Drop your reins and fold your arms!’
As son of a commanding officer, Colby had learned to ride as a boy with the recruits and he knew the severity of this exercise as well as any of them. The tighter the arms were folded, he’d been informed, the tighter the grip with the knees, and it always seemed to be true and was valuable advice if the horse jumpe
d big.
As he saw Colby the riding instructor came to attention. ‘We got an old soldier, sir,’ he said quietly, nodding to a man who was jogging round, apparently having difficulty with his horse.
The riding instructor was experienced enough to be able to tell a man’s former trade from the way he sat. Carpenters, he claimed, held one shoulder forward from the habit of using a plane, while tailors, from being used to sitting cross-legged, kept their knees away from the saddle and were always the worst of riders.
‘’E’s feigning awkwardness, sir,’ he went on. ‘Pretendin’ ’e’s a green’orn. But ’e ain’t. just watch ’im close, sir.’
Turning away, he yelled suddenly. ‘Right shoulder in! Forward!’
The older man was the only one in the group who performed the movement instinctively and the riding instructor frowned.
‘Only one who knew what it meant,’ he said. ‘I reckon ’e was discharged as a bad character from another regiment.’
On the parade ground men were marching and wheeling to the shouts of drill instructors and further away there was the heavy rumble of iron-shod wheels as guns and limbers turned and moved to the rattle and jingle of harness. The high iron gates arched over the sentry, the rifle green of his uniform dark against the drab yellow brick of the building. Tall and thin, bowed legs poured into skin-tight overalls, he exhuded cavalry spirit from every pore. As a small boy the sentry on the gate had seemed more magnificent and far more important to Colby than the Prime Minister or the Archbishop of Canterbury. As the sentry crashed into a salute, he returned it with equal fervour. He had no time for the bored flicks of some of the younger officers.
The band moved past, playing ‘The Yorkshire jockey’, the regimental march, a piebald drumhorse stepping the pace in front. Dripping aiguillettes plaited in the regimental colours, the kettle drummer was seated between two barrel-shaped silver instruments draped with drum cloths bearing the battle honours of the regiment – Willems, Talavera, Fuentes d’Onor, Salamanca, Vittoria, Nive, Waterloo, Balaclava, Bhurtpore, Guznee. Guiding his horse with reins attached to his stirrup irons, he whirled his sticks first to one drum then the other as if working himself up to the climax of a Zulu war dance. It was a lot of dressing up, Colby thought, for that most primitive of instruments, the drum.