Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  * * *

  He was roused in the morning with a splitting headache, eventually allowed to get medical attention for his injuries, and ordered to appear outside the company commander’s office on Monday morning with the additional warning that he could be passed on to the CO for his crime. Unsure of how he had come to be in this situation, but deeply ashamed, Probyn slunk back to his barrack room.

  There was to be no quiet entry. ‘Oh, welcome back, Padre!’

  Everyone gathered round for details of his imprisonment. There was laughter from some, apology from others. Aware that his barrack mates were somehow to blame for his incarceration, Probyn waved aside their attempts to relive the incident. Wanting to forget the whole matter the embarrassed young man went directly to his bed, intending to make a start on getting his kit into good order for his appearance before Major Lousada, but everything appeared to be in its rightful place. Frowning, he sought explanation.

  ‘We found out Ingham slipped a large whisky in your beer,’ said Lennon, ‘So we made him see to your kit as well as his own. You’ve only got to clean the stuff you’re wearing.’

  This was little consolation to Probyn who was extremely worried as to what would befall him on Monday morning. He turned angrily on Ingham. ‘You blasted clot you could’ve killed me giving me that whisky when I’m not used to it!’

  ‘Ah well, here’s another who won’t be touching it again,’ vouched Mick, and told Probyn of his disgust at seeing the man spit in the whisky glass.

  Almost sick himself at the lurid description, Probyn begged him to shut up, grumbling accusingly, ‘I wondered why I’d got such a rotten headache.’

  ‘Ah no, that’d be the guard,’ said Lennon mildly. ‘He’s no sense of humour.’

  Upon learning what he had called the man Probyn bit his lip. ‘Oh, my goodness, who else did I insult?’

  ‘No one that matters,’ replied Lennon. Then, despite Probyn not really wanting to hear it, the old soldier informed him of the previous night’s events, though he already vaguely recalled the episodes of the concert and Judson’s violence.

  ‘Haven’t you something to say to Padre, Ingham?’ Lennon prompted the culprit then.

  ‘Sorry, Pa,’ mumbled Ingham, still busy cleaning and looking suitably ashamed.

  ‘Oh well,’ Probyn tried to sound magnanimous though his head was banging. ‘You never forced me to drink it did you? I’ve only meself to blame, but don’t any of you dare accuse me of being unsociable if I stay away from the Blackamoor’s for a while.’

  ‘You and the rest of us,’ sighed Lennon. ‘We’ve been barred again.’

  Then he sensed the youngster’s apprehension. ‘Ah sure, it’ll all blow over, son. Don’t worry.’

  But Probyn did worry, throughout the rest of the day. Many recruits had gone into the major’s office for such an offence as his and had been banished from the garrison forever. There had to be good reason for the army to want to retain him. Hence, he ensured that no fault could be found with either kit or uniform, redoing many articles, for Ingham was not fastidious enough for his liking. The only items that might present a problem were his socks which had sprouted holes. The pair he had on were hidden by boots, but what of those on his shelf? He held his throbbing head in his hands, wondering what on earth to do about them. It was pointless sending them home for darning, Meredith was quite obviously still angry with him.

  A spark of genius pierced his despondency. Aunt Kit was a seamstress! Why had he not thought of her before? Good old Kit had never let him down. After a mad search for some brown paper and string he triumphantly wrapped up the socks with a little note and went out, the parcel under his arm.

  As he was crossing the square, however, his journey was interrupted by a blood-curdling sound, somewhere between a scream and a bellow, that had the immediate effect of stopping him in his tracks. Wide-eyed, he gaped at the regimental sergeant-major in full regalia who now beckoned him none too politely, and realized to his horror that he had committed the ultimate sin. He had trodden upon hallowed ground.

  Feeling physically sick, he gave rapid response to the summons, setting off at a trot towards the RSM and the two officers who accompanied him, both much less intimidating characters.

  ‘Around!’ bawled Sergeant-Major Mars, again stopping the boy in his tracks.

  Changing direction, he ran to the edge of the square, hurrying around its perimeter until he reached the RSM whereupon he stamped to attention and recited his name and number. He now noticed that one of the officers was the colonel, yet it was Sergeant-Major Mars who had the greater presence. Possessed of a terrible nobility, he towered over the hapless young infantryman, bedecked in scarlet, gold braid and brass that glittered dauntingly in the sunshine.

  Quaking before this god-like figure, Probyn glanced at the young second-lieutenant who made up the quartet and who was obviously as in awe of Sergeant-Major Mars as was the recruit.

  ‘How long have you been in the army, soldier?’ screamed the RSM, eyes like burning coals.

  Through lips that were dried with nerves Probyn stammered a reply. ‘A fortnight, sir!’

  ‘Then you must surely know that you do not set foot upon that square unless you are on parade!’

  ‘Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!’

  ‘You will be after you’ve done ten laps of it! Put that bloody parcel down and run!’

  Probyn set off, wondering after the first lap how he was possibly going to manage ten of them, and there would be no getting out of it, for, although the officers went on their way, the RSM stayed to watch, obviously enjoying this brief spell of winter sunshine.

  However, just when Probyn felt he was about to collapse, the RSM called him in.

  ‘I have not told you to stop! Mark time! Knees up! Left-right-left-right-left!’

  Heart and head thumping, face like a beetroot, Probyn continued to run up and down on the spot until finally, after much yelling, the RSM rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and told him that was enough. ‘Right, laddy! Pick up your parcel and get out of my sight – hang on! What’s in it anyway?’

  ‘Socks, sir,’ heaved Probyn, tucking the parcel under an arm that dripped with sweat. ‘I’m sending them home to be darned.’

  ‘Darned?’ Freshly aroused, the RSM emitted his oxen bawl, the power of his voice drowning out all other sound. ‘Why do you think you’ve been issued with a housewife’s kit?’

  Hardly daring to look at Sergeant-Major Mars, Probyn found that his legs were trembling. Yet oddly the encounter inspired not just fear, but hope. Here was a man one could truly respect, a pillar of the glorious British Empire that Probyn held so dear. This was what he wanted to be! Not the nervous young lieutenant, nor the colonel – he was not of the right class for these posts anyway – but this, this magnificent specimen of manhood before him, to this he could aspire. In that instant his former attitude towards the army was resurrected. It became imperative that he was not discharged over his shameful drunkenness. For, granted a second chance, he would strive to emulate this man, to wear that coveted emblem upon his sleeve!

  The minotaur emitted a final scream. ‘Get back in there and darn them yourself!’

  And Probyn fled for all he was worth, but there was the glimmer of a smile upon his face and hope in his heart. For he had been handed back his dream, and this time he was determined not to let go of it.

  * * *

  After a nervous period of waiting on Monday morning, he was escorted by Sergeant Faulkner at the double to the major’s office where he was compelled to listen to an account of his drunken behaviour. His platoon commander, Lieutenant Fitzroy was also in attendance, a tall, handsome, athletic-looking gentleman, some thirty years of age. Having formerly suffered a brief but disapproving tongue-lashing from the lieutenant, Probyn was well aware of his opinion on the misdemeanour. However, in the major’s presence, Fitzroy’s well-bred features were now smoothed into an emotionless mask.

  Major Lousada, too, was also straight-fa
ced. ‘Very well, Private Kilmaster, what explanation have you for this?’

  Humbled before these two career officers, the major a courageous veteran of the Ashante Campaign, Probyn swallowed and, with his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, offered, ‘I wish to apologize, sir. I’m not accustomed to dealing with alcohol, sir, it’s forbidden at home.’

  An inscrutable blink from the major. ‘Then may one enquire what you were doing in the Blackamoor’s Head?’

  Probyn had been asking himself this same question. He could hardly condemn Corporal Wedlock who had saved him from a beating, nor could he blame Ingham for adulterating his beer. No one had tied him to a chair and poured it down his throat. ‘It was a bad mistake, sir, but I vouch on my honour I’ll never touch another drop!’

  ‘I have nothing against alcohol nor the public house,’ replied the major. ‘Indeed, I enjoy a brandy myself, in moderation. That is the word for you to remember, Private Kilmaster, moderation.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘And what of those abrasions on your face? I take a dim view of my men brawling.’

  ‘Oh, never, sir!’ Probyn sounded hurt. ‘I was attacked outside the public house by two civilians, without provocation. Corporal Wedlock came along and saved my skin.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ The major looked interested.

  Content that he had slandered no one, Probyn finished his explanation. ‘That was the only reason I entered the public house, in order to buy the corporal a drink in return for his gallant assistance.’

  After a moment’s rumination, the major turned to Lieutenant Fitzroy. ‘Platoon commander, what sort of a man is Private Kilmaster?’

  Lieutenant Fitzroy ran his candid blue gaze over the accused. ‘He’s normally of very sober habit, sir, even a little aloof from the spirited antics of the rest of the platoon. I suspect perhaps that his foray into the Blackamoor’s Head was just a way of trying to fit in with his fellows.’

  No! A deeply insulted Probyn wanted to shout, I don’t want to fit in with those louts – I’m not like them!

  But he was to be quickly recompensed by the lieutenant’s next words. ‘He is always well turned out, the best in his platoon in fact. He performs well at foot drill. A lot of work to be done on rifle drill but he keeps his weapon in good order and in general he is an enthusiastic and valuable member of the platoon. He will make an excellent soldier.’

  Probyn almost fell over with shock and pride. After a fortnight of degradation here was someone telling him he was an excellent soldier!

  ‘I hope you will heed those words from Lieutenant Fitzroy, Private Kilmaster, and not throw it all away?’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir!’ An excellent soldier! He had not known that Lieutenant Fitzroy had been watching him so assiduously. A wave of warmth swept over him, such as he had never felt for his father.

  The major cast aside his stern cloak and took on a more paternal role. ‘You see the thing about drink, Private Kilmaster, is that some men know when to stop whilst others do not. A pint or two never did anyone any harm but if you are to maintain this agreeable recreation you should get to know your limits.’

  Probyn shook his head adamantly. ‘Oh, I won’t be drinking again, sir.’

  ‘I should not like this to deter your admirable efforts to fit in with your fellows, that is what the army is all about, but you know there are many other ways in which a man can integrate. The regiment has a very fine football team. Do you play any sport, Private Kilmaster?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I like football and rugby.’

  ‘Splendid! Then I would encourage you to sign up for one of the teams. Naturally I understand that military training takes up most of your time at present, but once you have made the grade things will become more enjoyable. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Still basking in the lieutenant’s compliment, Probyn felt as if he were reborn. An excellent soldier!

  ‘Very well, Private Kilmaster, I am disinclined to allow this isolated incident to blight your record. You may consider this a caution. Any similar misdemeanour will occasion a fine.’

  Probyn could hardly believe there was to be no harsher punishment. ‘Sir! Does that mean I can stay in the army, sir?’

  The major nodded. ‘If that is your wish.’

  ‘Oh, it is, sir! I intend to make the army my life.’ It was such a wonderful relief.

  Major Lousada’s lips twitched at the youthful earnestness. ‘And you’ll find that there is no better life, Private Kilmaster. Thank you, Sarnt Faulkner!’

  And with that Probyn found himself marched at the double out of the office, his heart singing with joy to be granted this second chance.

  However, it was not to be his only piece of good fortune that day: upon his return to the barrack room with his news he found himself presented with a letter from his sister. Tearing this open, he was soon beaming even more widely for, although Meredith was quick to say that their father had not forgiven him, she herself had, and what was more she had asked Father if Probyn could come to her wedding on Easter Sunday, and he had said she must invite who she liked.

  He was quick to relay her words to his pals. ‘“So I would like it if you could be there,” she says here!’

  ‘Ah, good for you, Pa,’ nodded Mick, then saw the other’s face drop. ‘Oh no, what’s the catch?’

  ‘“But please don’t wear your uniform,”’ Probyn read out loud. ‘“You’ll only inflame matters and spoil my day” – the cheeky monkey!’ Immensely proud of his uniform he was most put out. Besides which, it was an offence not to wear it. ‘Let her turn me away if she wants. I’m not going to deny what I am.’

  But this sour note was soon put aside as he devoured the rest of Meredith’s letter. All in all it was excellent news and in accepting the invitation Probyn saw a chance to mend the rift between him and his father. ‘Well then,’ he finished cheerily, ‘I’d better go and ask permission to attend. If nowt else it’ll mean a good feed!’

  5

  It was with this same good heart that, throughout the two months which followed, he marched and drilled in rain and snow, gave everything that was demanded of him by Wedlock and Faulkner who worried the recruits even more savagely between them in preparation of the ultimate test: drill on the square before Sergeant-Major Mars.

  When the sergeant and corporal were not harrying his fellow recruits then Probyn was. Having come to know the weak links in the platoon he set about forging them, his keen eyes forever inspecting the kit of his brothers-in-arms, pointing out a speck of soot here, a strand of cotton there – ‘It sticks out like a chapel hat-peg on that red tunic you sloppy ’a’porth!’ – and leaving everyone in no doubt that he was not about to be dubbed a failure by their inadequacy. This penchant for taking charge remained an area of contention between him and Havron, and there would be outbursts and quarrels for supremacy between the pair, but these were quickly stamped upon by the older hands Lennon or Jessop and hence no real violence was committed. Besides, after months of withstanding Wedlock’s vicious treatment, Probyn was not intimidated by the likes of Havron.

  Even so, it was with trepidation that he stood to attention before the sergeant-major on a bright March morning after a long and complicated sequence of drill, awaiting the reaction of this inspirational figure. However keenly he himself had strived, one wrong move from Melody or one of the less able recruits, and the entire platoon would be condemned as useless. And Probyn just could not bear that. If Melody spoiled this for him today he would personally thrash the fool!

  The wait seemed endless as the magnificent Sergeant-Major Mars prowled along each row, stopping occasionally for closer inspection, the one thing maintaining Probyn’s optimism being Lieutenant Fitzroy’s statement of confidence in him.

  Having finished his inspection the RSM was now standing before them, gimlet eyes moving constantly, though his lips said naught. The silence was excruciating. Probyn hardly dared to breathe.

  And then with one curt
nod the raw recruits who had started out only a matter of weeks before were miraculously transformed into professional infantrymen. The rigorous training had all been worth it as, to a roar of approval, the platoon was deemed fit to parade with the ranks on Sunday.

  Overjoyed, Probyn shared a victorious cheer with his comrades, his eyes sweeping their laughing faces and seeing not ruffians nor drunkards. Oh, they may revert to drunkards in celebrating their achievement on Saturday night, thought a grinning Probyn, but who on earth would blame them? Certainly not he! He was thrilled to be one of their number. Not the scruffy mob of layabouts who had started out but ranks of fit and dashing young men. Soldiers of the Queen.

  And on Sunday when he marched with his regiment through town before admiring crowds, behind a band in full regalia, the thunderous boom of the big drum striking him full in the chest and making the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention, it was surely the proudest moment of his life.

  * * *

  Now, three months into his career, though the training remained arduous and his whole life was subject to regulation, Probyn was well able to cope, equipped with a new self-discipline and stamina. There was a confidence in his stride and in his eye that refused to be dimmed, no matter what rejection he might suffer outside the garrison, although this was infrequent, for he had learned that there was no better place to be than amongst his comrades. There might still be the odd lapse of inexperience, but Probyn was man enough to admit it.

  During that period of self-discovery there were naturally still endless chores to be done, days of repetition and routine, kit and weapons to clean and tables to scrub, hours on sentry duty, but by now it came as second nature and Probyn found time for the athletic amusement that the major had prescribed. Others in his platoon had joined the rugby team too, Melody turning out to be an outstanding player. More tolerant of the Irish youth now, Probyn numbered him amongst his circle of allies, these being mainly the ones who annoyed him the least, who ate and spoke quietly, unlike the oafish Ingham. He still abhorred the way Mick blasphemed – how could he reconcile this with a regular attendance at Mass? And he still frowned on the Irishman’s drunken carousing at weekends. Rejecting the latter course, he himself had decided to stick to the reading room in order to improve his chances of promotion, and, although others might tease him about this there was no malice intended in his nickname of Padre. In fact, even Ingham was making great headway in becoming literate with his regular attendances in the school room. Collectively, the platoon had gradually been moulded into an institution in whom he could place his trust, as far as military backing was concerned. And yet, there was none of like mind with whom he could really share his thoughts and ideas, no one with whom he would want to spend time outside army life … but then the army was his life.