Captain

by Sam Angus

  “White coat means pure blood, very special.”

  “She certainly thinks she’s rather special,” I replied tautly, because I took a rather dim view of her still.

  Captain had some dates in his pocket and it was maybe because of those dates that Dolly took to him and to Hey-Ho. In her mind, he and Hey-Ho and dates all came together, and she immediately formed the unshakable opinion that they were a good trio to come your way.

  Later—another night, perhaps—Captain ran his hand beneath her belly, slow and searching, then did the same again, a little higher up, running it from foreleg to the hind leg, frowning a little.

  “A cow camel is quiet and good,” he said then, and he gave me some dates for her, still eyeing her in a quizzical sort of way.

  I held out my palm while Dolly gave a good impression of not knowing I was there at all, even as she golloped the dates in my hand.

  “Cow camels better, faster…”

  “We’ll see.”

  “… because they have to run away.”

  The idea of Dolly in flight at top gear from a thing she feared was something I didn’t much fancy, and I was quiet while I thought about it.

  “All racing camels are cows. Very important you move slowly round her. Always,” Captain said.

  * * *

  Dolly had a great many dislikes and seemed to bear a grudge against most living things, most especially horses. Horses too had a great dislike for her, as they do for all camels. If a horse happened by, Dolly might flick and lash her scraggy tail about or, if her greed, malice, and humor were all uppermost in her heart at the same time, she’d eat through her ropes and wander off to cause trouble in the horse lines just for the fun of it. But to Dolly, Hey-Ho was a different case: she tolerated Hey-Ho as she tolerated no other animal.

  After the first long trek Dolly and Hey-Ho made together, a surprising thing happened. Captain and I were cooking when we heard a great shouting and commotion in the mule lines. The syces and the Catering Corps and the Transport Corps people were all flapping their arms, and the mules were all shrieking, so we went to see what was going on—and there, stampeding up and down the lines and bellowing, was Dolly. She found Hey-Ho, and stopped, and nosed her way in beside him. Looking more preposterous than ever there, with the mules all around her knees, she grew still and quiet. Hey-Ho was at her side and her haughty lids gentled and dropped. Nothing perturbed little Hey-Ho—nothing except the absence of Captain—and, so long as Captain was close by, Hey-Ho accepted all manner of things; even a camel in his bed-quarters. They became like mother and son to each other. They made strange companions, the pair of them, tethered side by side, each as ancient and biblical as the other, the stoical and stouthearted donkey, and the savage, supercilious camel.

  I’d like to say I loved Dolly, though I never did. She towered over all other camels, standing as she did a full twenty-four hands to her withers, and was, in her way, as stately and splendid as a cathedral. She bore herself like a monarch, as though she had no notion at all that her back was humped or her knees knocking or legs just rickety spindles. If you consider the prodigality of her construction, she had a surprising and decidedly delicate disposition and was liable to a vast number of complaints and ailments. This delicacy in her constitution was surprising, given her ability to digest all manner of things without doing herself a mischief: boxes of matches, saddles, ropes, halters, blankets, kitbags, prickly pears—I swear she’d eat tombstone if it were to hand. The great spectrum of things Dolly was not above eating was a source of delight to Captain, and he, I think, did love her—for many things, but most especially for the intricacy and the absurdity of her construction, for the comedy of her gurgling and spitting and slathering, and also because she’d taken so to Hey-Ho.

  It was Captain who showed me that I had to treat her as gently, and with as much respect, as a horse, and when I put my face to her gaping nose holes, each the size of a Bredicot dinner plate, and blew, she now made it clear that this met with her approval, her lids closing in a decidedly contented way; and this went on for perhaps a bit too long, because she got it into her head to relax completely and to barak, starting to go through her entire collapsing operation, and Captain was laughing at both of us. His laughter always came so readily, and at simple things.

  “She is fast,” Captain said.

  Later, when I went to my tent, Ballard and the others were talking about the Race Meeting and camel races and how the Yeomen would turn out fit for a King’s Parade. The next day we were all training like mad, and spitting and polishing till there was no more spit or polish to be had anywhere. I grew serious about those races, very serious. I was a Lance-Corporal, I had a tall, cream-colored racing camel who put my head in the stratosphere, and everyone was counting on me.

  I stroked and groomed Dolly and I blew into her nose at all hours, and fed her dates, but I worried that there was something wrong when her hair came out in my hands after every stroke of my brush. I thought of Liza’s letter about the Egyptians, and got it into my head then that Dolly had been mistreated or starved and needed feeding up. She had extravagance and spirit, but she’d had a hard time of it, and I decided I must get her into condition and stop her hair falling out, and put on a good show—because Ballard and the Major and everyone had money on her.

  “Dolly needs more food,” I told Captain.

  He shook his head, smiling mysteriously. Hey-Ho was close by, one ear drooping, the other upright. He brayed, and brushed his tail from side to side against the flies. Dolly grunted at him.

  “She needs hard food.”

  Captain shook his head.

  “I’m going to feed her up,” I said.

  I could see Ballard and the men setting up jumps of sandbag and scrub, others marking starting lines and fencing show rings. Captain’s eyes were on my hands as he asked, “What with? Where from?”

  Lieutenant Sparrow and some subalterns were marking out the course, and Major Straker was setting up a starting board. I wandered away towards the betting enclosure to have a closer look at it all. I saw how big the whole thing would be, with the stands and all the chairs being set up, then I turned around to Captain and said, “If you won’t help me, I’ll get it on my own.”

  We went together, he and I, but it was me who took the extra corn, it was me who went in and got it.

  * * *

  After the first heats Dolly was one of the favorites. There was hot competition—seven other good camels—but now all the Yeomanry pinned their hopes on her. They’d been glorious, the trials, at sunset, and I’d put her through her best paces and she’d gone like a dream, smooth as silk. I was showing off and I drank a café au lait on her at a gallop, like Major Straker said you could, and everyone was cheering. In the canteen that evening, after the heats, Ballard and Firkins were huddled, studying the form.

  “I’ve money on Dolly, an advance on my daybook for you,” Firkins told me, and it turned out that everyone was having a flutter—Carter and Ballard, even the Major and the Lieutenant—and then they were all arguing amongst themselves about how best to ride bareback on a camel, whether I should be astride Dolly’s hump or on her rump. I was already thinking about getting more corn for Dolly and how I might borrow Hey-Ho, because a sack of corn big enough for a camel is too heavy for a man to carry on his own.

  When it came to it, there were benches to sit on and ladies with white dresses and transport wagons decked out in regimental colors and Generals and shining motors, and I wished Liza and Mother could’ve been there to see me on Dolly, so high up with my head at the telegraph wires. That Race Meeting was within only a few miles of Jacko and all his army, but you’d never have known it for the amount of beer and bunting and lemonade and parasols that day. All the races were oversubscribed, and no admission was to be charged for entry, so the ground was bursting at the seams with animals and men and onlookers.

  Like every other entrant, I thought my mount was the fastest. I was rather full of myself, what with al
l the Yeomen putting money on me and wanting me to ride for them; proud, too, to think that Dolly and I were part of the largest body of mounted troops the modern world had ever known; proud that I carried a rifle and a sword; proud to ride a cream-colored racing camel. I felt that nothing could touch me—that I’d been at Gallipoli and Gaza and Huj—and before Major Straker came to me, I thought I could do as I please, go wherever the fighting was worst and come out untouched.

  “Bayliss.” The Major pulled me aside. “You’re up for it, Lance-Corporal. The Quartermaster’s got it in for you.”

  Just then Dolly began to mince and jiggle, and I was thinking more about the difficulty of getting her to the start line, and trying to catch the voice on the loudspeaker, than about what Major Straker was saying.

  “… and the prize for the Best Turnout goes to the Bing Boys … Ladies and gentlemen, make your way to the second track where the High Jump is about to commence…”

  “It’s serious, Bayliss.”

  “Sir, no, sir.” Then I laughed and looked away and tugged uselessly at Dolly’s rope.

  Dolly minced and jigged a bit more, and I busied myself with tapping her and patting her, all of which makes no difference to a camel’s state of mind at all.

  “Bayliss—you were seen…”

  I looked away.

  “Billy, Billy. For God’s sake, Billy, I hope…”

  Firkins and Archie Pimm were walking past just then.

  “Bring back the pennant for the Yeomen, Billy,” said Pimm.

  “The Border Stakes, for ponies fourteen-three or under, open to all ranks of the Desert Column…”

  “You won’t even see us,” I answered Pimm, “we’ll be going so fast.” My voice sounded false, even to myself.

  The Major looked at me with a thoughtful expression, then said, “Billy, do you know anything about that corn?”

  A starter was trying to marshal thirty unwilling mules up to a post with no gate.

  “No, sir.”

  “The QM says Captain was there two nights ago. He saw two figures there at the door. When he checked, there was a sack of corn missing.” My stomach turned. “Billy, he knows Captain was there because there was a donkey outside, but he is certain he actually saw you there too.”

  I was only half listening, my mind on the race ahead.

  He stepped closer. “It’s serious, Billy,” he hissed. “It’s a serious offense. There’s First Field Punishment for this kind of thing…”

  My legs turned to water at this. First Field Punishment is a terrible thing—they can tie you to a wheel for a day—and while I was thinking about that, the Major put a warning hand on my elbow.

  “He’s here,” he said. “He’s coming this way.”

  The QM’s face was as puffy as a quilt, even though the morning was still fresh. We all knew he was a drinker, best avoided in the mornings.

  “Corporal Bayliss.”

  “Sir.”

  He was fondling the handle of his revolver.

  “You were seen near the stores.”

  “Sir … there’s a mistake,” I said hesitantly.

  “There’s no mistake, Corporal. You were seen.”

  I was silent.

  “You’ll come with me, Bayliss.”

  Dolly snarled and bared her teeth, not liking the look of the QM, probably.

  The Major stepped in then, and said, “Quartermaster, see him afterwards, will you? He’s on, next race, going to bring back the pennant for the Yeomen.” He had a commanding way about him always, did Major Straker, and what with that, together with Dolly’s bare gnashers, and a Major being so senior to a quartermaster in the pecking order of things, the QM was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.

  Then Captain was there, from nowhere, stepping forward.

  “It is a mistake, sir,” Captain said, very calmly. “It was me who went into the stores, sir.”

  “Billy…?” hissed Straker.

  I bowed my head.

  “It was me, sir,” Captain repeated.

  I felt queasy with guilt and relief, but I thought perhaps it wouldn’t matter so much if you took the blame when you weren’t a Lance-Corporal and you weren’t in the regular Army.

  “Entrants for the Promised Land Stakes, please come now to the paddock…”

  “Billy…?” Major Straker whispered again.

  Perhaps the QM was mistaken. Perhaps Captain had taken corn, too, for Hey-Ho; perhaps the QM had seen him, and not me. All sorts of desperate low excuses were running through my head just then.

  The QM’s eyes left me reluctantly, as if deprived of his prize, and turned to Captain, who stood there opposite us, with Hey-Ho at his side.

  “We have Horace, Strychnine, and Starlight in the paddock, the brown Bikaner camel is Horace, and following Horace is…”

  I was about to protest, about to step forward, but Captain met my eyes and moved his head from side to side, and I knew what he meant: Say nothing, let me take the rap.

  “Billy?” hissed Straker again. “Billy, you can’t…”

  I said nothing.

  The Major took Captain by the arm and turned to the QM.

  “Quartermaster, he’s one of mine, and I’ll be dealing with him myself.”

  “Sir, as you like, sir.” The QM looked at me then strangely, because he knew it was me who had been seen in the stores.

  “You wait here,” the Major said.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Captain.

  What sort of punishment would the Major give Captain? I raised my eyes to his, praying he would be gentle. He looked at me, his face still troubled.

  “All right, Bayliss…” With a conscious effort, he lightened his tone and clapped me on the back. “We’re counting on you. Hurry, you’ve only a minute or so.”

  As I mounted Dolly, I saw Straker order Captain off and hoped that he’d just be given some minor fatigue or other. Straker smiled grimly to himself, then turned to the ring. Captain was walking in the direction of the latrines and mess tent.

  Sick with shame and guilt, I guided Dolly towards the paddock. Everywhere men shouted out to me, and waved, and admired Dolly’s creamy coat and great height and swaying walk.

  “Don’t let us down!” Worcestershires were calling out from everywhere. I regretted, too, that Captain wouldn’t see the race.

  “Tom Thumb and Mahogany are entering the paddock…”

  I saw the bookies’ stands: Dolly was chalked up there with our odds: neck and neck as the favorite with Mahogany, who belonged to a General.

  All of us somehow got our mounts to the start line, and baraked in a disorderly fashion, each of us pointing in different directions, as though on our own particular course to some far-flung corner of the world. I was the only one facing forward, and I was beginning to think I’d win because my racing camel clearly knew what all this was about.

  The whistle blew.

  Dolly rose up in her usual alarming sort of way, but I was still on her, and it was all going well when she suddenly spun round. I was still more or less astride her, but feeling things were going rather less well when she plumped herself firmly down in the reverse direction.

  “They’ve got away to a good start—all except Lance-Corporal Bayliss there at the back, on Dolly…”

  I thought of Major Straker and Lieutenant Sparrow, and all the money that was on me, and all the pride of the regiment … and I got red and hot with the shame of facing the wrong way round, there on the ground, with Dolly frothing casually and looking into the middle distance and considering what to do with the afternoon while I tapped and goom-goomed and tap-tapped, and she pretended to have no knowledge at all of what I wanted her to do.

  “There’re two unknowns at the back there: Tom Thumb and Gaza—and Gaza’s coming up in a great rush … and at the back there, Dolly, still chewing the cud and contemplating the horizon…”

  I heard the laughter of the crowd, and grew hotter, and tapped her harder. Then Dolly decided—and it had nothing, of
course, to do with my tapping her—that our interests lay in the same direction. She rose with a violent malevolence and pitched me forward.

  “The unknown in fourth place is bounding off like a kangaroo, and his rider’s more off than on—will he hang on there or won’t he?—No—he’s off, but Cromwell’s off the track—heading south—and Corporal Gene’s mount—Horace, today ridden by his adjutant—is galloping like a champion, ahead of the favorite, Mahogany, and Starlight’s not far behind…”

  From half sitting, Dolly sprang away. There were roars of applause and laughter as I grabbed tufts of her hair, trying to balance myself and regain some composure.

  “They say it’s impossible to predict the winner of a camel scurry, and this morning it looks very much as though it is … Major Buxton’s Waterloo is showing us a clean pair of heels, he’s far ahead, going like a champion, but Starlight’s on the way, catching up, a length ahead—but no! Something’s upset poor Starlight—a parasol perhaps—she’s zigzagging off—she’s broken the cordon … Watch out, everyone, Starlight’s going for the tea tent…”

  People were rushing out of the tea tent in alarm, spilling out of it from all sides.

  “Yes, Starlight’s still going … she’s taking Colonel Langley off to get a cream tea—No—she’s changed her mind, it’s not a cream tea she’s after … she’s heading for Damascus! We won’t be seeing Colonel Langley for some time—he and Starlight are off to take Damascus single-handed…”

  There was a great roar from the crowd at this.

  “At the back there—Lance-Corporal Bayliss is pointing the right way now, and Dolly is off, and she’s got a good reach to her leg, it’s long and low and…”

  I tapped Dolly on, mercilessly, burning with shame I was, and venting it all on her. Hatless and saddle-less, heels tucked in tight, I tapped her again and again, though I no longer cared about the money that was on her, nor about the pride of the regiment. In her own good time she put on the spurt of speed I knew was in her—but suddenly, as though the idea of a race had just occurred to her, and that she had developed a sudden longing to get to the finish line.