by Saul David
'Now, pay attention, men,' said George, as he held up the short-barrelled weapon for all to see. 'This is the Martini- Henry carbine. It has the same falling-breech mechanism as the infantry's rifle, but with a shorter barrel so that it can be stowed in the leather bucket attached to your saddles. It fires a heavy ,45-calibre hardened lead bullet with a muzzle velocity of 1,350 feet per second. That's enough firepower to stop an elephant or tear the limb off a man. It's sighted up to 1,000 yards and extremely accurate at half that range. You're only required to hit targets at 200 yards. How hard can that be?'
George looked along the line of recruits facing him in their scarlet stable jackets with blue facings. They were mostly in their teens with the fresh-faced, ruddy look of the rural poor. One or two stood out on account of their height, but the majority seemed below the cavalry minimum of 5' 5", a good half a foot shorter than George himself. He scanned their faces, waiting for a response; nothing, beyond the odd inane grin and sideways glance.
'Very wise,' said George at last. 'Truth is, the Martini- Henry's a fine weapon in experienced hands; but for novices it takes some getting used to, particularly its recoil, as you're about to discover. And it's not without its defects: it has a tendency to jam, either because sand and dust gets into the breech mechanism or because prolonged firing melts the thin brass of its empty cartridges, making them difficult to extract; also the rifling in the barrel has a tendency to foul, producing a kick even more vicious than usual. The trick is to keep it clean at all times and you won't have any problems.'
George handed the carbine to Trooper Murphy, who was standing at ease alongside him. 'Murphy will show you how it's done. The more observant of you will have noticed that lie's wearing on his lower sleeve the crossed rifles of a marksman. That means he's capable of hitting ten bull's-eyes out of ten at 400 yards. Your task is much easier. The only difficulty is that you've got to repeat the feat four times in a minute. All right, Murphy, the loading procedure first.'
Murphy stepped forward a pace, the carbine cradled across his body. 'You load like this,' he said, pulling down the lever behind the trigger guard with his right hand. This dropped the breechblock, so enabling Murphy to insert a cartridge, which he extracted from a pouch on his belt. He then closed the breech by raising the lever to its original position. 'It's now ready to fire.'
'Thank you,' said George, before turning back to the men. 'And don't forget: there's no safety; as soon as you close the breech, the gun is cocked. So mind where you point it. Carry on, Murphy.'
His orderly turned back towards the targets in the distance, knelt down on one knee and fired off three rounds in the space of twenty seconds. Each shot made a surprisingly loud boom, jerking the barrel of the rifle and shrouding the muzzle for a second or two in thick white smoke. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder. A runner reported back two bulls and an inner ring.
'So you see,' said a grinning George to the recruits, 'even a marksman has his off days. And you'll have noticed that, while it's easier to shoot straight on a still day, you have to wait longer between each shot for the smoke to disperse. On a windy day it's blown away almost immediately. And that's just the effect of one soldier firing. Imagine the smoke that's generated by a troop firing volleys. But we'll come to that. For now just concentrate on loading, aiming and firing independently.'
And they did - for two whole hours, at the end of which time the recruits were a sorry-looking bunch, their ears ringing, their shoulders sore and their faces grimed with soot. About a third of the group had reached the necessary level of competence and was told to fall out.
'The rest of you,' George told them, 'are going to have to do better. You're either hitting the target but are taking far too long to load and aim or you're firing too soon and missing. We need to split the difference.'
George looked at his pocket-watch. It was five past eleven and Harris was due at noon. Nowhere near enough time, but they had to try. 'You've got just under an hour. Get on with it.'
As the firing resumed, George walked slowly along the line, ready to offer advice where needed. He stopped behind one recruit, a freckled-faced redhead of medium build, and watched him loosing off one wild shot after another. 'What's your name, Trooper?
'Penhaligon, sir.'
'And where're you from?'
'Near Redruth in Cornwall, sir.'
'Well, you're the first Cornishman I've met with a tendency to rush. Take your time. When you've got the target lined up, take a deep breath and hold it. Then gently squeeze the trigger.'
The trooper did as he was bidden. Crack, sounded the next shot, followed by an imperceptible shudder of the straw target.
'High on the right, if I'm not mistaken. Try again.'
Penhaligon reloaded and took even more time. This time the bullet struck the outer ring.
'Well done,' said George, patting him on the shoulder. 'You see the reward for a bit of patience? Keep at it.'
George continued his pacing, encouraging the good shots and correcting the bad. With the time almost up, he asked Murphy how the men were doing. 'Pretty well, sir,' came the reply. 'Most can manage four in a minute. Fingers crossed the colonel doesn't choose one of the others.'
'Luck be damned. Let's reduce the odds by putting the poor shots at either end of the line. Colonel Harris is bound to choose one of the men in the centre: it's human nature.'
'Good thinking, sir. I'll do just that.'
The sound of hoof beats announced the arrival of Harris, Major Wingfield and Adjutant Bell. Harris dismounted and, with the others in his wake, strode up to George. 'Good morning, Hart. I trust your men are up to scratch.'
'They're almost there, sir.'
'Almost there, nothing. If they can't manage five hits in a minute after a morning's instruction, they're not fit to serve in the KDG.'
'Excuse me, sir,' said George, frowning. 'Did you say five strikes? The adjutant assured me that your requirement, at this early stage of the recruits' training, was only four aimed shots a minute.'
'Four? Nonsense. Even a child could manage four. No, I certainly said five.'
'That's as may be, sir. But the adjutant must have misheard you because he definitely said four to me.'
Harris snorted and turned to Bell. 'Did you say four or five to Cornet Hart?'
'I most assuredly said five, sir.'
'There you are, Hart. We both said five, so five it is. Carry on with the demonstration.'
'Sir, I must protest. Adjutant Bell's memory is faulty. If he had said five to me, I would not have spent the morning trying to achieve a lesser rate of fire.'
Harris looked angry now. 'Are you calling the adjutant a liar?'
'No. But he is mistaken.'
'On the contrary, Hart, it is you that is mistaken. Now carry on.'
George looked at Wingfield, imploring him to intervene, but the second-in-command had no wish to face Harris's ire and he averted his gaze. George was on his own. 'Yes, sir,' he said after a pause. 'Would you care to select a soldier?'
'That one will do,' said Harris, pointing towards Trooper Penhaligon, who was standing among the average-to-good shots between the centre and the end of the line. Like the rest of the recruits, he was doing his best not to attract attention;
his freckles must have singled him out. George breathed a sigh of relief: his ruse had worked. Penhaligon was not the best shot, but he was far from the worst, and had improved out of sight thanks to George's instruction.
'All right, Penhaligon,' said George. 'Five hits in a minute, if you please.'
Penhaligon looked puzzled. 'Did you say five hits, sir?' 'I did.'
'Very well, sir. I'll do my best.' Penhaligon settled into the prone firing position, legs spread behind him, the barrel of his carbine supported by the palm of his left hand. In easy reach of his right hand he placed a pile of cartridges. George crouched down beside him and whispered, 'Do your best, Penhaligon. And remember to take your time. Better to have four hits than five misses.
'
Penhaligon nodded.
'When you're quite ready,' said Harris. 'Adjutant Bell will time you.'
Bell stepped forward, fob-watch in hand. 'Trooper, you have one minute, starting from . . . now!'
Penhaligon pulled the lever to open the breech and reached for the first cartridge, but he was too hasty and fumbled it before grabbing another and stuffing it into the breech. When lie tried to raise the lever, it refused to go. The bullet was not sitting squarely in the breech, and he wasted precious seconds realigning it. By now he had lost all composure and his hurried shot was high and wide.
'Don't worry,' encouraged George. 'Plenty of time.'
Penhaligon reloaded, took careful aim and fired. A hit, followed by three more. As he reached for the sixth cartridge, Bell called time.
'A gallant effort,' said Harris to George, 'and a shame about that first shot. But there's no place in the KDG for substandard soldiers. All the other recruits are confined to barracks until they've attained the required musketry standard. The trooper who failed the test is discharged forthwith.'
'Discharged?' spluttered George, looking from Harris to the bewildered Penhaligon and back again. 'For missing a single shot in five? He reached the standard asked for by Adjutant Bell yesterday. If I'd been told to achieve five aimed shots in a minute, I'd have said it was impossible. These are raw recruits, for heaven's sake.'
'Nothing's impossible, Hart. Try to remember that. And if you persist in calling the adjutant a liar, I'll have no option but to put you under arrest, pending a court martial.'
'I never used the word liar, sir. I simply say the adjutant's memory is playing him false.' George turned towards the smirking Bell. 'Will you swear on your mother's life that you said five rather than four?'
Bell hesitated, prompting Harris to intervene. 'He will do no such thing. Your behaviour is insubordinate, Hart. Take your men back to barracks while I decide on your punishment.'
George was shaking with fury. He had been set up, he was sure of that. And the end result: his men had been unfairly punished and, worse, a promising young soldier had been turned out into the street. Harris, he realized, was capable of just about anything, and he would have to tread extremely carefully in future. He was about to salute and take his leave when he suddenly remembered one crucial detail. He had made a note of Bell's instructions in his pocket book.
'One moment, sir. Might it help to refresh the adjutant's memory if I showed him a written record of our conversation last night?'
'What are you talking about?' said Harris.
George took the pocket book from inside his tunic, opened it at the relevant page and showed it to Harris. It specifically referred to 'four aimed shots a minute' and was dated the previous day.
'Well, you must have misheard the adjutant,' said Harris, less sure of himself now, 'because I told him five aimed shots.'
'Sir, I made this note as soon as Bell left the room. I could not have confused "four" for "five".'
Harris turned to Bell. 'Can you explain this?'
'Sir . . . I . . . I'm certain I said five.'
George interjected. 'Sir, perhaps you're right and we should let a court martial decide. I'd be happy to produce the notebook as evidence.'
Harris considered the likely outcome of a trial, and decided not to risk it. 'No,' he said at last, through gritted teeth. 'That won't be necessary. Return to barracks, if you please. We'll discuss this later.'
'What about Penhaligon, sir? Is he still to be discharged?'
'No. He can remain with the regiment.'
'Thank you, sir,' said George, saluting before leading the recruits over to the picket line where they had tethered their horses.
Bell looked apologetic. 'I'm sorry, sir. How was I to know he'd make a record of our conversation?'
'He's a sharp one, all right, and is going to be a harder nut to crack than I'd imagined.'
'Sir, I know you're keen to see the back of Hart as soon as possible, but can I make a suggestion?'
'Please do.'
'Instead of tackling the problem head on, wouldn't it be better to take a leaf out of Sun Tzu's book and play on Hart's weaknesses?'
'Go on.'
'Well, according to a cousin of mine who was with him at Sandhurst, he has at least two . . .'
Chapter 3
Westbury Park, Gloucestershire, 23 January 1878
'Hart, how good of you to come!' said a smiling Sir Jocelyn Harris as he shook George's hand in the doorway of his huge Palladian mansion. Given the rancour of their first meeting nearly five months earlier, the last thing George had expected was an invitation to Harris's country seat. Yet their day-to- day relationship had improved dramatically since the confrontation at the firing range, with Harris complimenting him on his steady progress at drill, and George had decided it would be churlish not to accept the proffered olive branch. So here he was, shaking Harris's hand and marvelling at the graceful proportions of the mansion's great hall, a welcoming fire burning in the grate to George's left.
'Delighted to be asked, sir,' said George. 'What a beautiful house you have.'
'Isn't it?' replied Harris, turning and beckoning to a waiting footman. 'Andrews will show you to your room. We're meeting for drinks in the drawing room at seven. See you then.'
George followed Andrews up one side of the sweeping double staircase to a charming set of rooms: a bedroom complete with four-poster bed, a bathroom and even a dressing room, and all with magnificent views of parkland studded with oaks. As Andrews was leaving, George asked him if he knew the identity of the other houseguests.
'I know that Lord and Lady Fitzmaurice are expected,' said Andrews. 'Also Captain Bell, Colonel Alexander of the
Seventeenth Lancers and a young lady called Mrs Bradbury. She's in the suite next to yours.'
As George lay in a bath so hot it reddened his skin, he tried to remember where he had heard the name Mrs Bradbury. Then it came to him. She was the beautiful young widow who had only been married six months when her Old Harrovian husband, a captain in the Royal Artillery, was killed in battle during General Wolseley's victorious war against the Ashanti of the Gold Coast in '74. It had been the talk of the school. It was a bit odd, he thought, for a widow to be staying with a man like Harris, a committed bachelor with a reputation as a ladies' man. Then again, with a rake like the Prince of Wales setting the social agenda, what could you expect?
He entered the bedroom, with only a towel wrapped round his waist, to find a young chambermaid unpacking his clothes. She did not notice George at first, giving him a chance to admire a curvaceous figure that not even her drab black uniform and white apron could disguise.
'What's your name?' asked George, as he reached for his Paisley pattern dressing gown.
The girl jumped at the sound of his voice and turned. She was extremely handsome, with green eyes and alabaster skin, her lovely oval face framed by a few wisps of curly chestnut hair that had escaped from her white cap. 'Begging your pardon, sir,' she said, bobbing. 'My name's Lucy Hawkins.'
'Pleased to meet you, Lucy Hawkins. Where are you from?'
'Devon, sir.'
'And your family? What do they do?'
'My father's a farrier and my mother's in service, as are my two sisters.'
George nodded, desperately trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going, and prevent this vision of loveliness from leaving. 'How old are you?' he said at last.
'Eighteen, sir.'
'Same age as me. Oh, and don't call me sir. My name's George, George Hart.'
'I know, sir. We're given a list of all the guests' names.'
'Of course you are. Tell me, Lucy, do you enjoy working for Colonel Harris?'
The girl raised her eyebrows. 'That's an odd question. Why do you ask?'
'Oh, no reason in particular. It's just that most of the officers serving under the colonel, myself included, find him a little temperamental.'
'Cornet Hart, I appreciate your condescensi
on, but I really don't think it's my place to discuss my employer with a man I've never met, even one as affable as you.'
George chuckled. The girl obviously had beauty, spirit and vocabulary, a dangerous combination. 'Thank you for the compliment, and please accept my apologies. Of course you mustn't indulge in tittle-tattle about your master. Whatever next? But I think I can surmise, even from your guarded response, that the colonel has his moments.'
'You can surmise what you like,' said Lucy, as she hung George's smoking jacket in the wardrobe. 'I prefer to hold my tongue.'
