by Max Hennessy
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Get down, sir, and have a look.’
Sullenly, Cosgro dismounted and went to the trembling animal whose hide was black with rain and smeared with the mud of the fall. He felt along its leg and rose with blood on his hand. ‘It’s gashed its fetlock, sir,’ he announced.
‘Then why the devil are you insisting it go round again?’ Colby turned to the sergeant-major. ‘Send these four men back to barracks, sergeant-major. They aren’t in a proper condition to be on parade. Get ’em away.’
‘Yes, sir.’ A look of satisfaction on his face, the sergeant-major turned away and a moment later the four horses were moving slowly back to barracks.
‘You’ll have to answer to the colonel, sir.’ Colby turned back to Cosgro. ‘He doesn’t like horses returning injured from parade. Have you been round the course?’
‘No, sir.’
Colby’s mouth twisted in a tight smile. ‘Then, I think you’d better, don’t you? We mustn’t ever ask the men to do something we aren’t prepared to do ourselves. You’d better get on with it.’
Cosgro glared. ‘In these conditions, sir?’
‘If the men can do it, so can you! Off you go. And don’t dawdle.’
Cosgro mounted, drew his sabre from the scabbard with a look that suggested he’d be only too pleased to use it on Colby, and yanked at his horse’s head. His mount was quick and clever but Cosgro wasn’t a good or a bold rider. He missed his thrust at the Turk’s Head and almost unseated himself, then, on top of the bank, his horse, seeing the danger, tried to turn and jump back the way it had come. Cosgro rolled in the saddle, his leg came up, the stirrups flew loose, and down he went into the mud. He climbed to his feet, tears of fury in his eyes and spitting the rain from his lips. As he shoved his cap straight, Colby was pleased to see there was mud on his overalls.
‘Go on, Mr Cosgro,’ he said gently. ‘You haven’t finished the course.’
The rain was coming down more heavily than ever as Cosgro, remounted, and he made heavy weather of the ride, taking the hurdles slowly and carefully. He was taking far longer than any of his men and when he finally halted in front of Colby he was spattered with mud, soaked with rain, and crimson with humiliation and fury.
Colby stared coldly at him. ‘I said a moment ago, Mr Cosgro, that no officer should ask anyone to do something he isn’t prepared to do himself. Corporal, give me your sword.’
Holding the weapon easily, he made for the nearest jump, hoping to God that the gelding he rode wouldn’t fall and make him look a fool. But the horse completed the round quickly, slithered over the bank without accident and galloped back to the line of watching troopers.
‘Sergeant-major,’ he said. ‘Take the men back to barracks. Mr Cosgro–’ his voice rose as Cosgro, turned to follow ‘–a word with you!’
As the troop moved off, the atmosphere had changed perceptibly and Colby heard one of the corporals mutter. ‘One up to Balaclava Bill!’
‘Mr Cosgro,’ Colby said quietly, turning to the furious-faced lieutenant. ‘In future, whenever you bring the men out on exercise, you will do the round yourself. First. To prove it’s safe. If you don’t like it, you’ll perhaps remember that the men won’t like it either. Thanks to you, they have hours of work ahead of them. That won’t make you popular but, while that doesn’t worry me one jot, it also doesn’t make the army popular and, in case you haven’t noticed it, there’s a move on foot to encourage a better class of men to enlist, something they’ll never do if they hear of fools like you! One thing more: I can hardly order you to groom your own mount or clean your own uniform like a trooper, and your servant will have to do it for you. But you will give him a thundering good tip. If I find you haven’t, I shall want to know why. Now, join your troop.’
He sat his horse, watching as Cosgro cantered off after the disappearing men, his mind seething with rage. Damn Cosgro, he thought angrily. Damn the whole bloody tribe of Cosgros!
The rain had stopped as they reached the first of the houses, and despite their sodden uniforms, the troop brought a stir of colour to the mean streets. Van drivers halted to let them pass and one or two of the horses appeared to have recovered enough to be skittish. Colby knew very well that they hadn’t and that their riders were deliberately making them shy to draw the eyes of passing girls and frighten the older men and women who took such a delight in writing to the paper when the streets round the soldiers’ alehouses exploded into fights. It was an old trick and one they’d not have tried if Colby had been up with them, but at least it showed their spirits had returned.
As they topped the rise towards the barracks, he could see the town in front of him. Set in a valley below the Pennines, it was expanding rapidly, its steelworks lighting the sky with their devilish colours every night as the furnaces blazed, the little streets of flat-fronted houses scarring the land round the chimneys with their narrow gutted ugliness. It wasn’t a place to be recommended for its beauty, and hardly seemed a propitious place to station a regiment of light cavalry. But the barracks were new, spacious and airy, and the men liked it, which was something. Even for the officers the town wasn’t the backwater it seemed because there was a great deal of money in industrial England these days, and the new magnates with their watch chains and fancy waistcoats were eager to show off and generous with their entertainments.
An engine, pulling wagons loaded with supplies into the sidings nearby, hooted suddenly, and a big chestnut known to everybody as ‘The Bolter’ took fright. As its hooves beat a tattoo on the cobbles, a patient nag in a milk float heard the call to arms and, as the charger went past at full tilt, lifted its head and joined in, cart and all. Nobody was hurt, and the owner of the milk float tipped his hat to Colby, having enjoyed it like everybody else. It produced a few grins, too, which made a change from the earlier sullenness.
Turning in at the stables, Colby’s nose was full of the ammonia smell of horses, and his ears were full of the jingling of rowels, the clanking of scabbards, the champing of bits and the anticipatory rattling of collar chains as expectant horses threw up their heads, waiting for the trumpeter to sound ‘Feed.’ He was aware now of bright eyes and cheerful faces.
The young trooper who had fallen at the bank had a dark mark down the side of his face and, as Colby approached, he stiffened and stared at him with a rapidly closing eye.
‘How’s that peeper?’
‘S’all right, sir. Nothing much.’ The boy managed a twisted smile. ‘No worse than you get in a Saturday night maul at The Gun, sir.’
Colby gazed at him intently. ‘Your face’s familiar. What’s your name?’
‘Sparks, sir. 504, Sparks, Jacob.’
‘My trumpeter at Balaclava was called Sparks. His trumpet hangs on the wall at the depot. Any relation?’
‘My uncle, sir.’
‘Was he, by God? I’m glad you’re in my squadron, Sparks. He was a good soldier. Let’s hope you’ll be equally good. How long have you been here?’
‘Two months, sir, since I finished my training.’
‘Well, you’ll not find much time for extra-mural activities, because parades, drills, stables and the care of saddles and harness will take a lot of your time. Know what your embouchure is?’
Sparks grinned. ‘Yes, sir. Me mouth.’
‘How’s yours?’
‘S’all right, sir. I’ve got all me teeth.’
‘Good. Would you like to be a trumpeter, like your uncle?’
The boy’s eyes glowed. ‘That I would, sir.’
Colby nodded gravely. ‘The trumpet had its origin in heaven,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s aware of a good trumpeter. A poor trumpeter cuts the air like slashes from a sword. A good one sounding the Last Post fills the air with pride, loneliness and nostalgia. I’ll have a word with the trumpet-major.’
As he turned away, he saw that several of the men had stopped to listen and he rounded on them sharply. ‘Well,’ he snapped. ‘What’s of interest to you? When you
can keep your saddles up to the standard of the 19th, that’ll be the time to stop. You especially, Threader–’ the soldier he addressed stiffened ‘–I want that horse cleaner than your own horse-smelly hide. You work as if you had strangles and your riding’s nothing to write home about. If you confined it to horses and not girls you’d be a better horseman.’
Threader grinned sheepishly and someone yelled from the other end of the stable.
‘That’s put ’im back a few horses’ lengths, sir.’
The scowls had gone and the men were hissing and cooing over the curry-combing as Colby walked down the line of stalls, stopping here and there to run his hand down a hairy fetlock.
‘Legs should have been done by now,’ he pointed out briskly. ‘Get the order of grooming from the sergeant and see you follow it.’
‘Tail wants pulling.’ He stopped this time by a vast horse with hips like book-ends. ‘And if this brute can’t get any fatter we’ll have the vet see him or have him put down.’
At a third, he stroked and patted. ‘She’s turning out well, Sergeant. Might get a foal out of her. We’ll see about sending her to the farm.’
Occupied with the business of the regiment, the breeding of sound horses, the cost of saddlery, the fit of a lance bucket, the quality of picketing rope, Colby reflected that he would much have preferred to be on his way home. But this night of all nights belonged to tradition. Tradition was a fine thing and he believed in it.
As he bathed, he found himself thinking about Augusta. She had adapted quickly not only to a new country but to a new kind of life. This was hardly the place to live after Virginia, but she never complained, seemed to be happy, and had taken to hunting like a duck to water. Her first ride had been on an enormous horse that had run away with her but she had not lost her head and had sensibly steered it into a haystack which had brought it to a sudden sullen stop.
The mess had been made splendid for the occasion. Over the fireplace the portrait of Joshua Goff, his great-grandfather and founder of the regiment, had been draped in the regimental colours, as were the portraits of former colonels which hung round the room. At the opposite end were three other portraits, of the men who had led them at Salamanca, Waterloo and Balaclava. The officers were already gathering, splendid in dress tunics, ornamental daggers, highly polished mess boots and gilded swan-necked spurs.
Brosy la Dell was waiting for him, holding two schooners of sherry. ‘Time for a quick one at a good cavalry drinking pace,’ he said, pushing the glass forward. ‘I’ve got a thirst like an ostler.’
‘Nervous feel about the mess tonight,’ he went on. ‘All these reforms Parliament’s pushing through. Hear we have a special guest. Grace told me. She’d heard from her father.’ He glanced across the ante-room to where Claude Cosgro and his younger brother were glowering in Colby’s direction. ‘Heard you had another set-to with the pup,’ he said.
‘I’ll always have set-tos with the likes of Aubrey Cosgro,’ Colby said. ‘Claude’s nothing to write home about, but Aubrey’s beyond the pale.’
As Brosy drifted off to speak to the adjutant, Claude Cosgro appeared. He was growing fat and there was a petulant look on his face.
‘You’ve been picking on Aubrey again, I hear,’ he said. ‘Can’t you leave him alone?’
‘I’ll leave him alone when he starts to behave like an officer.’
‘Dammit–’ Cosgro’s brows came down ‘–he’s only a boy.’
‘All the more reason why he shouldn’t try to behave like a man. If you’re so concerned, Claude, why not give him the benefit of your experience.’ Colby almost added ‘such as it is,’ but he bit his tongue in time. There was no point in exacerbating the quarrel.
As the trumpeters, marched in by the trumpet-major, entered the mess and lined the wall by the door like living statues, the conversation fell silent. On the signal, they came to life and lifted their instruments, lapping and licking their lips.
‘Sound!’
The call shrilled across the room, echoing from the walls and the chandeliers, and as they filed out for a drink in the kitchen, the officers put down their glasses and headed for the dining-room. The corridor was lined with the regimental drummers who were sounding a long roll as they walked past. At the head of the table, more drums had been piled. The table carried no cloth and polish had made it jet black. It was big enough to seat every officer and all the guests and was piled with silver. Among it was the loving cup made from the silver pot de chambre taken from Marmont’s baggage after Salamanca and the goblet found in Napoleon’s coach after the rout at Waterloo. They stood together on the green, red and gold strip that ran down the centre of the table.
About the walls were other trophies – swords, lances, strange brass helmets and plumes, together with ancient accoutrements and colours taken from enemies way back into the distant darkness. Behind the colonel’s seat was the guidon with every one of the battle honours embroidered in stitches of gold. Alongside it were two troopers, the best in the regiment, picked for their smartness and rewarded later with drinks in the kitchen.
As they waited by their chairs, Colonel Canning, Brosy’s father-in-law, appeared in the doorway. He was looking old, Colby thought, and would be due for retirement in a few years. Glancing across at Claude Cosgro, he suspected he was still hoping, as senior major, to take his place. Perhaps the powers in Whitehall would think differently, however, and since Cardwell was trying to abolish purchase, Claude could no longer use his wealth to make sure.
Behind the colonel, as he moved to his place at the head of the table, was the guest of honour, wearing the uniform of the Inniskillings. Nothing special about him, Colby thought. Noted chiefly for a cantankerous concern with saddlery. Then another figure appeared, small, limping and notable for the absence of chin.
‘By God,’ Brosy breathed. ‘It’s Wolseley!’
There was a murmur of interest as they took their seats. Cardwell’s reforms hadn’t left Wolseley very popular and the murmur that ran round the table sounded indignant.
‘See he’s made major-general,’ Brosy whispered. ‘Only forty-two, too! Cardwell, I suppose. Not popular in London, I hear. Reads too much.’
Colby grunted. ‘Some people don’t read enough,’ he murmured. ‘I’d be surprised, in fact, if the Cosgros can read at all.’
‘Wonder what he’s doin’ here,’ Brosy went on. ‘Ain’t a four-legged job, is he? Light Infantry, I heard.’
At a nod from the colonel, chairs were scraped back and they all sat together in one movement. It was all, Colby thought, really quite pointless, though perhaps its very pointlessness made it worthwhile. Cavalrymen were a definite species, and though the rest of the army tried hard to tell them they were merely ordinary soldiers like the rest of them, they knew they weren’t.
As the claret and the champagne flowed, he found himself listening half-heartedly to Brosy. He was watching Wolseley who was talking animatedly with the guest of honour, obviously putting some point he felt strongly about and, judging by the expression on the other man’s face, not pulling any punches.
‘Not sure I like the man,’ Brosy was saying. ‘But I suppose things have to be changed. The army’s in no state for a European war if one comes along. They say we’re behind the Germans.’
‘We are,’ Colby said. ‘In their army, they conscript for two or three years, then send the men back to civilian life – where they help increase the national wealth instead of being a drain on it. We enlist for twenty years, by the end of which they’re too old for active service, have nothing to offer as civilians, and leave no reservoir of reserves.’
Brosy popped a potato into his mouth. ‘Different now,’ he observed. ‘Cardwell–’ he gestured with his fork ‘–and that feller at the end of the table – they’ve brought in a shorter service with the colours. Much better than it was. Like this business of grouping regiments in pairs, so that while one’s serving abroad the other can be bringing up its numbers.’
�
�Won’t work,’ Colby said.
‘Why not?’
‘The British Empire covers too much of the globe. There’ll always be more battalions serving abroad than at home and those ordered overseas’ll exist in name only and overseas drafts’ll continue to be filled with last-minute enlistments who’ll be useless in action.’
Brosy chewed slowly and turned to look at Colby as if he were some strange sort of sage. ‘Where do you get these ideas, Coll?’ he asked.
As the meal ended, the colonel rose and lifted his glass. ‘Gentlemen! The Queen!’
Everyone leapt to their feet and stood in frozen silence. Movement stiffened to the rigidity of a plaster frieze.
As they sat again, the glasses were refilled and the colonel tapped with his gavel and pushed his chair back again.
‘Gettin’ stiff,’ Brosy whispered. ‘Grace says he ought to retire.’
‘Gentlemen! The Regiment!’
As they sat again, Cornet Lord Ellesmere rose to his hinds, blushing so scarlet his acne disappeared. He was shaking with nervousness and Colby could see his hand trembling as it clutched the edge of the table.
‘My Lord,’ he stammered. ‘Colonel Canning. It is my duty to give you the plague toast. It has always fallen to the youngest cornet since 1763 when one Jeremiah Harkness was the only man left on his feet after the plague had decimated the regiment in India. Gentlemen may we rise as many as we have sat down.’
They drank it solemnly and it was then the turn of the guest of honour to propose the Balaclava toast and the health of the survivors. At this point the rough-rider sergeant and the quartermaster-sergeant were brought in, the only other ranks survivors still with the regiment.
Seated with Brosy, Colby glanced at Claude Cosgro and saw his frown as he raised his glass. He always liked to pretend he, too, had ridden in Cardigan’s charge and Colby had actually heard him perpetuating the legend in bars. He’d even had the nerve, in fact, to turn up at the first dinner held in London after the Crimea, but more men had appeared then than had actually set off down the valley and after that there had been a stricter watch on the names and he’d never managed it again.
