Our Mr. MacTavish is a man with a past. He is now a cavalry subaltern
and he was once a sailor. As a soldier at sea is never anything but
an object of derision to sailors, correspondingly the mere idea of a
sailor on horseback causes the utmost merriment among soldiers.
"Sailors on horseback!"--the very words bring visions of apoplectic
mariners careering madly across sands, three to a horse, every limb
in convulsion. Why, it's one of the world's stock jokes.
The pathetic part of it is that, obeying the law of opposites, the
saddle has an irresistible and fatal attraction for the poor chaps.
They take to it on every possible and impossible occasion. You can see
them playing alleged polo at Malta, riding each other off at right
angles and employing their sticks as grappling irons. You can see them
over from the Rock whooping after Spanish foxes, bestriding their
steeds anywhere but in the appointed place.
As every proper farmer's boy has long, long thoughts of magic oceans,
spice isles and clipper ships, so I will warrant every normal Naval
officer dreams of a little place in the grass counties, a stableful
of long-tails and immortal runs with the Quorn and Pytchley.
It was thus with our Mr. MacTavish, anyhow. A stern parent and a
strong-armed crammer projected him into the Navy, and in the Navy
he remained for years bucketing about the salt seas in light and
wobbly cruisers, enforcing intricate Bait Laws off Newfoundland in
mid-winter, or playing hide-and-seek with elusive dhows on the Equator
in midsummer, but always with a vision of that little place in his
mind's eye.
His opportunity arrived with the demise of the stern parent and the
acquisition of a comfortable legacy. MacTavish sent in his papers and
stepped ashore for good. He discovered the haven of his heart's desire
in the neighbourhood of Melton, purchased a pig and a cow (which
turned out to be a bullock) to give the little place a homely air,
engaged a terrier for ratting and intercourse, and with the assistance
of some sympathetic dealers was assembling as comprehensive a
collection of curbs, spavins, sprung tendons, pin-toes, herring-guts,
ewe-necks, cow-hocks and capped elbows as could be found between the
Tweed and Tamar, when--Mynheer W. HOHENZOLLERN (as he is to-day) went
and done it.
The evening of August 4th, 1914, discovered MacTavish sitting on the
wall of his pig-sty, his happy hunting prospects shot to smithereens,
arguing the position out with the terrier. He must attend to this
war, that was clear, but need he necessarily go back to the salt sea?
Couldn't he do his bit in some other service? What about the Cavalry?
That would mean galloping about Europe on a jolly old gee, shouting
"Hurrah!" and cutlassing the foot-passengers. A merry life, combining
all the glories of fox-hunting with only twenty-five per cent. of its
safety--according to _Jorrocks_.
What about the Cavalry, then? The terrier semaphored complete
approbation with its tail stump and even the pig made enthusiastic
noises.
A month later MacTavish turned up in a Reserve Regiment of Cavalry at
the Curragh as a "young officer." The Riding-Master treated his case
as no more hopeless than anybody else's and MacTavish was making
average progress until one evening in the anteroom he favoured the
company with a few well-spiced Naval reminiscences.
Next morning the Riding-Master was convulsed with merriment at the
mere sight of him, addressed him variously as Jellicoe, Captain
Kidd and Sinbad, and, after first warning MacTavish not to imagine
he was ashore at Port Said riding the favourite in a donkey Derby,
translated all his instructions into nautical language. For instance:
"Right rein--haul the starboard yoke line; gallop--full steam ahead;
halt--cast anchor; dismount--abandon ship," and so forth, giving his
delicate and fanciful sense of humour full play and evoking roars
of laughter from the whole house. It did not take MacTavish long to
realise that, no matter what he said, he would never again be taken
seriously in that place; he was, in fact, the world's stock joke, a
sailor on horseback (Ha, ha, ha!).
He set his jaw and was determined that he would not be caught tripping
again; there should be no more reminiscences. Once clear of Ireland he
would bury his past.
All this happened years ago.
When I came back from leave the other day I asked for Albert Edward.
"He and MacTavish are up at Corpse H.Q.," said the skipper; "they're
helping the A.P.M. straighten the traffic out. By the way you'd
better trickle up there and relieve them, as they're both going on
leave in a day or so."
I trickled up to Corpse and eventually discovered Albert Edward alone,
practising the three-card trick with a view to a career after the War.
"You'll enjoy this Mess," said he, turning up "the Lady" where he
least expected her; "it's made up of Staff eccentrics--Demobilizing,
Delousing, Educational, Laundry and Burial _wallahs_--all sorts, very
interesting; you'll learn how the other half lives and all that. Oh,
that reminds me. You know poor old MacTavish's secret, don't you?"
"Of course," said I; "everybody does. Why?"
Albert Edward grinned. "Because there's another bloke here with a dark
past, only this is t'other way about; he's a bumpkin turned sailor,
Blenkinsop by name, you know, the Shropshire hackney breeders. He's
Naval Division. Ever rub against those merchants?"