"Who'll serve the King?" said the Sergeant, aloud,
Loud roll'd the drum, and the fife played sweetly.
"Here, Mr Sergeant," says I from the crowd,
"Is a lad that will serve your turn completely!"
Old Sons.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was aroused by the sound of the reveille at six o'clock on the
following morning. The soldiers all arose, rolled up their beds, or
rather straw palliasses, turning up the bedsteads--made with a hinge in
the middle--placed the roll of bedding upon it, folded the sheets,
blankets, and coverlid neatly one by one, and arranged them on the beds
in such a manner that the room presented the appearance of a draper's
shop in less than five minutes. They then went to stables, leaving me
in bed. I soon got up and dressed myself, making a sorry attempt to put
my bedding in the same state as the rest, and sauntered through the long
passage down a flight of stone steps into the barrack-yard, until it was
getting daylight. By this time I had made up my mind to return home at
all risks, and in pursuance of this resolve, I started for the front
gate, but having to pass the guard-room, I again came in contact with
the corporal who had so kindly volunteered to find me a night's lodging.
He beckoned me towards him, and said that he had just sent for his
friend the recruiting sergeant, of whom he had spoken the previous
night, and that he expected him up every minute.
Wishing to avoid him, I said that I would go out and get breakfast, and
might come back in the course of an hour. But the corporal probably
suspected I might _not_ return, and managed to keep me in conversation
until the arrival of his friend the recruiting sergeant of a regiment of
hussars.
Sergeant Brailsford, for that was his name, was a man eminently
calculated for the duty to which he had been appointed. His splendid
uniform, evidently got up for the purpose of dazzling the eyes of the
unwary, was decidedly the handsomest suit of clothes I had ever seen.
He asked me to breakfast with him at an adjacent public-house: we had
ham, eggs, and coffee, after which he invited me to have a walk with
him. I felt quite proud of being seen in his company, as I trudged
along the street in my blue smock-frock, round white hat, strong
hob-nailed boots, and thought little of how my countrified gait
contrasted with his fine soldierly bearing. The sergeant was in the
full dress of his regiment, termed "review order" when mounted; but I
afterwards found that, for the sake of effect, he wore the uniform of a
_commissioned_ officer, with the single exception of the "bars" or
stripes on his arm, to indicate his rank. A bell-topped shako, the
front of which was emblazoned with gold mountings, surmounted by a huge
plume of cocks' feathers; a dark blue dress jacket literally covered
with gold lace, a handsome sash, blue overalls with broad gold stripes,
and nicely-polished boots and spurs, were sufficient of themselves to
make a country "gawky's" mouth water; but the crowning part of the
dashing sergeant's attire, and one that most took the attention of
passers-by, particularly the girls, was the bright scarlet pelisse--
loose jacket--profusely trimmed with gold lace and bear-skin, hanging
carelessly over his left shoulder. He had a jet-black moustache, not
then so common as it is now, and no doubt thought no "small beer" of
himself as he stalked majestically over the pavement, glancing in the
shop windows that reflected his figure as he passed them. On our return
towards the point from whence we started, we met the regiment of
"Queen's Bays," in "complete marching order," a style in which cavalry
frequently turn out and march a few miles, to perfect the men in packing
their kit and being ready to move quickly in case of emergency. They
were all mounted on bay horses with _docked_ tails; the band was playing
"Paddy, will you now?" and although a dull and foggy December morning,
the black and smoky streets through which the troops marched looked gay
and animated. Every one admired the soldiers. My resolution was fixed.
I had never before seen a cavalry regiment mounted and in full dress.
The sergeant probably noticed the effect produced on my weak mind, and
struck while the iron was hot.
"Better 'list and be a soldier," said he. "I don't mind if I do," said
I. On arriving at the rendezvous he took me up a narrow staircase, on
the landing of which was a standard, fixed to indicate the height of
intending recruits. I was one inch below the standard height of the
regiment, he said, but being young and evidently growing fast, _that_
was immaterial. We descended to a sort of tap-room, where a huge fire
was burning, and several soldiers with dirty-looking female companions
were seated around, smoking and drinking. The men rose, and proposed my
health. At a sign, however, from the sergeant they were seated, and
were comparatively silent. The sergeant, assuming a pompous air, then
put the following questions to me:--
"Are you married? Are you an apprentice? Did you ever serve in her
Majesty's army or navy? Have you ever been cupped or marked with the
letter D?"