Steggles is my groom, and my crowning mercy. But for his deafness I am sure
he would long since have left the humble rank of gunner far beneath him,
and the Staff might have gained a brilliant strategist. In addition to
dulness of hearing, Steggles is endowed--I should indeed be ungrateful to
use the word afflicted--with a vacuity of expression which puts rivals or
antagonists off their guard, and doubles his value during the vicissitudes
of active service. What would be handicaps to ordinary men Steggles turns
to the advantage of himself, Sapphira my mare, and me.
When on the march the Battery arrives at the morass allotted to it for
horse lines, I know that all will be well with the mud-bespattered
Sapphira. Steggles leaps from the waggon whereon, in company with one of
the cooks, he tours the pleasant land of France, and receives the mare.
With his toes strangely pointed out, he leads her away from the scene of
labour and language, disappearing amidst the hovels of the adjacent
village. Often I never see him or obtain news of him till next morning,
when he produces Sapphira polished like a silk hat and every scrap of metal
about her sparkling. Occasionally I have tracked him to the shelter where
he secretes and waits upon Sapphira, always to find that he has discovered
and occupied the best stable in the village. The grooms of my
brother-officers never learn that Steggles' vacuous expression is the
disguise of an intellect subtle, discriminating and alert, so they never
trouble to endeavour to forestall him. To find Sapphira is to find
Steggles, as he always likes to spread his blanket where she could tread on
him if she wanted anything during the night.
From time to time he chooses the occasion of a night's halt on the march to
indulge in a bilious attack; but he has no other vice except an inveterate
reluctance to leave off polishing my boots when I mount. No matter how
Sapphira may prance and back and sidle, he follows her round and round with
a remnant of a shirt, rubbing mud-spots off my boots in the stirrup. It is
quite useless to bellow, "That will do, Steggles!"--his ideal is the
unattainable perfection, and he persists. I have to escape by giving
Sapphira the spur at the risk of knocking Steggles into the mud, or be late
in turning out.
He never gives anything, even his own performances, unqualified praise; in
fact it is extremely hard to win from him any encomium higher than "It's
not too bad." Perhaps there is Scotch blood in his veins.
I very much want to recommend him for some decoration, but the organization
likely to appreciate the most gallant of his deeds has not yet been
formed--the S.P.G.P., or Society for the Preservation of Government
Property.
Steggles was once riding behind me down a valley liberally dimpled with
shell-holes, further dimples being in process of formation as we rode. I
was returning from an O Pip, or Observation Post, and Steggles was carrying
a pair of my boots with a rolled puttee stuffed into each. Suddenly I was
aware that he had wheeled his horse about, and was trotting back towards
the most dimply area of the valley. Out of regard for his family, I
cantered after him. He broke into a gallop. When, after a thrilling ride, I
caught him and had a little talk amongst the dimples, it appeared that he
had dropped one of the puttees, and wished to return and look for it. This
incident will, I think, demonstrate the exceptional character of the man,
who did not appear to regard himself as a hero, or to pose as a desperate
_farceur_, or to aspire to the post of Q.M.S., though, incredible as it may
seem, the puttee in question was of the variety G.S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Orderly Officer_. "WHY DON'T YOU CHALLENGE ME?"
_Latest called-up Recruit_. "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE COMING."
_Orderly Officer_. "WHAT DID THE CORPORAL SAY WHEN HE POSTED YOU?"
_Recruit_. "I WOULDN'T LIKE TO REPEAT IT TO AN OFFICER, SIR."]
* * * * *