THE OFFICERS' MESS
A gigantic sentry of her Majesty's Household Cavalry paces up and down
in front of the officers' quarters at Knightsbridge Barracks some two
hours before watch-setting. It is fortunate that constant use has
rendered him insensible to admiration. Few persons of either sex pass
under his nose without a glance of unqualified approval. They marvel
at his stature, his spurs, his carbine, his overalls, his plumed
helmet, towering high above their heads, and the stupendous
moustaches, on which this gentleman-private prides himself more than
on all the rest of his heroic attributes put together.
Beyond a shade of disciplined weariness, there is no expression
whatever on his handsome face, yet it is to be presumed that the man
has his thoughts too, like another. Is he back in Cumberland amongst
his dales, a stalwart stripling, fishing some lonely stream within the
hills, watching a bout at "knurr-and-spell" across the heather, or
wrestling a fall in friendly rivalry with his cousin, a son of Anak,
tall as himself? Does that purple sunset over Kensington Gardens
remind him of Glaramara and Saddleback? Does that distant roar of
wheels in Piccadilly recall the rush and ripple of the Solway charging
up its tawny sands with the white horses all abreast in a spring-tide?
Perhaps he is wishing he was an officer with no kit to keep in order,
no fatigue-duty to undergo, sitting merrily down to as good a dinner
as luxury can provide, or a guest, of whom he has seen several pass
his post in starched white neckcloths and trim evening clothes.
Perhaps he would not change with any of these, after all, when he
reflects on his own personal advantages, his social standing amongst
his comrades, his keen appreciation and large consumption of beer and
tobacco, with the innumerable conquests he makes amongst maids and
matrons in the middle and lower ranks of life. Such considerations,
however, impress themselves not the least upon his outward visage. A
statue could not look more imperturbable, and he turns his head but
very slightly, with supreme indifference, when peals of laughter,
more joyous than common, are wafted through the open windows of the
mess-room, where some of our friends have fairly embarked on that tide
of good-humour and hilarity which sets in with the second glass of
champagne.
It is a full mess; the colonel himself sits at dinner, with two or
three friends, old brothers-in-arms, whose soldier-like bearing and
manly faces betray their antecedents, though they may not have worn
a uniform for months. A lately-joined cornet looks at these with a
reverence that I am afraid could be extorted from him by no other
institution on earth. The adjutant and riding-master, making
holiday, are both present--"to the front," as they call it, enjoying
exceedingly the jests and waggeries of their younger comrades. The
orderly-officer, conspicuous by his belt, sits at one end of the long
table. Lord Bearwarden occupies the other, supported on either side by
his two guests, Tom Ryfe and Dick Stanmore. It is the night of Mrs.
Stanmore's ball, and these last-named gentlemen are going there, with
feelings how different, yet with the same object. Dick is full of
confidence, elated and supremely happy. His entertainer experiences a
quiet comfort and _bien-être_ stealing over him, to which he has long
been a stranger, while Tom Ryfe with every mouthful swallows down some
emotion of jealousy, humiliation, or mistrust. Nevertheless, he is in
the highest spirits of the three.
"I tell you nothing can touch him, my lord, when hounds run," says he,
still harping on the merits of the horse he sold Lord Bearwarden in
the Park. Of course half the party are talking of hunting, the other
half of racing, soldiering, and women. "He'd have been thrown away on
most of the fellows we know. He wants a good man on his back, for if
you keep him fiddling behind, it breaks his heart. I always said you
ought to have him--you or Mr. Stanmore. He's just the sort for both of
you. I'm sorry to hear yours are all coming up at Tattersall's," adds
Tom, with a courteous bow to the opposite guest. "Hope it's only to
make room for some more."
Dick disclaims. "No, indeed," says he, "it's a _bonâ fide_
sale--without reserve, you know--I am going to give the thing up!"
"Give up hunting!" expostulates a very young subaltern on Dick's left.
"Why, you're not a soldier, are you? What shall you do with yourself?
You have nothing to live for."
Overcome by this reflection, he empties his glass and looks feelingly
in his neighbour's face.
"Are you so fond of it too?" asks Dick with a smile.
"Fond of it! I believe you!" answers the boy. "What is there to be
compared to it?--at least that I've tried, you know. I think the
happiest fellow on earth is a master of fox-hounds, particularly if
he hunts them himself: there's only one thing to beat it, and that's
soldiering. I'd rather command such a regiment as this than be Emperor
of China. Perhaps I shall, too, some day."
The real colonel, sitting opposite, overhears this military sentiment,
and smiles good-humouredly at his zealous junior. "When you _are_ in
command," says he, "I hope you'll be down upon the cornets--they want
a deal of looking up--I'm much too easy with them." The young soldier
laughed and blushed. In his heart he thought the "chief," as he called
him, the very greatest man in the world, offering him that respect
combined with affection which goes so far to constitute the efficiency
of a regiment, hoping hereafter to tread in his footsteps and carry
out his system.
For ten whole minutes he held his tongue--and this was no small effort
of self-restraint--that he might listen to the commanding officer's
conversation with his guests, savouring strongly of professional
interests, as comprising Crimean, Indian, and continental experiences,
all tending to prove that cavalry massed, kept under cover, held well
in hand, and "offered" at the critical moment, was _the_ force to
render success permanent and defeat irretrievable.
When they got into a dissertation on shoeing, with the comparative
merits of "threes" and "sections" at drill, the young man refreshed
himself liberally with champagne, and turned to more congenial
discourse.
Of this there seemed no lack. The winner of the St. Leger was as
confidently predicted as if the race were already in his owner's
pocket. A match was made between two splendid dandies, called
respectfully by their comrades "Nobby" and "The Dustman," to walk from
Knightsbridge Barracks to Windsor Bridge that day week--the odds being
slightly in favour of "The Dustman," who was a peer of the realm. A
moderate dancer was freely criticised, an exquisite singer approved
with reservation, and the style of fighting practised by our present
champion of the prize-ring unequivocally condemned. Presently a deep
voice made itself heard in more sustained tones than belong to general
conversation, and during a lull it became clear that the adjutant was
relating an anecdote of his own military experience. "It's a wonderful
country," said he, in reply to some previous observation. "I'm not an
Irishman myself, but I've observed that the most conspicuous men
in all nations are pure Irish or of Irish extraction. Look at the
service. Look at the ring--prize-fighters and book-makers. I believe
the Slasher's mother was born in Connaught, and nothing will convince
me but that Deerfoot came from Tipperary--east and west the world's
full of them--they swarm, I'm told, in America, and I can answer for
them in Europe. Did ye ever see a Turk in a vineyard? He's the very
moral of Pat in a potato-garden: the same frieze coat--the same baggy
breeches--the same occasional smoke, every five minutes or so--and the
same rooted aversion to hard work. Go on into India--they're all over
the place. Shall I tell you what happened to myself? We were engaged
on the right of the army, getting it hot and heavy, all the horses
with their heads up, but the men as steady as old Time. I was in the
Lancers then, under Sir Hope. The Sikhs worked their guns beautifully,
and presently we got the word to advance. It wasn't bad ground for
manoeuvring, and we were soon into them. The enemy fought a good
one--those Sikhs always do. There was one fine old white-bearded
patriarch stuck to his gun to the last. His people were all speared
and cut down, but he never gave back an inch. I can see him now,
looking like the pictures of Abraham in my old Sunday-school book. I
thought I'd save him if I could. Our chaps had got their blood up, and
dashed in to finish him with their lances, but I kept them off with
some difficulty, and offered him 'quarter.' I was afraid he wouldn't
understand my language. 'Quarter,' says he, in the richest brogue
you'll hear out of Cork--'quarter! you bloody thieves! will you stick
a countryman, an' a comrade, ye murtherin' villains, like a _boneen_
in a butcher's shop!' He'd have gone on, I dare say, for an hour, but
the men had their lances through him before you could say 'knife.' As
my right-of-threes, himself a Paddy, observed--he was discoorsin'
the devil in less than five minutes. The man was a deserter and a
renegade, so it served him right, but being an Irishman, you see, he
distinguished himself--that's all I mean to infer."
The young officer was exceedingly attentive to an anecdote which, thus
told by its bronzed, war-worn, and soldier-like narrator, possessed
the fascination of romance with the interest of reality.
Lord Bearwarden and his guests had also broken off their conversation
to listen--they returned to the previous subject.
"There are so many people come to town now-a-days," said his lordship,
"that the whole thing spoils itself. Society is broken up into sets,
and even if you belong to the same set, you cannot insure meeting any
particular person at any particular place. Just the same with clubs.
I might hunt you two fellows about all night, from Arthur's to
the Arlington--from the Arlington to White's--from White's to the
Carlton--from the Carlton back to St. James's Street--and never run
into you at all, unless I had the luck to find you drinking gin and
soda at Pratt's." Tom Ryfe, belonging only to the last-named of these
resorts, looked gratified. Dick Stanmore was thinking of something
else.
"Now, to-night," continued Lord Bearwarden, turning to the latter,
"although the ball is in your own step-mother's house, I'll take odds
you don't know three-fourths of the people you'll meet, and yet you've
been as much about London as most of us. Where they come from I can't
think, and they're like the swallows, or the storks, or the woodcocks,
only they're not so welcome. Where they'll go to when the season's
over I neither know nor care."
Tom Ryfe would have given much to feel equally indifferent. Something
like a pang shot through him as he reflected that for him the battle
must be against wind and tide--a fierce struggle, more and more
hopeless, to grasp at something drifting visibly out of reach. He
was not a man, however, to be beat while it was possible to persist.
Believing Dick Stanmore the great obstacle in his way, he watched that
preoccupied gentleman as a cat watches a mouse.
"I don't want to be introduced to any more people," said Dick rather
absently. "In my opinion you can't have too few acquaintances and too
many friends."
"One ought to know lots of _women_," said Mr. Ryfe, assuming the air
of a fine gentleman, which fitted him, thought Lord Bearwarden, as
ill as his uniform generally fits a civilian. "I mean women of
position--who _give_ things--whom you'd like to be seen talking to in
the Park. As for girls, they're a bore--there's a fresh crop every
season--they're exactly like each other, and you have to dance with
'em all!"
"Confound his impudence!" _thought_ Lord Bearwarden; "does he hope to
impose on _me_ with his half-bred swagger and Brummagem assurance?"
but he only _said_, "I suppose, Tom, you're in great request with
them--all ranks, all sorts, all ages! You fellows have such a pull
over us poor soldiers; you can be improving the time while we're on
guard."
Tom looked as if he rather believed he could. But he only _looked_
it. Beneath that confident manner, his heart was sad and sinking. How
bitter he felt against Miss Bruce, and yet he loved her, in his own
way, too, all the while.
"Champagne to Mr. Stanmore!" said his entertainer, beckoning to a
servant. "You're below the mark, Stanmore, and we've a heavy night
before us. You're thinking of your pets at Tattersall's next week.
Cheer up. Their future masters won't be half so hard on them, I'll be
bound. But I wouldn't assist at the sacrifice if I were you. Come
down to the Den with me; we'll troll for pike, and give the clods
a cricket-match. Then we'll dine early, set trimmers, and console
ourselves with claret-cup under affliction."
Dick laughed. Affliction, indeed, and he had never been so happy in
his life! Perhaps that was the reason of his silence, his abstraction.
At this very moment, he thought, Maud might be opening the packet he
made such sacrifices to redeem. He had arranged for her to receive the
diamonds all reset and glittering at the hour she would be dressing
for the ball. He could almost fancy he saw the beautiful face flushed
with delight, the dark eyes filled with tears. Would she press those
jewels to her lips, and murmur broken words of endearment for _him_?
Would she not love him _now_, if, indeed, she had not loved him
before? Horses, forsooth! What were all the horses that ever galloped
compared to one smile of hers? He would have given her his right arm,
his life, if she wanted it. And now, perhaps, he was to obtain his
reward. Who could tell what that very night might bring forth?
Mr. Stanmore's glass remained untasted before him, and Lord Bearwarden
observing that dinner was over, and his guests seemed disinclined to
drink any more wine, proposed an adjournment to the little mess-room
to smoke.
In these days the long sittings that delighted our grandfathers have
completely given way to an early break up, a quiet cigar, and a
general retreat, if not to bed, at least to other scenes and other
society. In ten minutes from the rising of the colonel, Lord
Bearwarden, and half-a-dozen guests, the larger mess-room was cleared
of its inmates, and the smaller one crowded with an exceedingly merry
and rather noisy assemblage.
"Just one cigar," said Lord Bearwarden, handing a huge case to
his friends. "It will steady you nicely for waltzing, and some
eau-de-cologne in my room will take off all the smell afterwards. I
know you dancing swells are very particular."
Both gentlemen laughed, and putting large cigars into their mouths,
accommodated themselves with exceeding goodwill to the arrangement. It
was not in the nature of things that silence should be preserved
under such incentives to conversation as tobacco and soda-water with
something in it, but presently, above other sounds, a young voice was
heard to clamour for a song.
"Let's have a chant!" protested this eager voice; "the night is still
young. We're all musical, and we don't often get the two best pipes in
the regiment to dine here the same day. Come, tune up, old boy. Give
us 'Twisting Jane,' or the 'Gallant Young Hussar.'"
The "old boy" addressed, a large, fine-looking man, holding the
appointment of riding-master, smiled good-humouredly, and shook his
head. "It's too early for the 'Hussar,'" said he, scanning the
fresh beardless face with its clear mirthful eyes. "And it's not an
improving song for young officers neither. I'll try 'Twisting Jane' if
you gentlemen will support me with the chorus;" and in a deep mellow
voice he embarked without more ado on the following barrack-room
ditty:--
I loved a girl, down Windsor way,
When we was lying there,
As soft as silk, as mild as May,
As timid as a hare.
She blushed and smiled, looked down so shy,
And then--looked up again--
My comrades warned me: 'Mind your eye,
With Twisting Jane!'
I wooed her thus, not sure but slow,
To kiss she vowed a crime,--
For she was 'reining back,' you know,
While I was 'marking time.'
'Alas!' I thought, 'these dainty charms
Are not for me, 'tis plain;
Too long she keeps me under arms,
Does Twisting Jane.'
Our corporal-major says to me,
One day before parade,
'She's gammoning you, young chap,' says he,
'Is that there artful jade!
You'll not be long of finding out,
When nothing's left to gain,
How quick the word is "Threes about!"
With Twisting Jane!'
Our corporal-major knows what's what;
I peeped above her blind;
The tea was made--the toast was hot--
She looked so sweet and kind.
My captain in her parlour sat,
It gave me quite a pain,
With coloured clothes, and shining hat,
By Twisting Jane.
The major he came cantering past,
She bustled out to see,--
'O, major! is it you at last?
Step in and take your tea.'
The major halted--winked his eye--
Looked up and down the lane;
And in he went his luck to try
With Twisting Jane.
I waited at 'attention' there,
Thinks I, 'There'll soon be more.'
The colonel's phaeton and pair
Came grinding to the door.
She gave him such a sugary smile,
(Old men is very vain!)
'It's you I looked for all the while,'
Says Twisting Jane,
'I've done with you for good,' I cried,
'You're never on the square;
Fight which you please on either side,
But hang it, lass, fight fair!
I won't be last--I can't be first--
So look for me in vain
When next you're out "upon the burst,"
Miss Twisting Jane!--
When next you're out "upon the burst,"
Miss Twisting Jane!'
"A jolly good song," cried the affable young gentleman who had
instigated the effort, adding, with a quaint glance at the grizzled
visage and towering proportions of the singer, "You're very much
improved, old chap--not so shy, more power, more volume. If you mind
your music, I'll get you a place as a chorister-boy in the Chapel
Royal, after all. You're just the size, and your manner's the very
thing!"
"Wait till I get _you_ in the school with that new charger," answered
the other, laughing. "I think, gentlemen, it's my call. I'll ask our
adjutant here to give us 'Boots and Saddles,' you all like that game."
Tumblers were arrested in mid-air, cigars taken from smooth or hairy
lips, while all eyes were turned towards the adjutant, a soldier down
to his spurs, who "tuned up," as universally requested, without delay.
BOOTS AND SADDLES.
The ring of a bridle, the stamp of a hoof,
Stars above, and a wind in the tree,--
A bush for a billet,--a rock for a roof,--
Outpost duty's the duty for me!
Listen. A stir in the valley below--
The valley below is with riflemen crammed,
Covering the column and watching the foe--
Trumpet-major!--Sound and be d----d!
Stand to your horses!--It's time to begin--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!
Though our bivouac-fire has smouldered away,
Yet a bit of good 'baccy shall comfort us well;
When you sleep in your cloak there's no lodging to pay,
And where we shall breakfast the devil can tell!
But the horses were fed, ere the daylight had gone,
There's a slice in the embers--a drop in the can--
Take a suck of it, comrade! and so pass it on,
For a ration of brandy puts heart in a man.
Good liquor is scarce, and to waste it a sin,--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!
Hark! there's a shot from the crest of the hill!
Look! there's a rocket leaps high in the air.
By the beat of his gallop, that's nearing us still,
That runaway horse has no rider, I'll swear!
There's a jolly light-infantry post on the right,
I hear their bugles--they sound the 'Advance.'
They will tip us a tune that shall wake up the night,
And we're hardly the lads to leave out of the dance.
They're at it already, I'm sure, by the din,--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!
They don't give us long our divisions to prove--
Short, sharp, and distinct, comes the word of command.
'Have your men in the saddle---Be ready to move--
Keep the squadron together--the horses in hand--'
While a whisper's caught up in the ranks as they form--
A whisper that fain would break out in a cheer--
How the foe is in force, how the work will be warm.
But, steady! the chief gallops up from the rear.
With old 'Death-or-Glory' to fight is to win,
And the Colonel means mischief, I see by his grin.--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!--
Boots and Saddles! The Pickets are in!
"And it must be 'Boots and Saddles' with us," said Lord Bearwarden to
his guests as the applause subsided and he made a move towards the
door, "otherwise we shall be the 'lads to leave out of the dance'; and
I fancy that would suit none of us to-night."