“I have got some very sad news to tell you,” wrote Lady Pelican to her
friend, Mrs. Vermeil, a faded lady of fashion, who discontentedly
occupied a suite of apartments at Hampton Court; “our Irish estates are
in such a miserable condition--absolutely making us out to be in debt to
_them_, instead of adding to _our_ income, that poor George--you will be
shocked to hear it--is actually obliged to go into the Infantry!”
The communication of this distressing fact may stand instead of the
regular Gazette, announcing the appointment of the Hon. George Spoonbill
to an Ensigncy, by purchase, in the 100th regiment of foot. His military
aspirations had been “Cavalry,” and he had endeavored to qualify
himself for that branch of the service by getting up an invisible
moustache, when the Irish agent wrote to say that no money was to be had
in that quarter, and all thoughts of the Household Brigade were, of
necessity, abandoned. But, though the more expensive career was shut
out, Lord Pelican’s interest at the Horse Guards remained as influential
as before, and for the consideration of four hundred and fifty pounds
which--embarrassed as he was--he contrived to muster, he had no
difficulty in procuring a commission for his son George, in the
distinguished regiment already named. There were, it is true, a few
hundred prior claimants on the Duke’s list; “but,” as Lord Pelican
justly observed, “if the Spoonbill family were not fit for the army, he
should like to know who were!” An argument perfectly irresistible.
Gazetted, therefore, the young gentleman was, as soon as the Queen’s
sign-manual could be obtained, and the usual interval for preparation
over, the Hon. George Spoonbill set out to join. But before he does so,
we must say a word of what that “preparation” consisted in.
Some persons may imagine that he forthwith addressed himself to the
study of Polybius, dabbled a little in Cormontaigne, got up Napier’s
History of the Peninsular War, or read the Duke’s Despatches; others,
that he went down to Birdcage-Walk, and placed himself under the tuition
of Color-Sergeant Pike, of the Grenadier Guards, a warrior celebrated
for his skill in training military aspirants, or that he endeavored by
some other means to acquire a practical knowledge, however slight, of
the profession for which he had always been intended. The Hon. George
Spoonbill knew better. The preparation _he_ made, was a visit, at least
three times a day, to Messrs. Gorget and Plume, the military tailors in
Jermyn Street, whose souls he sorely vexed by the persistance with which
he adhered to the most accurate fit of his shell-jacket and coatee, the
set of his epaulettes, the cut of his trowsers, and the shape of his
chako. He passed his days in “trying on his things,” and his
evenings--when not engaged in the Casino, the Cider Cellar, or the
Adelphi--in dining with his military friends at St. James’s Palace, or
at Knightsbridge Barracks. In their society he greatly improved himself,
acquiring an accurate knowledge of lansquenet and ecarté, cultivating
his taste for tobacco, and familiarizing his mind with that reverence
for authority which is engendered by the anecdotes of great military
commanders that freely circulate at the mess-table. His education and
his uniform being finished at about the same time, George Spoonbill took
a not uncheerful farewell of the agonized Lady Pelican, whose maternal
bosom streamed with the sacrifice she made in thus consigning her
offspring to the vulgar hardships of a marching regiment.
An express train conveyed the honorable Ensign in safety to the country
town where the “Hundredth” were then quartered, and in conformity with
the instructions which he received from the Assistant Military Secretary
at the Horse Guards--the only instructions, by-the-bye, which were
given him by that functionary--he “reported” himself at the Orderly-room
on his arrival, was presented by the Adjutant to the senior Major,
by the senior Major to the Lieutenant-Colonel, and by the
Lieutenant-Colonel to the officers generally when they assembled for
mess.
The “Hundredth,” being “Light Infantry,” called itself “a crack
regiment:” the military adjective signifying, in this instance, not so
much a higher reputation for discipline and warlike achievements, as an
indefinite sort of superiority arising from the fact that no man was
allowed to enter the _corps_ who depended on his pay only for the figure
he cut in it. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip, who commanded, was very strict
in this particular, and, having the good of the service greatly at
heart, set his face entirely against the admission of any young man who
did not enjoy a handsome paternal allowance, or was not the possessor of
a good income. He was himself the son of a celebrated army clothier, and
in the course of ten years, had purchased the rank he now held, so that
he had a right, as he thought, to see that his regiment was not
contaminated by contact with poor men. His military creed was, that no
man had any business in the army who could not afford to keep his horses
or tilbury, and drink wine every day; _that_ he called respectable,
anything short of it the reverse. If he ever relaxed from the severity
of this rule, it was only in favor of those who had high connections; “a
handle to a name” being as reverently worshipped by him as money itself;
indeed, in secret, he preferred a lord’s son, though poor, to a
commoner, however rich; the poverty of a sprig of nobility not being
taken exactly in a literal sense. Colonel Tulip had another theory also:
during the aforesaid ten years, he had acquired some knowledge of drill,
and possessing an hereditary taste for dress, considered himself, thus
endowed, a first-rate officer, though what he would have done with his
regiment in the field is quite another matter. In the meantime he was
gratified by thinking that he did his best to make it a crack corps,
according to his notion of the thing, and such minor points as the
moral training of the officers, and their proficiency in something more
than the forms of the parade ground, were not allowed to enter into his
consideration. The “Hundredth” were acknowledged to be “a devilish
well-dressed, gentlemanly set of fellows,” and were looked after with
great interest at country-balls, races, and regattas; and if this were
not what a regiment ought to be, Colonel Tulip was, he flattered
himself, very much out in his calculations.
The advent of the Hon. George Spoonbill was a very welcome one, as the
vacancy to which he succeeded had been caused by the promotion of a
young baronet into “Dragoons,” and the new comer being the second son of
Lord Pelican, with a possibility of being graced one day by wearing that
glittering title himself, the hiatus caused by Sir Henry Muff’s removal
was happily filled up without any derogation to the corps. Having also
ascertained, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, that Mr.
Spoonbill’s “man” and two horses were to follow in a few days with the
remainder of his baggage; and the young gentlemen having talked rather
largely of what the Governor allowed him (two hundred a-year is no great
sum, but he kept the actual amount in the back ground, speaking
“promiscuously” of “a few hundreds”), and of his intimacy with “the
fellows in the Life Guards;” Colonel Tulip at once set him down as a
decided acquisition to the “Hundredth,” and intimated that he was to be
made much of accordingly.
When we described the regiment as being composed of wealthy men, the
statement must be received with a certain reservation. It was Colonel
Tulip’s hope and intention to make it so in time, when he had
sufficiently “weeded” it, but _en attendant_ there were three or four
officers who did not quite belong to his favorite category. There were
the senior Major, and an old Captain, both of whom had seen a good deal
of service, the Surgeon, who was a necessary evil, and the
Quarter-master, who was never allowed to show with the rest of the
officers except at “inspection,” or some other unusual demonstration.
But the rank and “allowance” of the first, and something in the
character of the second, which caused him to be looked upon as a
military oracle, made Colonel Tulip tolerate their presence in the
corps, if he did not enjoy it. Neither had the Adjutant quite as much
money as the commanding officer could have desired, but as his position
kept him close to his duties, doing that for which Colonel Tulip took
credit, he also was suffered to pass muster; he was a brisk, precise,
middle-aged personage, who hoped in the course of time to get his
company, and whose military qualifications consisted chiefly in knowing
“Torrens,” the “Articles of War,” the “Military Regulations,” and the
“Army List,” by heart. The last-named work was, indeed, very generally
studied in the regiment, and may be said to have exhausted almost all
the literary resources of its readers, exceptions being made in favor of
the weekly military newspaper, the monthly military magazine, and an
occasional novel from the circulating library. The rest of the officers
must speak for themselves, as they incidentally make their appearance.
Of their character, generally, this may be said; none were wholly bad,
but all of them might easily have been a great deal better.
Brief ceremony attends a young officer’s introduction to his regiment,
and the honorable prefix to Ensign Spoonbill’s name was anything but a
bar to his speedy initiation. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip took wine with
him the first thing, and his example was so quickly followed by all
present, that by the time the cloth was off the table, Lord Pelican’s
second son had swallowed quite as much of Duff Gordon’s sherry as was
good for him. Though drinking is no longer a prevalent military vice,
there are occasions when the wine circulates rather more freely than is
altogether safe for young heads, and this was one of them. Claret was
not the habitual “tipple,” even of the crack “Hundredth;” but as Colonel
Tulip had no objection to make a little display now and then, he had
ordered a dozen in honor of the new arrival, and all felt disposed to
do justice to it. The young Ensign had flattered himself that, amongst
other accomplishments, he possessed “a hard head;” but, hard as it was,
the free circulation of the bottle was not without its effect, and he
soon began to speak rather thick, carefully avoiding such words as began
with a difficult letter, which made his discourse somewhat periphrastic,
or roundabout. But though his observations reached his hearers
circuitously, their purpose was direct enough, and conveyed the
assurance that he was one of those admirable Crichtons who are “wide
awake” in every particular, and available for anything that may chance
to turn up.
The conversation which reached his ears from the jovial companions who
surrounded him, was of a similarly instructive and exhilarating kind,
and tended greatly to his improvement. Captain Hackett, who came from
“Dragoon Guards,” and had seen a great deal of hard service in Ireland,
elaborately set forth every particular of “I’ll give you my honor, the
most remarkable steeple-chase that ever took place in the three
kingdoms,” of which he was, of course, the hero. Lieutenant Wadding, who
prided himself on his small waist, broad shoulders, and bushy whiskers,
and was esteemed “a lady-killer,” talked of every woman he knew, and
damaged every reputation he talked about. Lieutenant Bray, who was
addicted to sporting and played on the French horn, came out strong on
the subject of hackles, May-flies, gray palmers, badgers, terriers,
dew-claws, snap-shots and Eley’s cartridges. Captain Cushion, a great
billiard-player, and famous--in every sense--for “the one-pocket game,”
was eloquent on the superiority of his own cues, which were tipped with
gutta percha instead of leather, and offered, as a treat, to indulge
“any man in garrison with the best of twenty, one ‘up,’ for a hundred
a-side.” Captain Huff, who had a crimson face, a stiff arm, and the
voice of a Stentor, and whose soul, like his visage, was steeped in port
and brandy, boasted of achievements in the drinking line, which,
fortunately, are now only traditional, though he did his best to make
them positive. From the upper end of the table, where sat the two
veterans and the doctor, came, mellowed by distance, grim recollections
of the Peninsula, with stories of Picton and Crawford, “the fighting
brigade” and “the light division,” interspersed with endless Indian
narratives, equally grim, of “how our fellows were carried off by the
cholera at Cawnpore,” and how many tigers were shot, “when we lay in
Cantonments at Dum-dum;” the running accompaniment to the whole being a
constant reference to so-and-so “of _ours_” without allusion to which
possessive pronoun, few military men are able to make much progress in
conversation.
Nor was Colonel Tulip silent, but his conversation was of a very lofty
and, as it were, ethereal order,--quite transparent, in fact, if any one
had been there to analyze it. It related chiefly to the magnates at the
Horse Guards,--to what “the Duke” said to him on certain occasions
specified,--to Prince Albert’s appearance at the last levee,--to a
favorite bay charger of his own, to the probability that Lord Dawdle
would get into the corps on the first exchange,--and to a partly-formed
intention of applying to the Commander-in-Chief to change the regimental
facings from buff to green.
The mess-table, after four hours’ enjoyment of it in this intellectual
manner, was finally abandoned for Captain Cushion’s “quarters,” that
gallant officer having taken “quite a fancy to the youngster,” not so
much, perhaps, on account of the youngster being a Lord’s youngster, as
because, in all probability, there was something squeezeable in him,
which was slightly indicated in his countenance. But whatever of the
kind there might indeed have been, did not come out that evening, the
amiable Captain preferring rather to initiate by example and the show of
good fellowship, than by directly urging the neophyte to play. The
rubber, therefore, was made up without him, and the new Ensign, with two
or three more of his rank, confined themselves to cigars and brandy and
water, a liberal indulgence in which completed what the wine had begun,
and before midnight chimed the Hon. George Spoonbill was--to use the
mildest expression,--as unequivocally tipsy as the fondest parent or
guardian could possibly have desired a young gentleman to be on the
first night of his entering “the Service.”
Not yet established in barracks, Mr. Spoonbill slept at an hotel, and
thither he was assisted by two of his boon companions, whom he insisted
on regaling on devilled biscuits and more brandy and water, out of sheer
gratitude for their kindness. Nor was this reward thrown away, for it
raised the spirits of these youths to so genial a pitch that, on their
way back--with a view, no doubt, to give encouragement to trade--they
twisted off, as they phrased it, “no end to knockers and bell-handles,”
broke half a dozen lamps, and narrowly escaping the police (with whom,
however, they would gloriously have fought rather than have surrendered)
succeeded at length in reaching their quarters,--a little excited it is
true, but by no means under the impression that they had done
anything--as the articles of war say--“unbecoming the character of an
officer and a gentleman.”
In the meantime, the jaded waiter at the hotel had conveyed their
fellow-Ensign to bed, to dream--if he were capable of dreaming--of the
brilliant future which his first day’s experience of actual military
life held out.