A bright, brisk, early spring morning, with bugles sounding, the tramp
of feet, an occasional hoarse shout, and, out in the sunshine, gleams of
light flashing in all directions from well-burnished brass ornament or
rifle-stock; while the generally dismal-looking barrack yard was gay as
a garden-bed newly planted with scarlet geraniums in full bloom.
But there was this difference: the floral effects in front of the dingy
buildings surrounding the yard were all in motion, for the men were
collecting fast, and in obedience to the sharp "Fall in!" roughly formed
line after line, each man making for his company.
The bandsmen, too, were collecting, like the men of the regiment, in
full review order; for that day there was to be a march out to meet the
310th, now on its way to take up quarters in the High Barracks, and the
band of the 205th were to play them in through the town to their new
quarters.
Quite an unnecessary proceeding, but one of those forms which, provided
the weather is good, proves satisfactory to the British soldier; for it
means show, excitement, a pleasant tramp, and something to relieve the
deadly monotony of barrack-life, with its eternal drill and routine.
No morning could have been more genial for the purpose, and the prospect
of a few miles' march, with the people of town and village _en fete_,
was a welcome one to all but the men in the infirmary, who were looking
gloomily from the windows at their comrades, all spick and span, eager
for the change.
Then, with the sun flashing from the brass instruments, the band formed
up, all the officers began to drop down from their quarters, best
uniforms being the order of the day, as there were no signs of rain;
and, at last, after a few sharp orders from the sergeants, the companies
were formed, the preliminary examinations made, and the usual
adjurations delivered respecting buttons, belts, and suspicious spots.
But there was not much cause for complaint, and the men were well in
place when the trampling of horses was heard. The men stood to their
arms, and the mounted colonel and major came slowly up to the front;
while a group of officers passed to and fro along the line of
well-drilled young fellows, who made up one of the smartest corps in the
service.
A few movements, performed with wonderful accuracy, giving the regiment
the aspect of some peculiar piece of mechanism, and then the order was
given, "Band to the front!" A brief pause, a sharp command or two, and
then _boom_--_boom_--_boom_--_boom_, so many beats of the big drum, a
crash from the brass instruments, which came echoing strangely back from
the barrack walls, and away they went toward the gates, where half the
boys and idlers of the neighbourhood were waiting, ready to give a cheer
as the drum-and-fife band passed out first in solemn silence, followed
by little Wilkins, looking very important at the head of the brass
instruments, but in dangerous proximity to the trombone-players, cutting
and slashing with their long tubes, behind him.
Some people are hard to impress, but they are few who do not feel a
thrill of excitement on the passing-by of a well-drilled regiment whose
band is playing some lively march, to which, and the heavy beat of the
drum, the tramp, tramp of six or eight hundred men is heard, like the
pulsation of Old England's warlike heart. The thrill is felt by the
bystanders and the men themselves; and the sight of the eager,
interested faces the soldiers pass has given renewed spirit to many a
man, hot, weary, and faint from some long march, and seemed to tighten
muscle and nerve for the work yet to come.
That special morning Dick Smithson felt that, after all, his was a very
bright and happy life. The past was dead; he had friends about him, and
there was a delirious feeling of satisfaction to be there, at the head
of the long line of men, whose glittering bayonets flashed and undulated
in the sun as they passed down the main street, at the end of which,
where the people formed a crowd, hurrying along on either side, the
brass band ended its strains, and after a preliminary flourish on the
kettle-drums these and the fifes rattled and shrilled in their
well-marked music.
Turn and turn, with an occasional change, when the kettle-drums had it
all to themselves--_trr_--_trr_--_trr_--_trr_--a light, sharp tap, to
mark the step as the towns were left behind, and the course led between
the Kentish hedgerows and the bare fields, which seemed to be growing
crops of poles, for the young hops themselves were only just showing
their bronze-hued points above the ground.
Then, on and on, in open order, till, far away on the slope of a hill,
where the white chalky road could be traced for miles, a cloud of dust
could be seen. Soon after there was a flicker, as if the cloud were not
dust, but smoke, and the flickering light was that of the fire within.
Then there was another flicker, and more and more, till it was plain
enough that the sun was being reflected from burnished brass or steel,
and the sinuous cloud was hovering over the regiment they had come to
meet.
Half an hour later the two regiments had met, there had been a halt
called, and at its end the march back to town was commenced, the men
going over the hard road with a light, springy step.
It was all very simple and unadventurous, but everyone seemed to enjoy
it--the men whose march had only been from Ratcham and those whose dusty
clothes told of the many long miles they had tramped since early morn.
The crowd was greater than ever when the town was reached again, the
205th's band leading them and making the streets echo to the strains of
"The British Grenadiers." There were loud bursts of cheering, too, now,
and the traffic was stopped as the band was halted near the gates of the
High Barracks to play the 310th in.
As everyone does not know, perhaps, so as to keep up a sustained
military march, the brass band is divided into two parts, one of which
will play through certain portions of the melody, which is then taken up
by the second part, while the first regains breath, ready to take its
turn again and to join in unison with the other in some _forte_ passage.
Close up to the High Barrack gates, then, the bandsmen stood upon the
pavement, while the companies of the 310th marched up the road. Dick
Smithson was resting with the men of his side, while the others were
concluding their part. The next minute Dick was in the act of raising
his piccolo to his lips to shower out a burst of its bright bird-like
music, while _tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp_, the men marched by, when his
nerves suddenly seemed to be paralysed, his muscles refused to act, and
he stood holding the tiny bright-keyed flute level with his chin,
staring hard at a young officer, weary, covered with chalky dust, and
with a set supercilious smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes left
to stare contemptuously at the young bandsman he passed.
It was almost momentary, just taking as long as a man walking at a
steady pace would occupy. Then he was by, leaving Dick staring after
him as if in a cataleptic fit, his face full of terror and despair.