My Brother-Officers—A _Mésalliance_—Christy Minstrels and
Tobogganing
It was through the influence of the Adjutant-General, Lord Airey, that I
had been transferred to the 3rd Battalion of the 60th Rifles, in June,
1875. On joining, I went into the officers’ ante-room, where a short,
stout officer, wearing an eyeglass, addressed me, and inquired how I had
managed to get transferred. I told him that it was through the A.-G.,
when he remarked:
“How is it that I was not consulted?”
“I really cannot tell you,” I answered.
“H’m!” said he, transfixing me with his monocle.
A few minutes afterwards, when he had left the room, another officer came
up to me, and said:—
“Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
“That is our chief, Lieutenant-Colonel W. Leigh-Pemberton.”
“Is it really?” said I. “I should never have thought it, for he looks too
young for a colonel.”
“You have put your foot into it, evidently,” replied the officer, who
appeared highly amused at what had happened. His name, he told me, was
Corbet Stapleton-Cotton, and he was a lieutenant of some years’ service.
I had a room in barracks close to Cotton’s, and, after my things had
been unpacked, I dressed for mess. During mess I again exchanged a few
words with the Colonel, who evidently looked upon me as an intruder,
since he addressed me in a very distant manner. I was introduced to the
acting adjutant, E. O. H. Wilkinson (the adjutant, Lieutenant Bagot,
had been suspended from that post by the Colonel), whom I had known at
Eton, but had never cared for much. Wilkinson, who was a tall, dark man,
with a slight squint, a long body and very short legs, imparted to me
the pleasing information that I should have to begin my drill all over
again from the commencement, at seven o’clock the following morning,
so that I was likely to be kept well employed for some little time to
come. I also made the acquaintance of my captain, Cramer, who was a
middle-aged man with grey hair. He had little to say for himself, and was
not remarkable for his amiability, but was very musical, and played the
piano wonderfully well, though entirely by ear. Amongst other officers
with whom I spoke that evening were a sub-lieutenant named Robert Gunning
and a lieutenant called Allfrey. Gunning, who, like Cramer, in whose
company he was, had been at Eton with me, though I had only known him
very slightly there, was a rather good-looking little fellow, and a great
favourite of the Colonel, who called him “Cupid,” and often invited him
to his quarters. Allfrey was a tall, burly man, with dark curly hair, who
was very loud in both his dress and conversation, which was usually about
horses. He was a great admirer of Thackeray’s works, and declared that
“Vanity Fair” was the best novel in the English language, and that he had
read it over and over again without growing tired of it.
Allfrey was a particular friend of Cotton, and I soon discovered that
these two officers were the _bêtes-noires_ of the Colonel, who, it was
said, could not even endure the sound of their voices, and would give
anything in the world to get rid of them both. Our chief’s dislike,
however, was by no means confined to Cotton and Allfrey. Two senior
lieutenants, named Holled-Smith and Allen, and a captain called Robinson,
had also the misfortune to be objects of his antipathy, a fact which he
was never at any pains to disguise.
Holled-Smith was a fine-looking man, clever and entertaining, but with
a somewhat brusque manner. He had a very good baritone voice, which he
cultivated by taking singing lessons, and he sang some songs very well.
Allen and Robinson were both singular characters. The former, who was
expecting his company, was a queer-looking fellow, with a partially-bald
head and a peculiarly vacant expression. He was always highly perfumed,
so that you knew when he happened to be near you, before you saw him.
His dress was very eccentric, and his manner too. He was perpetually
muttering to himself, and would gesticulate in the most weird fashion
when no one was talking to him. Robinson, who was nicknamed “Rabelais,”
as he was always reading that author’s works, was a kind of Hercules,
and was the eldest son of a baronet and the grandson of an Irish earl.
He was very eccentric, and would suddenly—for no apparent reason—throw
himself into the most violent passions, and indulge in language at which
even a private soldier would be horrified. Strangely enough, he appeared
to have little or no idea of the effect of these outbursts upon those who
had the misfortune to be present: probably, he hardly knew what he was
saying. It was related that, upon one occasion, he used this terrible
language before a lady, who incontinently took to flight. “Rabelais”
inquired afterwards why the lady had left so abruptly, and, on being
told, remarked that she must have been uncommonly prudish.
These two strange creatures disliked each other even more than the
Colonel did them. One evening at mess, soon after I joined the battalion,
I noticed that, though they were sitting next each other, they never
exchanged a word the whole evening. I remarked upon this to one of the
other officers, when I was told that they had not spoken to one another
for years.
The senior major, Northey, was a very tall, dark man, who was an
excellent soldier and understood his work thoroughly; but, unfortunately,
his hands were tied by the Colonel, who seldom condescended to approve
of anything he did. He was married to the daughter of a Polish nobleman,
a refugee, whom he had met when the battalion was stationed in Canada.
Major Northey was popular with the men, and liked by the officers, but
he had no influence at all.
The junior major, Collins, who was stout and wore an eyeglass, was also a
married man. His wife was a sister of a bishop, and it was she who held
the ribbons. Collins would have made a much better bishop than he did
a field-officer, for he was a bad rider, who always felt uncomfortable
on horseback, and, what is more, looked so. He seldom ventured on any
observation concerning military matters before the Colonel, as when he
did so, he generally got snubbed. The major took a great fancy to me, and
often invited me to his house, where I sometimes met the bishop, who was
delighted with my zither and paid me many compliments on my playing.
Tufnell, the senior captain, was a gentleman who entertained a
superlatively high opinion of himself. He must have been very handsome
when young, but was now somewhat “_fané_.” He was very much in love with
a girl named Miss Finis, the daughter of a butcher in Chatham, who,
some years before, had been in love with my friend, Arthur Dillon. Poor
Dillon, alas! was no more, having been thrown out of a Ralli car and
killed while stationed at Colchester. “He was such a good fellow, and a
very promising officer,” said Captain Byron, in the letter he wrote to me
in India, to inform me of the sad event.
Tufnell was so infatuated with Miss Finis that it was generally believed
that he would end by marrying her. Nor was he the only officer in the
battalion who was contemplating a _mésalliance_. There was another
captain, called Carpenter, who was desperately in love with a pretty
little shop-girl, who was only about sixteen. At first, the Colonel
objected to Carpenter going about with this damsel, but when he learned
that he was determined to marry her, he said nothing more, as Carpenter
was a great friend of his. Carpenter retired some months afterwards, and
married his little girl, who, I was told, made him a very good wife. His
retirement was much regretted, as he was very popular with both officers
and men.
The nicest captain in the battalion was de Robeck, who had been on the
Staff of the Earl of Mayo, when Viceroy of India. He was a brother of
Baron de Robeck, whom I already knew. De Robeck was a rather shy man,
and dreadfully afraid of offending the Colonel. As time seemed only to
accentuate the bad impression which I had been so unfortunate as to make
upon our chief at our first meeting, partly owing to the fact that I was
obliged to be a good deal in the company of Cotton and Holled-Smith,
whose quarters adjoined my own, I told de Robeck that I thought it would
be best for me to exchange into another battalion. He, however, advised
me not to do so, observing:—
“The Colonel cannot stay with us very much longer, and in the 1st
Battalion, into which you wish to exchange, they have a Colonel, Colonel
Gordon, who, I am told, is much worse than ours. I hear that he has been
the cause of no less than ten officers leaving the battalion, and the
cases of desertion among the riflemen can hardly be counted.”
I told him that the Colonel of the 1st was soon retiring, while our chief
would remain with us for another three years, which had to be taken into
consideration.
“No,” he replied, “he has only two years more, thank God!”
I was always much influenced by what de Robeck told me, and generally
followed his advice. I did so in this instance, but had I acted
otherwise, it would have been much better for me.
Among the senior lieutenants was one named Wylie, an absurdly pompous
individual, who was disliked by both officers and men. One day, when
I happened to be orderly officer, I had just come off parade and was
standing by the officers’ mess, when Wylie passed by. I wished him
good-morning, but, because I did not salute him at the same time,
though it was off the parade-ground, he reported me to the Colonel, who
reprimanded me. Wylie was married to the sister of a recently-created
peer, who, on the strength of this relationship, gave herself ridiculous
airs, and was almost as pompous as her husband.
Arthur Greville Bagot, an old Etonian, who was adjutant of the battalion
by appointment, though, as I mentioned, suspended, was a very different
kind of officer from Wylie. He was highly connected, being the cousin of
a duke and the nephew of a peer, and was a thorough gentleman in every
way. He was a very good-looking man, and when not in uniform, always
dressed very smartly in the latest fashion. An excellent soldier, he kept
the men in first-rate order, which Wilkinson never could do, and, as he
was rather a friend of mine, he invariably took my part with the Colonel,
with whom he was on pretty good terms.
As there was very little going on at Chatham at any time in the way
of amusement, Bagot organized from the battalion a troupe of Christy
Minstrels, he himself taking the part of “Bones.” I was asked to do my
share, to which I willingly consented. We gave a performance in Chatham,
which turned out a great success, a number of people having to be refused
admission. The officers and men blackened their faces, and when I wished
to re-enter Chatham Barracks, the sentry refused to let me pass, until
I told him who I was. We gave a second performance at Chatham, which
was so well attended that we agreed to engage the theatre at Gravesend
and give an entertainment there. The result exceeded our most sanguine
expectations, the theatre being crammed, while over four hundred people
were turned away from the doors. Bagot made most amusing jokes, and sang
several very good comic songs; Carpenter gave a solo on the concertina,
besides singing in the chorus, and my performance on the zither was
warmly applauded, and I got an encore. The _ensemble_ was excellent for
that style of entertainment; quite as good as any professional troupe,
and the singing was above the average.
During the winter we had a heavy fall of snow, and, as most of the
officers of the battalion had served in Canada, and had done a great
deal of tobogganing there, this amusement was indulged in down the hill
close to the mess. The toboggans were made to contain two persons, one
sitting behind, and the other between his legs in front; and many of the
officers would place a lady in front of them on their toboggans, and come
down the hill at a terrific pace, the ladies sometimes giving vent to
piercing shrieks, from fear of getting a spill. Now and again a toboggan
would upset, and send its occupants flying; but, as they usually fell
into the snow banked up on either side of the track, it was very rarely
that they were in the least hurt.