‘And that’s Corporal White, my orderly,’ said Marter, nodding towards the only other occupant of the room, a large red-faced man hunched over a ledger.
‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said George, surprised by the warmth of Marter’s reception.
‘How did you get on with the colonel?’ asked the captain.
‘Not well, I’m afraid. He made it quite plain that I’m not welcome in the regiment.’
‘Did he, by God? He never gives new blood an easy ride, does he, White? But that’s harsh, even for him. What exactly did he say?’
‘He insulted my country and, even worse, my mother.’ Marter let out a silent whistle. ‘If duelling hadn’t been outlawed,’ continued George, ‘I’d have called him out.
Commanding officer or no.’
Marter could tell George had been badly shaken by his first meeting with Harris, and wanted to offer him some words of comfort. But the troop office was too public for such a discussion, so he arranged to see him for a drink in the officers’ mess that evening.
‘There are one or two things you need to know about the colonel,’ he began when they met up later, lowering his voice. ‘First off, he’s never seen action. He joined the regiment after the Crimea and shortly before the Mutiny of fifty-seven, when, as I’m sure you know, we were confined to police operations in the south of India while Campbell’s Bays got all the glory at Lucknow. In China in sixty we
were
in the thick of it, routing the Tartar cavalry before the gates of Peking - it’s where I got this.’ He tapped his scar. ‘But poor Harris caught dysentery before we sailed from Madras and missed the entire campaign.
After that, nothing.
We’ve been home since sixty-six and the only excitement we’ve had is breaking a few Fenian heads in Ireland. So you see
,
Harris is desperate to prove himself and emulate his father.
He
charged with the Household Brigade at Waterloo, you know. And when Harris does get his chance, he’s determined his regiment won’t let him down, which is why he drills us incessantly and is such a stickler for the regulations. He’s even harder on us than the men, and rarely a week goes by without at least one officer being confined to his quarters. The army hasn’t seen Harris’s like since the late Lord Cardigan.’
‘Why do you put up with it?’ said George, slowly shaking his head.
Marter snorted. ‘Because he’s our commanding officer and we have no choice. He has his favourites, mind: Captain Bell, (he adjutant, for one. And some of us suspect that he’s tasked the RSM, Roberts, with secretly making notes of conversations to use as evidence against us. How else could he have confronted Captain Ponsonby with a written record of a previous conversation? When Ponsonby complained, Harris had him arrested, and only the intervention of the district commander secured his release. Most of the officers are good fellows, though, as you’ll see. We’re
all
waiting for Harris to tire of northern garrison life and send in his papers. He complained enough when we were first posted to Manchester last year. But he’s still with us.’
George pointed to the yellow and sky-blue ribbon on Marter’s chest. ‘I see, sir, that you served in the Crimea, which means you joined the regiment before Colonel Harris. I low, then, did he manage to gain promotion before you?’
‘Simple, Hart, money. Before seventy-one, when commissions were bought, money talked. A rich officer could bribe his less well-off seniors not to purchase a vacancy, so enabling him to do so. Of course it got expensive. But what did Harris care? Only that he kept rising in rank. And didn’t he just?
From cornet to colonel in ten years.
I, on the other hand, with twenty- three years’ service, am still only a captain. It’s better now, with talent and length of service counting for something, but influence still matters. Harris is an ADC to Queen Victoria and has good connections at Court. He’ll surely rise higher, despite his lack of active service. He is a dangerous man to cross.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Marter, rising to shake George’s hand. ‘Just keep out of his way and you’ll do fine.’
George woke with a start. The first streaks of daylight were just visible through a gap in the window shutters. He glanced around the unfamiliar room, his eye taking in the washstand and basin, heavy wardrobe and easy chair. Not exactly the Ritz, he mused. But on his meagre army pay of £95 a year, 10 shillings a week for lodging was all he could afford. His
landlady
, Mrs Arkwright, seemed friendly enough, if a little gruff, and her boarding house was well placed, just three streets away from the cavalry barracks on Hulme Street.
He glanced at his fob-watch on the side table and saw to his horror the time: 5.15 a.m. Reveille had sounded fifteen minutes earlier; Stables began at 5.30, and it would not do to be late. Not with a commanding officer like Harris. He dressed and shaved as quickly as he could,
buckled
on his sword and took the stairs two at a time. In the hall stood the formidable bulk of Mrs Arkwright, barring his way to the door. ‘Will you
be wanting
tea, Mr Hart?’
‘Not today, thank you. I’m in a fearful hurry,’ said George, as he edged past his
landlady
, one hand on his sword pommel, the other holding his helmet.
‘I’ve just made a pot.’
‘No time!’
George pounded down the street, his boots echoing on the cobbles, and was still a couple of hundred yards shy of the entrance to the barracks as the clock struck the half-hour. He shot past the startled sentry on the gate and, breathing hard, entered the troop stable-block, where he was met by Marter and his troop sergeant, a solid fellow with a fine pair of ginger whiskers.
‘You’re cutting it a bit fine on your first day!’ admonished Marter.
‘I know, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘It had better not. This is Sergeant Tomkinson, by the way. He’ll show you the ropes.’
For the next hour or so, George and Tomkinson toured the stable-block, talking to the troopers as they groomed their horses. With Stables almost over, he looked in on his own mount, Emperor, a sturdy sixteen-hand Irish hunter in the care of his orderly, Trooper Murphy. He had been introduced to Murphy the night before, and took to him immediately. A dark, wiry man from County Carlow, to the south of Dublin, Murphy had been raised on a smallholding and knew more about horses than people. George was no slouch on a horse, having ridden since the age of three, but caring for them was a different matter. And in Murphy he had found just the man.
George opened the door to the stall and found Murphy hard at work with a body brush. ‘How’s he today?’ he asked, nodding towards the chestnut gelding eating hay.
The horse responded first to the familiar voice, raising its head and snorting. ‘Just fine, sir,’ added Murphy.
‘If a little skittish.
‘Spect he needs some exercise.’
‘Well, it won’t be long now.’
As if on cue, a bugle signalled the end of Stables. ‘Time for breakfast, sir,’ said Murphy. ‘Riding Drill’s at seven forty- five. See you then.’
Marter and a handful of officers were already seated at the long mahogany table, tucking into assorted dishes, when George entered the officers’ mess. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Marter, ‘meet our latest recruit, Cornet George Hart.’
George smiled. A couple of officers nodded in response. No one spoke. Unconcerned, George served himself scrambled eggs and devilled kidneys from the sideboard, and sat down next to Marter.
‘Not there,’ said Harris, who had just entered the room with Adjutant Bell, a thin, weasel-faced officer. ‘Subalterns sit at the bottom of the table. We adhere strictly to rank in the King’s Dragoon Guards.’
‘My apologies, sir,’ said a chastened George. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, the sooner you learn our ways, the better,’ replied Harris, taking his own seat at the head of the table.
George reddened. With no one to talk to, he ate in silence. Even at the more populous end of the table, conversation was kept to a minimum. Once Harris had taken his leave, however, the atmosphere relaxed and Marter turned to George. ‘Don’t mind the colonel, Hart. He’s a terror for precedence and abhors banter during breakfast. Now, I don’t think you’ve met our second-in-command, Major Wingfield.’
Marter was gesturing towards a tall, slightly balding officer near the head of the table.
‘Pleased to meet you, Major,’ said George.
‘You too, Hart,’ said Wingfield. ‘Welcome to the KDG. I hope you don’t regret your choice.’
‘Thank you, Major. I’m delighted to be here. But I didn’t get to choose a regiment. I was simply informed by the Horse Guards that I had been accepted by the KDG and told when to report!’
‘Is that so? No matter, you’re here now.’
‘Gentlemen!’ interrupted Harris’s voice from the doorway. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, Riding Drill begins in five minutes. I don’t need to remind you that the inspector-general of Cavalry will be attending our field day on Thursday, and I would not like him to find fault with
any
aspect of the regiment.’
An hour in and George was beginning to enjoy Riding Drill. The eight troops of the regiment - 320 sabres in all - had already completed a number of complicated manoeuvres without a hitch. They had moved from a closed column of troops, four riders abreast, to the looser open column, and from open column to line. George knew from Sandhurst that a cavalry regiment would always arrive on the battlefield in column formation, either closed or open, depending on the terrain, and then attack in a single line, two ranks deep, with the officers slightly to the fore and the bugler signalling the change in pace from walk to trot, gallop and finally charge. As the KDG swept across the field that morning, hooves drumming and swords pointing the way, it had seemed to an excited George that nothing could stand in the way of that wall of horseflesh. But with no opposition it was hard to tell.
Once the charge had been accomplished to Harris’s satisfaction, the regiment reverted back to an open column of troops, one behind the other. Harris was scrutinizing each troop as it rode past, and when E Troop came level, he barked, ‘Hart! Carry your sword, sir. Can’t you carry your sword properly?’
George quickly checked the position of his sword. As per regulation, it was in his right hand at ‘the slope’, pointing upwards and leaning against his right shoulder, while his left hand controlled Emperor’s reins. He was mystified by the criticism, and chose to ignore it; but as soon as Riding Drill was over, he rode up to Harris and asked him what he had done wrong. ‘Your sword hand was too low. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘That,
sir,
was the position I was taught at Sandhurst.’
‘Well, you’re not at Sandhurst now. You’re in the King’s Dragoon Guards, and we do things properly here. You may look the part, Hart, with your easy smile and natty uniform. I Wit you and I know what you really are, or rather what you’re not. And that, sir, is a gentleman.’
George could feel the familiar red mist beginning to descend. The last time it had happened, at Sandhurst, he had knocked down a fellow cadet who had been taunting him. His intention now was just as violent. He nudged Emperor i loser to Harris, but before he could strike, a hand grabbed
Ins
bridle and led him away. It was Marter’s.
‘Not a good idea,’ said Marter, as they rode away. ‘Unless, that is, you
want
to be cashiered.’
Harris watched them until they were out of sight. He then turned to Adjutant Bell and said, ‘Did you see that? He was within an inch of attacking me! Damn Marter for interfering.’
For the next week or so George kept out of Harris’s way. But the bad feeling between them was palpable and it came to a head during musketry practice at the Hilton Firing Range in the Peak District, sixteen miles due west of Manchester. Sergeant Tomkinson was in bed with influenza, and in his absence George had been put in charge of the troop’s thirty newest recruits. His task, as relayed to him by Adjutant Bell the previous evening, was to work the men until they were capable of firing four aimed rounds a minute, which meant hitting a target known as a butt, twelve inches in diameter, at a range of 200 yards. The time allotted for this training was just three hours, because at noon Colonel Harris would arrive for a demonstration by a random soldier of his choice. And failure, Bell stressed, was not an option. Soldiers from the King’s Dragoon Guards had won the last three annual inter- cavalry shooting competitions. The reputation of the regiment was at stake.
Given that the basic proficiency level for all cavalrymen was to achieve a rate of fire of seven aimed rounds a minute, the task did not appear to George to be that onerous. Moreover the weather conditions at the picturesque range - a lush meadow surrounded by craggy peaks - were perfect: light cloud, no wind and good visibility. On the other hand, George had little experience of the carbine his men would use, and they had even less. To compensate, he had spent the previous evening mugging up on the weapon’s characteristics.
‘Now, pay attention, men,’ said George, as he held up the short-barrelled weapon for all to see. ‘This is the Martini- Henry carbine. It has the same falling-breech mechanism as the infantry’s rifle, but with a shorter barrel so that it can be stowed in the leather bucket attached to your saddles. It fires a
heavy ,45
-calibre hardened lead bullet with a muzzle velocity of 1,350 feet per second. That’s enough firepower to stop an elephant or tear the limb off a man. It’s sighted up to 1,000 yards and extremely accurate at half that range. You’re only required to hit targets at 200 yards. How hard can that be?’