Soldiers Three - Part 2

But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail Twisters in review order at the breaking of a November day. Allowing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and eighty strong, and Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of the Line, — the whole Line and nothing but the Line, — as the tramp of two thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed places with Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to a chorus of “Strong right! Strong left!” or Hogan-Yale of the White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price of horseshoes thrown in; or “Tick” Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the White Hussars.

They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action. The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain — batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment till the lean, lathy Singhs panted with exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused — not diminished.

He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his “skipper,” that is to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the Profession of Arms.

“If you haven’t a taste that way,” said Revere between his puffs of his cheroot, “you’ll never be able to get the hang of it, but remember, Bobby, ‘tisn’t the best drill, though drill is nearly everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. It’s the man who knows how to handle men — goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on.”

“Dormer, for instance,” said Bobby; “I think he comes under the head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl.”

“That ‘s where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn’t a fool yet, but he’s a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes fun of his socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes into a corner and growls.”

“How do you know’?” said Bobby admiringly.

“Because a Company commander has to know these things — because, if he does not know, he may have crime — ay, murder — brewing under his very nose and yet not see that it’s there. Dormer is being badgered out of his mind — big as he is — and he hasn’t intellect enough to resent it. He’s taken to quiet boozing, and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out of himself.”

“What measures? Man can’t run round coddling his men for ever.”

“No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted. You’ve got to — ”

Here the Colour-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby reflected for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.

“Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?” Bobby asked with the air of one continuing an interrupted conversation.

“No, sir. Does ‘is dooty like a hortomato,” said the Sergeant, who delighted in long words. “A dirty soldier, and ‘e’s under full stoppages for new kit. It’s covered with scales, sir.”

“Scales? What scales?”

“Fish-scales, sir. ‘E’s always pokin’ in the mud by the river an’ a-cleanin’ them muchly-fish with ‘is thumbs.” Revere was still absorbed in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly fond of Bobby, continued, — “‘E generally goes down there when ‘e’s got ‘is skinful, beggin’ your pardon, sir, an’ they do say that the more lush — inebriated ‘e is, the more fish ‘e catches. They call ‘im the Looney Fishmonger in the Comp’ny, sir.”

Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated.

“It’s a filthy amusement,” sighed Bobby to himself. Then aloud to Revere: “Are you really worried about Dormer?”

“A little. You see he’s never mad enough to send to hospital, or drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up, brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting he all but shot me by accident.”

“I fish,” said Bobby, with a wry face. “I hire a country-boat and go down river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes with me — if you can spare us both.”

“You blazing young fool!” said Revere, but his heart was full of much more pleasant words.

Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate, dropped down the river on Thursday morning — the Private at the bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who respected the reserve of the Private.

After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said — “Beg y’ pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh’m Canal?”

“No,” said Bobby Wick. “Come and have some tiffin.”

They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke forth, speaking to himself —

“Hi was on the Durh’m Canal, jes’ such a night, come next week twelvemonth, a-trailin’ of my toes in the water.” He smoked and said no more till bedtime.

The witchery of the dawn turned the gray river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept across the splendours of a new heaven.

Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory below and around.

“Well — damn — my eyes!” said Private Dormer in an awed whisper. “This ‘ere is like a bloomin’ gallantry-show!” For the rest of the day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning of big fish.

The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being disembarked, he found tongue.

“Beg y’ pardon, sir,” he said, “but would you — would you min’ shakin’ ‘ands with me, sir?”

“Of course not,” said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer returned to barracks and Bobby to mess.

“He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think,” said Bobby. “My aunt, but he’s a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him clean ‘them muchly-fish with ‘is thumbs?”

“Anyhow,” said Revere three weeks later, “he’s doing his best to keep his things clean.”

When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months.

“As good a boy as I want,” said Revere, the admiring skipper.

“The best of the batch,” said the Adjutant to the Colonel. “Keep back that young skrimshanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him sit up.”

So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of gorgeous raiment.

“Son of Wick — old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner, dear,” said the aged men.

“What a nice boy!” said the matrons and the maids.

“First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri — ipping!” said Bobby Wick, and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.

“We’re in a bad way,” wrote Revere to Bobby at the end of two months. “Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is fairly rotten with it — two hundred in hospital, about a hundred in cells — drinking to keep off fever — and the Companies on parade fifteen file strong at the outside. There’s rather more sickness in the out-villages than I care for, but then I’m so blistered with prickly-heat that I’m ready to hang myself. What’s the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious, I hope? You’re over-young to hang millstones round your neck, and the Colonel will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you attempt it.”

It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of Simla, but a much more to be respected Commandant. The sickness in the out-villages spread, the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news that the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to the Hill stations. — “Cholera — Leave stopped — Officers recalled.” Alas, for the white gloves in the neatly soldered boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that were to be, the loves half spoken, and the debts unpaid! Without demur and without question, fast as tonga could fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments and their Batteries, as though they were hastening to their weddings, fled the subalterns.

Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance at Viceregal Lodge, where he had but only the Haverley girl knows what Bobby had said or how many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six in the morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching rain, the whirl of the last waltz still in his ears, and an intoxication due neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain.

“Good man!” shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery through the mists. “Whar you raise dat tonga? I’m coming with you. Ow! But I’ve a head and half. I didn’t sit out all night. They say the Battery’s awful bad,” and he hummed dolorously —

“Leave the what at the what’s-its-name,
Leave the flock without shelter,
Leave the corpse uninterred,
Leave the bride at the altar

“My faith! It’ll be more bally corpse than bride, though, this journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachwan!”

On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of officers discussing the latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was here that Bobby learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters.

“They went into camp,” said an elderly Major recalled from the whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, “they went into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked through ‘em.”