regimental honours and many a tear before the captured fortress of Bhurtpore.
Eustace Joynson had given no parties. His bent was not that way, and neither, in truth, could his pocket bear it nearly so easily as Lord George Irvine’s. But he had made a present of pipe and tobacco to every man, and deposited a fair sum with the sutler in the wet canteen so that each man might drink his health when he was gone. To the serjeants’ mess he had given a handsome long-case clock, and to the officers’ mess a painting of his beloved mare, the Sixth’s first casualty at Bhurtpore. And last night he had dined, quietly, with the officers, withdrawing long before midnight. ‘There are one or two things in the regimental accounts I would attend to before signing them,’ he had said, to concealed smiles, for his attention to administrative detail had been proverbial, a thing that most of the regiment’s blades abhorred in public though admired in private.
Certainly it was admired elsewhere in the Sixth. Joynson did not know it, but the meanest dragoon had heard of the major’s – of late the lieutenant-colonel’s – slaving attention to their welfare, albeit closeted with ledgers rather than abroad with bonhomie. Colonel Joynson was, in the parlance of the canteen, ‘a good ’un’.
The regiment was mustered in parade dress this morning. The officers wore white buckskins and hessians instead of workaday overalls, and their chargers were turned out in shabraques instead of sheepskins. There were four hundred men on parade, of whom three hundred and more were mounted. The Sixth were not yet returned to their old custom – A and C Troops bay, B black, D light brown and E chestnut; that would take a year or so yet to accomplish. But they rode good-looking troopers, the hussar regiment they had replaced evidently having taken care – and spent money – on purchase of their remounts. The late-autumn sun glinted on sabres and farriers’ axes, and the old music of the bits and curb chains took over as the band fell silent. It was a special moment, and there was scarcely a man that did not feel it.
The regimental serjeant-major’s big gelding, its coat shining like jet, began pawing the metalled square. Mr Hairsine merely flexed his rein hand and the horse stood still, head up. Then he touched his spurs to the gelding’s flanks and trotted out from behind the ranks and up to the adjutant. The latter, primed, reined round to a flank to give the RSM full face to the commanding officer, a wholly unorthodox evolution that immediately presaged ‘an event’.
‘Sir,’ began Mr Hairsine, ‘the non-commissioned officers and other ranks of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons are desirous to mark this day with an expression of their esteem, sir. May I have your leave to carry on, sir, please?’
Eustace Joynson, wholly taken aback, simply nodded.
‘Private Adcock!’ bellowed the RSM.
‘Sir!’
The dragoon, riding a liver chestnut mare which seemed reluctant at first to leave her fellows, trotted out of the ranks and up to the RSM’s side. He alone on parade that day wore any decoration. And Joynson knew at once what was afoot, for Adcock was the longest-serving private man, with whom he shared the Sixth’s silver Peninsular medal (it would be two decades more before the government would see fit to honour those left with its own).
‘Colonel, sir,’ began Private Adcock, sword still at the carry. ‘The non-commissioned officers and men, being of appreciation, respectfully ask you to accept these tokens, sir.’
Adcock pressed his mare forward, having to repeat the leg aids, for she was as nervous of her new-found prominence as was Adcock himself. He halted in front of the lieutenant-colonel, sheathed his sabre, saluted (other ranks never paid compliments with the sword), deftly unfastened his cross-belt pouch and took out a small leather pocket. He pressed forward two lengths more to close the space that remained, and
Eustace Joynson had given no parties. His bent was not that way, and neither, in truth, could his pocket bear it nearly so easily as Lord George Irvine’s. But he had made a present of pipe and tobacco to every man, and deposited a fair sum with the sutler in the wet canteen so that each man might drink his health when he was gone. To the serjeants’ mess he had given a handsome long-case clock, and to the officers’ mess a painting of his beloved mare, the Sixth’s first casualty at Bhurtpore. And last night he had dined, quietly, with the officers, withdrawing long before midnight. ‘There are one or two things in the regimental accounts I would attend to before signing them,’ he had said, to concealed smiles, for his attention to administrative detail had been proverbial, a thing that most of the regiment’s blades abhorred in public though admired in private.
Certainly it was admired elsewhere in the Sixth. Joynson did not know it, but the meanest dragoon had heard of the major’s – of late the lieutenant-colonel’s – slaving attention to their welfare, albeit closeted with ledgers rather than abroad with bonhomie. Colonel Joynson was, in the parlance of the canteen, ‘a good ’un’.
The regiment was mustered in parade dress this morning. The officers wore white buckskins and hessians instead of workaday overalls, and their chargers were turned out in shabraques instead of sheepskins. There were four hundred men on parade, of whom three hundred and more were mounted. The Sixth were not yet returned to their old custom – A and C Troops bay, B black, D light brown and E chestnut; that would take a year or so yet to accomplish. But they rode good-looking troopers, the hussar regiment they had replaced evidently having taken care – and spent money – on purchase of their remounts. The late-autumn sun glinted on sabres and farriers’ axes, and the old music of the bits and curb chains took over as the band fell silent. It was a special moment, and there was scarcely a man that did not feel it.
The regimental serjeant-major’s big gelding, its coat shining like jet, began pawing the metalled square. Mr Hairsine merely flexed his rein hand and the horse stood still, head up. Then he touched his spurs to the gelding’s flanks and trotted out from behind the ranks and up to the adjutant. The latter, primed, reined round to a flank to give the RSM full face to the commanding officer, a wholly unorthodox evolution that immediately presaged ‘an event’.
‘Sir,’ began Mr Hairsine, ‘the non-commissioned officers and other ranks of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons are desirous to mark this day with an expression of their esteem, sir. May I have your leave to carry on, sir, please?’
Eustace Joynson, wholly taken aback, simply nodded.
‘Private Adcock!’ bellowed the RSM.
‘Sir!’
The dragoon, riding a liver chestnut mare which seemed reluctant at first to leave her fellows, trotted out of the ranks and up to the RSM’s side. He alone on parade that day wore any decoration. And Joynson knew at once what was afoot, for Adcock was the longest-serving private man, with whom he shared the Sixth’s silver Peninsular medal (it would be two decades more before the government would see fit to honour those left with its own).
‘Colonel, sir,’ began Private Adcock, sword still at the carry. ‘The non-commissioned officers and men, being of appreciation, respectfully ask you to accept these tokens, sir.’
Adcock pressed his mare forward, having to repeat the leg aids, for she was as nervous of her new-found prominence as was Adcock himself. He halted in front of the lieutenant-colonel, sheathed his sabre, saluted (other ranks never paid compliments with the sword), deftly unfastened his cross-belt pouch and took out a small leather pocket. He pressed forward two lengths more to close the space that remained, and
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