shocked and somewhat indignant. He was, after all,
there
, so to speak, and thus knew as much about it as Roberts himself in his view.
Carruthers deliberately laid the magazine aside and glared. ‘Why would they have left Kitchener there if they thought it was over?’
‘To impress them,’ said Dalmaine defiantly. ‘If you’d fought with Kitchener at Omdurman, you’d know—’
‘Dervishes,’ snorted Carruthers dismissively. ‘You ought to have faced a few Zulus, young man. Then you’d have known what fighting is. Ever heard of the horns and chest formation? Gad, they understand battle. We held ’em though. Rorke’s Drift, Inyezane. . .’
‘What about Isandhlwana?’ said Dalmaine, then regretted it, as the Colonel blanched at the mention of this unforgivable word. After all, it was a disgrace to the British Army, when all was said and done, and he and the old chap were both part of it.
‘You there?’ retorted Carruthers.
‘No, sir,’ replied Dalmaine, wishing he’d never mentioned it. ‘I was not. Major Frederick Dalmaine of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kents, at your service.’
Carruthers’s moment had come. Slowly he heaved himself to his feet and majestically drew himself to full soldierly attention.
‘Carruthers of the Buffs, sir. The East Kents. Late of the Third Foot. I tell you, sir, if I’d been warned I’d bebreaking bread with one of the Queen’s Own, the whole damned cavalry wouldn’t have got me to Cranton’s for Christmas.’
Major Dalmaine saw his chance and took it. ‘I must say, sir, that’s a highly unpatriotic statement at a time of national military crisis. We are laying our life’s blood down to bring civilisation and peace to Africa—’
‘Poppycock, sir. I say poppycock—’
‘But I would say, sir,’ Sir John Harnet had entered the room followed by his counterpart from the French Colonial Office, the Marquis de Castillon, and saw an opportunity for subtle British propaganda here, ‘that Major Dalmaine has truth on his side. Now that the Transvaal has been annexed and Kruger gone off with his tail between his legs, and now that the Ashanti business is over—’
‘What Ashanti business?’ asked Bella, sweeping in in a delightfully immodest dress for the time of day. All the other ladies had elected to wear ornate day wear, and the sight of Bella’s bosom insufficiently covered by lace raised a gamut of emotions from jealousy to shock.
‘The Governor had been besieged in Kumasi; this year we had to send troops in and Hodgson decided to go on the offensive, break out of Kumasi, and make for the coast. Small matter – not so much a war as a native skirmish,’ said Sir John hastily.
Dalmaine and Carruthers glanced at each other and stiffened. Suddenly they stood shoulder by shoulder at this outrage. How dared one of those Colonial Office johnnies presume to know when a war was a war?
‘I doubt, sir, if faced by a hundred screaming Ashantis fully armed with Dane guns and powder and given to human sacrifice, you would term it a native skirmish,’ Carruthers commented sarcastically.
‘Hear, hear,’ supported Dalmaine.
‘Human sacrifice?’ asked Bella. ‘How very exciting.Is it one of Mr Didier’s recipes?’
Following the Harbottles, Auguste entered in time to shoot her an indignant glare.
The Marquis, however, as usual ignored or did not recognise his wife’s frivolities. Like Sir John, he could see his opportunity.
‘
L’affaire de la Chaise d’Or
, my dear. They are talking about the Ashantis and the Golden Stool.’
‘It sounds very pretty,’ said Bella.
‘More than pretty, madame,’ said Eva Harbottle indignantly. ‘It is very important to the Ashantis. It is to them their symbol of kingship. When the British subdued them four years ago, they captured their king and so the Ashantis hid the Golden Stool, for they recognised no other authority. The Governor decided to look for it, and the Ashantis did not like this, so they
there
, so to speak, and thus knew as much about it as Roberts himself in his view.
Carruthers deliberately laid the magazine aside and glared. ‘Why would they have left Kitchener there if they thought it was over?’
‘To impress them,’ said Dalmaine defiantly. ‘If you’d fought with Kitchener at Omdurman, you’d know—’
‘Dervishes,’ snorted Carruthers dismissively. ‘You ought to have faced a few Zulus, young man. Then you’d have known what fighting is. Ever heard of the horns and chest formation? Gad, they understand battle. We held ’em though. Rorke’s Drift, Inyezane. . .’
‘What about Isandhlwana?’ said Dalmaine, then regretted it, as the Colonel blanched at the mention of this unforgivable word. After all, it was a disgrace to the British Army, when all was said and done, and he and the old chap were both part of it.
‘You there?’ retorted Carruthers.
‘No, sir,’ replied Dalmaine, wishing he’d never mentioned it. ‘I was not. Major Frederick Dalmaine of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kents, at your service.’
Carruthers’s moment had come. Slowly he heaved himself to his feet and majestically drew himself to full soldierly attention.
‘Carruthers of the Buffs, sir. The East Kents. Late of the Third Foot. I tell you, sir, if I’d been warned I’d bebreaking bread with one of the Queen’s Own, the whole damned cavalry wouldn’t have got me to Cranton’s for Christmas.’
Major Dalmaine saw his chance and took it. ‘I must say, sir, that’s a highly unpatriotic statement at a time of national military crisis. We are laying our life’s blood down to bring civilisation and peace to Africa—’
‘Poppycock, sir. I say poppycock—’
‘But I would say, sir,’ Sir John Harnet had entered the room followed by his counterpart from the French Colonial Office, the Marquis de Castillon, and saw an opportunity for subtle British propaganda here, ‘that Major Dalmaine has truth on his side. Now that the Transvaal has been annexed and Kruger gone off with his tail between his legs, and now that the Ashanti business is over—’
‘What Ashanti business?’ asked Bella, sweeping in in a delightfully immodest dress for the time of day. All the other ladies had elected to wear ornate day wear, and the sight of Bella’s bosom insufficiently covered by lace raised a gamut of emotions from jealousy to shock.
‘The Governor had been besieged in Kumasi; this year we had to send troops in and Hodgson decided to go on the offensive, break out of Kumasi, and make for the coast. Small matter – not so much a war as a native skirmish,’ said Sir John hastily.
Dalmaine and Carruthers glanced at each other and stiffened. Suddenly they stood shoulder by shoulder at this outrage. How dared one of those Colonial Office johnnies presume to know when a war was a war?
‘I doubt, sir, if faced by a hundred screaming Ashantis fully armed with Dane guns and powder and given to human sacrifice, you would term it a native skirmish,’ Carruthers commented sarcastically.
‘Hear, hear,’ supported Dalmaine.
‘Human sacrifice?’ asked Bella. ‘How very exciting.Is it one of Mr Didier’s recipes?’
Following the Harbottles, Auguste entered in time to shoot her an indignant glare.
The Marquis, however, as usual ignored or did not recognise his wife’s frivolities. Like Sir John, he could see his opportunity.
‘
L’affaire de la Chaise d’Or
, my dear. They are talking about the Ashantis and the Golden Stool.’
‘It sounds very pretty,’ said Bella.
‘More than pretty, madame,’ said Eva Harbottle indignantly. ‘It is very important to the Ashantis. It is to them their symbol of kingship. When the British subdued them four years ago, they captured their king and so the Ashantis hid the Golden Stool, for they recognised no other authority. The Governor decided to look for it, and the Ashantis did not like this, so they
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