said the same soldier, a dark wiry man with a distinctive Welsh accent.
George took a step forward and planted a right hook into the soldier’s stomach, causing him to double up in pain.
‘Now salute, damn you,’ said George, ‘or is that no longer the fashion in the Twenty-Fourth?’ Though all three were wearing the anonymous sea kit of blue serge issued to soldiers in transit, he had spotted the tell-tale ‘24’ badge on their woollen caps.
Both aggressors snapped to attention and saluted, their victim following suit but with less precision. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the soldier he had punched. ‘I didn’t know you was an officer, like.’
George ignored him, addressing the tall soldier instead. ‘Why were they threatening you?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir,’ said the soldier softly, with only a hint of a Welsh lilt.
‘Would you not? Well, we’ll see about that. Come with me!’ George had enough experience of ordinary soldiers to know they never blabbed. His question had put the tall man in an impossible position and he regretted it at once. Far better, he knew, to quiz him in private, so George made his way down to the horsedeck, the tall soldier in his wake.
There was no sign of Pickering and, from force of habit, George entered Emperor’s stall and took up a body brush and a currycomb. Emperor’s coat was immaculate, and hardly needed grooming, but George knew that a good rub-down would keep his muscles warm.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the soldier, as he ran the brush in rhythmic strokes from Emperor’s forelock to his withers, removing the accumulated hair with the currycomb.
‘Private Thomas, sir.’
‘Not your rank, your Christian name.’
‘Owen, sir.’
‘And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer.’
‘But you said—’
George interjected. ‘I simply asked whether it was still the fashion in your regiment to salute. I at no time declared myself an officer.’
‘You implied—’
‘That I may have done, it’s true.’ Having finished brushing Emperor’s neck, George moved on to his flank. ‘What about you? I’d hazard we’re close in age, so you can’t have been in the army long.’
‘I’m nineteen years and took the shilling last September.’
George smiled at the coincidence, for he had joined his regiment that very month. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Monmouthshire.’
‘I know Monmouthshire. Have you heard of the Morgans of Tredegar Park? They own a colliery.’
‘I have, sir. I hail from Raglan, but some of my cousins work in the Tredegar colliery. They say old Mr Morgan is a fair employer.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. His son Jake is a friend of mine. He’s an officer in the Second Battalion of the Twenty-Fourth. Are you bound for the First or Second Battalion?’
‘The Second.’
‘Well, who knows, you may be assigned to his company.’
‘That I may,’ said Thomas.
George gestured with his head towards the deck above. ‘So what was that all about?’
‘Oh, nothing, a bit of harmless chat. They’re the Davies brothers from Trewern, and difficult to tell apart, so I call them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They aren’t amused.’
‘I’m sure they aren’t. If you don’t mind me saying so, Thomas, you don’t strike me as a typical army recruit. You seem far too sensible.’
Thomas grinned. ‘All thanks to my mam. She kept me at school when my pa wanted me to work with him in the fields.’
‘So you can read and write?’
‘That I can.’
‘Well, that’s more than most of the NCOs in the King’s Dragoon Guards can manage. So why enlist? It can’t be for the ten shillings a week. You could do better than that.’
‘No, it’s not for the money. I enlisted for adventure. My mam hoped I’d become a schoolteacher, but I want to see the world.’
‘As good a reason as any, I suppose. But how do you put up with barrack-room life?’
‘It’s not too bad, and certainly
George took a step forward and planted a right hook into the soldier’s stomach, causing him to double up in pain.
‘Now salute, damn you,’ said George, ‘or is that no longer the fashion in the Twenty-Fourth?’ Though all three were wearing the anonymous sea kit of blue serge issued to soldiers in transit, he had spotted the tell-tale ‘24’ badge on their woollen caps.
Both aggressors snapped to attention and saluted, their victim following suit but with less precision. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said the soldier he had punched. ‘I didn’t know you was an officer, like.’
George ignored him, addressing the tall soldier instead. ‘Why were they threatening you?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir,’ said the soldier softly, with only a hint of a Welsh lilt.
‘Would you not? Well, we’ll see about that. Come with me!’ George had enough experience of ordinary soldiers to know they never blabbed. His question had put the tall man in an impossible position and he regretted it at once. Far better, he knew, to quiz him in private, so George made his way down to the horsedeck, the tall soldier in his wake.
There was no sign of Pickering and, from force of habit, George entered Emperor’s stall and took up a body brush and a currycomb. Emperor’s coat was immaculate, and hardly needed grooming, but George knew that a good rub-down would keep his muscles warm.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the soldier, as he ran the brush in rhythmic strokes from Emperor’s forelock to his withers, removing the accumulated hair with the currycomb.
‘Private Thomas, sir.’
‘Not your rank, your Christian name.’
‘Owen, sir.’
‘And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer.’
‘But you said—’
George interjected. ‘I simply asked whether it was still the fashion in your regiment to salute. I at no time declared myself an officer.’
‘You implied—’
‘That I may have done, it’s true.’ Having finished brushing Emperor’s neck, George moved on to his flank. ‘What about you? I’d hazard we’re close in age, so you can’t have been in the army long.’
‘I’m nineteen years and took the shilling last September.’
George smiled at the coincidence, for he had joined his regiment that very month. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Monmouthshire.’
‘I know Monmouthshire. Have you heard of the Morgans of Tredegar Park? They own a colliery.’
‘I have, sir. I hail from Raglan, but some of my cousins work in the Tredegar colliery. They say old Mr Morgan is a fair employer.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. His son Jake is a friend of mine. He’s an officer in the Second Battalion of the Twenty-Fourth. Are you bound for the First or Second Battalion?’
‘The Second.’
‘Well, who knows, you may be assigned to his company.’
‘That I may,’ said Thomas.
George gestured with his head towards the deck above. ‘So what was that all about?’
‘Oh, nothing, a bit of harmless chat. They’re the Davies brothers from Trewern, and difficult to tell apart, so I call them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They aren’t amused.’
‘I’m sure they aren’t. If you don’t mind me saying so, Thomas, you don’t strike me as a typical army recruit. You seem far too sensible.’
Thomas grinned. ‘All thanks to my mam. She kept me at school when my pa wanted me to work with him in the fields.’
‘So you can read and write?’
‘That I can.’
‘Well, that’s more than most of the NCOs in the King’s Dragoon Guards can manage. So why enlist? It can’t be for the ten shillings a week. You could do better than that.’
‘No, it’s not for the money. I enlisted for adventure. My mam hoped I’d become a schoolteacher, but I want to see the world.’
‘As good a reason as any, I suppose. But how do you put up with barrack-room life?’
‘It’s not too bad, and certainly
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