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Authors: Allan Mallinson
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Johnson?’
‘We ’ad a full kit check just before we went t’harbour, Colonel.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘What did you lose between then and here?’ asked Edmonds, as intrigued now as was the commanding officer.
‘Me spurs, sir.’
‘Careless, that.’
‘Ah bloody well threw ’em away, sir; after we’d shot all t’orses!’
Edmonds wished he’d never asked. He’d felt like doing the same after shooting his own.
Lord George spoke to recover the situation (he hoped). ‘You have a good remount?’
Johnson’s face lit up. ‘Ah do, Colonel. This is ’er ’ere.’ He indicated a bay mare, about fifteen hands two.
Lord George took a closer look. ‘I’d have her myself, Johnson.’
‘Ay, Colonel. She’s a good’n.’
‘Well then,’ said Lord George, turning. ‘Let us continue. Thank you, Johnson, for your candour.’
‘Ay, all right, Colonel.’ Johnson put his feet together, braced himself vigorously, and passably well, and saluted.
As they walked away, Edmonds saw a smile on Lord George’s face.
‘I have seen no lack of spirit so far.’
‘I think that is a fair representation of the regiment as a whole, Colonel, though Johnson, I must say, is singular.’
‘I am sorry to hear it! By the way, the regiment salutes with the hand when hatless, or was that just Private Johnson?’
‘It does.’
‘Good. Where do we go now?’
‘The other troop lines, Colonel.’
Lord George halted. ‘No, I think that if the horses are of the same stamp there is no need. I think I would see the stores.’
‘Very well. But I fear they are misnamed, for there’s barely an item within.’
‘Well, I may speak to the storekeeper, I suppose,’ Lord George replied, smiling still, appreciative of his major’s drollness. ‘Now, tell me what I should know of the subalterns.’
Edmonds made a sort of face. What to say? ‘I imagine they are no better or worse than elsewhere. One or two of them have the makings. Martyn, Lankester’s lieutenant, is capable. So is Darrington, the Duke of Sheffield’s son, but he has bid for a troop in the Fifteenth. And Conway knows what he’s about. The cornets have capability; very pleasing some of them. Hervey has a commendation from Robert Long. He galloped for him at Corunna.’
‘And what of the quartermasters?’
‘The serjeant-major’s time is up; he’ll have his discharge. He’s done all he can, and that well, but there’s not a commission for him. He’ll go to the yeomanry.’
‘There is a suitable replacement, I trust?’
‘Senior quartermaster is Lincoln, D Troop. They don’t come better.’
Lord George looked content. ‘Then what would you have me decide for the rest?’
Edmonds shook his head. ‘Nothing. In that respect the last three months have decided things. But as you perceive, there are no horses, and there’s a want of dragoons. We must get back into the saddle; that is all.’
Lord George took mental note again. He considered himself fortunate indeed to have a second in command of such vigour and address. The regiment had bottom – he knew so by its reputation and from what he had seen and heard in one hour this morning – but it would require a prodigious investment, not a little of which would have to be his own. He intended losing no time in its restoration.
For his part, Joseph Edmonds considered himself and the regiment fortunate to have a new executive officer with such credentials and – from what he could judge in one hour – manifest decency. Colonel Reynell he had held in high regard, as much for his humanity as his aptitude. His handling of the regiment at Benavente had been masterly, but to Edmonds’s mind there had always been something other-worldly in Reynell. He thought it his undoing, in fact. Reynell had pulled the regiment through to Corunna with but a handful of delinquencies when others could count theirs in dozens. The orders to destroy the horses had been grievous – no one doubted it – but they had
‘We ’ad a full kit check just before we went t’harbour, Colonel.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘What did you lose between then and here?’ asked Edmonds, as intrigued now as was the commanding officer.
‘Me spurs, sir.’
‘Careless, that.’
‘Ah bloody well threw ’em away, sir; after we’d shot all t’orses!’
Edmonds wished he’d never asked. He’d felt like doing the same after shooting his own.
Lord George spoke to recover the situation (he hoped). ‘You have a good remount?’
Johnson’s face lit up. ‘Ah do, Colonel. This is ’er ’ere.’ He indicated a bay mare, about fifteen hands two.
Lord George took a closer look. ‘I’d have her myself, Johnson.’
‘Ay, Colonel. She’s a good’n.’
‘Well then,’ said Lord George, turning. ‘Let us continue. Thank you, Johnson, for your candour.’
‘Ay, all right, Colonel.’ Johnson put his feet together, braced himself vigorously, and passably well, and saluted.
As they walked away, Edmonds saw a smile on Lord George’s face.
‘I have seen no lack of spirit so far.’
‘I think that is a fair representation of the regiment as a whole, Colonel, though Johnson, I must say, is singular.’
‘I am sorry to hear it! By the way, the regiment salutes with the hand when hatless, or was that just Private Johnson?’
‘It does.’
‘Good. Where do we go now?’
‘The other troop lines, Colonel.’
Lord George halted. ‘No, I think that if the horses are of the same stamp there is no need. I think I would see the stores.’
‘Very well. But I fear they are misnamed, for there’s barely an item within.’
‘Well, I may speak to the storekeeper, I suppose,’ Lord George replied, smiling still, appreciative of his major’s drollness. ‘Now, tell me what I should know of the subalterns.’
Edmonds made a sort of face. What to say? ‘I imagine they are no better or worse than elsewhere. One or two of them have the makings. Martyn, Lankester’s lieutenant, is capable. So is Darrington, the Duke of Sheffield’s son, but he has bid for a troop in the Fifteenth. And Conway knows what he’s about. The cornets have capability; very pleasing some of them. Hervey has a commendation from Robert Long. He galloped for him at Corunna.’
‘And what of the quartermasters?’
‘The serjeant-major’s time is up; he’ll have his discharge. He’s done all he can, and that well, but there’s not a commission for him. He’ll go to the yeomanry.’
‘There is a suitable replacement, I trust?’
‘Senior quartermaster is Lincoln, D Troop. They don’t come better.’
Lord George looked content. ‘Then what would you have me decide for the rest?’
Edmonds shook his head. ‘Nothing. In that respect the last three months have decided things. But as you perceive, there are no horses, and there’s a want of dragoons. We must get back into the saddle; that is all.’
Lord George took mental note again. He considered himself fortunate indeed to have a second in command of such vigour and address. The regiment had bottom – he knew so by its reputation and from what he had seen and heard in one hour this morning – but it would require a prodigious investment, not a little of which would have to be his own. He intended losing no time in its restoration.
For his part, Joseph Edmonds considered himself and the regiment fortunate to have a new executive officer with such credentials and – from what he could judge in one hour – manifest decency. Colonel Reynell he had held in high regard, as much for his humanity as his aptitude. His handling of the regiment at Benavente had been masterly, but to Edmonds’s mind there had always been something other-worldly in Reynell. He thought it his undoing, in fact. Reynell had pulled the regiment through to Corunna with but a handful of delinquencies when others could count theirs in dozens. The orders to destroy the horses had been grievous – no one doubted it – but they had
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