King's Horse Guard with a desire to find purpose in his otherwise meaningless existence of drinking, gaming, and whoring, pursuits shared with his peers, other younger sons of nobility.
Already an able horseman, Drake was prepared for grueling hours in the saddle, but on the training field, he discovered he was a near prodigy in the art of swordplay. With his natural confidence and cool head, he had the true makings of a cavalry officer, although he had lacked the necessary funds to advance his career. Fate, however, intervened, and Philip Drake, the ne'er-do-well scapegrace of his family, became a captain of the King's Horse through a game of chance.
His first campaign, spent mostly garrisoned in Flanders, had failed miserably to live up to his expectations. Instead of riding gloriously into battle as he had envisioned, his entire regiment spent six months with thumbs up their arses whilst their generals dithered and the French amassed across the continent.
Disillusionment led to fond reminiscences of his "worthless" days of gaming, drinking, and whoring. His former life may have been meaningless, but damned if he hadn't enjoyed it more!
Increasingly restless and bored to distraction, newly commissioned Captain Drake began to drill and sharpen his men, lest in these months of inactivity they grow complacent, lazy, and dead… should the French and Prussians finally engage this muddle of a Pragmatic Army. In short order, the men under Drake's command were acknowledged as the best troop of the King's Horse.
With recognition of his success, the captain was recalled from Flanders to Horse Guard headquarters with orders to train the new Household Cavalry recruits for the coming spring campaign.
Now Captain Philip Drake faced his most daunting task: that of molding this pitiful assemblage into a troop worthy of the King's Horse.
As Drake strode the ranks of new recruits and their horses, his critical eye saw little raw material with which to work. A trooper was responsible for providing his own horse, and by the look of it, a full fourth of the nags wouldn't survive a march, let alone a battle!
Was this the best His Majesty could expect? He grimaced that any of this group might ride under his command. This was, after all, the unit bearing the Royal insignia, the best of the best, and their role was vital to the success of an army in the field. They were scouts, the eyes and ears of the generals, their watchfulness and intelligencegathering crucial to strategic decisions. They were the protectors of essential supply wagons and escorts to dignitaries carrying urgent messages. They were expert horsemen and fearsome warriors trained for swift and unexpected attack at a moment's notice. They were a breed apart, but the captain saw little evidence of any of these traits before him.
"Mount your horses!" he boomed, watching each man pull himself into the saddle. His eye was caught by one particular trooper who vaulted with easy grace onto the back of a short-coupled, heavyboned skewbald. The captain swaggered up to this young man, who saluted awkwardly, sitting tensely at attention.
"Name," the captain barked.
"Devington, sir. Robert Devington," the young man croaked.
"And what may I ask, Trooper Devington, is this sorry-looking beast? The King's Horse does not charge into battle on half-bred nags."
Trooper Devington's face flushed. "Permission to speak, Captain?"
He nodded curtly. "Permission granted, Trooper."
"Respectfully, Captain, although this horse was the product of an inadvertent coupling between a carriage-bred stallion and a racing mare, I believe him to be a superlative cavalry mount."
"You do indeed, Trooper Devington!" the captain roared and required more than a moment to compose his mirth before he could continue. "A superlative beast, you say? Pray tell me; upon what criteria?"
The crimson-faced trooper continued, "The qualities m'father
Already an able horseman, Drake was prepared for grueling hours in the saddle, but on the training field, he discovered he was a near prodigy in the art of swordplay. With his natural confidence and cool head, he had the true makings of a cavalry officer, although he had lacked the necessary funds to advance his career. Fate, however, intervened, and Philip Drake, the ne'er-do-well scapegrace of his family, became a captain of the King's Horse through a game of chance.
His first campaign, spent mostly garrisoned in Flanders, had failed miserably to live up to his expectations. Instead of riding gloriously into battle as he had envisioned, his entire regiment spent six months with thumbs up their arses whilst their generals dithered and the French amassed across the continent.
Disillusionment led to fond reminiscences of his "worthless" days of gaming, drinking, and whoring. His former life may have been meaningless, but damned if he hadn't enjoyed it more!
Increasingly restless and bored to distraction, newly commissioned Captain Drake began to drill and sharpen his men, lest in these months of inactivity they grow complacent, lazy, and dead… should the French and Prussians finally engage this muddle of a Pragmatic Army. In short order, the men under Drake's command were acknowledged as the best troop of the King's Horse.
With recognition of his success, the captain was recalled from Flanders to Horse Guard headquarters with orders to train the new Household Cavalry recruits for the coming spring campaign.
Now Captain Philip Drake faced his most daunting task: that of molding this pitiful assemblage into a troop worthy of the King's Horse.
As Drake strode the ranks of new recruits and their horses, his critical eye saw little raw material with which to work. A trooper was responsible for providing his own horse, and by the look of it, a full fourth of the nags wouldn't survive a march, let alone a battle!
Was this the best His Majesty could expect? He grimaced that any of this group might ride under his command. This was, after all, the unit bearing the Royal insignia, the best of the best, and their role was vital to the success of an army in the field. They were scouts, the eyes and ears of the generals, their watchfulness and intelligencegathering crucial to strategic decisions. They were the protectors of essential supply wagons and escorts to dignitaries carrying urgent messages. They were expert horsemen and fearsome warriors trained for swift and unexpected attack at a moment's notice. They were a breed apart, but the captain saw little evidence of any of these traits before him.
"Mount your horses!" he boomed, watching each man pull himself into the saddle. His eye was caught by one particular trooper who vaulted with easy grace onto the back of a short-coupled, heavyboned skewbald. The captain swaggered up to this young man, who saluted awkwardly, sitting tensely at attention.
"Name," the captain barked.
"Devington, sir. Robert Devington," the young man croaked.
"And what may I ask, Trooper Devington, is this sorry-looking beast? The King's Horse does not charge into battle on half-bred nags."
Trooper Devington's face flushed. "Permission to speak, Captain?"
He nodded curtly. "Permission granted, Trooper."
"Respectfully, Captain, although this horse was the product of an inadvertent coupling between a carriage-bred stallion and a racing mare, I believe him to be a superlative cavalry mount."
"You do indeed, Trooper Devington!" the captain roared and required more than a moment to compose his mirth before he could continue. "A superlative beast, you say? Pray tell me; upon what criteria?"
The crimson-faced trooper continued, "The qualities m'father
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