Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Fifteen.Bid him beside, his daily pains employTo form the tender manners of the boy,And work him like a waxen babe with art,To perfect symmetry in every part.Story-telling is a very favourite method of passing away spare time on guard, or after the lights are extinguished in the evenings when we retire to rest, and as these chapters proceed I shall from time to time relate such as I can remember, always giving preference to those which I fancy will be most interesting to my readers.Meanwhile, I may be allowed to offer some details of the interior economy of a regiment in barracks.In reference to the regimental school for the instruction of the children of non-commissioned officers and soldiers, I may state that their object is to instil into the minds of the children the duties of religion; to implant in them early habits of morality, obedience, and industry; to give the boys that amount of instruction which—may qualify them for non-commissioned officers, or enable them to become useful members of civil society. It entirely rests with the children themselves, when they arrive at a proper age, to adopt any line of life to which they give the preference, but it is considered by the proper authorities to be extremely essential that competent persons be selected from the ranks or roll of non-commissioned officers for the duties of schoolmasters and superintendents of the regimental schools. The boys are all dressed in regimentals corresponding with the stable-dress of the men, and very proud the little fellows are of it too, especially on a Sunday, when they march to church in rear of the regiment and band.The schools are conducted on military principles, and, as far as circumstances permit, their establishment is assimilated to that of the regiment, being formed, I believe, on a system recommended by a Rev. Dr Bell. In addition to their daily lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic, the boys are instructed in various ways of making themselves useful, and of gaining a respectable subsistence when they grow to maturity; the trades of armourers, tailors, saddlers, and boot and shoe makers being the most popular with them, because of their being carried on in barracks. The prevalent idea among civilians, that a soldier’s son, born in the regiment,mustbe a soldier, or that he is claimed by the Government when he arrives at the proper age, is entirely fallacious: no such system is tolerated in the British army. The education and care of a soldier’s child is as much the object of the sovereign’s and the Government’s solicitude, as the soldier himself.The female children of the soldiers also equally partake of the benefits of this system of education, whenever accommodation and other circumstances permit, and a liberal allowance for eligible schoolmistresses is granted by the Government. The girls are taught reading, writing, arithmetic, plain needlework, and knitting, so that they are not only useful to the regiment while at school, but qualified to earn their own livelihood in after life.In reference to the particular trades in which the children are to be instructed, the wishes of the parents are, as far as possible, to be consulted. Many of the boys born in the regiment become so attached to their parents and other individuals serving in the corps, and, moreover, so accustomed to military routine, that they seldom leave it to become civilians. They chiefly enter the band, and many of them attain the position of trumpeters, in which case they are, for the most part, as well off as if they had chosen the life of a tradesman; for I am bound to say that whatever position a man may hold in the army, and however much he may dislike that position and yearn for his liberty, he is, after he attains his freedom, either by purchase or desertion, more or less unsettled by being separated from his comrades. Numbers who have purchased their discharge, having a good home and livelihood in civil life, enlist again, and remain soldiers for the full period of their service.I may here state, that whatever time a soldier has served prior to purchasing his discharge, that time does not count in his favour on second enlistment: he has still twenty-four years to serve in the cavalry and twenty-one years in the infantry, from the date of his second or any subsequent enlistment.In reference to the bands of music in either cavalry or infantry, they are supported out of the private purses of the commissioned officers. Every officer on entering a regiment is required to contribute towards the support of a band, twenty days’ pay on appointment, and an annual subscription, at the discretion of the commanding officer. In cases of promotion, the officer has to give the difference between twenty days’ pay of the rank attained and of that previously held.The bandsmen are all regularly enlisted and drilled, so as to be effective as soldiers, and they are liable to serve in the ranks on any emergency. They are generally attired in a more gaudy and expensive uniform than the privates in the ranks. The number of a band depends much upon the caprice of the commanding officer, and although the limit is prescribed by Government to a sergeant as master, and fourteen privates as musicians, yet the majority of regimental bands are composed of a band-master, a band-sergeant, a band-corporal, and frequently upwards of thirty privates as performers. The band invariably accompanies the regiment to church. I remember an attempt being made by the officiating minister of a church attended by the 16th Lancers, to prevent that regiment from being accompanied by its band to Divine worship, but Colonel Smyth, who had led the corps with great distinction through the Sikh war, was inexorable. He said, “the band had many times played his regiment in and out of battle, and so long as he remained its commander, it should play him and his men to and from church.” It is only right, however, to observe that the minister did not object to it in a religious point of view, only that the regiment having but recently returned from India covered with honours, it attracted such a concourse of people as to greatly impede the comfort of the regularhabituésof his church, and it was suggested that the withdrawal of the band would, to a great extent, check the assemblage of such vast crowds, that not only choked up the thoroughfares and approaches to the church, but filled the sacred edifice itself. The men and officers all attend Divine service in full dress, with swords; and where they have to attend a church out of barracks, a portion of the sitting accommodation is especially set apart for their use. In some barracks, however, a chaplain is appointed, who preaches a sermon in the riding-school, the children of the soldiers being seated on forms carried from the schools, the men and officers standing around them and the pulpit.In almost every regiment there are a number of Roman Catholics, who are, of course, free to attend their own place of worship, but the band at all times accompanies the Protestants to the service of the Church of England.

Bid him beside, his daily pains employTo form the tender manners of the boy,And work him like a waxen babe with art,To perfect symmetry in every part.

Bid him beside, his daily pains employTo form the tender manners of the boy,And work him like a waxen babe with art,To perfect symmetry in every part.

Story-telling is a very favourite method of passing away spare time on guard, or after the lights are extinguished in the evenings when we retire to rest, and as these chapters proceed I shall from time to time relate such as I can remember, always giving preference to those which I fancy will be most interesting to my readers.

Meanwhile, I may be allowed to offer some details of the interior economy of a regiment in barracks.

In reference to the regimental school for the instruction of the children of non-commissioned officers and soldiers, I may state that their object is to instil into the minds of the children the duties of religion; to implant in them early habits of morality, obedience, and industry; to give the boys that amount of instruction which—may qualify them for non-commissioned officers, or enable them to become useful members of civil society. It entirely rests with the children themselves, when they arrive at a proper age, to adopt any line of life to which they give the preference, but it is considered by the proper authorities to be extremely essential that competent persons be selected from the ranks or roll of non-commissioned officers for the duties of schoolmasters and superintendents of the regimental schools. The boys are all dressed in regimentals corresponding with the stable-dress of the men, and very proud the little fellows are of it too, especially on a Sunday, when they march to church in rear of the regiment and band.

The schools are conducted on military principles, and, as far as circumstances permit, their establishment is assimilated to that of the regiment, being formed, I believe, on a system recommended by a Rev. Dr Bell. In addition to their daily lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic, the boys are instructed in various ways of making themselves useful, and of gaining a respectable subsistence when they grow to maturity; the trades of armourers, tailors, saddlers, and boot and shoe makers being the most popular with them, because of their being carried on in barracks. The prevalent idea among civilians, that a soldier’s son, born in the regiment,mustbe a soldier, or that he is claimed by the Government when he arrives at the proper age, is entirely fallacious: no such system is tolerated in the British army. The education and care of a soldier’s child is as much the object of the sovereign’s and the Government’s solicitude, as the soldier himself.

The female children of the soldiers also equally partake of the benefits of this system of education, whenever accommodation and other circumstances permit, and a liberal allowance for eligible schoolmistresses is granted by the Government. The girls are taught reading, writing, arithmetic, plain needlework, and knitting, so that they are not only useful to the regiment while at school, but qualified to earn their own livelihood in after life.

In reference to the particular trades in which the children are to be instructed, the wishes of the parents are, as far as possible, to be consulted. Many of the boys born in the regiment become so attached to their parents and other individuals serving in the corps, and, moreover, so accustomed to military routine, that they seldom leave it to become civilians. They chiefly enter the band, and many of them attain the position of trumpeters, in which case they are, for the most part, as well off as if they had chosen the life of a tradesman; for I am bound to say that whatever position a man may hold in the army, and however much he may dislike that position and yearn for his liberty, he is, after he attains his freedom, either by purchase or desertion, more or less unsettled by being separated from his comrades. Numbers who have purchased their discharge, having a good home and livelihood in civil life, enlist again, and remain soldiers for the full period of their service.

I may here state, that whatever time a soldier has served prior to purchasing his discharge, that time does not count in his favour on second enlistment: he has still twenty-four years to serve in the cavalry and twenty-one years in the infantry, from the date of his second or any subsequent enlistment.

In reference to the bands of music in either cavalry or infantry, they are supported out of the private purses of the commissioned officers. Every officer on entering a regiment is required to contribute towards the support of a band, twenty days’ pay on appointment, and an annual subscription, at the discretion of the commanding officer. In cases of promotion, the officer has to give the difference between twenty days’ pay of the rank attained and of that previously held.

The bandsmen are all regularly enlisted and drilled, so as to be effective as soldiers, and they are liable to serve in the ranks on any emergency. They are generally attired in a more gaudy and expensive uniform than the privates in the ranks. The number of a band depends much upon the caprice of the commanding officer, and although the limit is prescribed by Government to a sergeant as master, and fourteen privates as musicians, yet the majority of regimental bands are composed of a band-master, a band-sergeant, a band-corporal, and frequently upwards of thirty privates as performers. The band invariably accompanies the regiment to church. I remember an attempt being made by the officiating minister of a church attended by the 16th Lancers, to prevent that regiment from being accompanied by its band to Divine worship, but Colonel Smyth, who had led the corps with great distinction through the Sikh war, was inexorable. He said, “the band had many times played his regiment in and out of battle, and so long as he remained its commander, it should play him and his men to and from church.” It is only right, however, to observe that the minister did not object to it in a religious point of view, only that the regiment having but recently returned from India covered with honours, it attracted such a concourse of people as to greatly impede the comfort of the regularhabituésof his church, and it was suggested that the withdrawal of the band would, to a great extent, check the assemblage of such vast crowds, that not only choked up the thoroughfares and approaches to the church, but filled the sacred edifice itself. The men and officers all attend Divine service in full dress, with swords; and where they have to attend a church out of barracks, a portion of the sitting accommodation is especially set apart for their use. In some barracks, however, a chaplain is appointed, who preaches a sermon in the riding-school, the children of the soldiers being seated on forms carried from the schools, the men and officers standing around them and the pulpit.

In almost every regiment there are a number of Roman Catholics, who are, of course, free to attend their own place of worship, but the band at all times accompanies the Protestants to the service of the Church of England.

Chapter Sixteen.Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men.He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted, neither turneth he back from the sword.He saith among the trumpets, “Ha! ha!” and he smelleth the battle afar off.My readers will probably be interested in the mode of procuring and management of troop-horses. In the first place, the horses which are purchased for the cavalry are selected of a sufficient height and strength, so as to be able to carry a man of average weight and four stone in addition, that being about the weight of a cavalry soldier’s kit and necessaries, which he must always carry with him when on a campaign or the line of march. The most favourable season for purchasing troop-horses is considered the autumn, and the commanding officers either attend the large fairs themselves, or they leave the business to a contractor, who has to supply the horses at a stated price (35 pounds for dragoons, hussars, lancers, and artillery, and 45 pounds for black horses for the Horse Guards,) subject, of course; to the inspection of the commanding officer and the professional examination of the regimental veterinary surgeon.Except in time of war, when large drafts are required to supply the places of those killed in action, or that die of disease, exposure, and want of forage, no horses are purchased for the cavalry at a younger age than three years, and all must be perfectly unbroken, so that their instinct is untainted by any manner of training except the one uniform system in use throughout the entire service.The trumpeters are generally mounted on grey horses, but the prevailing colours of troop-horses are bay, brown, and black. The Horse Guards (1st and 2nd Life Guards, and Horse Guards Blue, or Royal Horse Guards) are all mounted on black horses, and the 2nd North British Dragoons, or Scots Greys, are all mounted on grey horses. The most scrupulous care is of course taken of them in barracks. The veterinary surgeon is responsible as to their health, as reported to him by the troop-sergeant-major and the troop-farrier daily, the latter being more particularly required to examine each foot of every horse in his troop twice at least every week for any appearance of loose shoes, broken nails, or any change in the healthy condition of the feet. The troop-sergeant-major is supposed to be always present in the stable when the horses are fed, watered, and groomed; and he is therefore responsible for their condition, grooming, and general appearance.Every horse, as a rule, is supposed to be shod once a month; but so great is the variety in size and formation in feet, and in the degrees of toughness and rapidity of growth of the hoof and sole of different horses, and even on different feet of the same horse and at different parts of the same shoe, that no particular pattern or form of shoe is prescribed. This is left to the skill and judgment of the farrier, to make according to the shape of the foot with which he has to deal. In this particular branch of his business he is far superior to the village blacksmith or the more pretentious shoeing-smiths in large towns, even London itself, where many veterinary farriers keep a lot of shoes by them that have been made by machinery; and, as a rule, they pare, cut down, and model the poor horse’s foot to fittheirshoe, instead of making the shoe to fit the peculiar conformation of the foot. Hundreds of valuable horses used by civilians are constantly ruined by the pernicious practice of cutting the hoof and sole of the horse’s foot into a shape quite contrary to that intended by Nature, who has cast it in a mould necessary and proper to support the horse’s weight or the peculiar shape of its legs, which differ more or less in all animals, although the basis of their construction is essentially the same. All unnecessary loading of the horse’s foot with iron is carefully avoided; and if any farrier is caught in the reprehensible practice of applying a red-hot shoe to the foot, he is very severely dealt with.A very important point in the care of troop-horses is the prevention of predisposing causes of disease, such as exposure to extreme cold and heat. Of course this cannot be so well carried out in camp as in barracks, and the consequence is that disease is much more frequent in the former than the latter. I, for one, think it very questionable policy on the part of our Government to take horses out of warm barrack-stables and picket them in the open air, as at Aldershot and the Curragh camp, when there is neither war nor rumours of war. Such a course of proceeding only exposes the extreme ignorance of those who have the direction of these affairs. Alternately exposing either horses or human beings to heat and cold is the surest way of bringing on disease and undermining the constitution. The horses, at least of those regiments who are first on the roll for a campaign, ought to remain in camp, and never be allowed to enter a stable, the atmosphere of which is much warmer than the open air, and then they would be always in readiness to proceed to any part, without running the risk of disease and death by exposure, as occurred in the Crimea, where more than half the number of our cavalry were rendered non-effective from want of horses. This plan would not entail the necessity of submitting the men of the regiment to which the horses belong to the hardship of remaining constantly in camp, for there would be nothing to hinder them from being relieved by soldiers from other regiments, who could march to the camp with the whole of their kit and necessaries, and the men who are relieved could pack up their own kit and march out with the horses of the relieving corps. This system would be far better than, for instance, marching our troop-horses from the stables of barracks situate in the inland towns of England to Ireland, and exposing them to the cold blasts that, both in winter and summer, sweep through the camp at the Curragh of Kildare, one of the most bleak and cold parts of either Ireland or England. The soldiers themselves are aware of all this, and it is fast spreading discontent among them, especially those who are stationed at the latter place, where I have myself witnessed horses standing at their picket-posts nearly up to the hocks in mud, while a cold north-east wind was blowing and causing their backs to stick up and their coats to stare like hedgehogs. Let us hope that, if not for the sake of the poor animals, the legislature will, for the benefit of the service and consideration for the soldiers, see the necessity of changing so suicidal a policy as exposing our troops and troop-horses to such sudden changes from barracks (in some places absolutely in want of ventilation) to the most exposed places they can possibly select throughout the length and breadth of our proverbially capricious and changeable climate.When horses become unserviceable from any cause, they are disposed of by public auction to the highest bidder. Many a gallant old trooper is now dragging out his existence in omnibuses, cabs, and the like, being generally bought for harness work. Every troop-horse is marked on the front of both hoofs of his fore-feet with the number and initials of the regiment in which he served. Sometimes these “cast horses” are bought by dealers, who file out the marks and sell them to novices as young fresh horses just up from the country; but an experienced man may always detect an old trooper by the hollow place left by filing out the marks; and if the horse be mounted, the rider may find out in an instant whether he has been a trooper if he will feel the off-rein and lightly press his left leg to the horse’s near side, orvice versâ, when the animal will commence to cross his legs and move sideways, as if to “dress” to some imaginary companions in forming line; for whenever a horse has been taught anything and practised in it he never forgets it, and needs but the necessary signals to again remind him that the movement is required.It is a spirit-stirring sight to witness the embarkation of a cavalry regiment for a sea voyage. In the first place, it is considered advisable, when circumstances permit, for the embarkation to take place immediately after a day’s march, when the horses are more quiet and manageable, than when brought fresh out of stables, time being always allowed for wisping them over and picking out their feet to clear them from gravel or any dirt which may accumulate between the edge of the shoe and the sole of the foot (a point too often neglected by gentlemen’s grooms after their horses come in from a journey). When all is ready for business, a sling is passed under the horse’s belly, and also supports his chest and quarters; the ropes attached to this sling meet over the middle of the horse’s back, and are hitched to the chain of the windlass or crane. Two soldiers have each hold of a rein attached to the head-stall on either side of his head, while they soothe and allay his fears by hand and voice, or, if he violently resist, hold him by main force, until he is snatched from the ground and swung over that portion of the sea which intervenes between the beach and the vessel. Some troop-horses fight with all the strength and old-fashioned tactics for which they are especially famous, and they lead the sailors a nice dance when they are guiding them over the hatchway, and conducting them through it into the hold of the vessel.Once deposited in the hold, however, and released from the slings, a lock of hay and the voice of his master will soothe the animal’s fears and reconcile him to his new situation. Horses that are embarked for Ireland are generally conducted on board by means of gangways, as the ships are brought sufficiently near to the piers at Liverpool for that purpose. Great care is taken that they are not overheated or overfed during a sea voyage, and, therefore, bran, with occasional doses of nitre, forms a large proportion of their daily food. The face, eyes, and nostrils of each horse are washed with a sponge and sea-water at every stable hour, and the hold of the vessel is ventilated by means of wind-sails. Sometimes, however, in stormy weather, the hatches have to be closed, or partially so, and it is then very close and hot below, but great advantage is in such cases obtained by washing the manger with vinegar and water, and occasionally sponging the nostrils of the horses with the same. The use of dumb bells, dancing, and any diversion calculated for the purpose of daily exercise, is permitted, in fact, encouraged as much as possible, in order to maintain the health and strength of the men, and they are put through the sword, carbine, and other exercises in parties, according to the extent of the accommodation on deck.To return, however, to the relation of current events at head-quarters. While our regiment was lying in York, the country, especially the manufacturing districts, was much disturbed by what were called “Chartist riots,” or “plug drawing,” the latter term being derived from the rioters drawing the street plugs, so as to allow the water that supplied the mill with steam and power to escape and run to waste. The regiment was divided into detachments, and marched in various directions to be quartered in towns where the civil power was considered insufficient to preserve the public peace. Manchester, Oldham, Bolton, Bury, Blackburn, Hyde, and all the manufacturing towns in Lancashire, were in a state of siege for more than a month. Mills and warehouses were fired, machinery broken, shopkeepers were pilfered and openly robbed of their stock in trade, which the lawless mob either destroyed or consumed, and the peaceable inhabitants were kept in a continual state of terror bordering on despair. Nothing but the devoted loyalty of the soldiers, aided by the superhuman exertions of the police, preserved the whole country from revolution and the public buildings from being sacked by the off-scourings of society.The detachment to which I belonged was despatched to Dudley, so as to be in readiness to aid the civil power in the Staffordshire Potteries. We were there upwards of three weeks, and never slept in bed; some of our horses were kept ready saddled, and we could have turned out the whole fully equipped in “field order” any time at a few minutes’ notice. No part of a soldier’s duty is more disagreeable than to be called out to quell a riot. To fire upon, ride down, or cut down with the sabre, indiscriminately, any individual that may come within reach, is a proceeding exceedingly repugnant to the feelings of a British soldier; therefore it was with no very pleasureable feelings that we one day noticed a mounted policeman ride hurriedly up to the Stork Hotel, where the commanding officer of the detachment was staying, and in a few moments afterwards the trumpeter sounded “Turn out the whole.” We rapidly formed; the command was given, “Threes right,” and off we marched at a swinging trot to the place indicated, a town some miles distant, where we found the house-tops literally swarming with human beings, who had ripped the tiles from the roofs to throw at the police and a small troop of yeomanry cavalry, who were totally surrounded by the mob, and getting by far the worst of it, no orders having been given by the civil authorities for the yeomanry to fire; which, indeed, it is questionable whether they could have performed with safety to themselves. As fast as the police arrested any of the mob, they were rescued. The road, or rather street, by which we approached the market-place (a wide thoroughfare) was crammed full of the most lawless-looking ruffians—men and women—it was ever my lot to see together, before or since, in England; they were all armed with sticks, pikes, stones, and some had old guns too, which they now and then fired—more from bravado, I should imagine, than from any intent to kill. The sea of human faces and glistening eyes were turned full upon us as we swept at a rapid trot round a corner into full view of the yelling, screaming mass.The shops were all closed, and the timid inhabitants were here and there peeping from the corners of the window-blinds from the rooms above. Crash! crash! went the stones at the windows, wherever the mob were foiled in their attempts to break open the doors and plunder the shops. Barrels of ale were rolled into the streets and the ends driven in for the mob to drink out of, many using their hats for drinking-vessels; flitches of bacon and cheeses were handed to and fro over the heads of the rioters; loaves were pitched from the bakers’ shops among the people; a draper’s shop was on fire, and the contents of a toy-shop were showered among us, just as we arrived in themêlée. The trumpet sounded “Walk,” and the babel of yells and shrieks was hushed as if by magic; not a stone was thrown, nor a weapon raised to attack us; all appeared astonished when we came upon the scene, and, with the exception of an occasional cry of “The regulars! the regulars!” scarce a sound was heard above a low hum of human voices, as if in conversation with each other.The space immediately in our front was soon cleared, as the dense masses opened out, fell back, and trampled upon the more helpless. We walked our horses steadily on, with our sabres still in their scabbards, to the market-place, where our captain found the chief of police surrounded by yeomanry and his own men. An attempt had just been made to break open the doors and sack the town-hall, and they were all in a terrible state of excitement. We rapidly took up our ground and formed in double rank, with the yeomanry and police in our rear. Just then a shower of stones was hurled at us, but they did but little damage; the Riot Act was read, and the captain in command gave the order, in a clear, ringing voice, to draw swords; but when those ominous-looking weapons flashed in the blazing sun, the dense masses scampered off helter-skelter, and, with the exception of a few rioters, whom the police succeeded in apprehending, we were soon left alone in our glory.Such is the amount of fear and respect with which disciplined soldiers are regarded by an infuriated and misguided mob, and the simple exhibition of such discipline is generally sufficient to prevent a collision with those pests of society, who, happily for the peace and prosperity of England, do not exist in numbers sufficient to endanger the peace and happiness of its respectable and industrious people.

Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men.He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted, neither turneth he back from the sword.He saith among the trumpets, “Ha! ha!” and he smelleth the battle afar off.

Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men.

He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted, neither turneth he back from the sword.

He saith among the trumpets, “Ha! ha!” and he smelleth the battle afar off.

My readers will probably be interested in the mode of procuring and management of troop-horses. In the first place, the horses which are purchased for the cavalry are selected of a sufficient height and strength, so as to be able to carry a man of average weight and four stone in addition, that being about the weight of a cavalry soldier’s kit and necessaries, which he must always carry with him when on a campaign or the line of march. The most favourable season for purchasing troop-horses is considered the autumn, and the commanding officers either attend the large fairs themselves, or they leave the business to a contractor, who has to supply the horses at a stated price (35 pounds for dragoons, hussars, lancers, and artillery, and 45 pounds for black horses for the Horse Guards,) subject, of course; to the inspection of the commanding officer and the professional examination of the regimental veterinary surgeon.

Except in time of war, when large drafts are required to supply the places of those killed in action, or that die of disease, exposure, and want of forage, no horses are purchased for the cavalry at a younger age than three years, and all must be perfectly unbroken, so that their instinct is untainted by any manner of training except the one uniform system in use throughout the entire service.

The trumpeters are generally mounted on grey horses, but the prevailing colours of troop-horses are bay, brown, and black. The Horse Guards (1st and 2nd Life Guards, and Horse Guards Blue, or Royal Horse Guards) are all mounted on black horses, and the 2nd North British Dragoons, or Scots Greys, are all mounted on grey horses. The most scrupulous care is of course taken of them in barracks. The veterinary surgeon is responsible as to their health, as reported to him by the troop-sergeant-major and the troop-farrier daily, the latter being more particularly required to examine each foot of every horse in his troop twice at least every week for any appearance of loose shoes, broken nails, or any change in the healthy condition of the feet. The troop-sergeant-major is supposed to be always present in the stable when the horses are fed, watered, and groomed; and he is therefore responsible for their condition, grooming, and general appearance.

Every horse, as a rule, is supposed to be shod once a month; but so great is the variety in size and formation in feet, and in the degrees of toughness and rapidity of growth of the hoof and sole of different horses, and even on different feet of the same horse and at different parts of the same shoe, that no particular pattern or form of shoe is prescribed. This is left to the skill and judgment of the farrier, to make according to the shape of the foot with which he has to deal. In this particular branch of his business he is far superior to the village blacksmith or the more pretentious shoeing-smiths in large towns, even London itself, where many veterinary farriers keep a lot of shoes by them that have been made by machinery; and, as a rule, they pare, cut down, and model the poor horse’s foot to fittheirshoe, instead of making the shoe to fit the peculiar conformation of the foot. Hundreds of valuable horses used by civilians are constantly ruined by the pernicious practice of cutting the hoof and sole of the horse’s foot into a shape quite contrary to that intended by Nature, who has cast it in a mould necessary and proper to support the horse’s weight or the peculiar shape of its legs, which differ more or less in all animals, although the basis of their construction is essentially the same. All unnecessary loading of the horse’s foot with iron is carefully avoided; and if any farrier is caught in the reprehensible practice of applying a red-hot shoe to the foot, he is very severely dealt with.

A very important point in the care of troop-horses is the prevention of predisposing causes of disease, such as exposure to extreme cold and heat. Of course this cannot be so well carried out in camp as in barracks, and the consequence is that disease is much more frequent in the former than the latter. I, for one, think it very questionable policy on the part of our Government to take horses out of warm barrack-stables and picket them in the open air, as at Aldershot and the Curragh camp, when there is neither war nor rumours of war. Such a course of proceeding only exposes the extreme ignorance of those who have the direction of these affairs. Alternately exposing either horses or human beings to heat and cold is the surest way of bringing on disease and undermining the constitution. The horses, at least of those regiments who are first on the roll for a campaign, ought to remain in camp, and never be allowed to enter a stable, the atmosphere of which is much warmer than the open air, and then they would be always in readiness to proceed to any part, without running the risk of disease and death by exposure, as occurred in the Crimea, where more than half the number of our cavalry were rendered non-effective from want of horses. This plan would not entail the necessity of submitting the men of the regiment to which the horses belong to the hardship of remaining constantly in camp, for there would be nothing to hinder them from being relieved by soldiers from other regiments, who could march to the camp with the whole of their kit and necessaries, and the men who are relieved could pack up their own kit and march out with the horses of the relieving corps. This system would be far better than, for instance, marching our troop-horses from the stables of barracks situate in the inland towns of England to Ireland, and exposing them to the cold blasts that, both in winter and summer, sweep through the camp at the Curragh of Kildare, one of the most bleak and cold parts of either Ireland or England. The soldiers themselves are aware of all this, and it is fast spreading discontent among them, especially those who are stationed at the latter place, where I have myself witnessed horses standing at their picket-posts nearly up to the hocks in mud, while a cold north-east wind was blowing and causing their backs to stick up and their coats to stare like hedgehogs. Let us hope that, if not for the sake of the poor animals, the legislature will, for the benefit of the service and consideration for the soldiers, see the necessity of changing so suicidal a policy as exposing our troops and troop-horses to such sudden changes from barracks (in some places absolutely in want of ventilation) to the most exposed places they can possibly select throughout the length and breadth of our proverbially capricious and changeable climate.

When horses become unserviceable from any cause, they are disposed of by public auction to the highest bidder. Many a gallant old trooper is now dragging out his existence in omnibuses, cabs, and the like, being generally bought for harness work. Every troop-horse is marked on the front of both hoofs of his fore-feet with the number and initials of the regiment in which he served. Sometimes these “cast horses” are bought by dealers, who file out the marks and sell them to novices as young fresh horses just up from the country; but an experienced man may always detect an old trooper by the hollow place left by filing out the marks; and if the horse be mounted, the rider may find out in an instant whether he has been a trooper if he will feel the off-rein and lightly press his left leg to the horse’s near side, orvice versâ, when the animal will commence to cross his legs and move sideways, as if to “dress” to some imaginary companions in forming line; for whenever a horse has been taught anything and practised in it he never forgets it, and needs but the necessary signals to again remind him that the movement is required.

It is a spirit-stirring sight to witness the embarkation of a cavalry regiment for a sea voyage. In the first place, it is considered advisable, when circumstances permit, for the embarkation to take place immediately after a day’s march, when the horses are more quiet and manageable, than when brought fresh out of stables, time being always allowed for wisping them over and picking out their feet to clear them from gravel or any dirt which may accumulate between the edge of the shoe and the sole of the foot (a point too often neglected by gentlemen’s grooms after their horses come in from a journey). When all is ready for business, a sling is passed under the horse’s belly, and also supports his chest and quarters; the ropes attached to this sling meet over the middle of the horse’s back, and are hitched to the chain of the windlass or crane. Two soldiers have each hold of a rein attached to the head-stall on either side of his head, while they soothe and allay his fears by hand and voice, or, if he violently resist, hold him by main force, until he is snatched from the ground and swung over that portion of the sea which intervenes between the beach and the vessel. Some troop-horses fight with all the strength and old-fashioned tactics for which they are especially famous, and they lead the sailors a nice dance when they are guiding them over the hatchway, and conducting them through it into the hold of the vessel.

Once deposited in the hold, however, and released from the slings, a lock of hay and the voice of his master will soothe the animal’s fears and reconcile him to his new situation. Horses that are embarked for Ireland are generally conducted on board by means of gangways, as the ships are brought sufficiently near to the piers at Liverpool for that purpose. Great care is taken that they are not overheated or overfed during a sea voyage, and, therefore, bran, with occasional doses of nitre, forms a large proportion of their daily food. The face, eyes, and nostrils of each horse are washed with a sponge and sea-water at every stable hour, and the hold of the vessel is ventilated by means of wind-sails. Sometimes, however, in stormy weather, the hatches have to be closed, or partially so, and it is then very close and hot below, but great advantage is in such cases obtained by washing the manger with vinegar and water, and occasionally sponging the nostrils of the horses with the same. The use of dumb bells, dancing, and any diversion calculated for the purpose of daily exercise, is permitted, in fact, encouraged as much as possible, in order to maintain the health and strength of the men, and they are put through the sword, carbine, and other exercises in parties, according to the extent of the accommodation on deck.

To return, however, to the relation of current events at head-quarters. While our regiment was lying in York, the country, especially the manufacturing districts, was much disturbed by what were called “Chartist riots,” or “plug drawing,” the latter term being derived from the rioters drawing the street plugs, so as to allow the water that supplied the mill with steam and power to escape and run to waste. The regiment was divided into detachments, and marched in various directions to be quartered in towns where the civil power was considered insufficient to preserve the public peace. Manchester, Oldham, Bolton, Bury, Blackburn, Hyde, and all the manufacturing towns in Lancashire, were in a state of siege for more than a month. Mills and warehouses were fired, machinery broken, shopkeepers were pilfered and openly robbed of their stock in trade, which the lawless mob either destroyed or consumed, and the peaceable inhabitants were kept in a continual state of terror bordering on despair. Nothing but the devoted loyalty of the soldiers, aided by the superhuman exertions of the police, preserved the whole country from revolution and the public buildings from being sacked by the off-scourings of society.

The detachment to which I belonged was despatched to Dudley, so as to be in readiness to aid the civil power in the Staffordshire Potteries. We were there upwards of three weeks, and never slept in bed; some of our horses were kept ready saddled, and we could have turned out the whole fully equipped in “field order” any time at a few minutes’ notice. No part of a soldier’s duty is more disagreeable than to be called out to quell a riot. To fire upon, ride down, or cut down with the sabre, indiscriminately, any individual that may come within reach, is a proceeding exceedingly repugnant to the feelings of a British soldier; therefore it was with no very pleasureable feelings that we one day noticed a mounted policeman ride hurriedly up to the Stork Hotel, where the commanding officer of the detachment was staying, and in a few moments afterwards the trumpeter sounded “Turn out the whole.” We rapidly formed; the command was given, “Threes right,” and off we marched at a swinging trot to the place indicated, a town some miles distant, where we found the house-tops literally swarming with human beings, who had ripped the tiles from the roofs to throw at the police and a small troop of yeomanry cavalry, who were totally surrounded by the mob, and getting by far the worst of it, no orders having been given by the civil authorities for the yeomanry to fire; which, indeed, it is questionable whether they could have performed with safety to themselves. As fast as the police arrested any of the mob, they were rescued. The road, or rather street, by which we approached the market-place (a wide thoroughfare) was crammed full of the most lawless-looking ruffians—men and women—it was ever my lot to see together, before or since, in England; they were all armed with sticks, pikes, stones, and some had old guns too, which they now and then fired—more from bravado, I should imagine, than from any intent to kill. The sea of human faces and glistening eyes were turned full upon us as we swept at a rapid trot round a corner into full view of the yelling, screaming mass.

The shops were all closed, and the timid inhabitants were here and there peeping from the corners of the window-blinds from the rooms above. Crash! crash! went the stones at the windows, wherever the mob were foiled in their attempts to break open the doors and plunder the shops. Barrels of ale were rolled into the streets and the ends driven in for the mob to drink out of, many using their hats for drinking-vessels; flitches of bacon and cheeses were handed to and fro over the heads of the rioters; loaves were pitched from the bakers’ shops among the people; a draper’s shop was on fire, and the contents of a toy-shop were showered among us, just as we arrived in themêlée. The trumpet sounded “Walk,” and the babel of yells and shrieks was hushed as if by magic; not a stone was thrown, nor a weapon raised to attack us; all appeared astonished when we came upon the scene, and, with the exception of an occasional cry of “The regulars! the regulars!” scarce a sound was heard above a low hum of human voices, as if in conversation with each other.

The space immediately in our front was soon cleared, as the dense masses opened out, fell back, and trampled upon the more helpless. We walked our horses steadily on, with our sabres still in their scabbards, to the market-place, where our captain found the chief of police surrounded by yeomanry and his own men. An attempt had just been made to break open the doors and sack the town-hall, and they were all in a terrible state of excitement. We rapidly took up our ground and formed in double rank, with the yeomanry and police in our rear. Just then a shower of stones was hurled at us, but they did but little damage; the Riot Act was read, and the captain in command gave the order, in a clear, ringing voice, to draw swords; but when those ominous-looking weapons flashed in the blazing sun, the dense masses scampered off helter-skelter, and, with the exception of a few rioters, whom the police succeeded in apprehending, we were soon left alone in our glory.

Such is the amount of fear and respect with which disciplined soldiers are regarded by an infuriated and misguided mob, and the simple exhibition of such discipline is generally sufficient to prevent a collision with those pests of society, who, happily for the peace and prosperity of England, do not exist in numbers sufficient to endanger the peace and happiness of its respectable and industrious people.

Chapter Seventeen.And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering carWent pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star.Notwithstanding the opposition and ill-feeling with which the lower orders regard soldiers who may at times be called out in aid of the civil power, it is gratifying to think that, in the event of a war breaking out, it is extremely improbable that our Government would be compelled to have recourse to the objectionable practice which has frequently been pursued by other nations with regard to the draft or conscription. The lower classes are ever more ready to voluntarily enlist in time of war than in peace; and although we are generally understood to be a peaceable, industrious people, and designated as “a nation of shopkeepers,” no other nation on the face of the earth could muster more voluntary recruits, able-bodied and enthusiastic, in time of war, than the British Government. The civilians, too, during the period of a popular war, vie with each other in their treatment and general admiration of the soldier. Many of our militia regiments volunteered to a man to serve “wherever Her Majesty should please to direct” during the Crimean campaign; and should we ever be so unfortunate as to be again embroiled in another struggle of the same nature, I have no doubt that the ranks of the regular army will at once be augmented to the required number from our militia and volunteer regiments. Though the latter may only be engaged and required, under their present conditions, to fight in defence of our homes in case of invasion, they would be sure to be fired with a desire to participate in the honours and distinctions always to be attained in a more or less degree by brave and well-conducted men in the regular army. I am not, of course, presuming that all, or perhaps one-fourth, of the volunteers enrolled would respond to the probable call for men to proceed on active service, in case of a war breaking out; neither would any stigma of cowardice or want of loyalty rest upon those who chose to stay at home. It is at all times advisable for men to stay at home who really cannot enter upon the active and arduous duties of a campaign with a full determination to fight and distinguish themselves, so as to attain not only honour but a pecuniary consideration in the form of pension on discharge, or such promotion while living and serving in the army, as will compensate the respectable civilian for exchanging a comparatively easy life at home for one of privations, dangers, and hardships in a foreign land.The majority of our soldiers are enlisted from a different class to volunteers. The same restrictions, rigid rules, and discipline to which the former are subjected would be exceedingly distasteful to the latter, whose superior knowledge and discrimination between right and wrong would render them very troublesome to the school of commanding officers of the present day. They would grumble and spread discontent to a degree that might be dangerous to the discipline of the army as at present constituted. It is true that very many of our soldiers are drawn from the strongest, the hardiest, and I may add the most headstrong class of people in the world: for the most part, they are given to habits of intemperance, and always taught from boyhood to consider independence a virtue, and to look upon the higher classes as their enemies. When, however, they become soldiers, they are required at once to abandon all such thoughts, and yield implicit obedience to the restrictions on their habits and feelings. I have already stated that this class of men are really benefited by the change from a civil to a military life, and also set forth my reasons for so stating. But such a change for the majority of our volunteers as they are at present constituted would be anything but welcome, for it must be remembered that, however gallant they may be in action, or however well conducted generally, promotion is very slow in the British army, and, after all, it is not scrupulously awarded according to merit. The habits and manners of the British volunteer in civil life are far different to those of three-fourths of the regular army before they enlisted. But when divested of his clownish manners and rendered obedient to his superiors, the common labourer is in every point of view (except that of making him into a non-commissioned officer) a better man for military purposes than the son of a tradesman. He is quite as moral, as docile, and can stand the change of climate better than three-fourths of the volunteers we see marching so gaily through the streets of our large towns and cities. Soldiers are required to march, to fight, to starve, to encounter storms at sea, pestilence on land, to abandon their native country, relatives, and friends, for years—often for life. They have little pay, few promises of rewards, and still fewer rewards; and when worn out and miserable, and racked with pain from long hardships and wounds, they are too often sent in poverty to their native places, and pine away their lives the lowest of the lowly. The life of a private soldier, infantry or cavalry, would be considered on the whole as one irksome and distasteful to the natural feelings of a great number of our volunteers. The duty of the former is to “work at soldiers,” and the latter only to “play at soldiers.” But, rich or poor, educated or uneducated, they must all be kept in strict subordination in the army, and do their duty, whatever it may be, with scrupulous exactness and punctuality. On the field of battle the one is as good as the other; and who can say that the national spirit, the vital energy, of the thorough Englishman, Irishman, or Scotchman, has not always been as firm on the battle-field with the men descended from poor parents as those who can boast of the great and rich for their progenitors?My object in making the above observations is to press upon the minds of such of my readers as are already or may eventually become volunteers, that in the event of a war breaking out, and the spirit of patriotism extending, as it invariably does, to militia and volunteer corps, it would be the height of folly to enter the regular army, without first calculating the consequences of so great a change from the “feather-bed soldiering” at home to that I have described as a matter of imperative duty to the regular soldier on a campaign.The maintenance of a large volunteer force at home is as much a matter of policy with our Government, as it is to send the regular army abroad to meet the enemy. Therefore, morally, the volunteer is, considering his capability, as much entitled to credit as his brethren in arms, who by nature are better fitted to the post of danger and hardships assigned to them. A certain class of civilians (speech-makers at public meetings, and the like) frequently state that “a better system of rewards, and a milder discipline, would bring a better class of men into the army.” No change that could be devised would bring a better class of men into the army. The British army has nearly always conquered every army it encountered: this, therefore, should be proof sufficient that it is the best army. But good as it undoubtedly has been, and, moreover, sorely put to the test, through the incompetency of its leaders and administrators, it never was in anything like the state of efficiency it is at the present time; and it doubtless will continue to improve until engaged in another campaign. When on the line of march, I have often heard civilians question soldiers as to their feelings and individual experience in action. “Did you not feel frightened?” they would say; and I daresay that many of my readers would like to hear the same query truthfully answered. Now, I am well aware that there are some enthusiastic people who would almost consider it a “national crime,” so to speak, for any person to assert, or in the most distant manner insinuate, that at the commencement of a battle a British soldier feels anything approaching to fear; yet in making a few remarks upon this subject, I am compelled to admit that all British soldiers are men, and it is peculiar to the constitution of man to be afraid on the approach of death, unless he becomes so excited that his passions overcome his reflection.The British soldier must have credit, over all others, for steady unflinching courage and cool discipline in standing still under the raking fire of an enemy, until his commander sees a proper opportunity to give the order to advance; but on these occasions the faces of the bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble, as the fatal thud of the enemy’s bullets is heard and seen to take effect upon some respected comrade or favourite officer. Those who have not experienced this peculiar feeling can form but little idea of the effects which it produces on the mind of a soldier at such a time. On such occasions no conversation is supposed to be going on, but now and then a stifled whisper expressing an anxious desire to hear the welcome sound of the trumpet to “advance” is heard. Every minute seems an hour, as bullet after bullet whistles through the ranks, and the round shot, first ploughing up the ground or scattering the dust in front of the brigade, comes crashing amongst the men and horses. Sometimes a huge shell is seen “whizzing” through the air, and hovering for an instant ere it explodes and deals death and destruction in every direction. This appears like cool, unexcited courage, and no troops in the world have ever displayed it with less flinching than the British. But it would be absurd to say that it is done with out fear of death. It is hard to stand still or sit still on your horses and be shot at, with a consciousness that every second of time may be your last, and the next you may be in eternity. But when once the order is given to “advance”—first at a “walk,” then a rapid trot, then a fast canter, and finally, amidst the clash of the sabre-scabbards on the stirrup-irons, and the rumbling roll of the horses’ hoofs, the shrill voice of the commander is heard as he turns his head to the trumpeter and shrieks out the order “charge,” and the latter turns in his saddle and sounds the blast which calls many a good soldier to his last account—instantly the horses stretch out their necks, lay back their ears, and dash into a gallop at full speed; each man clenches his teeth, drops the hilt of his sabre on his right thigh, firmly clutched in his hand, and leaning forward in his stirrups, he is rapidly borne to the ranks of the enemy. Sometimes he has to encounter, as at Balaclava, a field-battery, bellowing and belching forth fire and smoke, first seen, then terribly realised as the men and horses that happen to be riding in the line of fire tumble heels over head in a quivering mass of mangled flesh, blood, and ghastly splinters of bone—seen but for one instant, when seen at all, but long enough to make you remember it for ever; and it renders you temporarily insane with excitement for the time being: your only desire is to kill. On, on, you ride, amidst the fire and the smoke, the blood and the thunder, until you meet the foe hand to hand: a streak of fire flashes simultaneously from end to end of the enemy’s front. Many saddles are emptied, and many horses are plunging here and there without riders. Strong men, shot through the heart or the head, throw up their arms, and, falling backwards from their horses, are seen no more; if any life be left in them it is soon trampled out. Behind the field-battery is a solid square of infantry; the front ranks are kneeling with bayonets presented the height of the horses’ chests, the rear ranks are standing with their arms at the “present.” On, on, the cavalry dash, over the guns or through the narrow passages between them. Those gunners, with here and there an officer, who stand bravely to their field-pieces to the last, are only like so many chopping-blocks for the rear squadrons, who dash forward in rapid succession and keep the front ranks intact. And now the work of carnage is at hand. Crashing into the solid squares with one wild British hurrah, the rattle of bayonets and the clash of sabres are awful evidence that the death-struggle between cavalry and infantry has fairly begun. But little firing is heard beyond an occasional shot from an officer’s revolver (the best of all firearms in close conflict); the smoke is not so dense, and you can plainly see the whites of your enemies’ eyes, which have a strange supernatural appearance, many rolling in the agonies of death. Now and then you feel the spurting of blood on your hands and face, unconscious at the moment whether it be from your own body, your comrade’s, or your foe’s. Nothing intelligible is heard beyond the shrieks of the dying, the rattle of steel, the loud groan of some horse who, mortally wounded, drops on the ground, rolls on his back, and struggles with his shoes upwards, until all is over; but you cannot stay to see the end.The incidents of an action are all taken at a glance; you don’t think until safe out of it; and sometimes days elapse before you call to mind the many things that have flitted before your vision in the heat of an engagement. You may see a trooper fairly cleave the head of an enemy, like cutting through the heart of a cabbage; the point of a sword enter the mouth of another enemy and peep out at the other side; a swinging cut or two from your own arm may be delivered so as to sever the jugular vein and all the arteries of the neck of a man on your right, whose bayonet may be within an inch of your ribs. On the other hand, the desperate infantry will thrust their bayonets up to the hilt into the breast or behind the shoulder of a horse and pierce his heart, so that he rolls over, and before the trooper can clear his stirrups, and rise to form his guard, his foe has pinned him to the ground with a thrust through the pit of his stomach, and leaves man and horse to mingle their life’s blood together. The cuts one and two with the point are the most effective in close fighting with infantry; but the latter, if well drilled to the use of the bayonet, are at all times the most formidable opponents that cavalry have to contend with.Nothing but good horses, with plenty of bone and substance, ridden at a very rapid gallop by determined men, can break up a solid square of infantry composed of good men well drilled in the use of the bayonet. Such squares formed by our own men in the face of the best cavalry that could be brought to bear against them have never yet been broken; but, on the other hand, our cavalry have never been known to fail in breaking up solid squares of our enemies’ infantry. A reference to the history of any of our great battles will be sufficient to confirm this statement.A battle between two regiments or brigades of cavalry is, however, a species of fighting in which our own dragoons excel over every other mounted troops that ever were, or in my opinion, ever will be, opposed to them in action. They are most unnecessarily encumbered with a heavy, unwieldy firearm (the carbine), when a neat and exceedingly effective weapon—a repeating pistol, or revolver—could be loaded with five rounds of ball-cartridge before going into action, and when fairly engaged and surrounded with enemies on every side, the revolver could be drawn from a holster-pipe, and every round it contained fired at such close quarters as to render it a matter of certainty that a man would be killed at every shot.As an illustration of the value of this weapon, I may state that the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars (one of the regiments engaged in the Light Cavalry charge at Balaclava) had fifty of these revolvers served out to them before embarking for India to assist in quelling the Mutiny in 1858. Soon after their arrival, they were called into action at Gwalior, where they charged the rebels, and in a few minutes the latter were put to flight, leaving upwards of one hundred dead on the field. On examining the bodies, it was found that, with one or two exceptions, they had all been killed by the men armed with revolvers, who composed the front rank. Now, if the leading squadron had simply been armed with a carbine and sabre, the manner in which the majority of our cavalry regiments (except lancers) are armed, the odds are that not a man of the enemy would have been killed, inasmuch as the rebels would have fled before our troops had been near enough to use the sabre.The carbine, by its great weight, adds materially to the load which the horse has to carry in long and forced marches. Its weight and length also render it a cumbersome and awkward weapon to load and fire in close action; and the continual plunging, unsteady movements of the horse make it a pure matter of chance whether the soldier can take a correct aim so as to hit an enemy at any range. Then, again, it is much in the way of the sword-arm in cutting to the right, and the manner in which it is attached to the saddle is at all times extremely dangerous to the soldier when mounting in a hurry, or if, when a horse is hit or killed in action (a thing of very frequent occurrence), the animal should fall on his off (right) side, the soldier’s thigh being wedged, as it were, between the stock of the carbine crosswise, the man’s thigh is snapped like a twig, and he is therefore incapable of releasing himself.After the famous charge at Balaclava some noise was made about the inefficiency of the carbine, and the necessity of equipping our dragoons with a better weapon; but it is very difficult to introduce such a change into the British army.Corporal Shaw, the life-guardsman, threw his carbine away on the field of Waterloo, and trusted to his sabre, with which he killed eleven men. In the face of the improved equipment of foreign cavalry, it is to be hoped that our dragoons will not be left with this unwieldy, cumbersome, and most useless weapon in future campaigns.Further reference to this subject, together with my own experience on active service, must be reserved for the concluding chapters of my story. For the present, it will be my especial business to endeavour to amuse my readers with the continuous events and other matters connected with my term of service at home.

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering carWent pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star.

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering carWent pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star.

Notwithstanding the opposition and ill-feeling with which the lower orders regard soldiers who may at times be called out in aid of the civil power, it is gratifying to think that, in the event of a war breaking out, it is extremely improbable that our Government would be compelled to have recourse to the objectionable practice which has frequently been pursued by other nations with regard to the draft or conscription. The lower classes are ever more ready to voluntarily enlist in time of war than in peace; and although we are generally understood to be a peaceable, industrious people, and designated as “a nation of shopkeepers,” no other nation on the face of the earth could muster more voluntary recruits, able-bodied and enthusiastic, in time of war, than the British Government. The civilians, too, during the period of a popular war, vie with each other in their treatment and general admiration of the soldier. Many of our militia regiments volunteered to a man to serve “wherever Her Majesty should please to direct” during the Crimean campaign; and should we ever be so unfortunate as to be again embroiled in another struggle of the same nature, I have no doubt that the ranks of the regular army will at once be augmented to the required number from our militia and volunteer regiments. Though the latter may only be engaged and required, under their present conditions, to fight in defence of our homes in case of invasion, they would be sure to be fired with a desire to participate in the honours and distinctions always to be attained in a more or less degree by brave and well-conducted men in the regular army. I am not, of course, presuming that all, or perhaps one-fourth, of the volunteers enrolled would respond to the probable call for men to proceed on active service, in case of a war breaking out; neither would any stigma of cowardice or want of loyalty rest upon those who chose to stay at home. It is at all times advisable for men to stay at home who really cannot enter upon the active and arduous duties of a campaign with a full determination to fight and distinguish themselves, so as to attain not only honour but a pecuniary consideration in the form of pension on discharge, or such promotion while living and serving in the army, as will compensate the respectable civilian for exchanging a comparatively easy life at home for one of privations, dangers, and hardships in a foreign land.

The majority of our soldiers are enlisted from a different class to volunteers. The same restrictions, rigid rules, and discipline to which the former are subjected would be exceedingly distasteful to the latter, whose superior knowledge and discrimination between right and wrong would render them very troublesome to the school of commanding officers of the present day. They would grumble and spread discontent to a degree that might be dangerous to the discipline of the army as at present constituted. It is true that very many of our soldiers are drawn from the strongest, the hardiest, and I may add the most headstrong class of people in the world: for the most part, they are given to habits of intemperance, and always taught from boyhood to consider independence a virtue, and to look upon the higher classes as their enemies. When, however, they become soldiers, they are required at once to abandon all such thoughts, and yield implicit obedience to the restrictions on their habits and feelings. I have already stated that this class of men are really benefited by the change from a civil to a military life, and also set forth my reasons for so stating. But such a change for the majority of our volunteers as they are at present constituted would be anything but welcome, for it must be remembered that, however gallant they may be in action, or however well conducted generally, promotion is very slow in the British army, and, after all, it is not scrupulously awarded according to merit. The habits and manners of the British volunteer in civil life are far different to those of three-fourths of the regular army before they enlisted. But when divested of his clownish manners and rendered obedient to his superiors, the common labourer is in every point of view (except that of making him into a non-commissioned officer) a better man for military purposes than the son of a tradesman. He is quite as moral, as docile, and can stand the change of climate better than three-fourths of the volunteers we see marching so gaily through the streets of our large towns and cities. Soldiers are required to march, to fight, to starve, to encounter storms at sea, pestilence on land, to abandon their native country, relatives, and friends, for years—often for life. They have little pay, few promises of rewards, and still fewer rewards; and when worn out and miserable, and racked with pain from long hardships and wounds, they are too often sent in poverty to their native places, and pine away their lives the lowest of the lowly. The life of a private soldier, infantry or cavalry, would be considered on the whole as one irksome and distasteful to the natural feelings of a great number of our volunteers. The duty of the former is to “work at soldiers,” and the latter only to “play at soldiers.” But, rich or poor, educated or uneducated, they must all be kept in strict subordination in the army, and do their duty, whatever it may be, with scrupulous exactness and punctuality. On the field of battle the one is as good as the other; and who can say that the national spirit, the vital energy, of the thorough Englishman, Irishman, or Scotchman, has not always been as firm on the battle-field with the men descended from poor parents as those who can boast of the great and rich for their progenitors?

My object in making the above observations is to press upon the minds of such of my readers as are already or may eventually become volunteers, that in the event of a war breaking out, and the spirit of patriotism extending, as it invariably does, to militia and volunteer corps, it would be the height of folly to enter the regular army, without first calculating the consequences of so great a change from the “feather-bed soldiering” at home to that I have described as a matter of imperative duty to the regular soldier on a campaign.

The maintenance of a large volunteer force at home is as much a matter of policy with our Government, as it is to send the regular army abroad to meet the enemy. Therefore, morally, the volunteer is, considering his capability, as much entitled to credit as his brethren in arms, who by nature are better fitted to the post of danger and hardships assigned to them. A certain class of civilians (speech-makers at public meetings, and the like) frequently state that “a better system of rewards, and a milder discipline, would bring a better class of men into the army.” No change that could be devised would bring a better class of men into the army. The British army has nearly always conquered every army it encountered: this, therefore, should be proof sufficient that it is the best army. But good as it undoubtedly has been, and, moreover, sorely put to the test, through the incompetency of its leaders and administrators, it never was in anything like the state of efficiency it is at the present time; and it doubtless will continue to improve until engaged in another campaign. When on the line of march, I have often heard civilians question soldiers as to their feelings and individual experience in action. “Did you not feel frightened?” they would say; and I daresay that many of my readers would like to hear the same query truthfully answered. Now, I am well aware that there are some enthusiastic people who would almost consider it a “national crime,” so to speak, for any person to assert, or in the most distant manner insinuate, that at the commencement of a battle a British soldier feels anything approaching to fear; yet in making a few remarks upon this subject, I am compelled to admit that all British soldiers are men, and it is peculiar to the constitution of man to be afraid on the approach of death, unless he becomes so excited that his passions overcome his reflection.

The British soldier must have credit, over all others, for steady unflinching courage and cool discipline in standing still under the raking fire of an enemy, until his commander sees a proper opportunity to give the order to advance; but on these occasions the faces of the bravest often change colour, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble, as the fatal thud of the enemy’s bullets is heard and seen to take effect upon some respected comrade or favourite officer. Those who have not experienced this peculiar feeling can form but little idea of the effects which it produces on the mind of a soldier at such a time. On such occasions no conversation is supposed to be going on, but now and then a stifled whisper expressing an anxious desire to hear the welcome sound of the trumpet to “advance” is heard. Every minute seems an hour, as bullet after bullet whistles through the ranks, and the round shot, first ploughing up the ground or scattering the dust in front of the brigade, comes crashing amongst the men and horses. Sometimes a huge shell is seen “whizzing” through the air, and hovering for an instant ere it explodes and deals death and destruction in every direction. This appears like cool, unexcited courage, and no troops in the world have ever displayed it with less flinching than the British. But it would be absurd to say that it is done with out fear of death. It is hard to stand still or sit still on your horses and be shot at, with a consciousness that every second of time may be your last, and the next you may be in eternity. But when once the order is given to “advance”—first at a “walk,” then a rapid trot, then a fast canter, and finally, amidst the clash of the sabre-scabbards on the stirrup-irons, and the rumbling roll of the horses’ hoofs, the shrill voice of the commander is heard as he turns his head to the trumpeter and shrieks out the order “charge,” and the latter turns in his saddle and sounds the blast which calls many a good soldier to his last account—instantly the horses stretch out their necks, lay back their ears, and dash into a gallop at full speed; each man clenches his teeth, drops the hilt of his sabre on his right thigh, firmly clutched in his hand, and leaning forward in his stirrups, he is rapidly borne to the ranks of the enemy. Sometimes he has to encounter, as at Balaclava, a field-battery, bellowing and belching forth fire and smoke, first seen, then terribly realised as the men and horses that happen to be riding in the line of fire tumble heels over head in a quivering mass of mangled flesh, blood, and ghastly splinters of bone—seen but for one instant, when seen at all, but long enough to make you remember it for ever; and it renders you temporarily insane with excitement for the time being: your only desire is to kill. On, on, you ride, amidst the fire and the smoke, the blood and the thunder, until you meet the foe hand to hand: a streak of fire flashes simultaneously from end to end of the enemy’s front. Many saddles are emptied, and many horses are plunging here and there without riders. Strong men, shot through the heart or the head, throw up their arms, and, falling backwards from their horses, are seen no more; if any life be left in them it is soon trampled out. Behind the field-battery is a solid square of infantry; the front ranks are kneeling with bayonets presented the height of the horses’ chests, the rear ranks are standing with their arms at the “present.” On, on, the cavalry dash, over the guns or through the narrow passages between them. Those gunners, with here and there an officer, who stand bravely to their field-pieces to the last, are only like so many chopping-blocks for the rear squadrons, who dash forward in rapid succession and keep the front ranks intact. And now the work of carnage is at hand. Crashing into the solid squares with one wild British hurrah, the rattle of bayonets and the clash of sabres are awful evidence that the death-struggle between cavalry and infantry has fairly begun. But little firing is heard beyond an occasional shot from an officer’s revolver (the best of all firearms in close conflict); the smoke is not so dense, and you can plainly see the whites of your enemies’ eyes, which have a strange supernatural appearance, many rolling in the agonies of death. Now and then you feel the spurting of blood on your hands and face, unconscious at the moment whether it be from your own body, your comrade’s, or your foe’s. Nothing intelligible is heard beyond the shrieks of the dying, the rattle of steel, the loud groan of some horse who, mortally wounded, drops on the ground, rolls on his back, and struggles with his shoes upwards, until all is over; but you cannot stay to see the end.

The incidents of an action are all taken at a glance; you don’t think until safe out of it; and sometimes days elapse before you call to mind the many things that have flitted before your vision in the heat of an engagement. You may see a trooper fairly cleave the head of an enemy, like cutting through the heart of a cabbage; the point of a sword enter the mouth of another enemy and peep out at the other side; a swinging cut or two from your own arm may be delivered so as to sever the jugular vein and all the arteries of the neck of a man on your right, whose bayonet may be within an inch of your ribs. On the other hand, the desperate infantry will thrust their bayonets up to the hilt into the breast or behind the shoulder of a horse and pierce his heart, so that he rolls over, and before the trooper can clear his stirrups, and rise to form his guard, his foe has pinned him to the ground with a thrust through the pit of his stomach, and leaves man and horse to mingle their life’s blood together. The cuts one and two with the point are the most effective in close fighting with infantry; but the latter, if well drilled to the use of the bayonet, are at all times the most formidable opponents that cavalry have to contend with.

Nothing but good horses, with plenty of bone and substance, ridden at a very rapid gallop by determined men, can break up a solid square of infantry composed of good men well drilled in the use of the bayonet. Such squares formed by our own men in the face of the best cavalry that could be brought to bear against them have never yet been broken; but, on the other hand, our cavalry have never been known to fail in breaking up solid squares of our enemies’ infantry. A reference to the history of any of our great battles will be sufficient to confirm this statement.

A battle between two regiments or brigades of cavalry is, however, a species of fighting in which our own dragoons excel over every other mounted troops that ever were, or in my opinion, ever will be, opposed to them in action. They are most unnecessarily encumbered with a heavy, unwieldy firearm (the carbine), when a neat and exceedingly effective weapon—a repeating pistol, or revolver—could be loaded with five rounds of ball-cartridge before going into action, and when fairly engaged and surrounded with enemies on every side, the revolver could be drawn from a holster-pipe, and every round it contained fired at such close quarters as to render it a matter of certainty that a man would be killed at every shot.

As an illustration of the value of this weapon, I may state that the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars (one of the regiments engaged in the Light Cavalry charge at Balaclava) had fifty of these revolvers served out to them before embarking for India to assist in quelling the Mutiny in 1858. Soon after their arrival, they were called into action at Gwalior, where they charged the rebels, and in a few minutes the latter were put to flight, leaving upwards of one hundred dead on the field. On examining the bodies, it was found that, with one or two exceptions, they had all been killed by the men armed with revolvers, who composed the front rank. Now, if the leading squadron had simply been armed with a carbine and sabre, the manner in which the majority of our cavalry regiments (except lancers) are armed, the odds are that not a man of the enemy would have been killed, inasmuch as the rebels would have fled before our troops had been near enough to use the sabre.

The carbine, by its great weight, adds materially to the load which the horse has to carry in long and forced marches. Its weight and length also render it a cumbersome and awkward weapon to load and fire in close action; and the continual plunging, unsteady movements of the horse make it a pure matter of chance whether the soldier can take a correct aim so as to hit an enemy at any range. Then, again, it is much in the way of the sword-arm in cutting to the right, and the manner in which it is attached to the saddle is at all times extremely dangerous to the soldier when mounting in a hurry, or if, when a horse is hit or killed in action (a thing of very frequent occurrence), the animal should fall on his off (right) side, the soldier’s thigh being wedged, as it were, between the stock of the carbine crosswise, the man’s thigh is snapped like a twig, and he is therefore incapable of releasing himself.

After the famous charge at Balaclava some noise was made about the inefficiency of the carbine, and the necessity of equipping our dragoons with a better weapon; but it is very difficult to introduce such a change into the British army.

Corporal Shaw, the life-guardsman, threw his carbine away on the field of Waterloo, and trusted to his sabre, with which he killed eleven men. In the face of the improved equipment of foreign cavalry, it is to be hoped that our dragoons will not be left with this unwieldy, cumbersome, and most useless weapon in future campaigns.

Further reference to this subject, together with my own experience on active service, must be reserved for the concluding chapters of my story. For the present, it will be my especial business to endeavour to amuse my readers with the continuous events and other matters connected with my term of service at home.

Chapter Eighteen.Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearing thro’ the afternoon,Twa dogs that were na thrang at hameForgather’d ance upon a time.During our stay in the Staffordshire Potteries we enlisted three recruits. One of these had been a dealer in all kinds of dogs, and, according to his own admission, sometimes astealerof canine property; but dog-stealing was at that time not considered a felony, nor indeed was it a punishable offence at all, so far as I remember. At the time he enlisted he had in his possession a very small black-and-tan terrier, of not more than two or three pounds weight. This little animal he called Prim, and was very particular to stipulate, before he enlisted, that Prim should accompany him to barracks. “Perhaps,” he said, “the colonel of the regiment, or some of the officers, might take a fancy to it and give me a deal of money for it, especially when they hear its history.” This was said in the stable-yard of the Stork Hotel, Dudley, one morning after a party of us had returned from night patrol, the rioters being at that time very troublesome, prowling about the country at all hours, frightening the inhabitants out of their wits.We were very anxious to hear the history of Prim, the little terrier, and after cleaning our kit and horses, the recruit (a very intelligent fellow for his class, about eighteen years of age) related the following story, while sitting on a truss of hay with Prim on his knee:—“This here little dog once belonged to a gemman who lived at Hands worth, just outside of Brummagem. This gemman was so well known among the dog-fanciers at Brummagem, that none on ’em would ever steal any of his dogs, and he had lots on ’em, but this was the best of the whole bilin’. Well, not far from where the gemman lived there was a sort of farmer, wot sold milk and kept cows. This farmer had a big, savage bulldog, wot he had bought from a butcher in Brummagem; the dog’s name was Turk. The gemman who owned Prim had his house and garden fenced off from the road with boarding about seven feet high, and in this boarding, near the bottom, was a hole just large enough for the fowls to come through on to the road, whenever they was inclined for to do. Well, Prim was in and out through this here hole quite as often as the fowls. It was just the thing for him; he used for to rush out and snap at any big dog that might be passing, and when the big dogs turned round upon him, the impudent little joker would dart through the hole, and further insult the others by barking at them, knowing very well that they could not follow him; so the big dogs used to trot off, vowing all sorts of vengeance, if ever they got him within reach of their jaws.“Turk was a very savage dog, but was always upon very good terms with Prim; ’cos why? Prim used for to bring meat and bones from his master’s kitchen every day and give them to Turk through the hole. The two dogs were often seen at play together in the road, for Turk was too big to get through to Prim in the garden. But Turk was always very cross, and whenever he thought Prim was going too far with his marlocks, he would give the little dog a nip and a shake to keep him civil; but Prim never bore no malice, and never forgot to bring Turk a good meal whenever he found the cook off her guard in the kitchen.“This state o’ things, however, was too bright to last. The older Turk got, the more crusty and ill-tempered he became. He actually growled and snapped at Prim one day because the little un brought him a piece of beef with too much bone. Still Prim’s friendship was as true as ever. One day last summer, Turk set off as usual to visit his friend, who was generally somewhere handy about the garden. When Turk arrived at the hole in the fence, he put his head down to the opening, and not seeing Prim, he barked several times to let the little un know that he was waiting on him coming with the dinner; but Prim was too busy looking out for a chance to pick up something nice, so he took no notice of Turk’s angry yelp. At last Turk thought he would lie down in the warm sun just by the hole. He became sleepy, and lazily opened and shut first one eye and then the other; then he licked his paws, and brushed a fly off his nose, wondered how long Prim would be with his dinner, gradually began to doze, let his head down between his paws, and fell asleep. Turk had only slept a few minutes before Prim made his appearance at the hole, with about half a shoulder of cooked mutton. Seeing Turk asleep, he gently laid down the meat, and thought he would play a trick upon him, although the old un had often warned him not to take liberties, as his temper was not to be trusted. The little un, however, did not think of the consequences, and quickly seizing Turk’s stumpy tail between his teeth, he soon pulled the old dog out of his dreams. Turk jumped up, rolled his eyes about fiercely, while every hair on his back stood on end, and savagely turned to seize the little un. But Prim was too nimble for him; he jumped through the hole in the fence, and was safe. Peering his little impudent-looking head through the opening, he gave two or three short, sharp yelps, as if making game of Turk, who regarded him with that quiet, savage look peculiar to a bulldog, as much as to say, ‘Every dog has his day; wait till I catch you.’ But, angry though he was, he did not leave until he had finished the meal Prim had so kindly brought him.“Turk’s savage nature now began to show itself. A bulldog, like some human creatures, never forgives an injury. His rage was terrible; his mouth foamed, his eyes grew red as blood, and his teeth grated as if they were already chewing up little Prim’s bones.“An old bulldog is always a very sensible-looking animal, and as he stood looking at Prim through the hole in the fence, he seemed to be saying to himself as well as he was able, ‘From this day forth I am your deadly foe; revenge shall be my only thoughts by day and my dreams by night. Beware of the future; I will never rest until my teeth are buried in your throat. I hate you and the whole race of dogs, and my temper is so bad that I hate myself and every living thing.’ Turk then cantered off home. On his way he had to pass an old man breaking stones by the side of the road. Between this man and Turk there existed a deadly feud, which had arisen from Turk having once stolen the poor man’s dinner, bag and all. Up to this period Turk had crept through the hedge and trotted along the field, until fairly past the spot where the man was at work, when he would come through the hedge again and trot along until he came to his meeting-place with Prim. Now, on this particular day, Turk was determined not to go out of his way, and if the man should throw a stone at him, or in any way interfere with him, he would attack him and worry him if possible. On he trotted up the middle of the road until he reached a point where the old man caught a sight of him. Rising quickly from his seat on the stone-heap, hammer in hand, he placed himself in the middle of the road, determined to dispute Turk’s passage.“‘Come on!’ said the old man, ‘and with this hammer,’ (flourishing it over his head) ‘I will be thy butcher,’ said he. Still Turk trotted on, apparently undismayed, until within a few yards of the stonebreaker, who lost his temper and threw the hammer with all his force at the head of Turk. The bulldog jumped aside and avoided the murderous weapon, then, with a short, sharp growl, he dashed at the old man, who turned round and stooped towards the stone-heap for one to throw at the dog. Turk instantly took advantage of the man’s position by seizing hold of his breeches, which he tore to shreds, and then, as if satisfied with the assault, he cantered up the lane and crept into his kennel to meditate upon his plan of revenge upon poor little Prim. How was he to get square with the terrier for biting his tail? Plan after plan was turned over in his mind as he lay with his head between his paws just outside the kennel, his upper lip curled up, and showing a formidable set of snow-white teeth. He hated even the flies as they dropped on his nose, and crawled around his bleary-looking eyes, bloodshot with rage. At last he thought of a plan. True, it would not be a very agreeable one for himself, but what of that? He was a thorough-bred bulldog, and nothing should stand between him and his plan of revenge.“Hitherto Turk’s appetite had been good; he had never been known to desert a bone until it was as bare and as shiny as his own teeth. He gradually began to leave off his inroads upon the farmer’s kitchen, and the wife thought he must in consequence be sick. In vain he was tempted with the choicest bits, raw and cooked; he gazed at them with a longing look, and even condescended to snuff in their savoury odours, but that was all. One bite sufficed for his breakfast, two or three for his dinner, and be retired into the farthest end of his kennel supperless.“A Brummagem dog-fancier was sent for, and notwithstanding Turk’s determined opposition, some medicine was forced down his throat, which, it was said, would give him an appetite as good as a famished gorilla in about a couple of days. But the two days passed without restoring his appetite; he grew thinner and thinner, and the farmer at last gave him up as incurable, assigning as his reason that he must be in a ‘dog consumption.’“Shortly after this unaccountable disease had set in, it had been noticed that, the animal quitted his kennel every night as it was growing dark, and trotted down the road; but no one knew what these twilight expeditions were undertaken for. But the plot was drawing to a head. One evening he departed, as usual, down the road. His tortures were about to end, and his long fast be followed by a feast. Nearing the well-known garden where he had so often met Prim, his movements became curious. He moved like a ghost, and stopped to listen, but nothing was stirring. Finally he reached the opening in the fence; he pushed his head stealthily through the hole, his neck followed his head, his body followed his neck, his tail followed his body, and now Turk was fairly in the garden, where he had never been before. Being satisfied with this experiment (which had been repeatedly made since he had brought his plan of fasting into operation, but never successfully until this occasion) he returned to the road and began to bark. In a few moments an answering yelp was heard—Prim was hastening to his doom. Suddenly his little head was popped out of the opening of the fence. A sharp growl escaped Turk—he was too eager for his revenge; and Prim, instead of coming through the hole on to the road (where Turk had often tried to coax him without effect), gave a defiant ‘wow, wow, wow,’ and was making his way back to his kennel, as much as to say, ‘I can’t accommodate you to-night.’ Quick as lightning, Turk darted towards the hole. At the same instant, a loud report was heard; the figure of a man appeared upon the scene. It was the enraged stonebreaker. Turk rolled over, mortally wounded by a shot from an old blunderbuss. ‘Ha! ha! you would steal my dinner, would you, and then rip a good pair of corduroy breeches off my legs all to pieces, would you?’ said the old man, giving him a kick over the ribs. Turk made answer by one prolonged howl of disappointment, pain, and despair, which grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased altogether, and he died the victim of his own selfish and revengeful disposition. By the timely arrival and interposition of the stonebreaker the life of Prim was saved, but he never appeared happy afterwards, probably from the fear of encountering Turk and paying with his life the consequences of his harmless joke.”I have endeavoured as far as I could to render the recruit’s dog-story as it was given, with as little alteration as possible. When finished, we asked him how he became possessed of Prim? His answer was that he had exchanged a small French poodle with the gentleman for the little hero of the tale. Prim was allowed to accompany the recruit to head-quarters; he lived some years in the regiment, and finally got worried through venturing too near a large monkey kept chained behind the stables, around whom he was accustomed to dance and make fun of him, much in the same manner as he had done with Turk and the large dogs who passed his old master’s residence at Handsworth.

Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearing thro’ the afternoon,Twa dogs that were na thrang at hameForgather’d ance upon a time.

Upon a bonnie day in June,When wearing thro’ the afternoon,Twa dogs that were na thrang at hameForgather’d ance upon a time.

During our stay in the Staffordshire Potteries we enlisted three recruits. One of these had been a dealer in all kinds of dogs, and, according to his own admission, sometimes astealerof canine property; but dog-stealing was at that time not considered a felony, nor indeed was it a punishable offence at all, so far as I remember. At the time he enlisted he had in his possession a very small black-and-tan terrier, of not more than two or three pounds weight. This little animal he called Prim, and was very particular to stipulate, before he enlisted, that Prim should accompany him to barracks. “Perhaps,” he said, “the colonel of the regiment, or some of the officers, might take a fancy to it and give me a deal of money for it, especially when they hear its history.” This was said in the stable-yard of the Stork Hotel, Dudley, one morning after a party of us had returned from night patrol, the rioters being at that time very troublesome, prowling about the country at all hours, frightening the inhabitants out of their wits.

We were very anxious to hear the history of Prim, the little terrier, and after cleaning our kit and horses, the recruit (a very intelligent fellow for his class, about eighteen years of age) related the following story, while sitting on a truss of hay with Prim on his knee:—

“This here little dog once belonged to a gemman who lived at Hands worth, just outside of Brummagem. This gemman was so well known among the dog-fanciers at Brummagem, that none on ’em would ever steal any of his dogs, and he had lots on ’em, but this was the best of the whole bilin’. Well, not far from where the gemman lived there was a sort of farmer, wot sold milk and kept cows. This farmer had a big, savage bulldog, wot he had bought from a butcher in Brummagem; the dog’s name was Turk. The gemman who owned Prim had his house and garden fenced off from the road with boarding about seven feet high, and in this boarding, near the bottom, was a hole just large enough for the fowls to come through on to the road, whenever they was inclined for to do. Well, Prim was in and out through this here hole quite as often as the fowls. It was just the thing for him; he used for to rush out and snap at any big dog that might be passing, and when the big dogs turned round upon him, the impudent little joker would dart through the hole, and further insult the others by barking at them, knowing very well that they could not follow him; so the big dogs used to trot off, vowing all sorts of vengeance, if ever they got him within reach of their jaws.

“Turk was a very savage dog, but was always upon very good terms with Prim; ’cos why? Prim used for to bring meat and bones from his master’s kitchen every day and give them to Turk through the hole. The two dogs were often seen at play together in the road, for Turk was too big to get through to Prim in the garden. But Turk was always very cross, and whenever he thought Prim was going too far with his marlocks, he would give the little dog a nip and a shake to keep him civil; but Prim never bore no malice, and never forgot to bring Turk a good meal whenever he found the cook off her guard in the kitchen.

“This state o’ things, however, was too bright to last. The older Turk got, the more crusty and ill-tempered he became. He actually growled and snapped at Prim one day because the little un brought him a piece of beef with too much bone. Still Prim’s friendship was as true as ever. One day last summer, Turk set off as usual to visit his friend, who was generally somewhere handy about the garden. When Turk arrived at the hole in the fence, he put his head down to the opening, and not seeing Prim, he barked several times to let the little un know that he was waiting on him coming with the dinner; but Prim was too busy looking out for a chance to pick up something nice, so he took no notice of Turk’s angry yelp. At last Turk thought he would lie down in the warm sun just by the hole. He became sleepy, and lazily opened and shut first one eye and then the other; then he licked his paws, and brushed a fly off his nose, wondered how long Prim would be with his dinner, gradually began to doze, let his head down between his paws, and fell asleep. Turk had only slept a few minutes before Prim made his appearance at the hole, with about half a shoulder of cooked mutton. Seeing Turk asleep, he gently laid down the meat, and thought he would play a trick upon him, although the old un had often warned him not to take liberties, as his temper was not to be trusted. The little un, however, did not think of the consequences, and quickly seizing Turk’s stumpy tail between his teeth, he soon pulled the old dog out of his dreams. Turk jumped up, rolled his eyes about fiercely, while every hair on his back stood on end, and savagely turned to seize the little un. But Prim was too nimble for him; he jumped through the hole in the fence, and was safe. Peering his little impudent-looking head through the opening, he gave two or three short, sharp yelps, as if making game of Turk, who regarded him with that quiet, savage look peculiar to a bulldog, as much as to say, ‘Every dog has his day; wait till I catch you.’ But, angry though he was, he did not leave until he had finished the meal Prim had so kindly brought him.

“Turk’s savage nature now began to show itself. A bulldog, like some human creatures, never forgives an injury. His rage was terrible; his mouth foamed, his eyes grew red as blood, and his teeth grated as if they were already chewing up little Prim’s bones.

“An old bulldog is always a very sensible-looking animal, and as he stood looking at Prim through the hole in the fence, he seemed to be saying to himself as well as he was able, ‘From this day forth I am your deadly foe; revenge shall be my only thoughts by day and my dreams by night. Beware of the future; I will never rest until my teeth are buried in your throat. I hate you and the whole race of dogs, and my temper is so bad that I hate myself and every living thing.’ Turk then cantered off home. On his way he had to pass an old man breaking stones by the side of the road. Between this man and Turk there existed a deadly feud, which had arisen from Turk having once stolen the poor man’s dinner, bag and all. Up to this period Turk had crept through the hedge and trotted along the field, until fairly past the spot where the man was at work, when he would come through the hedge again and trot along until he came to his meeting-place with Prim. Now, on this particular day, Turk was determined not to go out of his way, and if the man should throw a stone at him, or in any way interfere with him, he would attack him and worry him if possible. On he trotted up the middle of the road until he reached a point where the old man caught a sight of him. Rising quickly from his seat on the stone-heap, hammer in hand, he placed himself in the middle of the road, determined to dispute Turk’s passage.

“‘Come on!’ said the old man, ‘and with this hammer,’ (flourishing it over his head) ‘I will be thy butcher,’ said he. Still Turk trotted on, apparently undismayed, until within a few yards of the stonebreaker, who lost his temper and threw the hammer with all his force at the head of Turk. The bulldog jumped aside and avoided the murderous weapon, then, with a short, sharp growl, he dashed at the old man, who turned round and stooped towards the stone-heap for one to throw at the dog. Turk instantly took advantage of the man’s position by seizing hold of his breeches, which he tore to shreds, and then, as if satisfied with the assault, he cantered up the lane and crept into his kennel to meditate upon his plan of revenge upon poor little Prim. How was he to get square with the terrier for biting his tail? Plan after plan was turned over in his mind as he lay with his head between his paws just outside the kennel, his upper lip curled up, and showing a formidable set of snow-white teeth. He hated even the flies as they dropped on his nose, and crawled around his bleary-looking eyes, bloodshot with rage. At last he thought of a plan. True, it would not be a very agreeable one for himself, but what of that? He was a thorough-bred bulldog, and nothing should stand between him and his plan of revenge.

“Hitherto Turk’s appetite had been good; he had never been known to desert a bone until it was as bare and as shiny as his own teeth. He gradually began to leave off his inroads upon the farmer’s kitchen, and the wife thought he must in consequence be sick. In vain he was tempted with the choicest bits, raw and cooked; he gazed at them with a longing look, and even condescended to snuff in their savoury odours, but that was all. One bite sufficed for his breakfast, two or three for his dinner, and be retired into the farthest end of his kennel supperless.

“A Brummagem dog-fancier was sent for, and notwithstanding Turk’s determined opposition, some medicine was forced down his throat, which, it was said, would give him an appetite as good as a famished gorilla in about a couple of days. But the two days passed without restoring his appetite; he grew thinner and thinner, and the farmer at last gave him up as incurable, assigning as his reason that he must be in a ‘dog consumption.’

“Shortly after this unaccountable disease had set in, it had been noticed that, the animal quitted his kennel every night as it was growing dark, and trotted down the road; but no one knew what these twilight expeditions were undertaken for. But the plot was drawing to a head. One evening he departed, as usual, down the road. His tortures were about to end, and his long fast be followed by a feast. Nearing the well-known garden where he had so often met Prim, his movements became curious. He moved like a ghost, and stopped to listen, but nothing was stirring. Finally he reached the opening in the fence; he pushed his head stealthily through the hole, his neck followed his head, his body followed his neck, his tail followed his body, and now Turk was fairly in the garden, where he had never been before. Being satisfied with this experiment (which had been repeatedly made since he had brought his plan of fasting into operation, but never successfully until this occasion) he returned to the road and began to bark. In a few moments an answering yelp was heard—Prim was hastening to his doom. Suddenly his little head was popped out of the opening of the fence. A sharp growl escaped Turk—he was too eager for his revenge; and Prim, instead of coming through the hole on to the road (where Turk had often tried to coax him without effect), gave a defiant ‘wow, wow, wow,’ and was making his way back to his kennel, as much as to say, ‘I can’t accommodate you to-night.’ Quick as lightning, Turk darted towards the hole. At the same instant, a loud report was heard; the figure of a man appeared upon the scene. It was the enraged stonebreaker. Turk rolled over, mortally wounded by a shot from an old blunderbuss. ‘Ha! ha! you would steal my dinner, would you, and then rip a good pair of corduroy breeches off my legs all to pieces, would you?’ said the old man, giving him a kick over the ribs. Turk made answer by one prolonged howl of disappointment, pain, and despair, which grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased altogether, and he died the victim of his own selfish and revengeful disposition. By the timely arrival and interposition of the stonebreaker the life of Prim was saved, but he never appeared happy afterwards, probably from the fear of encountering Turk and paying with his life the consequences of his harmless joke.”

I have endeavoured as far as I could to render the recruit’s dog-story as it was given, with as little alteration as possible. When finished, we asked him how he became possessed of Prim? His answer was that he had exchanged a small French poodle with the gentleman for the little hero of the tale. Prim was allowed to accompany the recruit to head-quarters; he lived some years in the regiment, and finally got worried through venturing too near a large monkey kept chained behind the stables, around whom he was accustomed to dance and make fun of him, much in the same manner as he had done with Turk and the large dogs who passed his old master’s residence at Handsworth.

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