All inquiries respecting my pony were fruitless. At last, upon asking at a canteen, a soldier told me he had heard of one being found in some regiment, but could not tell me which one, though he thought it was somewhere about Cathcart’s Hill.
On arriving at Cathcart’s Hill, I met Sir John Campbell, who invited me to take some refreshment and a glass of Bordeaux. We descended to his rocky abode in front of Sebastopol, whence you could trace every shot or shell which passed, as well as view the whole city. On recounting my adventure of the lost pony, and of my being absent two days from Balaklava,
“We heard,” said the aide-de-camp to Sir John, “that you had lost two ponies.”
“No! no!” said I, “one at a time is quite enough, captain.”
“I can assure you that is the joke at head-quarters. I also heard of your concert à la Soyer.”
“We spent a regular London evening,” I replied.
“I wish I had been there,” said the general; “we are getting very dull in our division. Before you go, Mons. Soyer, come and see my kitchen.”
“I will, general.”
Though very small, it was more deserving that title than the one at Lord Raglan’s.
“Here,” said Sir John, “is our ration meat; I am sure you cannot make a tempting dish out of these materials, especially from the salt meat, which requires so much soaking, it is so hard.”