Chapter Six.
Bring forth the horse: the horse was brought;
In truth he was a noble steed,
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,
That seemed as though the speed of thought
Were in his limbs.
I think no part of a cavalry soldier’s duty is so agreeable to him as a long march during spring or summer weather. Apart from the change of scene and a variation to the dull monotony of barrack life, the ride through the country to some distant part, frequently of ten to thirty days’ duration, is always looked forward to with feelings of pleasure. Country people, who seldom see soldiers, look upon the marching of a squadron of cavalry through the small towns and villages as a sort of pageant, especially if it be the head-quarters of a corps, which is always accompanied by the band.
Young and inexperienced as I then was, the prospect of a sixteen days’ march in the merry month of May through the most delightful part of England held out unusual charms for me. The dress of a soldier was my sole weakness—I cared for nothing else; and I cheerfully endured all the miseries of military slavery and short-comings of a comfortable home for the sake of being thought something or somebody above the majority of individuals in my walk of life. My sole object was to attract the attention and, if possible, the envy of others—an idea too frequently indulged by young soldiers, until dear-bought experience teaches them their mistake.
I have stated before, that the costume of our regiment at the period to which I allude included a “pelisse” or loose jacket, slung carelessly over the left shoulder; but no man was allowed to wear this until he had been dismissed from drill, and deported himself in such a manner as became a smart, intelligent, and well-disciplined soldier. Those recruits who had enlisted about the same time as myself, but who were not yet proficient in horsemanship, etc, were told off to travel by railway; but to my great joy, the sergeant of my squad read out my name in orders at stable time the night before, to assemble with the detachment in “complete marching order” the following morning at seven o’clock.
I had a most beautiful, blood-like, dark-chestnut gelding for my trooper: his coat shone like a mole, and his mane flowed from his finely-arched neck almost to his knees. He was known by the general appellation of “Number Seventeen, D Troop,” but I gave him the name of “Restless,” from his habit of capering and prancing at every unusual noise or object that presented itself. He was neither nervous nor vicious, but impatient and anxious to be moving when he ought to stand still; and though the slightest feel of the rein imaginable would restrain him, he would champ his bit and throw the foam from his mouth all over his breast and my uniform in flakes as white as snow. One tap of the drum or a blast of the trumpet was a signal for “Restless” to show off his splendid form in a succession of graceful capers, if on the move; or if standing on parade, he would soon get up a shower of foam, and bespatter the horses on each side, all the while paddling with his feet and scraping the ground continually.
Notwithstanding that I was about the youngest “old soldier” in the regiment, and but a short time previously only a common “clod-hopper,” there was none more conceited or perhaps more vain than myself, when mounted on “Restless.”