“M—m—m. I should imagine you would be so frightened of the Indians, Mr. Raymond,” she said.
“Ha—ha—ha—!” laughed Captain Howard, outright.
Mrs. Annandale claimed no sense of humor, but she was a very efficient mirth-maker, nevertheless.
“I am beholden to you, madam,” said the young soldier, out of countenance. He could not vaunt his courage in the presence of his commander, nor would he admit fear even in fun. He was at a loss for a moment.
“It is contrary to the rules of the service to be afraid of the Indians,” he said after a pause; “Captain Howard does not permit it.”
“Oh,—but how can anyone help it!—and they are so monstrous ugly!”
“They are considered very fine men, physically,” said Raymond.
“But they will never make soldiers,” interpolated Captain Howard. The English government had done its utmost with the American Indians, as with other subdued peoples of its dependencies, both earlier and later, to incorporate their martial strength into the British armies, but the aborigines seemed incapable of being moulded by the discipline of the drill and the regulations of the camp, and deserted as readily as they were enlisted, rewards and penalties alike of no effect.
“Oh, Mr. Raymond, no one could think them handsome!—they are—greasy!”
“The grease is to afford a surface for their paint, you must understand. But it is a horribly unclean and savage custom.”