‘Blair, throw on another handful of roots and put the pot on,’ said Barrymore to Jack.—‘And, Jimmy, sit down by me and uncork your bottle.’
Soon each man had a steaming pannikin of rum in his hand.
Brandon sipped his, saying:
‘I am no orator, as Brutus is,
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man;
so in a few words I give you the health of Sergeant Linham who, “For love of friends that distant be,” has heart enough to walk a mile on such a vile night as this to bring his friends a cheering cup.’
‘Frank, why on earth did you enlist?’ asked Pearson. ‘With your education and talents I should have thought you would have found life easier as an actor, for which life you seem entirely fitted, than as a private of Lancers, risking his life every minute of the day in the Crimea for a shilling a day.’
‘A fancy, Pearson—a fancy—the love of glittering mail and martial glory.’
Whenever Brandon was asked a question he did not care about answering he always turned it aside in some jesting manner, or gave the conversation another turn. Looking at the buttons on the sleeve of his tunic, he said, ‘Who on earth gave the regiment this gruesome badge of grinning skull and becrossed shin-bones?’
‘That I can tell you,’ replied Barrymore. ‘The regiment was raised by one John Hale, colonel of the 47th Foot. He was the officer who brought home the news of Wolfe’s victory at Quebec and of his death. To commemorate the latter, the 17th were raised, and in his memory the skull and cross-bones was made the badge of the regiment. It was at first worn on the left breast of the scarlet tunic, and though the uniform has been several times changed the badge has always remained the same.’
Reference to the grim regimental badge seemed to have a depressing effect on Brandon, who lapsed into silence.