Hodson took Jack in hand, who polished up his old, well-worn boots, brushed his clothes and cap, and then proceeded to the parade-ground, where he fell in on the extreme left of some four or five recruits who had just joined. Under the instruction of a corporal he was soon busily engaged in extension motions, and after an hour of that there was not one muscle in his body which did not ache. Still, his blood seemed to circulate more briskly, and he felt an unwonted lightness and elasticity.
The extension-drill over, Jack was just in time to get his instruments and go off with the other trumpeters to the band-room for practice. The trumpeters fell in in line, Sergeant Linham taking the practice.
‘Ha, hum!’ he cried; ‘now a little more smart, please. Right dress. Eyes front. ‘Shun!’
The trumpeters were all rigid.
‘We’ll have a little practice in field-calls after trumpet practice,’ he said. ‘Captain Norreys complained to the trumpet-major that at the field-day last Friday, when the colonel’s trumpeter sounded “Skirmishers out,” the trumpeter of the leading squadron sounded “Threes about.” Ha, hum! a disgraceful thing. If the officer I mentioned, one of the finest in the service, had not at once noticed it, such a thing might have led to the regiment getting mixed up and so have disgraced itself in the eyes of the headquarter staff.’
Who the guilty party was Jack did not know; but he heard a voice, a rather shamefaced one, say, ‘It was done in the excitement of the moment, sergeant, and I noticed it directly I’d sounded. The calls are so much alike.’
Sergeant Linham blew down his nose furiously. ‘Not a word—not a word. How dare any trumpeter get excited, especially on such a paltry excuse as a field-day. By the Lord Harry, if the old 17th ever has to face an enemy in the field again, if it ever again hears the hum of bullets and sees the colour of a foeman’s eyes, what will happen to it? Now, I want to know!’
‘Speak, you toads! What will happen? Am I to ask a dozen times? I repeat, I want to know!’
On again getting no answer—for Sergeant Linham was a terrible martinet on parade, and no one dared be familiar—the irascible sergeant, drawing himself up and placing his stick beneath his arm, cried, ‘You can’t tell me. I knew you couldn’t. You’re too ignorant, so I’ll tell you. At the battle of Chillianwallah, where I was attached to the 9th Lancers, a certain English cavalry regiment—I won’t say which, for they afterwards wiped out their disgrace—this regiment was advancing to charge the enemy when some one sounded “Threes about,” whether by mistake or wilfully don’t matter. The regiment turned and galloped back, riding over infantry, breaking into guns, and Heaven knows what. My squadron of the 9th cut in and saved the situation, or it might have led to the defeat of the army. When the engagement was over the colonel of that regiment blew his brains out and the corps will be known as the “Threes about,” as long as the service lasts. That’s the result of getting excited and sounding wrong calls. Now, you toads, ‘shun!’