“Prepare to mount.” Boots grope for stirrups, hands clutch saddle-peaks and limber rails.
“Mount!” Bodies rise and turn; saddles creak; hooves protest; chains jingle. Bodies drop to their places; fidget for a second; sit stiffly to attention. Bromley, seeing a red-gold cap on the Orderly Room stairs, shouts “Sit at ease”; trots over; swings up hand and elbow in the Gunners’ salute.
“Right Section, Don Battery, Fourth Southdown Brigade. May we march off, sir?”
Colonel Starcross acknowledges the salute, says: “Yes. Yes. Do—for God’s sake.”
“Right half Battery. Advance in column of route from the right. Walk—March!”
Pat of whip: zip of trace tightening: creak of wheel. Slowly, the six-horse teams, the two guns and their loaded waggons, file by. Last of all, swinging hand once more to the salute, rides Bromley. . . .
Peter looked at his watch. “Four forty-eight p. m. sir.”
Starcross looked at Peter: “What’s your name, young man?”
“Jameson, sir. Peter Jameson.”
“Well, you may tell your Colonel, with my compliments, that his Adjutant might be a damn sight worse. Sorry I blinded at you. Been up four nights running.”