He hopped back to the car; streaked off down the road. “Lucky thing it wasn’t Lodden’s crowd” thought Peter.
And day wore on to night. For it took eleven trains to move the seven-hundred and thirty-one officers and men, the five hundred and thirty-nine horses, the sixteen guns and hundred odd waggons of the old-time Artillery Brigade with its Ammunition Column.
§ 8
Eleven-thirty p. m.! Already, D and C Batteries, and the three clumsy sections of Billy Williams’ Ammunition Column were away into the jingling darkness.
Peter had come home to dinner; departed again. Upstairs at the villa, Patricia could hear Alice sobbing gently, and Stark’s deep voice, the parade-rasp clean gone out of it, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. For God’s sake, don’t cry.” . . .
“I mustn’t cry for Peter. Not until he’s gone,” thought Patricia. She tip-toed upstairs; slipped into a cloak; stole out of the house.
The night had cleared; stars twinkled through the fir-trees as she made her way down the sandy road. From the General’s house and the big Mess Hut, lights streaked thinly; she could hear men’s voices. A soldier was singing, far off, up the hillside towards Blackdown. She came to the sentry-box at the gate; passed unchallenged.
In the gun-park electric torches glowed, went out again. She was aware of hooves stamping, chains jingling, men moving everywhere. A hurricane-lamp, hanging at a stable-doorway, showed up the shadows of soldiers, standing to shadowy horses.
She heard Torrington’s voice, “B Battery. Prepare to mount. Mount!”
Boots clapped on gravel; shadows swung to saddles; a mare neighed.