The regimental band of fifty men discourses sweet music. Tea is on in the mess-room—soldiers in khaki and soldiers in scarlet coats are everywhere. Snatches of songs come from the different quarters and life does not seem hard to these soldiers, at least not now, and yet—the call to arms and the chance of a skirmish is always welcome at first, until they realise that "War is Hell" and once entered upon cannot be so easily stopped. There is no thought of war here now and life goes merrily onward.
At seven-thirty the dressing bugle sounds and we are off to reassemble in the officers' mess at eight for that most important function, dinner. I confess I feel slovenly in my black clothes amongst the scarlet and gold of the officers. The mess dress of the army is very effective, a scarlet jacket fitting closely and showing a generous shirt front, dark blue trousers with scarlet stripes, strapped over patent leather boots bearing spurs,—a dress becoming to any man. Once he knows you, a British officer is always very cordial and agreeable; there are few exceptions to that rule. I am certainly given a cordial welcome amongst them on my first evening.
Dinner announced, we file down to the mess-room where if you imagine things are crude or camp-like you are mistaken. The spacious apartment is adorned with the "colours" old and new of the whole regiment (as this is the headquarters of all its battalions and all such things are here stored), most of them torn with the strife of battle. The table, of Bombay oak (which travels with the regiment wherever it goes), is of great width and as long as the room will permit. For dinner it is decked with magnificent plate in the form of candelabra, cups and fantastic salt-cellars, etc. There are flowers and snowy linen of course, and the room is brilliant with scarlet coats and the mellow light of wax candles. The dinner goes merrily on, while outside the regimental band discourses its best. Towards the end we are brought to our feet with "Gentleman, the King," and so, to the national anthem, drink the health of his Majesty.
(I must compliment this band. It is excellent, and I believe is considered the best in south Ireland.)
After dinner, we adjourn to the smoking-room upstairs, and "bridge" comes in for proper attention.
Not caring for the game, Major Beddoes and I are seated before the fire. The room is a large one and, I am thankful to say, does not possess electric lights; a shaded lamp throws a warm glow downward upon the card tables while the flashes of the firelight bring the scarlet coats and gold braid of the players, and the tattered battle flags beyond them into bold relief now and then.
The air is full of tobacco smoke, but aside from our subdued voices and an occasional remark thrown at me by the players because I neither smoke nor play, the room is very quiet. Outside, the barracks and the town seem to have gone to sleep save for an occasional bugle call or sentry challenge.
There had been some commotion below earlier in the evening because of a young setter pup, which Capt. D. had shut up in his room, having eaten one of the Captain's new walking boots, and Major Beddoes had some words with his man, whom he had discovered wearing one of his, the Major's, best dress shirts. "Sure, Major, 'twasn't soiled enough to give to old Mag beyant there to wash, and I jest thought I would give it a wear or so mesell, knowin' ye wouldn't care."