Strident brazen reveillé, insulting the holy calm of dawn, lifted me broad awake. The moon-shadows were running to cover under scented firs, the air was a thin white ecstasy of perfume, the sky a rhapsody of tremulous, quickening splendor. The blue devils of the evening had run to cover. Who had such friends as mine, such great-hearted comrades? What other trooper in the world was secretly a marquis, knight of the noblest of all chivalric orders? As for the Burrows woman, let the wench go hang!
The bugler, crouched by the guard fire, was boiling his morning coffee. The picket, riding drowsily homeward, were driving the herd to the horse lines. From all the tents came sleepy execrations, "Show a leg there! Get a move on! Rise and shine, you cripples! Who told you to tread on my face, eh? Oh, give us a rest, you chaps—who said reveillé?"
"Dress!" cried the bugle, and the day's procedure took on its ordered course through stables, breakfast, fatigues, guard mounting—all that ritual of the service which has for soldiers the flavor of a religion. The bugle calls are sacred as one thinks of the "Reveille" in captured Delhi where Nicholson sahib, God of the Sikhs lay dead, of "Parade" on the listing deck of the Birkenhead, of the "General Salute" as Nelson hoisted his flag on board the Victory, or the "Roll-call" which followed, Balaklava, or "Lights Out!" throbbing through stricken silence on the field of Waterloo. The ritual, familiar to us as mass to monks, gives dignity to all our humble duties, preparing us to face death that the state may live.
That morning Buckie put me under arrest, and, the call for "Defaulters" found me howling for my solicitor. When any unusual outrage had occurred, I was always arrested on general principles. This time, when I appeared before the officer commanding, I learned that the tent occupied by a certain Mr. Rams, a civilian guest, had been invaded during the night by an alleged buffalo bull. Item, the said animal bit the aforesaid Rams who was now under surgical treatment. Item, said buffalo was really a sheep. Item, the teeth of the above-mentioned sheep, being examined, showed no traces either of blood or trousers. Item, the alleged trousers were missing.
Prisoner being charged with divers crimes worthy of capital punishment.
I briefly outlined an alibi with regard to the trousers. Hearing that one Rams was detained in custody, I had borrowed the cook's lamb and introduced it. The pair appeared to have fallen out, which was no affair of mine, although it ought to interest naturalists. I hoped that Mr. Rams would not occur again because he was too tempting.
I could only appeal to the gravity of the court.
Severely reprimanded.
So I went back to my tent, and when Orderly-Corporal Buckie followed he found me packing. I told him I should resign, but even then he kept his official countenance. Jolly good luck for me, he said, that Sam was pleased with my ax work—averring it looked like the gnawings of remorse. As to the monstrous cheek of my defense—Sam nearly had an apoplectic fit. If he had been able to keep his countenance he would have ordered me off to instant death. As it was, he had asked the sergeant-major if I could be spared for three days' absence. Sergeant-major said he could spare me permanently, but even three days' rest for the troop would be a blessing. So I was to saddle Gentle Annie, and my horse, get grub for two from the cook tent, and four feeds of grain in gunny sacks; then to report.
What for?