MILITARY INSPECTION.
THE officers stood about the right wing of the battalion, two young lieutenants and—yes, it was he—my friend and patron in former times, the Premier-Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg. There was no mistaking him, he was quite the same; the endless stretch of neck, which made the low collar of his uniform look quite childish, the tall and lank figure with the formidable-looking sword at the hip, which almost grazed the ground, and was in constant collision with his heels. Now he went to meet the sergeant a few steps. Oh, I should have known him among thousands by his gait! He leaned forward a trifle, and swung from side to side as he stepped.
“Be—sure—you—don’t—forget—Sergeant Möller,” said Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg, “that—we—are—to—have—an—artillery-drill—on—the—bastion—this—afternoon. Pick—out—the—weakest—of—the—men; a—bit—of—exercise—will—be—just—the—thing—for—them. Lieutenant Schwarz—will—have—the—goodness—to—take—charge—of—this matter.”
Lieutenant Schwarz was a young second-lieutenant, whom, of course, I did not know. It was evident that he was fresh from the artillery school. His face still retained that indescribable expression of supreme astonishment with which young officers just entering practical military life are wont to regard things. Everything about him was new—his uniform, his epaulettes, his way of dressing his hair, his beard; while Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg looked as if he had just passed through a hazardous winter campaign.
Shyly I walked about the battalion and looked at the Captain, who was standing by a fine horse fully equipped for battle, which one of the soldiers was holding. The Captain’s was a short but very agile figure, never keeping the same position for two seconds at a time. Now he went tripping from the right side of the horse to the left, then darting behind it for a more thorough inspection.
“The parade doesn’t agree with him,” he exclaimed, “doesn’t agree with him at all. But there’s no help for it. Misdemeanour must be followed up by punishment. Sergeant Möller, how often has Cæsar been to parade? If I am not mistaken, it was eight times. I want him to come four more times. Let’s have the dozen full, by all means. Confound him! We’ll teach him better manners than to get up on his hind legs and caper. All I could do to keep him from falling. Did I tell you all the details of the story, Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg?”
“I—had—the—good—fortune—to—be—an—eye-witness,” leisurely remarked the lieutenant.
“Ah, presence of mind, presence of mind, there’s nothing like having presence of mind in an emergency. The deuce! the very last thing we’d want on the battle-field would be a nag that stumbles and falls.—Keep right on, Sergeant Möller,” he added, turning to the latter, who had stopped calling the roll to listen to the Captain’s speech, and looked up to his superior with unbounded reverence. “Keep right on; never mind me. I always take this time to examine not only the battalion within and without, but the barracks as well—yes, the barracks.” Saying these words, he had twice pranced round about the battalion, casting many a glance into an open door which, as the emerging smoke would indicate, marked the entrance to the regimental kitchen.
“What is the story about the horse?” the young lieutenant asked his superior.
The latter shrugged his shoulders gently to and fro, and then replied, “The—horse—behaved—rather—badly,—the—Herr—Captain—thought—best—to—chastise—him,—and when—the—horse—took—it—ill,—they—parted company,—you—see. As—a—well-deserved—punishment—Cæsar—is—to—come—to—parade—for—twelve—consecutive—days—saddled—and packed with—the—full—equipment—for—battle.”