‘It’s a spy of old Sir David’s!’ exclaimed one of the subalterns, jumping to his feet; ‘one of the enemy in plain clothes sent to reconnoitre within our lines. I suppose it wouldn’t quite do to hang him, though!’
‘A London tailor, more likely,’ said another of the young men, with a laugh. ‘Too bad, I call it, to be dunned down here, and pestered with bills, when one is wearing out one’s clothes and wetting one’s feet in the service of an ungrateful country.—What sort of man is he, sergeant?’
‘A sailor-looking fellow, sir—from abroad, I should judge—dressed very respectable,’ returned the sergeant, again lifting his hand to the peak of his cap. ‘It’s Lord Harrogate he wants to see—on particular business, he says.’
There was some little discussion as to whether the stranger should be allowed to proceed. Strictly speaking, every British subject has a right to go where he lists, within the four seas, upon a lawful errand; but there are exceptions to this abstract right, in practice, if not in theory. This was one of them. The Autumn Manœuvres were going on, and two generals of great Indian renown, Sir David Roberts, and Lord Moffat, but lately promoted to the peerage on account of his long and good service, were pitted against one another in that larger Kriegspiel or game of war which we call a sham campaign.
Sir David commanded the ‘enemy,’ and his business was to get within striking distance of London, if his strategy should prove superior to that of his old comrade and rival. He was supposed to have landed a powerful foreign force at Poole, Weymouth, or Christchurch, and now to be pushing vigorously on, scattering the local levies as he came towards the capital. It was Lord Moffat’s more popular task to defend London and beat back the invader to his ships.
There had been much marching and countermarching. The forces employed, men and officers alike, had entered into the mimic contest with the heartiness of so many schoolboys intent upon their play. Their willing obedience knew no bounds. When the commissariat—as is the nature of commissariats—was behind-hand with their food, they marched, dinnerless, and bore cheerfully every hardship that dust, rain, hunger, and fatigue could inflict. The men disguised their footsore condition that the regiment might have full ranks when the mock-fight should come. The officers scarcely grumbled over the heavy bills which the spoiling of their new uniforms entailed.
Lord Moffat, the national defender, to the great joy of his army and the delight of the newspaper correspondents, was getting the best of it. But the wily Sir David and his invading hordes had been within an ace, if not of victory, at least of that upper hand which goes far in sham war as in real war. By a stolen flank-march he had all but captured the only available bridge across the Lene, on the swift stream and deep though narrow channel of which his veteran antagonist had relied perhaps a little too implicitly.
Sir David’s Hussars and Lancers had come charging down upon the feebly guarded bridge across the Lene, unexpectedly, when every one in Lord Moffat’s camp believed them to be miles away. Five minutes more of panic and indecision would have given up to the ‘enemy’ the hill-road that skirted the downs, and led direct to Aldershot and London. Luckily, the militia regiment posted nearest to the river was in a state of unusually stringent discipline, and had in Lord Harrogate an officer who could be cool and firm at a moment’s warning. The skirmishers of the regiment of which he was now acting-major had lined the bank with magical quickness, and the battalion had come swiftly on to pour blank-cartridge into the hostile squadrons. Horse, foot, and guns had come to the help of the men of Devon, and Sir David’s daring onslaught had been repulsed.
All this sounds very childish, possibly, to those who, at a distance from the scene of strife, only read of it through the cold medium of printed words. But to those who took part in the fray and were all on fire with the keen contagion of the excitement, it was very real. So many stratagems were reputed to be in use for the obtaining of information, so much of the success of either friendly belligerent must depend on secrecy as to his movements, that it is no wonder if a stranger was regarded with extreme suspicion when presenting himself at the outposts.
Had this stranger asked for a less popular officer than Lord Harrogate, it is probable that he would have met with every conceivable impediment in the further prosecution of his researches. But, apart from that shadowy halo of respect which, as such, still surrounds those born in the purple, Lord Harrogate was a man never named but with respect, and on account of his service at the bridge was the hero of the hour.