Blunted Lance (18 page)

‘See that Number 78 gets a rug on him,’ Dabney said. ‘Mustn’t let him take a chill. And find a heavier horse for Soames. He’s getting fat.’

The sergeant grinned. ‘The war’ll get some weight off him, sir, I reckon.’

‘I think it will. Let’s leave the chestnuts on an extra feed of linseed. Light-coloured horses always seem a trifle less sturdy than the rest.’

Coming to the end of the line, Dabney returned to the squadron office and stood in front of the shelf containing his books. Chief among them was his father’s work,
Cavalry
Studies
. He picked it up and opened it. The Old Man, he decided, had absorbed well the lessons of America and the Franco-Prussian War and had ignored Zululand, where he had made his name, because he: regarded it as a tribal war and of no consequence to European thinking.

‘The answer to the rifle,’ he read, ‘is not the sword or the lance, but another rifle, in the hands of a man who uses his horse to move rapidly from one cover to another.’

Dabney pushed the book back on to the shelf. Unlike most cavalry leaders, his father had not slipped into the facile belief that simple rapidity of movement was the answer to the rifle and the machine gun. He was a believer in the horse, but only for speed. It was worth bearing in mind.

As he turned, there was a knock and Ellis Ackroyd entered. He looked red-faced and uncomfortable in uniform.

‘Colonel’s compliments, sir,’ he said. ‘He’d like to see you for a minute.’

‘Right, Ellis. I’ll go along straight away. How’re you finding being back in the Regiment?’

‘Bit of a wrench, sir.’ Ackroyd smiled. ‘I’d just got used to being back at Braxby. But it’s not too arduous. They don’t expect an old man like me to get into danger. They’re going to give me the orderly room when Sergeant Addison goes to France.’

Dabney smiled back. ‘You’ll be keeping the reinforcement cadres coming, I expect,’ he said. ‘Just try to push into ’em some of that field knowledge you pushed into me as a small boy. Ferreting with you was of great value when I reached South Africa. I found I could get nearer to the Boers than anybody without being seen. How was your father?’

‘Gettin’ old, sir.’

‘Tom?’

‘Wants to join some transport unit.’

‘And Hedley?’

‘Talking of joining the Flying Corps. Says he’ll show us a thing or two.’

The adjutant was just leaving the colonel’s office when Dabney arrived, and instead of Lord Ellesmere he was surprised to find George Johnson standing by the desk, a bundle of papers in his hand.

‘Ah, Dabney,’ he said. ‘There’s been a change. Lord Ellesmere’s been upped to brigadier. Brigadier Lowson in Jamieson’s division of the First Corps has gone sick and they’ve given him the job. He’s very happy because, unlike some, he’s not been pushed off to a yeomanry brigade. They’re given me the regiment in his place.’

Dabney looked at Johnson. He was a tall thin man with a long neck and protuberant adam’s apple. While he had always admired Ellesmere, privately he didn’t consider Johnson a clever soldier and he had suffered more than once from what he felt was a narrow-minded jealous streak. For some reason, Johnson believed the credit for the Battle of Graafberg belonged to him not Dabney, and that Dabney wore the ribbon of a DSO which should have been his.

Johnson was still talking. ‘Lord Ellesmere, of course, was sorry not to be leading the Regiment into action but his loss is my gain. We shall be in France in three weeks, I imagine. As senior captain, I want you to take over my squadron. You’ll find it in good shape, I think. I hope you’ll make sure it stays that way. Your promotion will be in the Gazette in a day or two. Then, since I’m trying to see that everyone gets a visit home before we leave, you’d better try to slip away for the weekend. I suspect we’re going to be busy.’

The Yorkshire countryside looked better than Dabney had ever seen it and, with the news that he had received, had a strangely personal feel about it. It was his, this land, and he suddenly felt he wanted to cling to it.

Fleur was at the station with the children in the car to collect him. Her eyes were moist and there was a bleak look on her face. His hand touched hers as he climbed in beside her.

‘It might not happen,’ he murmured.

Josh pushed his head between them. ‘Are you going to the war, Papa?’ he demanded.

‘Looks like it, Josh.’

‘Bring me back some souvenirs.’

‘What would you like?’

‘A German sausage would do.’ As the boy fell back, hooting with laughter, Chloe piled on top of him and the two of them fought and wriggled on the back seat, Chloe at least uncertain what she was laughing at.

Reaching home, Dabney hurried the children off for their tea and took his wife in his arms. She seemed to scent disaster, trying to hold back her tears.

‘Oh, Dab,’ was all she could say and even so her voice sounded strangled.

He held her against him, trying to give her courage. ‘Steady, old thing,’ he said.

‘Why does there have to be a war?’

‘Because there are stupid, ambitious men in the world.’

‘I’m not sure I can handle this, Dab.’

‘Of course you can. Your mother did. My mother did. You will. You have to, for the sake of Josh and Chloe. You’ve got to put on a brave face. If you look frightened, they’ll be frightened. You can’t allow that.’

‘No. Of course not. I’ll try, Dab. I’ll try.’

That night as Dabney lay along the edge of the bed, Fleur seemed to be asleep. The news of his impending departure had left her wretched and he tried not to wake her but lay straight-limbed, staring at the ceiling.

Inside him there was a terrible anxiety for his family. In South Africa he had had nobody dependent on him, no one who really mattered. Fleur had been safe in the bosom of her family still, cared for, occupied with her home. Now her home was his home and her cares were their children, and things were very different.

The newspapers still insisted the war would be over by Christmas, but intelligent people he’d spoken to had said that not only would it not be over by Christmas but that it would eventually cover the whole of Europe. Already Belgian cities were in flames and people were dying there. The newspapers carried atrocity stories which he didn’t for a moment believe but he guessed Fleur had read them and was terrified for him and her children.

He shifted slightly and she stirred. ‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.

‘Yes. Couldn’t sleep.’

She turned quickly and moved into his arms, her body close to his so that the warmth of her flesh flowed into him.

‘Will it go on for long, Dab?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he said at once, trying to reassure her. ‘Nobody can afford long wars these days. They cost too much.’

‘Will they let you come home? It’s only France, after all.’

‘Yes, they’ll give leave, I expect.’

‘I have to feel we’re close.’

‘We’ve always been close. All my life as long as I can remember.’

‘I can’t imagine what it will be like with you in France and me here. We’ve only been separated at odd times before.’

There was a long silence and she moved closer, so that he could feel her heart beating and feel her warm breath on his cheeks.

‘Make love to me, Dab,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

He turned towards her and kissed her, slowly, tenderly. ‘You don’t have to say please for that, Fleur.’

The following day Dabney drove over to Braxby Manor to see his mother. She was on her own and he had a feeling that she had aged a little in the last few days. He told her the news of his promotion but it brought no comment and she showed him the letter from Helen, waiting in silence for his observations.

‘It’s a pretty rotten world, Mother,’ was all he could find to say.

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Suppose you come face to face with Karl-August.’

‘The chances are pretty slim, Mother. In any case, I suspect it’ll be a long-range war and there won’t be much face-to-face stuff. Where’s father?’

‘At the War Office. He and Lord Roberts and Evelyn Wood have formed a committee with one or two other senior officers. He doesn’t think it’ll do much good but he agreed to serve. He thinks he’d be much better stumping the country encouraging men to join the army. What about you? Will you be going?’

‘I think we shall
all
be going before long, Mother. I suspect it’s going to be as big as that eventually, and any who slip through the net now will be caught later. Father thought several years and I believe Kitchener thinks the same. There’s talk of raising a hundred thousand volunteers for a period of three years or until the war ends.’

‘Will they get them?’

‘It depends how they make the appeal. They’ll need more than just the types who normally enlist. All too often
they
joined up for a good meal and a pair of boots because they hadn’t got a job. I think this time they’ll need to appeal to men with jobs who’re prepared to give them up for a while. They’re going to open up recruiting offices in every town, I hear.’

‘When will you go?’

‘Johnson thought within three weeks.’

In fact, Dabney was standing on the quayside at Le Havre in less than a fortnight.

The reservists and the remounts had poured into the depot smoothly and for once no one was arguing about the indents for equipment. Long before the call came to entrain for the coast, the 19th Lancers were ready, three squadrons of men and horses, complete with wagons, ammunition and supplies.

Dabney had made a point of reading and rereading his orders, meeting the reservists and inspecting every animal. When everything was ready, he decided it was safe to meet his father for lunch and pick his brain.

The Cavalry Club was as quiet as it always was, and still remarkably free of uniforms. Dabney had had a busy morning. He had been to the War Office, where he had arranged with his father to meet him, then he had visited his tailor. The old man behind the counter had known him since he had been a subaltern at the time of Omdurman.

‘I’m delighted to hear of your promotion, sir,’ he said, making a note of the crimson and blue of the DSO and the Sudan and South African campaign medals. ‘I’m sure it was well deserved and your father, the Field Marshal, will no doubt also be pleased.’

As always, the club seemed unmoved by the events in Europe and it was impossible to hear the traffic moving outside. Dabney stopped to look at the pictures which he’d known, he felt, for most of his life – Rupert’s charge at Edgehill; the 21st Lancers at Omdurman; French’s charge at Klip Drift which had carried him through to Kimberley; the Marquess of Anglesey, who had commanded the cavalry at Waterloo; the great Duke of Wellington, curiously mild-looking for a man of such astringent comments; and Captain Oates, of the Inniskillings, who had offered his life in an attempt to give Scott a little more hope in the Antarctic.

His father was in the smoking room, sitting in a deep leather armchair, studying a sheaf of papers. To Dabney’s surprise, he was in uniform. He hadn’t seen his father in uniform for a long time, and the blaze of colour above his left breast indicated just how much active service he’d seen.

‘Dab,’ he said, putting down the papers and rising. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Nothing,’ Dabney said. ‘Goodbye for a while, that’s all. We’re waiting for orders.’

‘It won’t be long. I’ve just come from the War Office. How’s the Regiment?’

‘Ready. To the last button.’

The old man looked pleased. ‘Seen your mother?’

‘Yes. She’s not happy, of course, any more than Fleur. She’d heard from Helen in Berlin.’

‘Poor Helen. It’s harder for her than the rest of us. We may not be very clever but we’re her link with England. See Robert?’

‘No. But I hear he’s offered himself.’

‘He won’t go. He’ll put on a uniform and prance about a bit, but he won’t go. Perhaps it’s best. He’s more use making sure we get the weapons.’ The Field Marshal paused. ‘This war will be a disaster, Dab.’

‘Sir?’

‘It should never have happened. The politicians panicked, and before they knew what was happening the whole of Europe was acting like lemmings. I hope the French plan’s a good one and I hope we don’t get lost in it, because the BEF’s not very big and we’re fighting for our very existence. It’s Britain and Germany who’re facing each other, you know. France’s become a side issue, and either Britain or Germany has to go down.’ The old man paused, his expression troubled. ‘And “down”,’ he went on, ‘will be a long way down. That’ll make it a long war because, under those circumstances, neither side’s going to acknowledge defeat until the very last moment. So, if you’re ever in command don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

‘Nobody’s going to enjoy being kept in the rear, sir.’

‘Don’t worry, they’ll all be in it, given time. I’m not sure John French has grasped the enormity of the problems which confront us. Not so sure, even, that he’s the man to have the command. There’s a weakness in his character and his outlook’s narrow. Haig’s already had a word in my ear that he has his doubts about him. Since he’s likely to be his successor if it comes to a change, it’s not surprising. The army’s full of intrigue.’

Dabney listened quietly until the old man had finished. ‘How about you, Father?’ he asked.

‘Out to grass. Roberts is insisting on going to France to follow his beloved “boys.” We’re trying to dissuade him. He’ll only be in the way. Dammit, he’s over eighty and, field marshal or not, Bobs or not, the army won’t want to be occupied looking after a frail old man who refuses to give up trying to be an active soldier. I’m staying home where I can be of most use. I was born before Victoria came to the throne. I remember the Duke of Wellington patting my head. He liked children even if he couldn’t stand his wife. I didn’t learn about Waterloo from the history books, Dab, I got it first hand from my father. There’s no place in war for men of my age.’

There was a holiday spirit about the BEF as it embarked. Despite the appalling discomfort in which they travelled, they cheered and sang and shouted ‘Are we down-hearted – NO!’ at the grey waters of the Channel, while the name of the commander of the German right wing had produced a song which so delighted them they persisted in singing it all the way across.