Highest Stakes (12 page)

  By first light, the storm had passed. The trumpet sounded, calling all to duty. Though he was relieved of stable duty and barely recovered from his infirmity, Devington was compelled to the ship's stables to see how the horses had fared during the turbulent crossing.

  Finding Ol' Jack next to Hawke and quietly munching his hay, the corporal moved on to the other end of the stable deck where he found one stall door kicked loose from its hinges. Though all the horses' heads had been tied tight and short to prevent movement, one of them had managed to break free of its head collar and was no doubt wreaking havoc among the rest of the herd. He didn't go far before he located the renegade, who stood bullying the men who had come to clean and feed.

  "You again!" Devington said to the stallion. "I should have known you as the malefactor."

  The gray acknowledged him with a snort and challenging toss of his head.

  "I'll see to this one, lads," Devington said to the troopers and took down a canvas head collar and lead from a peg on the wall. He slowly and steadily walked forward. The stallion promptly pinned his ears back and turned his hinder end to face the corporal.

  "Tut. Tut, my man. I shan't allow such disrespectful behavior; such insolence cannot be tolerated in His Majesty's Horse. Discipline must prevail, you know."

  Standing clear of the horse's flying hooves, Devington rebuked the stallion's rump with a smart pop of the lead.

  Kicking out in vexation, the horse snorted and then turned again to face his antagonist. Devington stood firm, unruffled, and unintimidated. Almost imperceptibly, the stallion licked his lips and dropped his head.

  "There's oats and hay aplenty back in your box," Devington said softly, moved to the horse's head, and deftly slipped on the collar. "Play time is now over, my man."

  He led the miscreant to the first empty stall. Gathering some oats as distraction, Devington entered the box with the intention of examining the horse's legs for injury; but still restive and distrustful, the stallion circled with widened eyes and pinned ears. Not wanting to distress the horse further and impair the progress he had made, Devington decided to leave him to settle and see to the others.

  By this time, Major Winthrop had arrived to make his twicedaily inspection. Proceeding down the rows, he assessed the general condition of the horses. Spying Devington exiting the gray's box, he halted.

  "Corporal! What have you done with Bainbridge's gray?" he demanded. "He was at the other end of the stable deck when I saw to him last evening."

  "Major." Devington saluted. "Not so. He broke free during the night, apparently kicked down his door. I moved him to this box to assess his legs for injury."

  "And what knowledge would you have of a horse's legs?" Winthrop posed the question condescendingly.

  "Enough to know he shall require a bran poultice to his right hock. There is visible swelling, but he appears not to favor it overmuch. I doubt 'tis more than a self-inflicted strain from kicking down the door. With rest and a poultice, I would guess him sound in a matter of days."

  "I daresay Bainbridge shall put little stock in
your opinion
regarding his animal. Stand aside, and I shall give him a
proper
examination."

"Would you care for my assistance, sir?"

"I should doubt it."

  Devington shrugged his resignation but stood closely by and grinned as Winthrop entered the box. Within moments, the gray commenced a fit of plunging, kicking, and thrashing that made any attempt of examination impossible. Finally called upon to assist, the corporal spent nearly an hour patiently soothing and pacifying the stallion's volatile temper, all while Winthrop watched in amazement.

  "Very well, I shall leave it to you to apply the poultice, Corporal Devington. And what is your assessment of the others? Beyond this renegade, how are they holding up?"

  Devington noted that rather than condescension, the major made this address with what might be described as a modicum of respect.

  "Other than some minor abrasions, for which I have applied standing bandages, I detect no great injuries, but I fear stall number five begins to colic."

  "So you say? Then what would you do for this
first case
of colic? I warn it is nigh impossible to cross the sea without losing at least one thusly."

  "One would normally commence to hand-walking at the first sign, but 'tis impossible to do when he must remain confined below decks."

  "Then he must have three pints of warm water injected into his rectum to stimulate his bowels to move."

  "I have already done so, sir."

  The major regarded him quizzically. "Then mayhap my services as chief veterinary surgeon are superfluous?"

  His rancor led the corporal to humbly volunteer, "Major Winthrop, sir, having been raised my entire life with equines, I have seen most every ailment and have no small experience of veterinary medicine. I sought only to help in your absence."

  "Is that so, Corporal? Then pray, what is your professional opinion regarding this particular patient?"

"To massage his gut and promptly administer a colic remedy."

"And of what is your
colic remedy
comprised?"

  "Two drams of ginger and one-half ounce of black pepper instilled in half a bottle of gin diluted with one pint of warm water."

  The major raised his brows. "Ginger, eh? 'Tis a well-known remedy in humans for all manner of belly pain, and I suppose the intoxicating effects of the gin might serve as a sedative. But while I find your recipe interesting, I prefer to adhere to cures based on sound medical science. I shall administer two ounces tincture of opium and two ounces spirits of turpentine in one pint of warm water. I shall return anon, and you may administer this physic, as well as applying the bran poultice to Bainbridge's gray."

  "It will be done as you wish, sir." Devington saluted.

  "Gin and ginger," the major mused and walked away.

By the time they docked at Ostend, three horses from the other ships had been lost to colic. Several more had perished by struggling and fighting so violently during the unloading that they had broken legs, dashing them against the hatches, or had breached the canvas sling and dropped into the sea. To Devington's credit, his entire herd was slung to shore with little fuss and no incident.

  With all of the horses now unloaded and picketed, the troopers of the Household Cavalry spent three more days in Ostend, awaiting the ships conveying the supply wagons that would carry the forage and the accoutrements necessary for their march.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the reveille trumpet was muffled by the soggy gray dawn. The day of decampment had arrived in the midst of heavy April rains. Waking cold and damp from his bed of straw above the tavern stables, Devington pushed his bedmates aside to pull on his boots and supervise the morning routine of mucking, feeding, watering, and grooming.

  Though temporarily exempt from stable duties, Devington still retained charge over the care and feeding of the horses, whose importance superseded even the needs of the men. The valiant men of the King's Horse would be permitted to take their morning rations only after caring for the animals upon whom they depended to carry them.

  Devington shortly joined Captain Drake and Major Winthrop, and the trio proceeded through the stables and picket lines of their troop horses, inspecting each one, until meeting the troop's farrier.

  "How goes it, Tom?" Winthop asked as the farrier pounded the final nail into the hoof of the last troop horse on the picket line.

  "Spent the past two days reseating shoes and painting tar on the soles of all their hooves, Major. 'Tis all can be done to prevent the thrush, though I daresay 'twill be all for naught. Wi' such heavy rains, we'll be marching for at least a for'night in the mud. Inevitably, a number of 'em will be footsore and oozing black pus afore we see Ghent."

  "The tar should make a difference, as long as it's applied regularly," Devington remarked.

  "Should it be reapplied twice or thrice per se'nnight, Tom?" Major Winthrop asked.

  "Thrice… if'n the supply holds that long," he remarked dubiously. "Elsewise, the troop horses be ready to march, sirs." He then amended hastily, "Leastwise, all save one. Unmanageable brute he be. Look at this." The farrier lifted his smock and lowered his breeches to expose the deep purple tooth marks that marred his broad, bared buttocks.

  "I might well hazard a guess which one it was." The Captain regarded Devington knowingly.

A f
ter having seen to the men and horses, Devington washed down the last bite of dry black bread with a gulp of bitter coffee. Throwing the tin muck in his haversack, he slung it over his shoulder.

  He then secured his accoutrements to his saddle, placed his new pistols in their case in front of his pommel, taking special care to protect his pouch of gunpowder from the damp. After making a last adjustment to his saddle girth, Devington straightened his sword and took up his carbine, whose butt would rest in the bucket on the right side of his saddle with his picket pole strapped securely alongside. Once he made his final checks, the corporal mounted—a clumsy business at best—while balancing two weapons and a fourfoot picket pole.

  When the trump sounded for parade inspection, Devington was ready and responded eagerly. With an encouraging pat to Ol' Jack, he wheeled and trotted off briskly to join his squadron, easily identifiable by their blue facings and housings, made conspicuous by a sea of crimson.

  Locating his own Sixth Troop of the King's Horse, Devington hastily fell into the second line center, directly behind Captain Drake, whose height alone would have placed him in the front line if his position had not. Although of medium height, Devington was consigned to the more diminutive middle ranks, sandwiched front and aft by the taller men.

  To Captain Drake's credit, his entire rank and file marshaled with precision and alacrity. They set out, smart-stepping in rigid scarlet columns. Their rifles clanked as they swung against their sabers, and the ground quaked with the low, rumbling thunder of their ironshod chargers' hooves in rhythm with the kettledrum.

  They marched through days of whipping wind and pelting rain, making field camp every night, with rarely a dry stick to start a fire, sleeping in wet clothes, and eating the coarse bread and dried meat that comprised the daily ration. Striking up camp every dawn, they repeated the routine, day after day. The journey, although onerous enough for the callow recruits, proved debilitating to a number of the young, green horses, who had to be put down for foundering.

  After three arduous weeks of heavy marching in such deplorable conditions, the troops finally gained the Flemish city of Maestricht, temporary field headquarters of Field Marshal Stair, commander in chief of the Pragmatic Army. Their respite, however, was dismally brief.

  After having wasted months in his unsuccessful effort to press the Dutch to join the alliance against her neighbor, France, Lord Stair's patience had finally expired. Frustrated and eager to engage, Lord Stair ordered his forces to decamp from Flanders. Without Dutch support and against the counsel of the Austrian and Hanoverian general, the field marshal advanced his British forces into French-occupied Franconia and marched resolutely up the hills of Killersbach, drawing up lines of battle in full sight of the French generals, who completely ignored the taunt.