Soldier of the Queen
Soldier of the Queen
First published in 1980
© Juliet Harris; House of Stratus 1980-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Max Hennessy (John Harris) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 0755128087 EAN: 9780755128082
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
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John Harris, wrote under his own name and also the pen names of Mark Hebden and Max Hennessy.
He was born in 1916 and educated at Rotherham Grammar School before becoming a journalist on the staff of the local paper. A short period freelancing preceded World War II, during which he served as a corporal attached to the South African Air Force. Moving to the Sheffield Telegraph after the war, he also became known as an accomplished writer and cartoonist. Other ‘part time’ careers followed.
He started writing novels in 1951 and in 1953 had considerable success when his best-selling
The Sea Shall Not Have Them
was filmed. He went on to write many more war and modern adventure novels under his own name, and also some authoritative non-fiction, such as Dunkirk. Using the name Max Hennessy, he wrote some very accomplished historical fiction and as Mark Hebden, the ‘Chief Inspector’ Pel novels which feature a quirky Burgundian policeman.
Harris was a sailor, an airman, a journalist, a travel courier, a cartoonist and a history teacher, who also managed to squeeze in over eighty books. A master of war and crime fiction, his enduring novels are versatile and entertaining.
Sacred To The Memory
of
Colby William Rollo Goff
1836–1854
Cornet, 19th Lancers
Only son of Maj-Gen Loftus Yorke Goff
of this Parish
Rest in Peace
He could already see it on his tombstone.
Drawing a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. The officers of the other regiments on either side of him, they had seen the dead at the Alma, a month before, and even if they’d spent most of that day in a melon field prodding at the fruit with their swords, at least they had some idea what to do.
Colby William Rollo Goff earnestly wished he did.
If nothing else, he felt, the other officers had at least gained enough experience to make sure they had food with them – something that had never crossed the youthful mind of Colby Goff. After all, he thought, it didn’t seem illogical to expect your superiors to give you something to eat before you started to die, and as his healthy eighteen-year-old stomach rumbled hollowly, he came to the gloomy conclusion that the one thing war taught you quickly was to allow for the absence of periods set aside in battle for meals.
The little knot of horsemen round the divisional general shifted, one of the horses wheeling abruptly as its owner heaved at the reins. The eyes of the riders were turned towards the ridge where the Commander-in-Chief and his staff waited, overlooking the valley.
Sitting with his few lancers, Colby swallowed nervously. Surely, he thought, everybody else must feel as worried as I do. They didn’t appear to, however, and since they weren’t staring at him, he could only assume he didn’t either. He glanced furtively at his trumpeter, Sparks, and his orderly, Trooper Ackroyd. Lances slung, they were staring down the valley with the same blank disinterest they’d have shown if they’d been watching the judging of the saddleback class in the pig section at a county show. Somewhere behind, a commotion broke out with cries of rage and the thud of hooves on ribs, as kicking and barging swept through the line, and Sergeant-Major Holstead, a small grizzled man with red hair, spurred into action to restore order, quite unruffled by what lay ahead, a hard-bitten old warrior with service in India who was unperturbed by anything except idle soldiers.
Colby wished he felt the same. His heart was thumping wildly, and he felt a desperate urge to empty his bladder. I always felt like this before a game at school, he thought wildly. Can battle be so very different? He drew a deep breath. Yes, by God, it could, he decided. Battles weren’t won with just a few black eyes.
The hills about him were curiously silent. Grey-green and forbidding, the heights to the north rose as craggy slopes where he could see men moving.
And
guns, he noted uneasily – big guns, their blunt snouts pointing, it seemed, straight at the last of the Goffs. To his right, the Causeway loomed, high, uneven and apparently empty, but he knew there were enemy soldiers there, because he’d seen them from the other side before crossing to this valley to the north.
He worked his jaw, settling the metal links of the chin strap of his lance cap more comfortably. Wriggling himself more firmly into the saddle, he glanced again at his men. Most of them, like himself, were from Yorkshire – because that was where the regiment did its recruiting – stony-faced, stony-headed men from the little farms, who’d been with horses most of their lives. Colby’s orderly, Trooper Ackroyd, edged his horse forward. He was a short, thickset man with a long face as empty as a cow pat. He sat bolt upright in his saddle, the steel butt of his lance in its bucket by his right foot. ‘You got everything you’ll need, sir?’ he asked.
Colby wondered. He’d hardly been in the army long enough to know what he did need and certainly nobody had bothered to teach him. England had been at peace so long and war had seemed so distant, well-trained troops grew sulky under constant repetition and two parades a week had seemed enough. Now, face to face with the enemy, he began to see that a little instruction of some sort might have been invaluable.
At least, he thought, he had the rudiments of sword drill. Always aim at the throat and hold the weapon rock-steady. On the Left Engage, watch what you did with it or you were likely to end up with an earless charger, and when dealing with infantry where you had to lean well over, make damned certain you didn’t lose your stirrup or you’d fall out of the saddle onto your head.
He smiled at the orderly. Tyas Ackroyd had been born and brought up on the Home Farm next to the house at Braxby where Colby himself had been born, and they had gone ratting together as boys, swum in the Brack in summer, tormented the village girls, and been chased by gamekeepers off other people’s land. His grandfather had ridden with Colby’s father in Vandeleur’s Brigade at Waterloo, handing over the job of looking after him when he had grown too old to his son, and then to his grandson. Ackroyd men had gone to war with the Goffs for about five generations now and, before Colby had left, the old man had told him gruffly to remember he was a Goff of Braxby and not to let his family down. ‘Mind you read the Book,’ he had said, ‘don’t get gambling, and watch out for them war-’orses. They’re fiercer than farm animals.’
‘Yes, Tyas–’ Colby smiled at the old man’s grandson – ‘My sword’s sharp, and I have my mother’s picture and the prayer book she gave me in my sabretache. The Lord will watch over me. What have you got?’
Ackroyd gave him a quick grin. ‘Rabbit’s foot, sir. They say they’re right effective.’
As he backed away, a heavy chestnut with a pale mane edged closer. Ambrose la Dell’s lance cap, which had never fitted properly as long as Colby had known him, jiggled over his nose with every shift of the horse. When the squadron had landed forty-eight hours before, its commanding captain had gone down with cholera even as he had set foot ashore and, because no other captain or senior lieutenant was prepared to suffer the discomfort of these alien Crimean uplands sooner than necessary, only another cornet could be found to hold Colby’s hand. Unfortunately, Brosy was equally wet behind the ears and, with Claude Cosgro, the squadron’s only experienced officer, down at the port emitting an indignant wail for help, they had been obliged to pool their knowledge and command the squadron as a committee of two, both hoping to God someone knowledgeable would arrive in time to take over.
Unlike Colby, who was spare and lithe and looked like a stable boy, Brosy was tall and plump, fair while Colby was dark, easy-going and lazy where Colby was quick-tempered and inclined to tear through life like an uncontrolled whirlwind.
He managed a nervous smile. ‘Looks as if we’ll be in action before long, Coll,’ he said.
‘Dare say.’ Colby was far less frightened of the weapons he was about to face than he was of Colonel Markham, his commanding officer, who would have been livid to the point of apoplexy if he’d allowed a cavalry action to take place without the regiment being represented. In addition to all of this, of course, there were two hundred years of stolid North Country soldiers breathing heavily down his neck, and if he’d let them down, all those other Goffs who lay straight and austere in their stony Yorkshire churchyards, would have set up such a clatter of old bones as they spun in their graves he’d have had to live with it in his ears for the rest of his life.
Aut Primus Aut Nullus
. There it was, the regimental title, on a little scroll beneath the eagle on Brosy’s lance cap which – typical of Brosy – was worn without its oilskin cover because he’d lost it somewhere en route.
The Best Or Nothing
. If we’re the best, Colby thought wildly, then, by God, they
had
got nothing.
