Drayson Alfred Wilks - The Young Dragoon: Every Day Life of a Soldier стр 8.

It was on the seventh day after leaving barracks. Thirty of us were billeted at one house, and the rest upon private houses, in consequence of there being but one public-house in the village. The landlord of this was a farmer and maltster; we had to sleep and stable our horses as best we could; indeed, many of the animals were picketed in the open fields, the men were turned into the malt offices to clean their appointments, etc. The malting season being over there was plenty of room for them to do this. On the day we marched in we were at dinner all together in a club room adjoining the house; a loud report was heard, which every one knew to be from a carbine, being much louder than from a common gun. Every cavalry soldier carries ten rounds of ball-cartridge in his pouch on the line of march; these pouches and cross-belts to which they were attached had been left in the places where we had been cleaning them.

On sallying forth in the direction of the report we found four or five boys, apparently from ten to fourteen years of age; each was armed with a carbine, and adorned with a cross-belt. They had stuck a piece of white paper on an apple-tree in the garden behind the house, and were firing away our ammunition at the target, no doubt calculating upon a fine afternoons sport. Every carbine was loaded (one with the cartridge the wrong end downwards), and when we arrived another youngster was just taking up a position to present and fire in addition to the one that had already let fly and missed his mark. Whither the ball stopped it was perhaps lucky that no one knew, as both horses, cattle, and people were moving about within range.

One of these ammunition pouches was found to belong to me, and with the rest of the owners of carbines and pouches, I was at once taken before the commanding officer, and we were all ordered to walk a couple of days each. One of the men whose duty it became to lead Restless, came in for treble the amount of punishment by his failing to keep my horse within bounds. On one of these days the route lay along the road that skirts the ruins of Kenilworth Castle. Across this road runs a wide brook, which has to be forded by travellers. Restless seriously objected to be led through this water, and tugged at the bridle to such an extent as to pull the man off his horse plump into the middle of the brook, the result being that both his own horse and Restless got loose, and were with difficulty caught. For this accident, the man was ordered to walk the remainder of the march to barracks. I well remember the scene that occurred on the arrival of the poor fellow in barracks after seven days walk.

This, said he, shall be the last days duty I will ever do in the th Hussars; not that I care a straw for the walking, as I can walk as well as any man in the regiment, but because I have been punished undeservedly by a man who is a deserter from another regiment, this was alluding to the sergeant who had reported him to the commanding officer for carelessness in letting the horse loose, although the poor fellow had stuck to his hold on the bridle of Restless, until actually pulled out of his seat. There was a dogged determination about David Mason (for that was his name, and a better soldier never threw his leg over a saddle) as he uttered these words, while sitting on the edge of his bed and stripping his worsted socks from his blistered and bleeding feet, having limped into the barrack-yard with one hand resting on the rear part of the baggage cart, about half an hour after the arrival of the detachment.

This is the last days duty I shall ever do in the th Hussars, he repeated to a lance-corporal who had heard a portion of his first ejaculation.

You had better make haste and get down to stables, said the corporal.

I was grooming my horse when David entered the stable, and he at once walked up to the sergeant and confronted him. Sergeant D , said he, you are a tyrant, a coward, and a deserter from the 52nd Light Infantry!

The sergeant trembled like an aspen leaf, and his face turned as pale as a sheet: turning to me and a comrade in the next stall, Take this man to the guard-room, and poor Mason was at once escorted to confinement.

They were both deserters: Mason from the 82nd foot, and the sergeant from the 52nd; but by some means or other, never explained to me, Mason knew the sergeant while the sergeant did not know Mason, although it was said that he had more than once hinted that the latter had the appearance of a foot soldier in some peculiarity which he probably better understood than any man in the regiment.

Both men had joined our regiment in fictitious names, but Mason had the advantage of knowing the sergeants real name, and, when taken before the colonel on the following day, he made a clean breast of it by telling the sergeants name and the date of his desertion, also stating that he was himself a deserter, having enlisted in our corps only two days from leaving his own, solely because he thought he should like to be a cavalry soldier better than serving in an infantry regiment.

The adjutant of the 52nd was communicated with at once, and Masons story found to be correct. The sergeant was put under arrest, until an escort arrived from his own regiment to take him to head-quarters, where he was tried by court-martial and flogged. Mason also left our corps under an escort of the 82nd sent to fetch him; and I afterwards heard that, although he was tried by court-martial, he got off with a light punishment.

Chapter Seven

Some strange things occur during a soldiers time of service, many incidents and occurrences which are thought nothing of by the men themselves, but are nevertheless interesting to civilians. To these little incidents, such as I can remember, I shall confine my story, in the hope that the narration of them will prove more interesting to the general reader than the dry detail of a soldiers duty and his manner of performing it.

A comrade of mine was on sentry in Hounslow barracks from eleven to one oclock one dark and very wet night in the depth of winter, at a post where the orders were that no person was to pass after nightfall. Willie Sherlock was his name, an Irish lad, and, if I remember right, he was from Galway. He had been at sea as a mere boy, and enlisted in our regiment when about nineteen. From his general smartness at drill and exceedingly good-tempered disposition he was a universal favourite. The post where Willie was placed on sentry commanded the approach to a path that led to some small cabins in the rear of the barracks, but out of its boundaries. These were inhabited by the hangers-on of the regiment (the locality is well known to those of my military readers who have ever been so unfortunate as to be stationed at Hounslow). The commanding-officer determined to put a stop to the egress and ingress of certain very fast non-commissioned officers, who, avoiding the front gate, stole out after watch-setting to these cabins for the purpose of playing cards and indulging in various other objectionable practices. We had at that time an uncommonly strict regimental sergeant-major, a regular tickler, who would confine a man in the guard-room for a mere twist of the eye in the wrong direction when on parade.

This man was one of the most frequent visitors to the huts, and on the night Willie Sherlock was on duty he was making his way stealthily past the sentry-box, that stood between the riding-school and the end of one wing of the barracks. Who comes there? sang out Willie; no answer was returned. Who comes there? again he challenged without receiving a reply. Who comes there? again repeated Willie, but still he received no answer.