Nothing but good horses, with plenty of bone and substance, ridden at a very rapid gallop by determined men, can break up a solid square of infantry composed of good men well drilled in the use of the bayonet. Such squares formed by our own men in the face of the best cavalry that could be brought to bear against them have never yet been broken; but, on the other hand, our cavalry have never been known to fail in breaking up solid squares of our enemies’ infantry. A reference to the history of any of our great battles will be sufficient to confirm this statement.

A battle between two regiments or brigades of cavalry is, however, a species of fighting in which our own dragoons excel over every other mounted troops that ever were, or in my opinion, ever will be, opposed to them in action. They are most unnecessarily encumbered with a heavy, unwieldy firearm (the carbine), when a neat and exceedingly effective weapon – a repeating pistol, or revolver – could be loaded with five rounds of ball-cartridge before going into action, and when fairly engaged and surrounded with enemies on every side, the revolver could be drawn from a holster-pipe, and every round it contained fired at such close quarters as to render it a matter of certainty that a man would be killed at every shot.

As an illustration of the value of this weapon, I may state that the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars (one of the regiments engaged in the Light Cavalry charge at Balaclava) had fifty of these revolvers served out to them before embarking for India to assist in quelling the Mutiny in 1858. Soon after their arrival, they were called into action at Gwalior, where they charged the rebels, and in a few minutes the latter were put to flight, leaving upwards of one hundred dead on the field. On examining the bodies, it was found that, with one or two exceptions, they had all been killed by the men armed with revolvers, who composed the front rank. Now, if the leading squadron had simply been armed with a carbine and sabre, the manner in which the majority of our cavalry regiments (except lancers) are armed, the odds are that not a man of the enemy would have been killed, inasmuch as the rebels would have fled before our troops had been near enough to use the sabre.

The carbine, by its great weight, adds materially to the load which the horse has to carry in long and forced marches. Its weight and length also render it a cumbersome and awkward weapon to load and fire in close action; and the continual plunging, unsteady movements of the horse make it a pure matter of chance whether the soldier can take a correct aim so as to hit an enemy at any range. Then, again, it is much in the way of the sword-arm in cutting to the right, and the manner in which it is attached to the saddle is at all times extremely dangerous to the soldier when mounting in a hurry, or if, when a horse is hit or killed in action (a thing of very frequent occurrence), the animal should fall on his off (right) side, the soldier’s thigh being wedged, as it were, between the stock of the carbine crosswise, the man’s thigh is snapped like a twig, and he is therefore incapable of releasing himself.

After the famous charge at Balaclava some noise was made about the inefficiency of the carbine, and the necessity of equipping our dragoons with a better weapon; but it is very difficult to introduce such a change into the British army.

Corporal Shaw, the life-guardsman, threw his carbine away on the field of Waterloo, and trusted to his sabre, with which he killed eleven men. In the face of the improved equipment of foreign cavalry, it is to be hoped that our dragoons will not be left with this unwieldy, cumbersome, and most useless weapon in future campaigns.

Further reference to this subject, together with my own experience on active service, must be reserved for the concluding chapters of my story. For the present, it will be my especial business to endeavour to amuse my readers with the continuous events and other matters connected with my term of service at home.

Chapter Eighteen

Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame
Forgather’d ance upon a time.

During our stay in the Staffordshire Potteries we enlisted three recruits. One of these had been a dealer in all kinds of dogs, and, according to his own admission, sometimes a stealer of canine property; but dog-stealing was at that time not considered a felony, nor indeed was it a punishable offence at all, so far as I remember. At the time he enlisted he had in his possession a very small black-and-tan terrier, of not more than two or three pounds weight. This little animal he called Prim, and was very particular to stipulate, before he enlisted, that Prim should accompany him to barracks. “Perhaps,” he said, “the colonel of the regiment, or some of the officers, might take a fancy to it and give me a deal of money for it, especially when they hear its history.” This was said in the stable-yard of the Stork Hotel, Dudley, one morning after a party of us had returned from night patrol, the rioters being at that time very troublesome, prowling about the country at all hours, frightening the inhabitants out of their wits.

We were very anxious to hear the history of Prim, the little terrier, and after cleaning our kit and horses, the recruit (a very intelligent fellow for his class, about eighteen years of age) related the following story, while sitting on a truss of hay with Prim on his knee: —

“This here little dog once belonged to a gemman who lived at Hands worth, just outside of Brummagem. This gemman was so well known among the dog-fanciers at Brummagem, that none on ’em would ever steal any of his dogs, and he had lots on ’em, but this was the best of the whole bilin’. Well, not far from where the gemman lived there was a sort of farmer, wot sold milk and kept cows. This farmer had a big, savage bulldog, wot he had bought from a butcher in Brummagem; the dog’s name was Turk. The gemman who owned Prim had his house and garden fenced off from the road with boarding about seven feet high, and in this boarding, near the bottom, was a hole just large enough for the fowls to come through on to the road, whenever they was inclined for to do. Well, Prim was in and out through this here hole quite as often as the fowls. It was just the thing for him; he used for to rush out and snap at any big dog that might be passing, and when the big dogs turned round upon him, the impudent little joker would dart through the hole, and further insult the others by barking at them, knowing very well that they could not follow him; so the big dogs used to trot off, vowing all sorts of vengeance, if ever they got him within reach of their jaws.

“Turk was a very savage dog, but was always upon very good terms with Prim; ’cos why? Prim used for to bring meat and bones from his master’s kitchen every day and give them to Turk through the hole. The two dogs were often seen at play together in the road, for Turk was too big to get through to Prim in the garden. But Turk was always very cross, and whenever he thought Prim was going too far with his marlocks, he would give the little dog a nip and a shake to keep him civil; but Prim never bore no malice, and never forgot to bring Turk a good meal whenever he found the cook off her guard in the kitchen.

“This state o’ things, however, was too bright to last. The older Turk got, the more crusty and ill-tempered he became. He actually growled and snapped at Prim one day because the little un brought him a piece of beef with too much bone. Still Prim’s friendship was as true as ever. One day last summer, Turk set off as usual to visit his friend, who was generally somewhere handy about the garden. When Turk arrived at the hole in the fence, he put his head down to the opening, and not seeing Prim, he barked several times to let the little un know that he was waiting on him coming with the dinner; but Prim was too busy looking out for a chance to pick up something nice, so he took no notice of Turk’s angry yelp. At last Turk thought he would lie down in the warm sun just by the hole. He became sleepy, and lazily opened and shut first one eye and then the other; then he licked his paws, and brushed a fly off his nose, wondered how long Prim would be with his dinner, gradually began to doze, let his head down between his paws, and fell asleep. Turk had only slept a few minutes before Prim made his appearance at the hole, with about half a shoulder of cooked mutton. Seeing Turk asleep, he gently laid down the meat, and thought he would play a trick upon him, although the old un had often warned him not to take liberties, as his temper was not to be trusted. The little un, however, did not think of the consequences, and quickly seizing Turk’s stumpy tail between his teeth, he soon pulled the old dog out of his dreams. Turk jumped up, rolled his eyes about fiercely, while every hair on his back stood on end, and savagely turned to seize the little un. But Prim was too nimble for him; he jumped through the hole in the fence, and was safe. Peering his little impudent-looking head through the opening, he gave two or three short, sharp yelps, as if making game of Turk, who regarded him with that quiet, savage look peculiar to a bulldog, as much as to say, ‘Every dog has his day; wait till I catch you.’ But, angry though he was, he did not leave until he had finished the meal Prim had so kindly brought him.

“Turk’s savage nature now began to show itself. A bulldog, like some human creatures, never forgives an injury. His rage was terrible; his mouth foamed, his eyes grew red as blood, and his teeth grated as if they were already chewing up little Prim’s bones.

“An old bulldog is always a very sensible-looking animal, and as he stood looking at Prim through the hole in the fence, he seemed to be saying to himself as well as he was able, ‘From this day forth I am your deadly foe; revenge shall be my only thoughts by day and my dreams by night. Beware of the future; I will never rest until my teeth are buried in your throat. I hate you and the whole race of dogs, and my temper is so bad that I hate myself and every living thing.’ Turk then cantered off home. On his way he had to pass an old man breaking stones by the side of the road. Between this man and Turk there existed a deadly feud, which had arisen from Turk having once stolen the poor man’s dinner, bag and all. Up to this period Turk had crept through the hedge and trotted along the field, until fairly past the spot where the man was at work, when he would come through the hedge again and trot along until he came to his meeting-place with Prim. Now, on this particular day, Turk was determined not to go out of his way, and if the man should throw a stone at him, or in any way interfere with him, he would attack him and worry him if possible. On he trotted up the middle of the road until he reached a point where the old man caught a sight of him. Rising quickly from his seat on the stone-heap, hammer in hand, he placed himself in the middle of the road, determined to dispute Turk’s passage.

“‘Come on!’ said the old man, ‘and with this hammer,’ (flourishing it over his head) ‘I will be thy butcher,’ said he. Still Turk trotted on, apparently undismayed, until within a few yards of the stonebreaker, who lost his temper and threw the hammer with all his force at the head of Turk. The bulldog jumped aside and avoided the murderous weapon, then, with a short, sharp growl, he dashed at the old man, who turned round and stooped towards the stone-heap for one to throw at the dog. Turk instantly took advantage of the man’s position by seizing hold of his breeches, which he tore to shreds, and then, as if satisfied with the assault, he cantered up the lane and crept into his kennel to meditate upon his plan of revenge upon poor little Prim. How was he to get square with the terrier for biting his tail? Plan after plan was turned over in his mind as he lay with his head between his paws just outside the kennel, his upper lip curled up, and showing a formidable set of snow-white teeth. He hated even the flies as they dropped on his nose, and crawled around his bleary-looking eyes, bloodshot with rage. At last he thought of a plan. True, it would not be a very agreeable one for himself, but what of that? He was a thorough-bred bulldog, and nothing should stand between him and his plan of revenge.

“Hitherto Turk’s appetite had been good; he had never been known to desert a bone until it was as bare and as shiny as his own teeth. He gradually began to leave off his inroads upon the farmer’s kitchen, and the wife thought he must in consequence be sick. In vain he was tempted with the choicest bits, raw and cooked; he gazed at them with a longing look, and even condescended to snuff in their savoury odours, but that was all. One bite sufficed for his breakfast, two or three for his dinner, and be retired into the farthest end of his kennel supperless.

“A Brummagem dog-fancier was sent for, and notwithstanding Turk’s determined opposition, some medicine was forced down his throat, which, it was said, would give him an appetite as good as a famished gorilla in about a couple of days. But the two days passed without restoring his appetite; he grew thinner and thinner, and the farmer at last gave him up as incurable, assigning as his reason that he must be in a ‘dog consumption.’

“Shortly after this unaccountable disease had set in, it had been noticed that, the animal quitted his kennel every night as it was growing dark, and trotted down the road; but no one knew what these twilight expeditions were undertaken for. But the plot was drawing to a head. One evening he departed, as usual, down the road. His tortures were about to end, and his long fast be followed by a feast. Nearing the well-known garden where he had so often met Prim, his movements became curious. He moved like a ghost, and stopped to listen, but nothing was stirring. Finally he reached the opening in the fence; he pushed his head stealthily through the hole, his neck followed his head, his body followed his neck, his tail followed his body, and now Turk was fairly in the garden, where he had never been before. Being satisfied with this experiment (which had been repeatedly made since he had brought his plan of fasting into operation, but never successfully until this occasion) he returned to the road and began to bark. In a few moments an answering yelp was heard – Prim was hastening to his doom. Suddenly his little head was popped out of the opening of the fence. A sharp growl escaped Turk – he was too eager for his revenge; and Prim, instead of coming through the hole on to the road (where Turk had often tried to coax him without effect), gave a defiant ‘wow, wow, wow,’ and was making his way back to his kennel, as much as to say, ‘I can’t accommodate you to-night.’ Quick as lightning, Turk darted towards the hole. At the same instant, a loud report was heard; the figure of a man appeared upon the scene. It was the enraged stonebreaker. Turk rolled over, mortally wounded by a shot from an old blunderbuss. ‘Ha! ha! you would steal my dinner, would you, and then rip a good pair of corduroy breeches off my legs all to pieces, would you?’ said the old man, giving him a kick over the ribs. Turk made answer by one prolonged howl of disappointment, pain, and despair, which grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased altogether, and he died the victim of his own selfish and revengeful disposition. By the timely arrival and interposition of the stonebreaker the life of Prim was saved, but he never appeared happy afterwards, probably from the fear of encountering Turk and paying with his life the consequences of his harmless joke.”

I have endeavoured as far as I could to render the recruit’s dog-story as it was given, with as little alteration as possible. When finished, we asked him how he became possessed of Prim? His answer was that he had exchanged a small French poodle with the gentleman for the little hero of the tale. Prim was allowed to accompany the recruit to head-quarters; he lived some years in the regiment, and finally got worried through venturing too near a large monkey kept chained behind the stables, around whom he was accustomed to dance and make fun of him, much in the same manner as he had done with Turk and the large dogs who passed his old master’s residence at Handsworth.

Chapter Nineteen

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodjer’s pride;
The sodjer’s wealth is honour.
The brave, poor sodjer ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay
In day and hour o’ danger.

Burns.

As thousands of my readers have never seen the camps at Aldershot or the Curragh, a slight sketch of each of these great military stations will, no doubt, be interesting. It has never been my lot to be quartered at either place, therefore I am unable to enter into details as regards the extent of accommodation. I believe, however, that upwards of twenty thousand men of all arms are frequently concentrated at Aldershot, the object of which appears to be the thorough training of troops for foreign service. The authorities in this, as well as many other matters connected with the War Department, display a lamentable degree of ignorance. When first the camp at Aldershot was instituted, the greater part of the men were encamped in huts built of deal and roofed with felt, and some few regiments were under canvas. Gradually the accommodation was extended, until at the present time there are numerous ranges of brick buildings erected on quite a model plan, and superior as examples of barrack architecture to anything in Europe. These are called the “permanent barracks;” the cavalry quarters and stabling, with two spacious riding-schools and other necessary buildings, such as cook-houses, saddlers’, armourers’, shoemakers’, and tailors’ shops, all being separated some distance from the infantry barracks.

Very many infantry regiments and several brigades of artillery, together with one regiment of cavalry and a battalion of the Rifle Brigade, were in huts when I visited the camp in April, 1860. It is the ridiculous system of picketing horses in the open air to which I allude as displaying a great amount of ignorance on the part of the authorities of the War Department. The system entails a great and very unnecessary loss to the country annually. When troop-horses have been used to warm stables – many of them for years – they are certain to take cold when picketed in the open air. Inflammation, influenza, greasy heels, and that dreadful disease, glanders, are almost sure to break out, and in time extend their effects to other regiments who come in contact with them or their quarters. If young horses, on being purchased from their breeders, were never permitted to enter a stable, no harm would come of the system; but moving horses from warm stables to the open air, in such an exposed situation as Aldershot, can only have a parallel in a gardener transplanting his choicest hot-house plants into the open air during the rigours of a severe winter.

Aldershot, in the county of Hants, is about fifty miles from London, on the South-Western Railway. The camp is fourteen miles in circumference, and is completely surrounded by piquets (soldier-police-men), mounted and on foot; so that if any poor, discontented wight makes an attempt to desert, it is a guinea to a gooseberry in favour of his being caught, and walked back under escort to camp. When I alighted at Farnborough Station my eye at once rested upon the fine bronzed countenance of Sergeant McGuinness, of the 10th Hussars (one of the Kertch heroes), who was at that period provost-sergeant in charge of a piquet always on duty between Farnborough and the camp, a distance of three miles. No ticket is allowed to be issued at the Farnborough or other stations to soldiers until the provost-sergeants have inspected the “pass,” or “furlough,” which they ought to have duly signed by the captain of their troop or company.

As an instance of the want of discretion before spoken of, in reference to the unnecessary exposure to the weather of men and horses, I may state, that while I was visiting the camp, the 40th Regiment and a few companies of the 41st Regiment of infantry arrived, having come direct from the West Indies, where they had been stationed many years. I was at the railway-station when they were disgorged from the special train, in all about 1000 men, besides women and children. The sick, some partially blind, others lame, and many suffering from extreme weakness, were assisted into the ambulances sent from the camp to convey them from the station to the hospital. The main body looked sadly emaciated, and in want of warmer and more comfortable quarters than are to be found at Aldershot. I have seen thousands upon thousands of soldiers embarked and disembarked, many with more than a chance of certain death staring them in the face, but none with such miserable-looking countenances as these poor men. It was a cold, showery day for the time of year, and they were accompanied by many women and children, who had to toil through to camp on foot as best they could; some with infants at the breast, and others toddling and fretting at their side. Why a few ambulances were not sent down from the camp to convey these women and children to their quarters, Lieutenant-General Knollys (then in command of the troops at Aldershot) can best answer.

It is, however, impossible not to ask why soldiers, calling themselves men, should marry women to such misery as this? And why do women ever marry soldiers at all? The Legislature ought either to prohibit the marriage of soldiers, or treat their wives as women, and not worse than dogs.

It was curious to see the number of parrots and birds of beautiful plumage, together with monkeys and goats, the men had brought with them from the West Indies. I noticed a soldier carrying one of the latter, which was lame, across his shoulders; I also noticed several pure-bred Arab horses, especially two noble-looking greys of high caste, with flowing manes and tails, and showing a perfection of symmetry such as I very seldom see in Arab horses imported into this country. Those of the officers who had wives assisted them to cabs, and then took their own places in the ranks; the colonels mounted their Arab chargers, and “Forty-ninth, fall in! Forty-first, fall in! Attention! Right form four deep! Quick march!” the columns stepped off with the left foot, and commenced their measured tramp to the music, which sounded as a mockery to the horde of weary women and children toiling in their rear, and who were soon left far behind.

The road from Farnborough station to the camp is pleasant enough in fine weather to those who are light-hearted and free, but it is miserable at any time, with nothing but more, misery at the end of the journey, to the unfortunate individuals I have described. I mounted the box of an omnibus which meets every train, and we trundled merrily away along the sandy lane, bounded on each side for a part of the way by stately firs. The ’bus stops a few minutes at the “Queen’s Hotel,” a temporary building of iron and glass, situate on the edge of what is called the north camp, and on an eminence overlooking the south camp in the far distance. To the right, almost as far as the eye can reach, is a barren desert, with only here and there a patch of stunted heather; and, although the showers have been heavy, I notice a dense cloud of black dust, moving now here, now there. Hark! I hear borne on the wind that well-known trumpet-sound, “Halt!” and when the dust (which has been trodden up by the horses’ feet) has partially cleared away, I can perceive the gay pennons of that time, newly-raised corps, the 5th Royal Irish Lancers. Lower down in the valley are the 18th Royal Irish Hussars, another regiment raised since the close of the Crimean campaign; these, at the time I write, are about embarking for India. The old time-honoured “Green Horse,” the 5th Dragoon Guards, are with them at field-drill, and all are in a high state of efficiency. I saw them march to their quarters an hour afterwards all begrimed with dust, which made them appear as black as sweeps, the whites of their eyes rolling beneath their shaggy eyebrows, like those of the inhabitants of an uncivilised region, more than British dragoons.

The first range of huts that met my eye after passing the Queen’s Hotel was occupied by a battalion of the Rifle Brigade – a fine, well-made class of men, of more than ordinary intelligence: these were at drill, all on the run (double) on the wide sandy plain in front of their huts. In the rear of these huts, and nearer to the north camp railway-station (on the South Eastern line), are a couple of squadrons of the 16th Lancers not long arrived from York, the men in huts, and the horses picketed in sand-pits; and farther on still I could distinguish a party of foot guards, attired in their white flannel jackets, at rifle practice. Lower down, on our way to the south camp and permanent barracks, is the canal with its pontoon bridge, the connecting link between the north and south camps. Away the omnibus trundles along the Farnham road, leaving the aforesaid encampments on our left, until it reaches the Club-house, for the use of officers only, and situate in a fine space of pleasure-ground: it is a prettily designed structure of wood, iron, and glass, painted green and white. Opposite the Club-house we diverge from the main road, and enter the precincts of the south camp, and pass by the innumerable huts, which would be black and sombre enough but for the scarlet uniforms of their inmates, hung here and there while being brushed and pipeclayed, which helps to relieve the everlasting blackness of their asphalte-bedaubed roofs and sides.

The first regiment I noticed was the 21st Light Infantry: a smart, well-disciplined corps it is too, hardy-looking, well-built fellows, with plenty of bone and muscle. They wear white facings on their jackets, and have white plumes nodding in their ugly-looking shakos. Passing the 11th regiment, wearing green facings, and the 12th, not long arrived from Australia, where I was told they lost many men, who deserted to the gold diggings, I came to the lines of a militia regiment, their uniform fitting them like sentry-boxes, their forage-caps placed on their heads like inverted quartern measures, and their heads sticking out of their stiff leathern stocks like a cod-fish boiling in a kettle with the head upwards. Why do the militia wear leathern stocks, especially in hot weather?

I have now arrived on the crest of the hill overlooking the south camp, situate in a valley; and travelling on its ridge I can see, far away to my left, the stables of the Royal Horse Artillery. These are constructed of heather, hazel-sticks, straw, and furze; and though in a very exposed situation, they are tolerably warm – a sort of medium temperature between brick-built stables and the open air. These stables have all been burnt down and many horses destroyed since I was at Aldershot. A large open space in front of the stables was covered with Armstrong guns, at which some recruits were at practice. Farther away still is the commissariat – a pile of ugly-looking buildings, full of prime ox-beef, living and slaughtered, ready for the cook-houses, which are here fitted with improved patented apparatus that will bake, boil, or stew with equal facility. Not the least prominent object on the crest of the hill, in the centre of the camp, and hanging on a sort of gibbet-post, is a very large bell, fought for, won, and transported from Sebastopol. Here I have a full view of the permanent barracks in the valley below, together with a range of little shops – butchers’, bakers’, shoemakers’, greengrocers’, outfitters’, jewellers’, public-houses, etc, etc. The first building on my right, after descending the bill, was once a workhouse – it is now an hospital for sick soldiers; and those poor fellows who were able were taking exercise outside its walls. Farther on still I find myself fairly in the middle of the camp, and have little more to say in reference to Aldershot, except that it is the only encampment or station of the British army where the Queen witnesses an occasional review of her troops.

There is one very objectionable matter in connexion with these royal reviews, which is, that her Majesty – known to be so kind and considerate to all persons with whom she comes in contact – invariably chooses the middle of the day at the hottest period of the year to order a field-day in review order, on which occasion it not unfrequently happens that more than one poor fellow is sun-struck, dies, or loses his reason. There is a house or pavilion built and expressly fitted up for the royal family, and the Queen would be far more popular with her army if she would remain all night at the camp, and order the review to take place from four to seven in the morning. As matters now are conducted, the sovereign is by no means welcome by either soldiers or officers at Aldershot; and the sooner the absurd practice of drilling soldiers in the middle of a hot summer’s day is dispensed with, the better will it be for the health, the contentment, and the discipline of the army. The welfare of the army should always be the first consideration of the sovereign and the advisers of the Crown.

The camp at the Curragh is conducted much on the same principle as the camp at Aldershot. It is situate on a vast plain between Newbridge and Kildare, about thirty miles from Dublin, and convenient to the railway-stations at each of the above places. The Curragh is to Ireland what Newmarket is to England – the head-quarters or metropolis of horse-racing and training. There are four race meetings a year at this place – in April, June, September, and October; but they create little interest as compared to former years, when the Marquis of Waterford, Messrs Irwin, Watts, and others of the old Irish school were alive. Unlike the dusty, bleak, and barren desert of Aldershot, the Curragh, all around the camp, is composed of the most beautiful turf, kept short by being eaten by vast flocks of sheep.