Soldier of the Queen Read Free

enough to have been expelled for tossing a bullying master into the river, there’d been more than one hurried scuffle in the barn with the daughter of a local farmer before he’d set eyes on Georgy Markham’s slender whiteness.
    He wrenched his thoughts back yet again with a conscious effort. I wish they’d get started, he thought. I wish it were over. I wish the whole bloody war was over so I could go back home, and prance around in front of Georgy, a rough, horse-smelly cavalryman hot from action.
    ‘Hello!’ Brosy la Dell was staring towards the ridge again as a galloper hurtled down the last slopes from the Ridge and drew rein alongside the divisional commander. ‘Here comes the message from the high altar. That means something will happen. Thank God the Heavy Brigade won’t have the day to themselves.’
    He glanced behind him. The Heavy Brigade, drawn up like the Light Brigade, waiting for orders, had already crashed into action once that morning in an entirely successful affair which had come off more than anything because of the Russian cavalry’s hesitancy.
    ‘It’s Nolan,’ Colby said. ‘I expect that means he’ll try to run the affair. He’s been telling everybody he knows more about it than the general ever since he came out here.’
    Brosy grinned. ‘And here comes the infantry at last,’ he said. ‘It looks as though we’ll get moving now.’
    He gestured at a column of red-coated men winding down the slopes, the sun glinting on their white belts and accoutrements and catching the tips of their bayonets. Colby wasn’t listening. He was watching the group of staff officers, with their plumes and bicorne hats, clustered round Nolan, who was pointing angrily down the slope in front of them.
    ‘The fathead’s pointing down the valley,’ he said, startled. ‘We can’t be going that way, surely! There’s nothing for us down there!’
    But Nolan was still gesturing furiously. At the bottom of the valley a battery of Russian guns was drawn up facing them, backed by a mass of horsemen. On their left on the heights were more troops and guns and, though they couldn’t see them, they knew full well there were more on the Causeway.
    ‘It’s more than a mile, too!’ Brosy’s voice became almost falsetto with alarm. ‘The man’s off his chump!’
    There was a stir among the staff officers then Colby heard the colonel of the 8th Hussars, who had just appeared, reprimanding his men for smoking in the presence of the enemy. He glanced round uncertainly. Several men in the little knot of the 19th had clay pipes in their mouths.
    ‘Better get those pipes out,’ Brosy said, heaving at his reins. ‘Sergeant-Major Holstead!’
    ‘Leave ’em, leave ’em,’ Colby snapped. ‘They might be dead soon. If it makes dying easier, then for God’s sake let ’em smoke.’
    ‘Won’t someone complain?’
    ‘I’m in command here!’ Colby spoke sharply, suddenly sure of himself. His father had always taught him that the man who ran the circus held the whip.
    Brosy stared at him, but he didn’t argue and waved Sergeant-Major Holstead away as he cantered up and began to do elaborate things with his sabre in salute.
    The staff-officers seemed to be arguing even more furiously now. The divisional commander was looking bewildered and Colby saw Nolan point down the valley again.
    ‘He’s got it wrong, surely to God,’ Brosy said.
    Colby didn’t answer. His mouth was as dry as if it were filled with ashes and he tried to imagine what it would be like to be dead. Heaven, he thought, with all those angels floating about singing with upraised eyes! It seemed a boring prospect, but the idea of darkness, which was the only alternative, seemed even worse.
    Perhaps it would be Brosy who would be killed, he thought, feeling better. Then even that thought troubled him. Brosy and he had been at school together, smoking, drinking, swearing and avoiding work whenever possible. They had spent holidays together,