Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,20
for me. At every stage of this northward journey, I was increasingly preoccupied by the petty discomforts which anyone who has travelled by military train in India will recognise. Black horsehair is used as upholstery in these saloon carriages because it is easily cleaned and hygienic. Unfortunately, in that heat, it becomes a refined torture after a very little while. The firm stuffing gradually feels more like compressed bramble thorns, and its effects upon the body grow more acute with every passing mile.
I was not alone in my restless discomfort. The train to Lahore was far too crowded with our troops for anyone to have a carriage to himself. I found myself sharing with a captain and two lieutenants from a regiment I shall not for the moment name. The lieutenants answered to the names of “Jock” and “Frank.” Both had come aboard in mufti. Their regimental blazers and white flannels equipped them better for a picnic on the banks of the Thames than an encounter with Ayub Khan’s murderous Jezails. I should guess that they were no more than twenty-one years old: they could not have more than a couple of years service between them.
After my seven years spent walking the wards of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, the gap in our age and experience made them seem frivolous and vexatious. They were like excited schoolboys on a holiday. The uniformed captain, whom they called by his surname, Sellon, was a little older and far more sober. He glanced at me from time to time, as though suspicious of who I might be and what I had come for.
Sleep helps to pass the time but I was soon glad of conversation to take my mind off the horsehair padding. The lieutenants and I exchanged small talk. From the first, it was evident that I was not their type but they regarded me with friendly curiosity. They were going no further than Peshawar but knew a good deal about the regiments there. When they asked me the name of my unit, I said that I thought it would be the Berkshires.
“Jock” and “Frank” made grimaces and sounds of approval. Jock went so far as to shake me by the hand. The Berkshires, he assured me, were as fine bunch of fellows as ever lived. It would be “rather a lark” fighting alongside them.
“I came out here straight from Cambridge,” Jock added with an ingratiating grin. “I was only up for a year. I can’t say I did much work there and it seemed rather a waste of time. My father thought so as well—after all, the bills come pretty steep at Kings and he was footing them, poor old fellow. So here I am, as the poet says.”
Captain Sellon stared at these two without comment. They looked the sort of expensively educated young mutts whom Holmes once said could talk and could think but unfortunately could not do both at the same time. I thought it would do no harm to toss them a scrap of biography.
“I was posted out to the 109th Albion Fusiliers originally, then the Northumberlands, but it seems both are already suited.”
There was an exchange of looks between them, just as if I had made a bad joke. What on earth had I said? I waited for them to tell me. Jock and Sellon merely stared at me; but Frank, a rather slight youth with dark curly hair, smiled.
“Then I daresay you won’t mind a change to the Berkshires. What? I should think anybody would. Eh?”
They spoke as if we were all sharing a secret. I had better know the truth of it.
“I’m sure the Berkshires will prove a fine regiment.”
“Rather,” said fair-haired Jock. Captain Sellon now turned and stared out through the window as if to avoid discussing the matter. But his two lieutenants had not an ounce of discretion between them. They were plainly itching to impart some scandal to see how I would take it.
“Whereas the 109th …” I began.
Sellon turned from the window.
“What do you know about the 109th? The Albion Fusiliers?”
“Nothing, in so many words.”
Frank and Jock began to laugh, whether at my curiosity or stupidity I cannot say.
“If you have not heard,” said Sellon, without a trace of a smile, “you must be the only man from Mitchni to Mooltan who has not. Perhaps that is for the best.”
“Heard what?”
Jock could not quite resist the chance. He gave a chuckle.
“The subalterns’ court-martial in the 109th. That was a ripe one!”