Highest Stakes (13 page)

  Failing to engage even the interest of the enemy, the British Army moved farther up the river to join the Austrian and Hanoverian regiments. Stair and his Pragmatic generals continued to vacillate and dither, failing still to agree on a single plan of action, forcing their respective troops into the mundane and restless routine of regimental life while the French set up camp on the opposite bank of the river,

patiently waiting to make their move.

  For Devington, the monotony of the routine gave him far too much time to ponder. He missed the rolling Yorkshire hills and the morning "breezes" on the heath, but most of all, his heart yearned for Charlotte.

  
I
write
from
our
regiment's
encampment
outside
the
city
of
Aschaffenburg in Franconia.

  
To my great disillusionment, my soldiering days thus far have dif
fered little from my days as the under groom at Heathstead Hall.

  
I rise each morning before dawn, awakened by the trump of reveille,
and push aside my four tent mates, who cram each night into our seven
by-nine-foot canvas shelter. We report for roll at five of the clock and
then stable call at five and a quarter, during which time all troopers feed
and groom their horses. At half past six, we receive a sparse breakfast.

  
Watering call ensues breakfast, which while garrisoned requires
carting hundreds of gallons of water to the picket lines, or if encamped,
marching the horses a full mile or more to the nearest watering place.

  
Drills and arms' practice take place from nine until eleven, with a
brief respite prior to our noon meal of beer, dark bread, and cheese. The
afternoon continues with troop reviews and mounted drill, followed by
dismounted drill to prepare for battle on foot. The four-thirty trump
signals water and stable call once more, with all troopers repeating the
morning care of our mounts.

  
Once the horses are settled for the evening, the men partake of the
evening meal, usually a watery soup with more bread, unless those
of us not assigned to patrol are free for a few hours of leisure. In this
happy event, we sup at a public house where the bill of fare barely
surpasses that of the encampment. The Germanic folk subsist in great
part on potatoes, cabbage, and all manner of greasy sausage. The beer,
however, is more than tolerable.

  
The evening tattoo at approximately eight of the clock signals the
barkeeps to close the taps and sends us back to our respective quarters
for bed checks.

  
As to our Germanic brothers-in-arms, with whom we are united in
name as one Pragmatic Army, I can assure you of a vastly different
reality. There is mounting tension and a decided lack of camaraderie
between the British and German troops who are daily more convinced
that we wage war with France solely to protect Hanover.

  
The only cement in the Pragmatic alliance appears to be our mutual
and absolute detestation of the French, which far exceeds our animosity
toward one another. Nonetheless, fear of French domination has not
been sufficient to cohere our generals on a battle plan.

  
But while finding ourselves in this sad state of limbo, I contrive to
busy myself with my duties as Corporal of the Horse. My responsibili
ties in this office, I confess, are ill-defined and varied. One day I am
the right hand of Captain Drake as he inspects his troops, and the next
I might be acting veterinary assistant to Major Winthrop, whose respect
I have finally managed to win.

  
'Tis nonetheless a post, for which I am exceedingly grateful, as it
has allowed me firsthand knowledge of all the regimental horses. The
most extraordinary of these is by far the Riding Master's personal, a
beauteous specimen, whose behavior has been so unruly and rancorous
that Winthrop was induced to conduct a physical examination, lest
there be some unknown injury that incites his passions.

  
Finding naught physically wrong, and having seen me manage the
stallion better than any of his other handlers, Winthrop asked if I
should care to try him under saddle in order to assess his back.

  
Relishing such a challenge after months of ceaseless marching, I
saddled the horse. After completing the deed (with no small difficulty!),
I was preparing to back him, when arrives Bainbridge demanding to
know why the gray was out of his stables!

  
At this juncture, I discovered our Riding Master to be a man of great
self-conceit and jealously possessive of his horses. With no allowance for
explanation, he snatched up the bridle reins and mounted, whereby the
animal commenced any number of capers.

  
Charlotte, although the man is highly regarded by the regiment as its
most superlative horseman, I can by no means concur but for his propen
sity to violence. Without compunction or hesitation, the major applied
whip and spur to the horse so zealously, I believed he was bent on
flogging the wickedness out of him. His actions only incited the full and
uninhibited passion of the irascible beast, who thrashed and tossed himself
about, bucking, plunging, and rearing in furious rebellion. Nonetheless,
he failed in all his attempts to unseat the major, who gave back in full
measure.

  
At length, Bainbridge succeeded in beating the horse into an angry,
resentful submission. Convinced that he alone had tamed the untam
able and mastered the unmasterable, the major's vanity was satisfied,
but I could see clearly in the gray's eyes that he had conceded only the
battle but not the war.

  
I am gratified to know that the horse's spirit remains unbroken.
Capricious and cunning as he is, he will undoubtedly invent many
schemes to oppose what is demanded of him by brute force. The major
does not comprehend that the key to governing such a one is to gain his
trust and respect by degrees, until he willingly comes to submit to his
master. No man has yet, or ever will, gain a point over a horse in any
but this manner. I am thankful to Jeffries for this wisdom.

  
I must now close, my dearest love, but know you are ever in my
thoughts.

  
Your Most Devoted,

  
R. D.

  Finishing his letter with a sigh, Devington laid down the quill upon the crate-table, folded the foolscap, sealed it with wax, and stuffed it into his left breast pocket. Rising from the camp chair, Devington turned to his captain. "I thank you for the use of your tent," he said. "I first feared I'd never have the leisure to write, but then when I did, I lacked the implements to do so."

  "I am happy to oblige, Devington, but if you are now finished with your correspondence, I say we locate Winthrop and quit this accursed compound. With His Majesty's arrival, there should be no dearth of entertainment in the town… or at least in the taverns."

  The Pragmatic Army's flagging spirits were greatly elevated by the arrival of King George, who assumed Supreme Command of his army. Sporting the gold sash of Hanover over his military uniform, he and his second son, the Duke of Cumberland, and their escort of Hanoverian Guards on their Hanoverian-bred horses, rode through the encampments and reviewed the troops.

  Revelry permeated the town and filled the taverns as men pressed shoulder to shoulder into the crowded taprooms where Austrians, British, and Hanoverians mixed company and cheered the arrival of His Britannic Majesty. As much beer spilled as flowed, and the bawdy ballads sung in indiscernible tongues were drowned out only by the raucous laughter.

  Pushing up to the bar, the three British cavalrymen squeezed in amongst a group of Hanoverians, who eyed the trio head to toe disparagingly. The most senior of the group, a captain, greeted them with a smile of overt disdain. Turning back to his compatriots, he said, "
Die Englisch
,
Sie glauben Sie Soldaten sind. Bah! Sie sind nur die
Schafe in Wolfe Kleidung!"

  In answer, the group broke into hearty guffaws, drained their tankards, and poured another round.

  Standing closest to the Hanoverian captain, Major Winthrop spoke in a low voice to his two countrymen. "Though I am no linguist, I have mastered the basics of High Dutch while in this accursed country. It is my belief that our Hanoverian comrades-in-arms have just referred to our English army as 'sheep in wolves' clothing.'"

  "Sheep?" Devington's hand went impulsively to his sword, a gesture not missed by either his friends or their antagonists, who abruptly ceased their chuckles.

  "We need not begin a war within this taproom, Devington. Pray rein in your temper and allow me to handle this," Drake answered coolly, breaking the mounting tension. Pasting on a smile of affability, he then turned to the offending officer.

  "So,
meine guten Kapitän
, you would presume to affront the very
English sheep
who have come to protect your inconsequential little electorate? I might ask you where were the brave Hanoverians whilst the English
sheep
mounted the hills of Killersbach to confront the French wolves?"

  "What do you English know of making land war?" the Hanoverian jeered, ignoring the question. "Your field marshal is an old man. Your troops want
disziplin,
and your
Kavallerie,
mounted on inferior nags, is a mockery."

  "Now he even dares insults our horses!" Devington cried. Drake shot him a quelling look.

  "Even your king acknowledges the inadequacy of the
Englisch
Kavallerie
and their horses. He brings from the Royal Stud at Celle the finest of Hanoverian mounts for himself, the duc, and his
Hanoverian Guard
."

  "Inadequate, you say? Then I suppose you would not hesitate to back your claim?" Drake replied with icy composure.

  "
Die Englisch
would drop
die Gauntlet, ja
?"

  "Just so,
meine freund
. Sadly, as dueling between officers is prohibited, I cannot defend the honor of my countrymen with my sword, but by horse is another matter. There is no man among you who can outride an English cavalryman."

  "So you think,
ja
?" He translated the British officer's remarks, and his compatriots laughed at the ludicrous idea that an Englishman might better a Hanoverian in any endeavor.

  Tamping down his rising temper, Drake responded with dead calm. "There is no doubt of it,
Herr Kapitän,
and I stand ready to back my claim. I challenge your best Hanoverian horse and rider to a contest of speed, strength, and stamina against our English finest."

  "A contest, you say?"

  "Indeed, a contest. I propose a bloody race."

"Mark my words, Captain, he won't like it."

  "I wouldn't be so hasty to judge, Devington. There is no love lost between our Field Marshal Stair and his Hanoverian counterparts. They have opposed his every move and completely hamstrung him this entire campaign. Furthermore, he is well aware that his British troops are as low on morale as we are on bread. As an old campaigner, he knows the danger this creates."