Читать книгу The Letters of Charles Sorley - Charles Hamilton Sorley - Страница 6

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On Tuesday we went to Devizes Barracks for the oral examination. There were thirty of us and two brakes to take us—the drive is twelve miles. We started off at nine o’clock in uniform and O.T.C. greatcoats (most comfortable things), with Sergt-Major Barnes (wot we didn’t tip) and not (thank Heaven!) the Major to look after us. I got a pew next Barnes and I was sure of an interesting drive. We left the Bath Road at Beckhampton, near Avebury, about six miles from Marlborough, and the scenery, commonplace up till then, opened out and we were soon rolling over the wildest expanse of down I have ever seen. Then Sergt-Major found his true form. Two miles past Beckhampton he asked us to look round. Was there any sign of human habitation in sight? The day was misty and we could see nothing but downs and the road. On this spot, he told us, on this road, about 100 years ago, the Royal Mail had been attacked by a gang of highwaymen. They had killed the driver, made a thorough search of the mail-sacks, taken all that was valuable, and proceeded in the direction of Beckhampton. On the way they met a labourer of Devizes who had been to Beckhampton for some work and—presumably successful on his errand—was returning intoxicated. Him they stunned at a blow and carried back to the wrecks of the mail-cart and the dead driver. They put a pistol in his hand, and laid him unconscious beside the driver’s corpse: and they scattered over the country. Next day there were no letters in the West of England, and early goers along the Devizes road had brought information of a wrecked mail-coach, clear signs of a scuffle, stunned horses, a driver shot through the head, and his murderer beside him, stunned, with the fatal pistol. The evidence seemed conclusive—and the wretched labourer was condemned to death.

At this moment a tall and dark farmhouse loomed into sight: “That,” said Sergt-Major, “was once Devizes gaol, on that small hillock to the right were once the gallows.” Then he told us to look straight ahead. In front lay miles and miles, as it seemed, of downs: but right at the edge, on the very horizon, a statue of a man on a horse facing towards us. “It was on a misty December morning like this,” he went on, “when the man was had out to be hung: the usual crowd of people had assembled: and he was led up to the gallows. He was already standing there looking westwards, when suddenly he lifted up his voice and said, ‘I was born and have lived forty years in these parts, and have always seen the statue of one man on horseback; look westward, for to-day there are two.’ The crowd, the priest, the sheriff and the hangman looked to the west: there were two men on horseback facing towards them: then the mist thickened and the sight was blotted out. A short consultation followed; they decided the thing was a delusion: the wretch was strung up on the gallows: the crowd dispersed, and his corpse was left hanging in the mist.

“Half an hour later from a direction due westward, a breathless horseman arrived through the mist—now thickened to a fog—at Devizes gaol. In his hand he held a reprieve for Walter Leader, labourer of Devizes, wrongfully convicted of the murder of Henry Castles, driver of the Royal Mail. There had been a quarrel in the gang of highwaymen, one had turned king’s evidence at Bath, and a rider had been sent post-haste to Devizes over the downs with the news. They took the body down from the gallows, and under the only tree for two miles round by the side of the main road they buried him. And,” concluded Sergt-Major, “look to your lefts, gentlemen, please; there is his grave.” We looked to our left. There was one of those crooked trees—the kind we used to say were witches—by the side of the road breaking the monotony; underneath was a mound, six feet long, and a cross at the foot and the head.

Devizes Barracks are up on a hill, a mile this side of Devizes. Apparently we were late, so we dismounted as quickly as possible. The examination is divided into three parts—Company Drill, Tactical and Musketry; for each part the full is 100, and to pass one must get at least 50 in each subject and at least 180 in the whole. We were divided into three groups so that all three portions could proceed simultaneously. My lot was Musketry first, of which I was glad as lack of time has forced me to take it practically unseen. There was a horrible dark little rabbit-hutch, concealing a gawky subaltern with a rifle. We went there one after another alone, and an air of sanctity hung over the whole proceeding. I entered with fear and trembling. Twenty questions I was asked, and I looked sheepish and I said “Don’t know” to each one. Then he said, “Is there anything you do know?” and I gave him the two pieces of knowledge I had come armed with—the weight of a rifle and episodes in the life of a bullet from the time it leaves the breech till it hits its man. Then I saluted really smartly, and the gentleman gave me 60 out of a hundred. Company Drill came next which merely consisted in drilling a Company (as you might think) of most alarmingly smart regulars. For this I got 70 (every one got 70)—and then I went off to Tactical. Tactical was equally a farce. I was told to send out an advance-guard, lost my head, sent out a flank-guard, scored 70 per cent. I only pray that the examiners in the written exam. are as lenient.

I will not begin dilating on the lunch, first because it would show how greedy I am and secondly because I would never stop. I felt it doing me good all the way home.

After lunch we went over the barracks. I had thought that a Tommy’s life was one of comparative hardship. But at Devizes I was disillusioned. They are fed twice as well as we are at Marlborough—bacon every morning for breakfast, and eggs for tea and as much butter and jam as they like. Sergeant B. was speechless with indignation at the pampering they now get. When he was in the same barracks 20 years ago, he had existed for weeks on end on “skilly,” i.e., dry bread soaked with tea, for these two meals: if they wanted even butter they had to buy it for themselves; and now butter, jam, bacon and eggs at the State’s expense. Their dormitories are just like ours, only the beds fold up and they have to do their own dirty work. Though the mess-rooms smell of dirty plates, and the dormitories of beds that are never aired, they have two most magnificent billiard-rooms with full-sized tables, a well-filled library and reading-room, and a very up-to-date gymnasium, all, of course, since Sergt-Major’s time and all very extravagant. They have two soccer grounds—one quite level—and a bathing place in the canal. So I should not think they have much to complain of.

They were very interesting to watch—those Wiltshire Tommies: not one of them, I should say, above 5 ft. 8 in height, and precious few of them less than 40 round the chest: short, thick, sturdy fellows, fair-haired for the most part and red-faced and, when once parade was over, very merry but very shy.

We left the barracks about 2.30: only three people had been ploughed—they must have been bad. It was a very fine afternoon and a good drive home. I only wish they had not been so kind in marking me so that I might have tried again in the summer. I quite envy the three failures.