Читать книгу Royal Regiment - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 28

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The fresh air—the brigade’s colonel and its adjutant had this in common, both preferred closed windows in winter-time—cooled Rockingham’s cheeks. But temper still seethed in him, though most of it was now directed against himself.

One had been a fool to approach Lampson. From a service point of view, the position he had taken up was impregnable. Morally, too, he had right on his side.

If only Godden weren’t such a good chap. If only one weren’t so sorry for him. One must tell him the truth, though, obvious from the last words spoken by Lampson. That he couldn’t go on in the army unless he gave up this woman.

Poor devil! He really wanted to re-engage. He, too, felt that soldiering was his mission. “Nothing like a married woman to play merry hell with a good soldier.” How right Patterson was. How right Cowley had been ...

Queer, that one should be leaning to Cowley’s ideas again. A fanatic if ever there’d been one. Soldiers living like priests, indeed. One’s favourite poet had known better. “A man must go to a woman, which women don’t understand.” And it was he who had sung, “White hands cling to the tightened rein”.

A pity Kipling should be dead. And King George. They had stood for something, those two ...

Damnation, there one’s mind went again, switching about like a crazy gun.

Still angry with himself, Rockingham arrived at officers’ stables. There he found Noakes, at gossip with his groom Gilchrist, who was soaping a new girth, and his dog.

“There are some letters in your quarter, sir”, said Noakes. “Shall I fetch them?”

“No. They can wait. You might saddle up the mare, Gilchrist. Put the hunting bridle on her, will you?”

Rosalie whickered as she was led out. She nuzzled at Rockingham’s tunic pocket for the sugar which he had forgotten. Gilchrist produced a piece of carrot. Patrick, obedient on his haunches, watched wise-eyed while his master mounted; waited for the word of command; followed at the mare’s heels—along the cinder track that led away from barracks, and on to the common.

Low clouds veiled the sun as Rusty Rockingham’s long legs pressed the bay to a canter. By the time he pulled up, a fine rain had begun to fall. He tightened the girth a hole; trotted on till he reached his favourite gallop—half a mile of smooth turf between gorse-clad hillocks.

There he pulled up again to watch the dragon which had excited Headworth’s derision. The vehicle, now hooded against the rain, its gun swaying behind, crawled to the skyline. Above, black under gray clouds, nine aeroplanes droned in formation.

Looking from earth to sky, from sky to earth, the commander of the Turban battery thought, “We used to say that war wasn’t a gentleman’s game any more, last time. What’ll it be like, next?” And, again, the prescience of another Armageddon impending haunted him. Till the stretch gallop blew it away.

“Can’t dwell on this business with Godden”, he decided as he rode back to barracks. “Must see him this evening, before he’s had time to burn his boats.”