Читать книгу Royal Regiment - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 4

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The “senior officer present” rose from his seat at the top table of the Royal Artillery Mess, Woolwich, and said:

“Gentlemen, I give you the health of our new King, Edward the Eighth”.

As they, too, rose, the middle-aged man next to Major Rockingham exchanged his customary “God bless him” for a furtive “Gosh!”

Because to him—as to nearly all the other officers at those three mahogany tables—it seemed little less than sacrilege that anyone should dare, in this place of all places, thus to alter the immemorial wording of the loyal toast.

But Thomas Rockingham, lifting his glass to his lips, remembered that “The Hawk”—otherwise Colonel Sir Guy Wethered—had always been a law unto himself.

Hawk Wethered—whom the “Blue List”, as it is known in the Regiment, further wrote down a baronet, a member of the Distinguished Service Order, a possessor of the Military Cross, a graduate of Staff College, and a qualified interpreter in Arabic, Italian and Urdu—stood on for a moment.

Except for that startling streak of silver which swept away the high forehead, his hair was still jet-black. Beaky of thin nose, fierce of dark eye, he wore a six-inch bar of miniatures at the lapel of the short red mess jacket with the blue cuffs. The open red waistcoat revealed two pearls of a peculiar pink lustre clipping the glossy shirtfront. The overalls were even tighter than regulations demanded.

“Queer devil, more like an actor than a soldier”, thought Rockingham, as those dark eyes flashed one keen glance in his direction.

Then, with characteristic gestures, the Hawk drained his glass, planked it on the mahogany, wiped his moustache with his napkin, and sat down.

“What did you think of that?” asked Rockingham’s neighbour, as they also seated themselves.

But Major Rockingham only smiled.

The smile transfigured a face which always seemed a little too resolute, a little too serious, in repose.

“Good man”, mused the other. “Known him since he left the Shop. Do I know him, though? Does anybody?” And, waiting to light a cigarette from the battered silver case in his waistcoat pocket, he fell to considering the face again.

The vestige of a smile lingered in the pale blue eyes, which were slightly prominent under brows of a colour midway between brown and red. To this Rockingham owed his nickname of “Rusty”. The thick hair of the head matched the eyebrows. The broad forehead betrayed intelligence. The full, ever so slightly sensuous lips under the clipped moustache looked as though they could keep any secret.

“Exceptional sort of chap”, continued the thoughts of Rockingham’s neighbour, as he regarded that chin, formidable despite the cleft in it, and the rugged contours of the cheeks.

Then one of the waiters who had helped to draw the narrow linen cloths offered a silver cigar box; and Rusty said, “Have one with me, won’t you?”; and once more the smile transfigured his features, making the other think, “There I go again. Letting my imagination ran away with me. There never was a more typical gunner”, as he answered:

“Thanks, I don’t mind if I do”.