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THE PICCANNINY.

A FALSE impression had at one time prevailed as to what the meaning of a ProvostMarshal was. His raison d'être had not been understood. He had been pictured as a sinister figure fortified with rope to hang marauders, destitute of the milk of human kindness, and insensible to every feeling of remorse. Nor had the Column-Commander at the outset been wholly uninfluenced by this mistaken view: he had, however, at an early stage of the campaign been undeceived by one of those touches of nature which even within an army make the whole world kin.

His battery formed part of a force of all arms pushing the remnants of the burgher host into the uplands of the Eastern Transvaal, and one day he was ordered to ride on and select positions for his guns to guard the space which was to be the camping-ground. The rattle of musketry sounded in front, and in due course he found that the mounted troops had wrested some koppies dominating the intended halting-place out of the keeping of the enemy. A group of buildings hard by the spot chosen for the force to pass the night made a conspicuous feature in the the broken landscape. He was cantering forward intent upon his mission, when to his profound astonishment and speechless indignation he came upon one of his own gunners stand

ing by the side of the road. The gunner held a sorry pony by a dilapidated bridle. The pony bore itself as though it had just carried the sole survivor of an army into Jellalabad, and it was obviously in an advanced stage of physical and moral decay.

The rencontre was so unexpected that the gunner actually forgot himself so far as to salute, a practice which had come to be more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

But the man was too much under the influence of harrowing experiences just undergone, to proffer apologies or even to express himself in ornate phrase attuned to a commanding officer's ear. "Sir!" said he emphatically, as he indicated the buildings with a dramatic flourish of the arm, "I risked my life to be first man in that store. But the Provost - Marshal got in before me, and he's looted everything. everything. Everything, sir, except the kerosene!"

When, therefore, the Piccanniny, during the second phase of the protracted war, joined the column and was nominated Provost - Marshal because nobody could think of any other post for him to fill, the ColumnCommander, whose convictions. had been unsettled by the incident above narrated, forbore from explanations to the nominee. Convinced that military efficiency is inseparably bound up with individual initi

to affect at that particular time,

ative, and that shackling a subordinate with instructions and he seemed to have been poured into it as wine is poured into a funnel. He was a quiet slip of a lad, with none of the exuberance of early years, who seldom contributed a remark unless it was extorted from him, and who in a cataclysm would have remained unmoved.

reduces him to an automaton, he left it to the Piccanniny himself to find out what his duties were, and the new arrival from the outset gave evidence of a sound discretion. He was young, ridiculously young-almost, if not quite, as young as the Trumpeter; but an old head was poised upon those youthful shoulders. With that instinctive recognition of the dominating issues involved in the situation which indicates the mastermind, he realised the danger of exceeding powers with the scope of which he was not fully acquainted, and of overstepping the boundary of functions the limits to which had not been defined, and he therefore adopted the judicious course of performing no duties at all so as to secure himself against the possibility of making a mistake.

To say that the Piccanniny looked the part would be perhaps to go too far. He was not of imposing stature, nor were his insignificant proportions compensated for by a truculent mien. He was nephew to the SignallingOfficer, and it was commonly reported in the column that he had run away from Eton in obedience to his country's call, and had been brought to the seat of war in his uncle's pocket. He was arrayed in that hybrid article of dress, half trousers and half ridingbreeches, combining the disadvantage of both without possessing the merits of either, which young bloods were wont

On

In moments of excitement he was imperturbable. Once the commando made a rapid movement to the rear-a reculer pour mieux sauter sort of movement, you will understand,— and during its progress the staff felt called upon to gallop furiously from a position where the fire was becoming hot to another position farther moved from the enemy. reaching their goal, dismounting hastily, and surveying the field of battle from this fresh point of view, their sense of the fitness of things was sorely outraged by the spectacle of the Piccanniny on his conspicuous grey cob following at a leisurely jog-trot, midway between the just vacated ground which a hostile body had already seized, and the more retired eminence where they now found themselves. Spurts of dust around the ProvostMarshal showed that he was being fired at; moreover, inasmuch as panting and over-eager soldiers are apt to shoot erratically, he was almost as likely to be hit by his own as by the other side. He manifested not the slightest disposition to accelerate his pace, and presently trotted up looking intensely bored, condescended

to dismount with much deliberation, and then felt in his haversack for a cigarette.

The military situation at the moment did not lend itself to argument or admonition. But some hours later, when the broil was over and when the Column had off-saddled, weary of combat, the Staff Officer felt that the time was come to upbraid the Piccanniny for his irregular behaviour. "It isn't," as he was careful to explain, "that we care a damn whether you get shot or not; but that's a capital pony that you've got much too good for a young cub like you, and we've no idea of its falling into the hands of Mr Van der Venter." The Piccanniny showed no symptoms of resentment at the reproaches heaped on him by the keeper of the Column's conscience. He had been in the midst of rout and uproar and commotion, a fragment of biscuit had been his only sustenance for many hours, he was white with dust and he was tired, hot, and very thirsty; but although he felt in no humour for acrimonious conversation, he remained goodtempered even under this final provocation. He admitted that the tribute paid to the merits of his pony was no more than was that animal's due. "But," he added, "the beggar's nothing like fast enough to get in front of you and the Colonel and the rest of you when you're running away; I found bucketing along with the whole gang of you kicking up stones in my face rather tiresome, so I just slowed down and got clear of

the ruck," and he sauntered over to a shady bush and lay down under it and went to sleep. A scowl of implacable rancour momentarily convulsed the Staff-Officer's usually serene and placid features, but he had nothing ready. He was too accomplished an exponent of the art of war not to perceive the tactical blunder of which he had been guilty. He had adventured an offensive operation without making fitting provision to meet a counter-attack, and he acquiesced in the abrupt breaking-off of the action on the part of the Piccanniny, postponing further hostilities till a more convenient season.

It was decided one day to empty all the regimental waggons and to send them to the railway for forage, at a juncture when the Supply-Monger was absent with his convoy and when the Transport-Officer was reduced to comparative impotence by an injured foot; so it became a question who was to take charge of the caravan. "Why not send the Piccanniny, sir?" suggested the SignallingOfficer, and the proposition was carried by acclamation. "Capital thing for a youngster, teaching him responsibility," acknowledged the ColumnCommander, wishing he had thought of it himself. "Will the boy understand that it's the devil and all if mules aren't outspanned and allowed a roll every ten miles or so?" murmured the Transport-Officer as he hobbled about, a prey to grave misgivings. "Please goodness, he'll get nothing to eat but biscuits and bully

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Depot to have been pestered with the vouchers and requisition forms which are the stock - in - trade of a departmental bureaucracy, without being expected to talk about it afterwards. But the old soldier who ministered to his wants was overheard describing the main incidents of the expedition, and paying an eloquent tribute to the ProvostMarshal's capacity for command when "on his own."

Nor did he seem concerned when the hour arrived for him to embark upon his venture. "Mind you're back in four "Piccanniny is it?" he was days with the waggons filled heard to ejaculate. "'E ain't up," was the Column-Com- no Piccanniny! I jest tell ye mander's final word. "Take this. Fust evnin' we was out the mules along quietly for mercy's sake, and if you see a nigger bustling them, trice him up and give him a dozen,” advised the Transport-Officer. Emotion robbed the SignallingOfficer of his powers of speech, but he caught himself feeling in his pocket for the sovereign he had been in the habit of bestowing upon his hopeful nephew on previous occasions of their parting. The Piccanniny in the meantime rode out of the circle with a countenance devoid of all expression, and the staff did not fail to take note that he never looked to see whether his convoy was following him or not.

Four days later he arrived in camp with his waggons full and with the mules looking all the better for their journey. He was not communicative, nor did he show the slightest inclination to give an account of his experiences. It had been bad enough to have trekked all that distance, and when he reached the Supply

'e sez to me, sez 'e 'Go to
that conductor man,' sez 'e,
'an' jest give 'im this 'ere
paper.' An' on the paper it
sez as 'ow the bloomin' trans-
port was to be ready to march
orf at 6 A.M. Well, I
goes over
to the conductor an' I gives
'im the paper, an' 'e looks at
the paper, an' 'e larfs sort of
nasty, an' 'e sez, sez 'e, 'Mebbe
we'll be orf at seven,' sez 'e.
'Will I tell the orfcer that,' sez
I. 'E looks up mighty fierce.
'Oo the 'ell are you?' 'e sez,
'a - steppin' up to me with
yer blarsted chits.' An' 'is
langidge! Wy, I 'ear the
Signallin' Lance Corpral a-
torkin' t'other mornin'
mornin' wen
that big black 'orse of 'is stud
on 'is fut; but 'e's no better
nor
nor a babby at slingin' 'is
tongue 'longside that there
conductor.
So I jest goes
back to the orfcer an' I gives
'im a resoomée of wot 'e said,
an' we orl goes to sleep.

"Nex' mornin' the orfcer 'as 'is mug o' cocoa at five-thirty, an' I see as 'ow the waggons

wasn't inspannin'. Arter a bit 'e sez to me, sez 'e, 'Wot time do ye make it?' sez 'e. 'I makes it five parst six,' sez I. 'It's jest six,' sez 'e; 'go to that conductor man an' tell 'im to come 'ere to me,' sez 'e. I goes to the conductor an' I tells 'im. 'Oh, 'e wants me to go to 'im, the young limb!' sez the conductor; 'if 'e wants me 'e can- well, come 'ere,' sez 'e. 'Will I tell the orfcer that?' sez I. 'Well,' sez 'e, 'I'll jest get on my 'orse an' go over to 'im,' sez 'e; an' 'e gets on 'is 'orse an' rides over to the orfcer's bivvy.1 The orfcer was standin' outside 'is bivvy a-brushin' 'is teeth-'e's allus a-brushin' 'is teeth. 'Wy ain't them waggons ready 'cordin' to orders?' 'e arsks the conductor. 'Y' ain't ready yerself,' sez the conductor, pretty cheeky.

"The orfcer looks at 'im very quiet 'arf a minute 'an then 'e sez, sez 'e, 'See 'ere, conductor,' sez 'e, 'the Kurnel may put up with a lazy useless loafin' 'oaf in 'is column, as funks 'is own niggers, but I won't,' sez 'e. 'Ye've got ten minutes by my watch to 'ave them waggons ready,' sez 'e, 'an' if they ain't ready ye'll be in arrest, an' I'll 'and ye over to the Command

1 Short for "bivouac-shelter."

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ant at the station as a insubordinate camp - follower'— that's wot 'e calls 'im—'an ye'd better be quick,' sez he, cos there's 'arf a minute gorn already.' Well, the conductor jest thinks as long as ye might take to suck down 'arf a pint, an' then 'e rides back to the waggons. An' I tell ye this! Them waggons was ready to move orf in ten minutes; an' rest of the time that conductor, as takes so much on 'isself 'ere with the column, was as perlite as a one-day recruity as is drorin' 'is 'quipment from the quarter-bloke.

That's wot I

sez! My orfcer ain't a vetering, as 'as lived in barricks an’ knows wot's wot, same as the Fiddler 3 - but 'e ain't no bloomin' Piccanniny!"

Whatever he was then, he is no Piccanniny now. For if you prop yourself against the garden wall of Marlborough House about a quarter to eleven of a morning, and if fortune favours you, you may behold him over against you in the courtyard of St James' Palace, a gracious figure, erect and debonair, participating in certain observances in which portions of His Majesty's Foot Guards are wont to indulge at that early hour.

3 Trumpeter.

2 Quartermaster-sergeant.

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