No More Parades - Ford Madox Ford (the gingerbread man read aloud .TXT) 📗

The general heaved an immense sigh of relief. The sunlight streaming in became very bright. He had had a real sinking at the heart when Tietjens had boggled for a second over putting on his belt. An officer may not demand or insist on a court martial. But he, Campion, could not in decency have refused Tietjens his court martial if he stood out for it. He had a right to clear his character publicly. It would have been impossible to refuse him. Then the fat would have been in the fire. For, knowing O’Hara through pretty nearly twenty-five years⁠—or it must be thirty!⁠—of service Campion was pretty certain that O’Hara had made a drunken beast of himself. Yet he was very attached to O’Hara⁠—one of the old type of rough-diamond generals who swore your head off, but were damn capable men!⁠ ⁠… It was a tremendous relief.

He said sharply:

“Sit down, can’t you, Tietjens! You irritate me by standing there!” He said to himself: “An obstinate fellow⁠ ⁠… Why, he’s gone!” and his mind and eyes being occupied by the sentence he had last written, the sense of irritation remained with him. He reread the closing clause: “… a single command⁠—a measure which is here regarded by a great weight of instructed opinion as indispensable to the speedy and successful termination of hostilities⁠ ⁠…”

He looked at this, whistling beneath his breath. It was pretty thick. He was not asked for his opinion as to the single command: yet he decidedly wanted to get it in and was pretty well prepared to stand the consequences. The consequences might be something pretty bad: he might be sent home. That was quite possible. That, even, was better than what was happening to poor Puffles, who was being starved of men. He had been at Sandhurst with Puffles, and they had got their commissions on the same day to the same regiment. A damn good soldier, but too hot-tempered. He was making an extraordinarily good thing of it in spite of his shortage of men, which was the talk of the army. But it must be damn agonizing for him, and a very improper strain on his men. One day⁠—as soon as the weather broke⁠—the enemy must break through. Then he, Puffles, would be sent home. That was what the fellows at Westminster and in Downing Street wanted. Puffles had been a great deal too free with his tongue. They would not send him home before he had a disaster because, unless he were in disgrace, he would be a thorn in their sides: whereas if he were disgraced no one much would listen to him. It was smart practice⁠ ⁠… Sharp practice!

He tossed the sheet on which he had been writing across the table and said to Tietjens:

“Look at that, will you?” In the centre of the hut Tietjens was sitting bulkily on a bully-beef case that had been brought in ceremoniously by a runner. “He does look beastly shabby,” the general said. “There are three⁠ ⁠… four grease stains on his tunic. He ought to get his hair cut!” He added: “It’s a perfectly damnable business. No one but this fellow would have got into it. He’s a firebrand. That’s what he is. A regular firebrand!”

Tietjens’ troubles had really shaken the general not a little. He was left up in the air. He had lived the greater part of his life with his sister, Lady Claudine Sandbach, and the greater part of the remainder of his life at Groby, at any rate after he came home from India and during the reign of Tietjens’ father. He had idolized Tietjens’ mother, who was a saint! What indeed there had been of the idyllic in his life had really all passed at Groby, if he came to think of it. India was not so bad, but one had to be young to enjoy that⁠ ⁠…

Indeed, only the day before yesterday he had been thinking that if this letter that he was thinking out did result in his being sent back, he should propose to stand for the half of the Cleveland Parliamentary Division in which Groby stood. What with the Groby influence and his nephew’s in the country districts, though Castlemaine had not much land left up there, and with Sandbach’s interest in the ironworking districts, he would have an admirable chance of getting in. Then he would make himself a thorn in the side of certain persons.

He had thought of quartering himself on Groby. It would have been easy to get Tietjens out of the army and they could all⁠—he, Tietjens and Sylvia⁠—live together. It would have been his ideal of a home and of an occupation⁠ ⁠…

For, of course, he was getting old for soldiering: unless he got a fighting army there was not much more to it as a career for a man of sixty. If he did get an army he was pretty certain of a peerage and hefty political work could still be done in the Lords. He would have a good claim on India and that meant dying a Field-Marshal.

On the other hand, the only command that was at all likely to be going⁠—except for deaths, and the health rate amongst army commanders was pretty high!⁠—was poor Puffles’. And that would be no pleasant command⁠—with men all hammered to pieces. He decided to put the whole thing to Tietjens. Tietjens, like a meal-sack, was looking at him over the draft of the letter that he had just finished reading. The general said:

“Well?”

Tietjens said:

“It’s splendid, sir, to see you putting the matter so strongly. It must be put strongly, or we’re lost.”

The general said:

“You think that?”

Tietjens said:

“I’m sure of it, sir⁠ ⁠… But unless you are prepared to throw up your command and take to politics⁠ ⁠…”

The general exclaimed:

“You’re a most extraordinary fellow⁠ ⁠… That was exactly what I was thinking about: this very minute.”

“It’s not so extraordinary,” Tietjens said. “A really active general thinking as you do is very badly needed in the