Johnny reddened and his mouth went dry.
"Have you ever been in charge of men?" Jeremy asked.
"Yes, sir, half my life, Lieutenant. I ran the big droving crews for the sheep and cattle stations all over the country. I've handled up to twenty men on some jobs."
Christopher shrugged. "Do you want this chap, Lieutenant?" he asked his brother.
"I do. Serjeant Tarbox is just what the doctor ordered for me."
Christopher rubbed his chin with his hand, as though Johnny were a head of cattle to be judged. Then he flipped through the report again.
"Well, you're not a proper serjeant major," Christopher repeated. "I'll have to find a proper serjeant major elsewhere. I'm certain I can requisition one from a British unit. Well, your Kiwi countrymen saw fit to swear you in as a serjeant major and I am going to allow you to retain the rank if YOU do your job flawlessly and unstintingly. Am I clear?"
"Exactly what is my job, sir?"
"The men in this battalion are all creditable horsemen are they not?"
"They're the greatest, sir."
"Well, then, you convert them into the greatest mule hustlers, packers, and trail men."
"I am forming a gaffer squad," Jeremy said.
"A gaffer squad?"
"A small unit of mule specialists. It will be up to us to write a simplified manual, obtain the proper gear, work out miles of logistics and training, and be central to the task of indoctrinating the men and building this battalion from the hooves up," Jeremy said.
"I don't know how many mule men we're apt to find here, Lieutenant."
"We'll probably get some from other units as they arrive in Egypt. Meanwhile, your lads filled out questionnaires en route, aboard ship. Go through these and find me the most likely prospects."
As Jeremy handed Johnny two boxes of questionnaires, he nodded and smiled. "Look forward to working with you," he said.
"This is absolutely hush-hush," Chris interrupted. "Not a living, breathing soul, until we are ready."
"Yes, sir."
"Captain Ellsworth, the chief veterinarian with the British Corps, will come to Mena in three days-on Wednesday-to question any men who have mule knowledge," Jeremy said, patting the man on the shoulder.
"You are dismissed. Now remember, hush-hush," Chris said.
As the serjeant closed the door, Jeremy thought, oh Christ. Christopher spent a good part of his life irritated with him, and he wore that irritated expression now.
"We've got a good man there," Jeremy said, hoping to divert Chris's course. "All right, you're about to piss petrol."
Chris snorted until he was contained. "I believe you and I had better clear a few things up before we are involved with another enlisted man. I am saddled with a rather difficult situation of being your brother, and if you indeed take this gaffer squad, we will be working extremely closely."
"I don't see why you went out of your way to humiliate Serjeant Tarbox, and I seriously wonder if intimidation is the way to build a battalion," Jeremy answered.
"Oh, dear old Jeremy must be Mister Good Chap, one of the lads."
"What the hell did I do so horrible, shake his hand?"
"First a handshake, then, do sit down for tea...or let's make that gin and tonic. Jeremy, we are not dealing with proper manners, and the first job is to teach them discipline. We must never loosen the leash on them. I intend to turn this battalion into a proper British battalion, like the Coleraines."
"They aren't the Coleraines, Christopher. They don't shed the old tear when they hear 'God Save the King,' nor would they gladly die in battle for the Earl of Foyle. Look at these men. They're half again as big as your scrawny Englishmen. They live in the open and they eat beef and they don't know from blue blood. What the hell is this all about? We are three men in a peeling room halfway around the world barfing about mules and mule shit and you act like we're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. Please, Chris, loosen up on the table manners. We're talking about very tough men and mules."
"Jeremy, you are not rolling around in the mud with these men the way you did on the rugby pitch, and you're not standing elbow-to-elbow drinking cheap ale in their pubs, showing off your tattoos."
"Tattoos," Jeremy said, "now there's a thought. Suppose any of the Earls had tattoos?"
"I have ordered my officers to lay down the law from day one. As for us, in the first instance, I'll no longer overlook your insubordination because of family circum stances and, in the second instance, we do not carry the same rank. This is my battalion, Lieutenant, and I was given this command because of the severity of its mission."
"You and General Brodhead are pretty cozy. I'm sure he'll honor my request for a transfer."
"Shall we speak calmly and without rancor?" Christopher said quickly.
"Why not?"
"I have made vows to both Mother and Father that I will do all in my power to see that you return home in one piece-"
"And without disgracing the family honor. Well, Chris, you are no longer the keeper of a self-pitying drunk."
"Your request will go no further than my desk."
"You know why? I'll tell you. These colonials are not patsies, and you don't know a fiddler's fart about how to deal with men. You want me to run the gaffer squad and be at your side in case you start to muck up."
"You think rather fondly of yourself," Chris said. "Let me say this clearly and calmly. Do not tinker with a system of order which has been keenly developed over the span of a thousand years and has resulted in the greatest nation mankind has ever known. Officers of my stripe have made the British Army a magnificent institution."
God Almighty, Jeremy cringed, trying to hold himself together...it was Apprentice Boys' Day on Derry's Walls all over again, raining pennies down on the Catholics in Bogside.
"We are the most fortunate people on earth," Chris continued coolly. "Our station was fixed at birth and privilege is our birthright. That's the way the universe spins, that's the way the world operates, that's how the British Army works, that's why we have an empire. Rip everything apart and exchange the have-nots with the privileged, and in ten years it will return to the way it was in the beginning. Jeremy Hubble is not going to change the natural order of things, and Jeremy Hubble better realize he is here on earth to protect his privilege."
Jeremy laid his hands on his brother's shoulders softly and looked at him pleadingly. God, if he could only get through somehow.
"Chris, when will you ever learn what father never learned, what grandfather never learned. You can't get the loyalty of men through intimidation."
"I'd say they did rather well."
"They got wealthy. In a battalion like this there has to be respect for their dignity. You cannot own a man's soul. Molly O'Rafferty left me because she would not surrender her soul."
Chris removed his brother's unwanted hands from him. "Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's," he said. "Let Jesus and Mary take care of their souls. I want their obedience, their unstinting obedience."
62.
Rory came to attention before a long table covered by green felt behind which a Captain Ellsworth was seated, flanked by Jeremy Hubble and Johnny Tarbox.
"Private Rory Landers reporting."
"I'm Captain Ellsworth. Please have a seat."
"And I am Lieutenant Hubble," Jeremy said extending his hand. "I believe you know Serjeant Major Tarbox."
"Yes, sir."
"According to the questionnaire you filled out aboard ship, you may have some special qualifications for us," Jeremy said.
"Certainly hope so, sir."
"I'm to be in charge of a small gaffer unit," Jeremy continued.
"Gaffer, sir?"
"It's a Johnny-on-the-spot squad, problem solvers, men with various expertise. We are in need of an updated and simplified transportation manual."
"You may have the wrong man, sir. I don't know anything about military transport."
"Mules, mule transport," Jeremy said.
"May I ask the Lieutenant a question?" Rory asked.
"Certainly, and please consider this to be informal chitchat."
"We are horse cavalry?"
"Indeed, horse cavalry," Jeremy lied. "Appears that we may be fighting in some dicey terrain and command feels that mules will be better suited to pack in our supplies. Although the Seventh Light Horse are all magnificent riders, I understand, it seems there is a total lack of experience with mules. So, it's a gaffer squad problem to set it up properly. Don't worry, Landers, with any luck you may have several horses shot out from under you."
The Captain picked up Rory's questionnaire. "You say here you've had three years' experience with mules."
"That was a long time back. My da has a fair-sized sheep station on the South Island. He bought a large adjoining parcel of woodland, not ripe for sheep grazing or farming, so I talked him into importing a flock of deer for breeding and market."
"Now, how did that go?"
"Too well," Rory answered. "Trouble was, the deer raised hell with the forage and kicked up some fairly fragile topsoil. They needed a lot more space or we'd have to feed them entirely from stores. It raises the risk when you have to buy all their feed. We sold them out, at a very tidy profit. Sorry, I'm rambling on."
"Actually quite interesting," Ellsworth said, "carry on."
"The section wasn't ready for either planting or pasture, so I came up with another scheme. I thought we ought to breed mules."
"What was behind your reasoning, Landers?"
Rory shrugged. "Seemed logical. There are hundreds of small farms, and common sense tells me that a mule can do half again the work of the best draft horse on the same amount of feed. The mule is even more economical in hilly terrain. In addition to agriculture, there are a lot of mining and timber operations which could be better served by mules."
Seeing that Rory was on the new side of twenty, Captain Ellsworth asked, "How old were you when this took place?"
"I was eleven when I got the idea of importing reindeer and fourteen when I started breeding mules."
"Your father must have had a great deal of confidence in you."
Rory thought about that. Yes, the Squire gave him free reign when it came to anything about the farm. Maybe that was because Liam had trained him well.
"I know Squire, er...Landers," Johnny Tarbox said. "He was the smartest farmer I ever met. He could look at a virgin piece of land and sense the winds, read the contours and smell and taste the soil and tell you within the bushel of what it would yield."
"That's right," Rory whispered.
"What happened with the mule operation?" Captain Ellsworth asked.
"When you lose, there are all kinds of excuses. The reindeer bred naturally, too damned naturally," Rory said. "Putting a stud donkey up to a mare is a real mess. We didn't have a tradition of mule breeding so everything was trial and error. I'm not passing the blame, but I think the rock bottom cause of the failure was that the farmers and prospectors had formed notions about mules and didn't know how to handle them."
"You mean their stubbornness?"
"No, stubborn is the wrong label. Mules are very smart and when they appear to be stubborn it is usually from bad handling. Then, the owner gets the idea he can whip the work out of them, but a mule never forgets his whipping."
"Well," Ellsworth challenged, "if that isn't stubborn, I don't know what is."
"It's like this, Captain," Rory said, not having the slightest notion he was speaking to a veterinarian of nearly twenty years, "there are stubborn mules and there are wild mules. These mules are born wild, can be very dangerous, and you have no more chance of domesticating them than taming a hyena. There's no choice but to destroy them. It turns out we were breeding a pretty high percentage of wild ones."
"I see," Ellsworth said. "So you shot them in the forehead, right between the eyes."
Rory grimaced. "No, their skulls are very thick and sometimes you don't kill them. They can be in agony for hours. The sure way to destroy a wild mule is shoot through the eye, pointing up to the brain. They die instantly without suffering. One of the reasons I gave up on mules was that I found it too hard to kill them."
"Well, you certainly can't coddle a mule," Ellsworth prodded. "How do you discipline them?"
"First, you give him his dignity. Make pals. Let him know you are in this together. Sir, I tame horses the same way. I don't believe in breaking an animal. You talk to the mule by his name, give him the good word, always have some oats in your pocket. He'll work himself to death for you, if he loves you."
"You don't break horses?" Ellsworth said very puzzled.
"Rory Landers talks a saddle onto a horse," Tarbox said.
"Must take forever," Jeremy said.
"A few hours, most of the time. All you really have to do is get across the idea he shouldn't be afraid of you...that's all they want to know."
There was a silent time to digest this incredible idea from the officers, who had been rough riders most of their lives.
"I'm interested in your comment that the handlers, not the mules, are generally the ones at fault."
"Yes, sir. Mules are a lot smarter than horses. If the mule feels something isn't right, he'll stand fast. He's trying to tell you something. A lot of people take that for stubbornness."
"For example?"
"If the mule doesn't feel he is properly loaded, he may not budge until you fix up his pack. Or, if he's going over shifty ground, a mountain trail or a swaying bridge, he'll stop and poke his way around till he feels secure. Horse gets his foot caught in barbed wire, he'll jerk it out and likely rip himself. A mule will ease his foot free, carefully."