TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 11

THE DEVIL CAME ON HORSEBACK

EVERY REGIMENT, the Twenty-fourth Regiment of Foot included, had a small detachment of mounted infantry assigned, the Light-Horse detachment was exactly that. We numbered only twenty-four riders and were technically not considered cavalry we were mounted infantry. We had no sabers; we were not expected to “charge” into battle, bugles blaring. It was nothing like the Light-Brigade of Balaclava fame. We dismounted, every fourth man held the horses; we assumed a firing line like regular infantry.

The differences lay in our mobility, our tactics and our weapons. I was issued a .455 Martini-Henry carbine. The Carbine was exactly like the standard issue Martini, except it was nearly 20 inches shorter and considerably handier. It was a great deal easier for me to wield, bring up and point, being a girl and all. It came with a D-shaped brass carabiner and a wide leather strap that looped round your shoulder so you did not drop it while on horseback. Instead of the usual triangular bayonet, as a member of the Light-horse, I was issued a “sword bayonet.”

We wore the standard issue white pith helmets of the regular Regiment, and the same signature red tunic of the other soldiers except our trousers were solid blue and we had white “X” cross webbing on our chest, gold braid, and smart brass buttons and red piping.

The only bad thing about being in the Light-Horse, indeed the worse thing about being in the Light-Horse was that Private Burlingham followed me into the cadre. How I came to deserve such a misfortune, I do no know, but my heart sank when I first laid eyes on him. He flipped me off. Later at mess, he jostled me; he jeered and said I was a “fairy boy.” He said my boyfriend died like a squealing pig. My heart filled with hate, Mr. Squeers, Mr. Smith, and now Burlingham, they all will burn in hell! Because Burlingham was an asshole, Marty was dead. I resolved then and there; Whatever it took, I was going to fix his big swinging Liverpool arse for good.

Despite the fact, we were not cavalry, our mobility our ability to project power anywhere on the battlefield at a moments notice proved irresistible to any commander. We still found ourselves called upon to fulfill many of the traditional roles of cavalry, as scouts, messengers, and ultimately as shock troops.

As results of the success of the Polish lancers, a sort of European revival came about for that most anachronistic and medieval of all mounted infantry weapons the lance. We trained with the 1868-pattern lance, which called for a sixteen-foot shaft of male bamboo, differing from the female bamboo in that it has practically no pith and is of solid wood straight through. At the lance’s point of balance, was a rawhide sling, through which the lancer’s hand was placed, enabling him to retain the weapon in combat. The steel head was fitted with a triangular stabbing point. We practiced skewering straw fascines at a full gallop. It was quite lethal, providing your opponent did not posses firearms. I still found myself wondering, was it all worth it? I could shoot the bugger at twenty yards and still get the job done. The hierarchy of the British Empire was not to be deterred; we continued to train like medieval knights.

I remained the best shot in the Regiment, much to my satisfaction. I out shot, out scored Burlingham on three separate occasions, once in prone, on the firing line and finally on horseback. I took to riding horses a little like the proverbial “a duck-takes-to-water.” I’ve long had an affinity for animals, and my government issued horse, was a three-year-old white mare, with a dark blotch on her nose. Horse number 3980, I named her “Star.” Star and I became a team.

With the help of Star, I out rode Burlingham on the obstacle course, Burlingham cheated and didn’t jump all the gates, but Star was so much faster than his horse “Duke” that we beat him on the straightaway. The next day was the mount and dismount fire exercise. We were issued twenty rounds and expected to ride, dismount, and fire at a variety of targets, mount and fire from horseback. I remained the smallest trooper in our detachment, at thirteen and three-quarters; I was only a little over half an inch or so over five feet tall and weighed a slight 94 lbs. Size didn't matter. I was still the better shot, in many ways my small size was to my advantage, it was never a challenged for Star and I to outride a dumb hulking Liverpool bloke like Burlingham.

The best part about being in the Light-horse was I no longer had to drag around all that gear. I now had saddlebags to stow my kit. It was up to Star to carry most of the weight; I in return, took good care of her. I always made sure she had plenty of good oats, and I curried her down every night, even before I went to supper. The saddle itself was nothing like what you might think. No polished leather, no “Western” style horn. The saddle was made of wood slats and quite utilitarian. The lads complained that it was uncomfortable apparently; it pinched their “bollocks.” I didn’t know anything about that―what I did know was riding was still better than walking.

* * *

“Private First Class Claiborne, reporting as ordered, Sir.” I saluted smartly, and snapped to my best ram-rod attention. I found myself summoned to the Command tent of Major Steele. I wasn’t exactly sure what this was all about; I’d never been summoned before a Commanding officer. I couldn’t imagine why my commanding officer wanted to see me. A hollow spot welled up in the pit of my stomach. I could only imagine, I was soon to find out. I had a sinking feeling, Burlingham, he was behind this, as sure as shit! Burlingham discovered I was a girl; I was to be court-martialed for sure.

“As you were, Claiborne, at ease.” Major Steele continued to look over some papers; he clenched a bent-apple pipe in his teeth and puffed absentmindedly. His adjutant a Lieutenant Blakely hovered over his every move. Major Steele read with a deliberate compass. I think he enjoyed keeping me standing there, waiting, watching me sweat; it was all part of process. Finally, he set aside his papers and fixed his gaze on me, he peered over his spectacles, he seemed skeptical as he looked me up and down.

The coal glowed in the bowl of his pipe, smoke blew from his nostrils, finally he spoke. “Lieutenant Blakely advised me that you were very small.”

“Sir.”

The Major shuffled some papers. “I have here in my hand a letter, a letter from the Charring Cross London recruiting office. Tell me Private Claiborne, do you know what it might contain?”

I was genuinely puzzled; I thought it might be a trick. “No, Sir. I do not. Sir.”

“I have to make a decision Claiborne, in the next couple of days; we ship out, the whole regiment to South Africa. I expect on our arrival, we’ll see action. Lord Chelmsford is desperate to put down a native rebellion. Did you know that?” As if to emphasized the point he stabbed the bit of his pipe in my direction beore resuming his smoke.

“Sir.”

Steele allowed himself a thin smile; he continued to puff on his pipe. The tent filled with aromatic plumes of smoke, I coughed. “Claiborne, I have here in my hand a letter, from Color Sargent Angus Bourne, recruiting office of the 24th Regiment of Foot. Do you know him?”

“Sir, yes Sir. He was my recruiting officer, Sir.”

“Claiborne did you know that a Color Sargent is the highest rank that a non-commissioned officer might obtain in the Queen’s army?”

I fidgeted, “No Sir.”

“Evidently, this particular Color Sargent thinks very highly of you Claiborne . . .” Steele referred to the letter in his hand, “Color Sargent Bourne states unequivocally in his letter that I should give you every consideration. Do you have any idea why he might write that?”

“Sir, the Color Sargent and my father, First Sargent Chard Claiborne served together in the Crimea, at Balaclava, Sir.”

“A friend of the family, then?”

“No Sir, I never met Color Sargent Bourne, not until the day of my enlistment, my father never spoke of him.”

“Hmm,” Steele scratched a few notes. “Evidently the Color Sargent thinks very highly of you. On his recommendation, I’m going to take a chance on you Claiborne. Despite your small size, you’ve done very well here, you’ve shown spirit.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Steele flipped through a few more papers, when he couldn’t find the exact salient report he was looking for, the ever-efficient Lieutenant Blakely slipped him the exact paper he wanted. It made him look bloody brilliant. “Your service record is excellent; it says here that you are a proficient horseman. You qualified as both marksman and sharpshooter. I have a note here; a Lieutenant Fry cites your leadership capabilities, Fry takes the liberty to add a anecdotal note that you once shot a shot a deer in full flight at seven hundred yards?” Steele allowed himself a rare chuckle, “That’s jolly good shooting Claiborne.”

“Sir.”

“Claiborne, I'm going to cut to the chase. I need good men. I need qualified non-commissioned officers to lead my men. Effective immediately, I am promoting you to full Corporal.”

I was dumbfounded; I think I managed a weak, “Thank you, Sir.” I left Major Steele’s tent in a state somewhere between shock and incredulity. I do remember Lieutenant Blakely chasing after me, pressing into my hand my Corporal stripes, which I was to sew on my blouse. That’s all I remember.

I looked down at the duty roster. Ward, Ferrier, Burlingham. “SHIT! Fucking shit!" I did an about face. I didn’t know what to do, I was panic struck. “Lieutenant Blakely, I need to go back, I need to speak to the Major at once."


Blakely was not predisposed. “What is this all about, Corporal Claiborne? You have your promotion, now get on with it.”

“There’s a problem, Sir, the duty roster Sir. There’s been a mistake.”

Blakely snatched the duty roster from my hand and examined it scrupulously, any accusation of a mistake he took as a personal affront. “There’s no mistake that's your section.”

“Burlingham, Sir, he can’t be in my section.” I was desperate.

“Why not?” Blakely was exasperated.

“We don’t get along, Sir. We have a disagreement.”

“Corporal Claiborne. There are twelve hundred men in this regiment. You can’t possibly expect to get along or like all of them. The duty roster will not be changed, especially not because you have some petty quarrel with one of your men. I absolutely will not allow you to trouble the Major on this trivial issue. Be grateful he even gave you those stripes." Blakely took special pains on that point. "I advised the Major against it, your too puny Claiborne, you'll never make it in the Light-Horse. Now I advise you to get along Claiborne, get about your duties.”

“Yes Sir.” My heart sank. I was screwed; this was going to be harder than I thought. As I took the long way back to my own bivouac, I began to feel angrier, more confident, why was I allowing Burlingham to intimidate me? I am in command. “Fuck Burlingham!”

While ostentatious pride or boastfulness is not a personal characteristic that I admire, or ascribe, I will tell you that I made damn sure that Private Burlingham got a good close look at my new Corporal stripes.

That was how I earned my Corporal stripes.

Which meant that upon deployment, I not only out ranked my Henry, but I, a girl of thirteen was now in command of a section of three horsemen in the Twenty-fourth Regiment of Foot. The whole regiment was due to ship out to Africa in two weeks. To some nameless-faceless, God-forsaken point on the globe called Natal, to a place I’d never heard of called Cape Town. Apparently, there was some trouble down there with the Dutch settlers and some black African King named Cetshwayo. I couldn't imagine how some cowardly naked blacks armed only with spears could cause so much trouble in the empire. The situation was now dire; once again, it fell to us “Red Coats” to sort the whole mess out.

* * *

On the last day of November, the day before we shipped out, at mail call.

“Claiborne, Thomas!”

Mail for me? Who was writing me? Mama never wrote. No one even knew I existed. The mystery deepened, it wasn’t just a letter, but a brown paper parcel. I couldn’t imagine who was writing me, let alone sending me packages. I hefted it the package it was heavy. I feverishly tore open the brown paper, scarcely able to contain my curiosity. Inside, I found, nestled in crumpled wads of the London Times, a revolver, not just any revolver, a proper officer’s side arm, a .455 Webley, and two boxes of ammunition. There was note, in a bold simple hand.

"For Thomas, I want you to have this; it served me well at Balaclava. You are the son I never had. Good Luck lad.” ―Signed, Color Sargent Angus Bourne.

A tear fell on my cheek . . . "God bless Color Sargent Bourne." There was a P.O. I resolved to write Sargent Bourne everyday.