The Society of Cavaliers

It was a cold day. Minus 3 Celsius. Father had driven us up to Oxford in his baby blue Hillman Minx. 

I still have the old girl in the garage.

We'd set off bright and early with a packet of ham sandwiches and a thermos flask full of tea which mother had put into a basket for us. Magnifique! Mother was a jolly good egg and proposed to crack on with some knitting that she needed to catch up upon. Good show!

We motored along at a good clip, and the car only broke down on us twice. Father did insist we stop at St Albans so he could get a good look at the Roman walls for a new Ancients project he was working on. Some rules called "WRG" - I knew nothing except that they came with a reputation for the recreation of historical accuracy that was unparalleled.  

I had a Transistor Radio on the back seat and it was playing "Hey Jude" by the Beatles. 

It was quite the jolly outing.

We were filled with curiosity as to what the Brig have in store for us. We had been sent a rather mysterious invitation in the post. We were to present ourselves at the Mitre Hotel in Oxford to hear a proposal.

Rumour had gotten about in certain circles that Mr Featherstone and Mr Bath (among others) had also been invited along.

Now, at the time, the Brig was a big wig -  the Head of Military History at Sandhurst. He had just published a smashing book on the Battle of Edgehill the year before. So, of course, speculation was running wild!

So, there we were. Father parked and we went inside the hotel and were guided to a private dining room. Mr Bath and Mr Featherstone were already there. Mr Bath looked a little nervous and was gripping his G&T tighly. Mr Featherstone was dapper as ever with a silk cravat and his inevitable cigarette holder. Father ordered a pint of Real Ale for himself and a lemonade for me.

Various others filtered in. My Bath was showing off a few of his latest War Elephants. Mr Barker shuddered visibly at the sight of them. "More of your horrid pachyderms, Tony?" 

But then from without came a terrible crashing, a jangling if spurs and a stamping of booted feet. "Damn it all! I can't see a bloody thing with these plumes in my face!"

The door was flung open to reveal a terrible apparition. 'Twas the Brig, red of visage, white moustache bisecting his face, flailing madly at the plume of a large hat the sat upon his head. He was clad in the costume of a Cavalier. All in pale blue with white lacing.

"Ye gods..." gasped someone. 

The cigarette holder dropped from Mr Featherstone's lips.

Mr Bath went a deadly shade of white. 

The Brig tore the hat from his head.

"Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you!

"We shall form a society called the Sealed Knot (or, indeed, the Society of Cavaliers).

"I shall be Captain General. Sergeant Featherstone here will be Secretary."

Mustering

Giving Fire

Appointing Mr Featherstone Sec'y

Well, the meeting was something of a blur as the Brig ordered VAT 69 all round. Goodness me, it was an affair to remember. I especially remember being given a couple of hundred Willies and being told to have them ready by Easter.

A Troop of Shew

There's no business like Shew business I whistle through my teeth as I put the finishing touches on my latest for the Brig.

It was different, it was a little out of the ordinary. I thought, oh it's a royal bodyguard for the Graf. Idly I wondered how they would go in "Charge!". A quick puff on my cheroot and I opened the window to let the smoke out and palmed down a mint so mother wouldn't suspect.

Whatever might the Brig be up to? They certainly didn't look like anything from the VFS.

Ye Sealed Knotte

'Twas the week (or two) before Christmas, and all through the house was the rustle of quiet industry.

Mother was creating plum puddings and mince pies and trifles of many kinds.

Father was busy converting Spencer Smiths into panzer grenadiers with two-minute epoxy and a straight-edge razor. 

I was fiddling about at the small desk in my loft bedroom with a number of half-pennies in a desultory fashion. I had just finished the Brig's 'The Cavalier Army'. What a cracking good read it had been; everything you could possibly wish to know about the Civil War. My brain was buzzing with the possibilities. 

I had had an idea of what might be achieved upon the tabletops of Mars with numbers of pikemen and musketeers in the service of the King.

"Eureka..!" I muttered and drew up the following diagram upon a sheet of foolscap.

You know, I pondered aloud... I wonder if the Brig would be interested in this. 

That called for a shot of VAT 69. And a small cheroot. I had to be careful not to overindulge as I had Finals coming up the next morning.

A Weekend of Warriors

 

That was a busy weekend...

"Er, father..."

Father was busy so he could only spare me  half an ear. The Brigadier would be arriving at our little house on the morrow and he was deadly keen to finish a new unit of light infantry for the War Game.

"Have you seen the new catalogue by Mr Suren?"

He shaved off another few flakes of plastic from a Spencer Smith grenadier.

"No... Why?"

"There's really something I think you ought to see."

Father was teasing some epoxy glue to form something like a mirliton. And some fur trim. The tip of his tongue was protruding from the side of his mouth. "Oh? What's that my lad?"

"These. If you look at the pages for Frederick the Great's Army."

Father's eye trailed down the page. "Whatever has Teddy Suren done this time? More blackamoor servants or naked lady sailors?" he quickly dashed some paint onto another set of gray gaiters. "A little lining in with black india ink and these fellows will look spanking," he sighed in satisfaction. 

"Right at the end. Past the Cuirassiers and Dragoons. Look. The Arquebusiers de Grassin..!"

"But.... but... they're not even Prussian!" The eyebrows went up, the pipe dropped from Fathers slack jaw. 

Straight into his tumbler of VAT 69. 

It made a frightful mess.

In which your auditor has nothing else to do...

 It was a quiet long weekend after the Christmas Hols.

The brigadier was off in France, collecting the latest from Mlle Desfontaines. I believe it was a Rupert build all of lead sheet and multiple solderings. The poor woman wore glasses like coke bottle bottoms, I swear.

Father was in on some campaign with Tony, one of his other friends. He and Phil and Mr F. and doubtless others were all in together. I believe he was concocting some scheme whereby Dendermonde might at last be beseiged. A sudden descent from the Alligator Swamp, doubtless.

Mother was knitting a new tablecloth and planning some watercress and orangeade sandwiches for lunch whilst flicking through "Royalist" magazine.

So I got on with some painting.

Another sixpence from the Brig, no doubt. Soon enough I might be able to buy some toy soldiers of my  own! I drank up my port, licked my brush to a fine point and cracked on.

A Prussian Mania or Odd Doings in the Night

It had been rather a wargaming bender, with The Brigadier staying over in the guest room when the game had gone on rather too long. Many tense moments were had over Father's painstakingly created Willie tertios as we re-fought the battle of Edge Hill. 

Ye Gods, how it went. Rupert Charging! back and forth with Boye at his heels, faulconets flaming and dour roundheads taking to their heels as gay cavaliers shewed 'em what is what, what! And how the Brigadier held forth! For it was true he had written the book on the Royalists, on the army and on the jolly battle.

Sadly, though all was not well for the King and Father and I were pressing the Royalists sorely at the end of play for the day. We had a mighty fine plan for how we'd settle them on the morn.

Mother had retired early to get cracking on her knitting as I needed a new pullover for Fourth Form. However, this was not before she laid out a rather smashing spread of lamb-chops and well-boiled sprouts de Bruxelles! With bread and butter, too!

Father had retired to the kitchen to use Mother's gas ring and an old saucepan to melt some roofing lead in order to cast some figures in his plaster moulds. Every now and then there would be a terrific crack as one of them blew into shards!

Homework done, I fell into an uneasy slumber. 

I was awakened at 2 in the morning by a heavy foot on the stair. "Wha..?" I muttered groggily, a Blue Peter badge adhering to my forehead. I wasn't quite used to the Brigadiers diet of cigars and VAT 69 Whiskey yet and so could be forgiven a touch of fogginess.

"Who?" A portly figure passed my door. It paused for a moment as though the not-very stealthy somnambulist were pausing to asses my wakefulness. Then the footfalls moved on in the direction of the war-gaming room. I slumbered on in a haze of Whiskey fumes.

 The next morning saw myself and Father green-gilled over bacon and eggs. The Brigadier ate heartily, accepting seconds from Mother before we all trooped off to the Wargaming Room.

The situation on the green baize of the table top had been revised from my recollection and, although Father and I battled valiantly, there was little that could be done to retrieve the situation. Oh how we eyed the inscrutable Brigadier. Oh, how bland was his returned gaze.

The Brigadier slipped me a sixpence and I handed over the first company of the Erbprinz regiment plus a few samples. "Well done my boy! Do that all yourself? Bully for you!" He tossed back a port for the road, leapt nimbly into his MGB and erupted down the lane toward Dover town with a terrific roar of laughter and a showered spatter of gravel.

Discoveries in the Lead Mountain

 

We had gotten to the part of the afternoon where the cigars and VAT 69 Whiskey had come out. 

The Brigadier and I were rummaging through the lead pile here in a remote department of the Duchy when - "Aha!" quoth he. "I remember these little fellows!"

He triumphantly waved aloft a small packet. We peeled off the browned and unadhesive tape, and carefully brushed aside the decayed remnants of some foam peanuts to reveal the undercoated figures.

Fortunately I was familiar with the Stadden back catalogue and I knew them for the Frenchmen they were. 

"Ha! These will paint up a treat, dear boy!" He pressed them into my hands. "Santoigne Regiment, American Revolution. There's a jolly good picture in young Mollo's Blandflord."

"What ho!" he cried. "Have those done by Christmas and I'll have a shiny sixpence for you my boy!". With a hearty slap to my shoulder he poured himself a port for the road and vaulted into his MG. As the gravel spurted from under his tires, I reflected that I had not - yet - completed the first Company of the Erbprinz Regiment.