“Hiya, Ian.” I grin.
“How are you getting on with things?”
“All right.”
“That’s crackers,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you allowing people to stand in the far corner opposite the stable guard?”
“Yes, we are. If you want a spot, you’d better grab it now. Once people see you, I’m sure they’ll cozy their way in next to you.”
I agree. “One more question. Have you seen Sam—I mean, Trooper Baker?”
“You’re in luck. He has the corner post.” Ian chuckles.
I thank him and power walk my way over to the footguard by the stable doors. There are a few tourists snapping photos of Sam. While I wait for them to clear out, I take in the brilliantly shined helmet and exceptional job he’s done on the boots.
To me, he looks like the best presented soldier here, but I’m a tad biased. What worries me is when my eyes reach his face—it’s paler than normal. He has a set of pronounced dark rings beneath his eyes. Putting in the extra work is taking its physical toll on him. I bet he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in at least a week.
Finally, it’s my turn. Sam is alone. Pulling out my phone, I open the music app and let the song I recently discovered from the Broadway musicalSuessicalplay. Yes, Iwas highly amused to find an entire musical dedicated to the genius of Dr. Seuss. A chorus of children’s voices begin to sing the song, “Green Eggs and Ham.”
He glances at me. The folds of his eyes crinkle and twitch, as if he’s saying,Really, Min?Stomping his foot, he pivots and marches up and down the span of his small chained-off area. It must be the only way he can contain himself from breaking out into a fit of laughter.
When Sam settles back in place a minute later, I say in a low tone, “I brought the chocolate-covered coffee beans I promised you, plus your favorite Aero mints, and a pack for you to share with your squadron. I’ll leave them with Ian before I leave.”
He lifts his sword to salute me. It’s a salute that’s unique to the cavalry and my way of knowing that he’s thankful and excited. What he doesn’t know is that I also added a pack of polishing cloths Mr. G recommended.
“I’ll be in the corner. You look good. Princess Alice Cup worthy. I’ll call you later tonight.” He raises his sword to me once more.
It’s about five to four by now. The two horses from the boxes out front are being brought into the yard. I quickly dart to my empty corner. A few tourists observe me for a moment, then rush over to where I am.
Ian positions himself near me and shouts, “Stay where you are. The inspection is about to begin.”
His words have the intended effect. No one else moves a muscle. A hush falls over the courtyard as the stable doors open. I’m glad I have room to move and am not standing elbow to elbow with the crowd on the far side of the yard.
“Reform the guard!” a gruff voice bellows. Out marches a line of five Blues. “Dressing. Eyes right.” Their heads turn toward me, and they shuffle so everyone is in perfectalignment with one another. “Eyes front. Lower swords. Stand at ease.”
More silence ensures. I hear coughing, the sound of cars driving past, and a police siren. The bell tower chimes four times.
“Carry swords!” the non-commissioned officer at the end of the line commands.
Just as the fourth chime rings out, an officer walks out. He salutes the NCO, chats with him a few moments, then spends about five to ten minutes reviewing his troopers. Glancing at the wall of tourists by the shop, I can see they’re eating all this ceremonial stuff up.
I laugh to myself. I doubt many of them know that this inspection is actually called the punishment parade. As the story goes, one day in 1894, Queen Victoria’s carriage arrived at Horse Guards and found no cavalry soldiers on duty to greet her. When she sent her military attaché to investigate the situation, he found that the soldiers on duty were too busy drinking and playing cards in their shirtsleeves to notice the queen had arrived.
As a punishment, she ordered that every day at four p.m. for one hundred years, the soldiers would be inspected. While the hundred years have long since passed, the cavalry still carry on this tradition. It marks the last public duties of the day. According to Sam, they’re given a full inspection by a senior officer before they march out. What the tourists see is purely for show.
I’m brought out of my thoughts by the captain’s voice reaching a level that sounds like he’s using a bullhorn. “Guards, single file, by the front, left wheel, quick march.”
I can see why this man has a reputation for being a by-the-book officer. His voice even inspires fear within me.I wouldnotwant to get on his bad side or be on the receiving end of a punishment from him.
The Blues on foot stomp in acknowledgement and march inside as a unit.
“Eyes front,” the NCO bellows.
The captain moves on to the two mounted soldiers, inspects them, then orders them inside too. If it were summer, the guards would’ve been commanded to dismount. But since it’s still winter order, the dismounting is done inside the stables out of the public eye. The long fabric of their all-weather cloaks gets in the way.
I stay where I am and watch the captain retreat inside and the NCO march to Sam’s post. “Guard to the guardroom.” Sam salutes, shoots me a fleeting glance, and follows the orders to march inside.
