"They belong to Division A, or B, or C, or D; see the letter branded upon the horses' flanks. They are Turks, Elamites, Affghans, dwellers in Mesopotamia, Kurds, Parthians, Canaanites, Greeks, for whose services in the Land Transport Corps you, John, pay daily the sum of 3s. per man, and they ought now to be carrying up provisions for your soldiers; but, being philosophers of the Epicurean school, they prefer the pursuit of the grape and the insouciance of the siesta to tramping over dusty roads, or urging their mad career down stony ravines on thy much be-whacked quadrupeds!"
"And those miles of mules and carts winding all along the plain, emerging from ravines, ascending hills, and that vast army of drivers in quaint attire, the concentration of the floating vagabondage of the world, the flotsam and jetsam of the social life of every nation, civil and barbarous, on earth — to whom do they belong, and who pays them and for them?"
"Even you, my dear sir, and very handsomely too, I can assure you."
"And those ships in Balaklava?"
"Yours again, sir; but don't be uneasy; things are managed better there now; occasionally the authorities root out a great demurrager, and send her off hopping after she has lain perdu some months doing nothing. The other day the Walmer Castle, a fine Indiaman, sir, was sent off at last — she had been in Balaklava since February, doing nothing but affording comfortable lodgings for a few of the authorities. But we won't talk of these things any more, for really the arrangements are much improved."
"Who are those officers in blue, with grey, yellow, and red facing's — apparently men of rank, with stars and crowns and lace on their collars?"
"They are of the Land Transport Corps — captains and quartermasters of brigade."
"Hallo! is there a theatrical company here? Who're the queer-looking chaps with the huntsmen-in-Der-Freischutz-caps and tunics, smoking short pipes, and driving their carts like so many Jehus?"
"Well, we have the Zouave Theatre and the Sailors' Theatre, but these men belong to Colonel McMurdo, and certainly they have let their hats get cruelly out of shape; they were neat enough and looked well while the rosettes were clean, but now — — "
"And who are the gentlemen in grey, with black braid and swords, and pouch-belts and telescopes — some new riflemen, eh? — capital dress for sharpshooters."
"Why, dear me, sir, don't you know those are harmless civilians, who neither wish to shoot any one or to be shot at themselves?{328} They are civil engineers and civilians belonging to your recently formed Army Works Corps."
"Hallo! here's another — what's he? a felt helmet with a spike in it and brass binding — a red frock with black braid — a big horse — a cavalry man, eh?"
"Well, he's one of the Mounted Staff Corps, and he gets as much as an Ensign in the line for being ready to go anywhere — when he's wanted."
"Who's that drunken fellow — an old soldier in the odd uniform, with medals on his breast?"
"Hush! he's the last one left of the Ambulance Corps. They cost a lot of money, and did some good, but McMurdo won't have them now, unless he gets his own way with them, and — — "
"I beg your pardon, but who is that foreign officer in a white bournous, and attended by a brilliant staff of Generals — him with the blue and silver stripe down his trousers I mean, and gold braid on his waistcoat, and a red and white cap; it must be Pelissier?"
"That! why, that's M. Soyer, chef de nos batteries de cuisine, and if you go and speak to him, you'll find he'll talk to you for several hours about the way your meat is wasted; and so I wish you good morning, sir, and every success in trade and commerce to enable you to pay all the gentlemen you have seen to-day, as well as a speedy entry into Sebastopol."