occurred to him at the moment, and accused him of assailing the honour of the regiment with all its glorious traditions, he declared light-heartedly that he would far sooner serve in an arm with only a future than in one with only a past, and that he had no intention whatever of saying anything to the discredit of a regiment which was cut to pieces at Waterloo because they did not know when to stop charging, and that Major Curzon’s argument was a non sequitur anyway.
With that he took his departure, leaving the major livid with rage; it was agony to the major that the young man’s confidential report from the regiment had already gone in to the War Office and could not be recalled for alteration (as the young man had been well aware). Curzon could only fume and mutter, complaining to himself that the Army was not what it was, that the manners of the new generation were infinitely worse than when he was a young man, and that their ideas were dangerously subversive of everything worth preserving.
This picture of Curzon in the years immediately before the war seems to verge closely on the conventional caricature of the Army major, peppery, red-faced, liable under provocation to gobble like a turkey-cock, hide-bound in his ideas and conventional in his way of thought, and it is no more exact than any other caricature. It ignores all the good qualities which were present at the same time. He was the soul of honour; he could be guilty of no meannesses, even boggling at those which convention permits. He would give his life for the ideals he stood for, and would be happy if the opportunity presented itself. His patriotism was a real and living force, even if its symbols were childish. His courage was unflinching. The necessity of assuming responsibility troubled him no more than the necessity of breathing. He could administer the regulations of his service with an impartiality and a practised leniency admirably suited to the needs of the class of man for which those regulations were drawn up. He shirked no duty, however tedious or inconvenient; it did not even occur to him to try to do so. He would never allow the instinctive deference which he felt towards great names and old lineage to influence him in the execution of anything he conceived to be his duty. The man with a claim on his friendship could make any demand upon his generosity. And while the breath was in his body he would not falter in the face of difficulties.
So much for an analysis of Curzon’s character at the time when he was about to become one of the instruments of destiny. Yet there is something sinister in the coincidence that when destiny had so much to do she should find tools of such high quality ready to hand. It might have been – though it would be a bold man who would say so – more advantageous for England if the British Army had not been quite so full of men of high rank who were so ready for responsibility, so unflinchingly devoted to their duty, so unmoved in the face of difficulties, of such unfaltering courage.
It might be so. But in recounting the career of Lieutenant-General Sir Herbert Curzon it would be incongruous to dwell on ‘mays’ or ‘mights’. There are more definite matters to record in describing the drama of his rise.
The first step came even before the declaration of war, during the tense forty-eight hours which followed mobilization. Curzon was in the stables supervising the arrival of the remounts which were streaming in when a trooper came running up to him and saluted.
‘Colonel’s compliments, sir, and would you mind coming and speaking to him for a minute.’
Curzon found the Colonel alone – he had passed the adjutant emerging as he entered – and the Colonel was standing erect with an opened letter in his hand. His face was the same colour as the paper he held.
‘You’re in command of the regiment, Curzon,’ said the Colonel.
‘I – I beg your pardon, sir?’ said Curzon.
‘You heard what I said,’ snapped the Colonel, and then recovered himself with an effort and went on with pathetic calm. ‘These are War Office orders. You are to take command of the regiment with the temporary rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. I suppose it’ll be in the Gazette to-morrow.’
‘And what about you, sir?’ asked Curzon.
‘I? Oh, I’m being given command of a brigade of yeomanry. Up in the Northern Command somewhere.’
‘Good God!’ said Curzon, genuinely moved.
‘Yes, yeomanry, man,’ blazed the Colonel. ‘Yokels on plough horses. It’ll take a year to do anything with them at all, and the war’ll be over in three months. And you are to take the regiment overseas.’
‘I’m damned sorry, sir,’ said Curzon, trying his best to soften the blow, ‘but it’s promotion for you, after all.’
‘Promotion? Who cares a damn about promotion? I wanted to go with the regiment. You’ll look after them, won’t you, Curzon?’
‘Of course I will, sir.’
‘You’ll be in France in a fortnight.’
‘France, sir?’ said Curzon, mildly surprised. The destination of the Expeditionary Force had been an object of some speculation. It might possibly have been Belgium or Schleswig.
‘Yes,’ said the Colonel. ‘Of course, you don’t know about that. It’s in the secret mobilization orders for commanding officers. You had better start reading them now, hadn’t you? The British Army comes up on the left of the French. Maubeuge, and thereabouts. Here you are.’
That moment when he was given the printed sheets, marked ‘Most Secret. For Commanding Officers of Cavalry Units Only’, was to Curzon the most important and vital of his career. It marked the finite change from a junior officer’s position to a senior officer’s. It was the opening of the door to real promotion. It made it possible that the end of the war would find him a General. Naturally it was not given to Curzon to foresee that before the war should end he would be in command of more men than Wellington or Marlborough ever commanded in the field. And he never knew to what fortunate combination of circumstances he owed this most fortunate bit of promotion, for the secrets of War Office patronage are impenetrable. Of course, the memory of the Battle of Volkslaagte had something to do with it. But presumably someone in the War Office had marked the fact that the Colonel of the Twenty-second Lancers was verging on the age of retirement and had debated whether it would not be better for the regiment to be commanded by a forceful younger man, and at the same time the question of the yeomanry brigade command had arisen, so that Curzon’s promotion had solved a double difficulty. It maintained a reputable trainer of peace-time cavalry in a situation where his talents could be usefully employed, and it gave a man of proved ability in war a command in which he would find full scope.
If Curzon had had time to think about it at all, and if his self-conscious modesty had permitted it, he would undoubtedly have attributed these motives to the War Office; and as it was, his subconscious approval of them sent up his opinion of the Higher Command a good many degrees. Moreover, this approval of his was heightened by the marvellous way in which mobilization was carried through. Reservists and remounts poured in with perfect smoothness. His indents for equipment were met instantly by the Command headquarters. In six brief days the Twenty-second Lancers had expanded into a regiment of three full squadrons, complete in men and horses and transport, ammunition and supplies, ready to move on the first word from London – nor was the word long in coming.
Curzon, of course, had worked like a slave. He had interviewed every returning reservist; he had inspected every horse; he had studied his orders until he knew them by heart. Nor was this from personal motives, either. His anxiety about the efficiency
