Christopher’s Abbey, to be sprung on them at the Veterans’ Dinner in full regimentals, complete with wooden leg, cane, and medals. Bathurst hadn’t a chance against him. All he could do was boast of the victory at Waterloo in terms of quite dull statistics, with an emphasis on the cost in terms of pounds and pence. He had seen the war from behind a desk at Whitehall, and had nothing to say of interest to veterans. Dorking had been there, in the middle of all the blood and thunder—had left a leg there for his country. He was a tall, soft-spoken gentleman whose manner went down well after the bombast of Bathurst. He spoke in eloquent terms of the bravery of the soldiers, mentioning by name and regiment the two boys lost by Crockett. He knew what battles they had been in, and what battle had killed them. He knew, too, as a soldier, the importance of those battles, and could assure the parents and other listeners that the young men had not died in vain. The townspeople knew all about the boys’ records, but they heard it as though for the first time, for they only knew it from letters and papers, and here was a voice from across the water, telling it as it actually was.
