Part 5
11) To Battle
The call had come in the darkness of predawn, a rap on the door of my master’s chamber as I lay beside him, my wrists and ankles bound pressed against his body. After punishing me, he had used me well, roughly at first even as I sobbed with the pain of the lashing, the rampant hardness of his cock satisfying our mutual urgent need. I had offered him my tail hole too, knowing how men like its tightness and he had taken me here, his hands kneading my breasts as he rammed himself into me biting my neck hard enough to make me scream. Then, after binding me, he took me more gently, his hands and his tongue exploring every part of my helpless body, his lips tracing the wounds he had inflicted. I do not think I had ever known such gentleness, never been touched this way and I revelled in it trying not to fear that with every gasp of pleasure I would wake as if from a dream and find myself alone and unfulfilled in the stable.
We had barely slept when corporal Troy called urgently, summoning my master. In truth, it had probably been less than an hour. We had made love or, at least, he had made love to me; there was no other way to describe it, that shared a moment of abandonment as if there was no tomorrow and, with war stalking Europe, it was likely that one or both of us would not live long.
Napoleon was on the move and Wellington’s army was to meet them.
Rousing us, Corporal Troy made no comment on my master’s sleeping arrangements save that, when I had not been in the stable, he had been concerned I had been taken in the night. With news of Napoleon’s advance on the city, the populous was roused in a panic and every pony and mare pressed into service as they fled. There had already been looting. If my master’s cover man made any remark at all, it was on my appearance; the wounds my master had inflicted liberally covered my skin, dark stripes of bruising making me resemble some exotic creature from the Africas or a tattooed lady from the Indies.
Emerging from the yard into the streets of Brussels, we were confronted by a scene of chaos, all thoroughfares and squares choked as if on a market day and we fought our way through crowds or men and women on foot, carriages and gigs piled high with personal effects: rugs and furniture piled up and topped with chests of the family silver. It was as if the whole city had awakened from slumber to the realisation that the French army was suddenly no more than two day’s march distant when its approach had been known and expected for so long. Corporal Troy led, Bristols literally barrelling a path through the melee of ponies straining under their loads, flanks lathered with sweat as frightened and wide eyed as their owners who whipped them to a greater frenzy. The coverman had to dismount on occasions to seize the bridle of a pony who blocked our path, using his whip to turn her and the wagon she pulled to clear a path for us while around us those on foot begged our help offering ludicrous sums for Bristols and for me that they might use us to carry their valuables from the city.
As we neared Wellington’s HQ, the crowds thinned and my master brought me up alongside Bristols so that we could approach in a more orderly fashion. It was at that moment, a cloaked figure stepped from the pavement into the road ahead. My master shouted a warning but the man did not move aside, simply turned and raised a pistol in the manner of a highwayman. Almost instinctively I tried to turn but Bristols was to my left and the kerb to my right. Another man appeared out of the shadows and my master reined me in.
‘Your mounts,’ the first man said in accented English. ‘We want your…’
He got no further. Corporal Troy shot him in the shoulder and, in that moment my master set about the other with the flat of his sabre until they turned and fled.
‘Fukkin’ looters,’ Troy spat then, almost matter-of-factly stuffed his still smoking carbine into the holster of his chariot and drew its partner. ‘Beggin’ yet pardon, Sir. We’d best make ‘aste.’
We encountered no more obstacles until we reached the headquarters building although we passed shops with broken windows and glimpsed figures riffling the contents within. There was a crowd around the Wellington’s HQ being kept back by a picket of Lifeguards, a young lieutenant was arguing in French with a very fat man in some sort of brocade coat who was trying to buy the soldier’s blonde mare for a thousand Francs. Even as he let us through the cordon with a hasty salute the offer rose to two thousand.
My master drew me to a stop and dismounted, leaving Corporal Troy to take my reins; he took the steps two at a time and disappeared inside.
Wellington had chosen to face Napoleon at a place called Waterloo that night and, two days later on the 18th June, we mustered long before dawn in a chill rain; our masters in their long coats with their collars turned up and we ponies shivering as she stood idle. It was on that morning in the light of the torches, I caught my first sight of Wellington’s mare, Copenhagen. She was a beautiful specimen, probably the most perfect pony to prance on the field that day; a tight upright posture and long legs that seemed to carry her gracefully and effortlessly despite the clinging mud. She was, I knew, bred from thoroughbred Derby winners and infused with the blood of an Arab stallion, her skin was a dusky white and her mane dark and glossy. She was, of course, hooded like most of the English and Scottish ponies on the field that day and certainly, I was the only one of the staff ponies able to watch what transpired.
Wellington had spent the night writing orders, passing them to a succession of gallopers who came and went from his command post and I spent much of the night envying their ponies sweating in their harnesses despite the rain.
When dawn broke, the regiments were revealed, the French arrayed some two miles distant, tens of thousands of men, infantry and cavalry and his dreaded artillery. Our own army was stationed at the top of a ridge, some of the infantry concealed from the enemy behind the brow of the hill and to either side of me two thousand heavy cavalry formed up into two brigades. They were a magnificent sight, those ranks of tall, powerful mares in their heavy harnesses, the first brigade, the guards in their shining breastplates, each on of them hooded and obedient to the reins running to their bits, the second including the Scots and the Irish heavy dragoons guided by more traditional military nipple bridles. Even at this stage, they pawed the ground restlessly eager to be engaged in the fray but they were to have a long wait.
The French attack began in the late morning with an artillery bombardment, cannonballs flying across the intervening ground to squelch harmlessly in the mud or, on occasion to find a target, taking out an infantryman and sometimes cavalry troopers and mounts alike, smashing their bodies and sending the chariots to which they were harnessed crashing into the second rank. This is, of course, why cavalry mares are hooded and, as I watched my fellow ponies sent spinning, sometimes screaming into their bits, a part of me wished I was hooded too.
It was wet and I was cold and restless. My training, my pride told me I should stay and stand my ground while my common sense told me I was a working pony from a Devonshire estate who should not be here.
‘You’re no charger.’ My master had said, comparing me to Chrissy, his previous mare.
I wasn’t. Even with all my training I was a head shorter than most of the light cavalry mares and tiny compared to those of the heavy cavalry.
And yet, here I was, harnessed and bridled, ready to serve my master though naked and vulnerable and not knowing if I would see another sunrise.
‘Easy, Bryony.’ Master placed a hand on my shoulder and I nearly jumped out of my skin. ‘I will hood you if you wish.’
I turned to look at him and though he did not say it, I knew he was having similar thoughts. ‘No, Shir.’
‘As you wish.’ He patted my bottom and mounted the chariot.
The first attack came to Hougoumont, the bombardment stopping as suddenly the battle became distant for a while like the action on a stage, albeit one with thousands of performers; smoke erupting theatrically; the distant spit of musket fire; thunderflashes echoing like approaching thunder.
And still it rained.
Then their main line advanced, thousands of men in blue and white marching towards our lines, pushing back our skirmishers. Yet still we stood: ‘we' the cavalry, grimly watching the infantry slog it out even as the advance came on and our redcoats marched out to meet them. We were outnumbered and outgunned. The Prussians were not here and the French generals pressed home their advantage.
Then, the French cavalry came. We watched them at the walk, at the trot, at the canter; watched as the infantry formed squares; watched them reach the gallop. It was a magnificent sight.
It was afternoon by then and in that moment I became a cavalry mare. Like two thousand of my sisters standing on that ridge, I sucked air into my lungs and pawed the ground. Uxbridge had freed the brigade commanders to charge on their own initiative although I know my master had spoken out against this. I had seen colonels of horse, dragoons and life guards, English, Scots and Irish look across expectantly throughout the preceding hour.
In the end it was Uxbridge himself who led the charge, my master at his side, hurling us at the French cavalry.
Once again, I understood why most cavalry regiments hood their mares. The sight of those French cuirassiers pounding towards me at the gallop was almost enough to make me bolt as my eyes widened in fear and my nostrils flared, terror catching in my throat. I had thought that the encounter with the heavy cavalry mare in Brussels would be some preparation but suddenly that felt like a child’s game.
‘Steady.’
I heard my master’s voice, loud over the roar of the battle and I took strength from it, my teeth clamping onto the bit as I leant forward, at full gallop now, surging in front of Clare, Lord Uxbridge’s mare.
‘At ‘em, Red.’
The French commander was suddenly no more than a dozen yards away, his mare also at full gallop, a Saxon, her blonde mane dancing behind her, boots splashing in the mud, her head back, her breasts thrust forward, the reins from her nipples dancing wildly as her heavy breasts bounced, the shaft of the chariot between her powerful thighs.
My master lowered his lance past my right shoulder.
The commander’s mare wore no breastplate, her powerful body was restrained in an ornate white leather harness now mud spattered and sweat stained like her thigh high leather boots.
For a moment, our eyes met and I saw in them my own fear mirrored, pupils dilated; saw her nostrils flare and the foam on her bit. There was a moment of recognition and then we were past each other and the French commander’s sabre parried my master’s lance. A second after that I hit the wall of steel.
Men had said that the British cavalry was weakened by the loss of mares in the peninsula and that the new mares and troopers lacked experience. That was true but we had all been trained and, although I cannot speak for others, somehow I felt, as the line of cuirassiers bore down on us, a resolve come upon me. I had felt it when I’d faced the Saxon mare in Brussels and, seeing the fear in the face of the one I had just passed had reminded me of what I had done and could do.
The mares in the ranks behind all wore cuirasses and when the first one came upon me I ducked forward, hitting her low and driving her upwards and to the side. She was a full head taller than me, probably more, but I lifted her off her feet and when she landed she must have fallen because the chariot behind her slewed and rolled causing my master the draw sharply on my reins to guide me past it before snapping my head back to the right where I faced a mare from the second rank. Her master, dark skinned and black haired with long moustaches, drew her to his left to avoid me and as we closed my master spitted him with his lance even as I shouldered another mare aside and drove on through to the third rank.
They had broken formation in their charge and their lines were ragged although I could not say whether our own cavalry had shown better discipline. This is what had allowed me to move through them and ahead of me I saw the charge of the rear lines was faltering. Had I not been filled with a strange and terrible exhilaration I might have noticed that the French troopers were simply reining in their mares as they approached the crush of bodies and chariots behind me; but I did not see this; I was a mare in harness, obedient to my master and somehow this gave me a calmness in the maelstrom of battle. I do not know whether my master knew what occurred behind him, perhaps he did, perhaps this is why he whipped me towards the line ahead; and then that moment of calm broke and I remember hurling myself at them, at ‘the enemy’ with no thought for my own safety or, indeed that of my master.
I recall crying out around my bit, of pounding through wet mud, of a pistol shot exploding beside me and making reel, an eerie silence engulfing me, of a ball skimming my shoulder and a sabre raking my thigh, reminding me of Chrissy and the wound she had sustained from the highwayman and wondering if I might fall. I recall too losing the momentum of my charge, of close quarter skirmishing, of kicking out with my steel shod boots, of the legs of mares buckling, crying out as they stumbled, blind and helpless, harnessed in thrall to their masters. And then I recall seeing the field ahead of me, a square of infantry, kilted highlanders staunchly loading, priming and firing against the cavalry troop that harried them. The sight of them spurred me on and I strove to pull free from the lines, to engage this troop of cavalry but I was pulled up hard, my harness jarring against my body as something stopped my master’s chariot dead. I stumbled, my boots slipping uselessly in the mud.
To my right a straggling French trooper raised his sabre. There was nothing I could do, I was trapped, harnessed to the chariot, my arms bound, my body naked, no helm, no cuirass. I watched the sable fall, looked into the eyes of the trooper, barely more than a boy, a child in uniform with the ghost of a moustache that was a mere parody of a Hussar's. I had passed his mare a few moments before, equally young; a pony, not a mare; lithe and dark haired, elfin, like the ponies of Brussels, not even a proper harness but rope knotted about her slender body and a rope halter, yet her eyes had been as wide with determination as her young master. Surely they could not be trooper and mare, he was surely a drummer boy and she his sister, yet it was he who was about to end my life.
I suppose I had known it would come, feared it; but faced with it, I was just sorry that I would never again lie in my master’s arms, enjoying that intimacy many ponies would never know. There had been good times, there had been bad ones, but there had been pleasure aplenty, and there had been those few brief weeks with my master.
I did not look away. The sabre cut took all my attention and I was thus surprised when a second blade met that which was meant to end my life. The ring of steel was so jarring that I flinched. The boy dropped his sabre and stared, eyes wide with terror as my master thrust at him.
‘No!’ I screamed, shouldering the blade aside so it slid wide, cutting the sleeve of the boy’s uniform, though a punch from my master’s gloved hand knocked him from his chariot. My master turned to look at me, eyes dark.
‘He wash jusht a boy,’ I said.
I thought he would rebuke me but he simply shook his head and, taking my reins, drew me forward into the empty field before me.
‘That’s a spirited one you have there, Major.’ It was Lord Uxbridge’s voice.
‘Isn’t she just.’ My master remounted his chariot.
‘No hood.’
‘No, Sir.’
Mares began to pass me, French mares, their master’s whips falling across their haunches as they were driven in retreat.
Oddly, it was then that I felt afraid again, my back to a tide of enemy troopers and I glanced to my right to see Clare standing beside me, her harness spattered with mud and blood. She was older than me and had served her master in the peninsular; perhaps that made her resolute or perhaps it was the hood. Her chest heaved from her exertion, her breasts rising and falling, sweat running down her skin, she was steaming from the heat of her body and I could smell her scent.
I learned later that my master and Lord Uxbridge had maintained the initiative and, driving through the enemy lines, had drawn many behind them their charge forcing a bridgehead into the enemy lines that had split the French in two. Many troopers and officers alike had seen me at the very front of the charge carving my own path through the lines.
Suddenly Bristols appeared beside me and I wondered where Corporal Troy had been if not covering my master. Like Clare she was panting in her harness and by her blood spattered chest and the wound on her shoulder they had been in the thick of it too.
‘Do you wish to pursue, Major?’ I heard Troy ask with little enthusiasm.
Part of me wanted to gallop again to follow and to harry the cavalry who still attacked the highlanders. I tightened my grip on the bit.
‘No, Corporal. I think we have done enough.’
I know that if he’d said yes and whipped me to the trot I would have obeyed and done it gladly.
‘Quite so.’ Uxbridge spoke behind me then raised his voice. ‘Bugler.’
‘Sir.’ A mare appeared to my left, dark skinned and in the harness of the King’s Heavies.
‘Sound muster.’
‘Aye, Sir.’ The bugle call rang out but the enemy was routed and, not for the first time, the discipline of the cavalry failed; the remains of troops if not regiments pursuing the ragged remains of the French cuirassiers.
But there were many who stayed, rallying together and I was suddenly surrounded by a knot of chariots and cheering men driving sweating mares, some bloodied and limping, many shivering and for a moment it was like the melee I had just come through. Then they began streaming past me back to our lines, Scots greys and mares of the heavy dragoons from Enniskillen with their wild black manes and pale skins, Saxon mares of the Household regiments.
‘Major,’ the captains called, nodding respectfully to my master, ‘General,’ to Lord Uxbridge.
For a brief moment there was a feeling of exhilaration; the French cavalry had been routed.
‘A fine mare, Major James.’
‘One to rival Chrissy.’
‘Spirited!’
Leather gloved hands patted and caressed my body, whips struck at my hind quarters.
When they’d passed, we turned and followed the reforming regiments up towards our lines.
‘Don’t let it go to your head, Red,’ my master warned.
I tossed my head and pranced and was rewarded with a sharp blow of the whip that made me smile even more broadly around my bit.
A cheer went up as my master and Lord Uxbridge reached the lines, the last of the cavalry that had not ploughed on after the rout to regain the hill, and I saw Wellington standing in his chariot nod briefly in approval before whipping Copenhagen to the trot and returning to his field position. That was not the only recognition of what we had done. As I looked around I saw many of the cavalry mares were no longer hooded. A number looked around in surprise, their eyes wide as they looked uncomprehendingly about themselves.
‘I do believe, Major,’ Lord Uxbridge said, ‘that little mare of yours has set army discipline back thirty years.’
‘We’ll see, Sir.’ My master had me wheel to the left and trot in front of the lines. I did my best to show him and the regiment what I could do, high stepping as perfectly as I was able despite my aching muscles, my thighs coming parallel to the ground and my calves vertical. I may only be a mare from the provinces but when it comes to prancing I can hold my head up and toss my mane with the best of them and I did so to shouts and whistles from the men and whinnies from the mares who’s hoods had been removed. A mare loves the praise of her master and of the judges at the show but there is no substitute for adulation of one’s fellow ponies.
We became watchers again, confident in the glory of our charge and the rout of our enemy but our respite was short-lived. The French came on again and with them, the Imperial Guard marched forth, other regiments parting to allow them through, a blue and white column; disciplined and full of Gallic pride; never defeated, and as the sun finally broke through the clouds it was as if heaven shone upon them like the glorious host of heaven marching forth to the sound of trumpets in the copy of a painting I had once seen by Mister Tintoretto. Around me troopers and their mounts alike began to glance from side to side attempting to draw courage from their fellows; mares pranced and troopers checked their reins, a few used whips to still their restless mounts. We were but one thousand troopers now even with those who had returned from their disordered pursuit of the fleeing French; half the number that had charged and routed our enemy’s cavalry little more than a two hours before. We had all seen what infantry could do to bloody cavalry, watched as the squares of our gallant redcoats and fearless highlanders stood resolute against charge after charge. The French column of infantry seemed endless; two thousand men at least; each one a match for our grenadiers locked in step, muskets at the ready.
We would be scattered by them like chaff blown upon the wind.
I saw Clare, Uxbridge’s mare, move forward and my master shook my reins urging me to match her position. Corporal Troy eased up beside my master and beyond Uxbridge I sensed his cover sergeant doing the same.
‘Bugler,’ Uxbridge called. His voice strained but steady.
I sensed it rather than saw it, sensed the gathering of resolve, then I saw other captains step their mares forward, matching our position. Only the cavalry can do this, only the cavalry can allow these shows of resolution, the infantry would call us cavalier and they are right, we are descendants of the cavaliers, of King Arthur’s knights.
The bugle call sounded the advance and I stepped forward beside Clare, matching her pace and her step lifting my knees to the trot, the rest of the officers’ ponies half a pace behind us and we began to descend this hill towards our final battle.
As we moved to the canter, I felt my master’s lance level beside my shoulder.
‘Steady, Red.’
‘Yesh, Shir.’
We went to the gallop even as the French column took up their firing positions. We were two hundred yards out, beyond musket range though I saw a few puffs of smoke hang in the air and heard the delayed reports of the charges. An order was barked, the others held their nerve.
Death or Glory.
To my right another bugle call sounded and in spite of my training I looked towards it and there they were beside us, another host of cavalry, a match for us and more; Saxon mares and grey coated troopers whipping them to the gallop; teeth clenched around bits and heads up, blonde manes streaming.
The Prussians had arrived.
I saw the infantry line ahead of us waver, as men looked from us to the new enemy and then a shout went up and a French sergeant pointed to my left startled at what I later learnt was our infantry charging down the hill as the Iron Duke committed his reserves to support us. I did not look this time, we were in the killing zone, our boots trampling the bodies of men; a musket ball sped past me, a ripple in the air, beside me Bristols stumbled and fell. Clare was still to my right, Uxbridge behind her calling to his men.
A second volley came at us but the air was not thick with lead, the fire was divided, guardsmen seeking targets indiscriminately and then Wellington’s field guns opened fire on the tightly packed column, balls ripping through half a dozen bodies. The remainder of those in front of me broke and ran and this was repeated back towards the French lines so that the column fractured and fragmented.
Infantry must be united against cavalry and our enemy no longer were. We drove through the remains of the column, the points of lances finding easy targets and sabres slashing as we came and as we left them in our wake, turning to re-engage, our infantry came into firing range.
The French column routed.
‘Well done, Major,’ Uxbridge called.
‘Sir!’ Sergeant Troy on foot ran up, his sabre drawn, his jacket bloody, his shako gone. ‘Artillery.’
A ball the size of my fist flew over my head, another struck the chariot of a trooper near me knocking it over and dragging his mare to the ground.
Suddenly, Lord Uxbridge cried out.
‘Sir, you are hurt?’ My master called.
‘By God, sir, I’ve lost my leg.’
My master pulled my reins and wheeled me round, driving me towards Uxbridge’s chariot.
‘By God, Sir, you have.’
He was not the only one to be wounded, Clare staggered between the shafts of her master’s chariot, a gaping wound in her thigh. Her skin, already damp with sweat and grimy with mud and blood, had gone pale and her eyes showed the pain she felt. Troy caught her reins, steadying her and supporting her and began to lead her and Lord Uxbridge’s chariot with my master riding cover-man beside them.
12) The Return (July 1815)
The crossing back to England provided nothing of the diversions of our short voyage aboard the Hawk with Captain Henrietta Arrlot and her delicious first officer, Lady Katherine ‘call-me-Kitty’ de Beurre. Like all the other mares, I was loaded into the hold of a troop ship and strapped down in a makeshift restraining stall below the waterline along with three hundred similarly restrained mares including a few dozen French ones taken as booty by one of the regiments. The conditions were enough to have made Mr Wilberforce weep had we been the slaves he campaigns to release and not mere ponies. Worse still we were landed at Dover leaving the regiment facing the prospect of a two hundred and fifty mile trek back to barracks, a journey I did not relish despite three days inactivity in the hold of the troop ship among the stench of ungroomed and unsatisfied mares barely able to move in an increasingly filthy stable.
Fortunately, I had slept much of the crossing, exhausted following the battle and the fortnight that followed so had, woken mostly when the grooms did their rounds, removing the embarkation bit I had been fitted with and shoving the neck of a canteen between my teeth to give me a few mouthfuls of warm water that had the metallic taste being too long in storage before strapping a nose bag containing oatmeal to my bridle. I did not even have a visit from my master although I could think of no reason why he should choose to visit the stinking pit that the hold had become smelling of unwashed bodies, manure and the sexual need of three hundred ponies each used to a dozen climaxes a day and now denied that necessary pleasure. Even the grooms seemed unwilling to use us, probably content with the services rendered to them by the ship’s crew.
I knew my master was too busy to visit me anyway. With our regiment’s commanding officer among the fallen, the Duke had promoted my master to brevet colonel making him the senior ranking staff officer for the cavalry and with Lord Uxbridge wounded, my master had effectively taken charge of His Majesty’s cavalry regiments in the field. The night after the battle I had stood at his tent door as he had dealt with officers and gallopers from every regiment when they came seeking orders and bearing requests and then for the next two weeks we had spent our days and nights touring camps to ensure troopers and mares were adequately provisioned and that discipline was maintained. Then there had been the wounded to visit including Lord Uxbridge who had indeed lost his leg, the final connections being severed by the surgeon as his lordship quipped something about allowing younger men a chance to dance with the pretty girls at the next ball. Claire, fortunately, had kept her leg but would be of little use on the battlefield again. His Lordship had already made arrangements for her to be shipped home.
After these difficult weeks it was a relief to be safely back on English soil, albeit far from home and a pleasure to be harnessed to my master’s chariot again. Yet, I had some misgivings; my time with my master in Brussels had been special and we had shared an intimacy far beyond that normally found between a mare and her master. There had also been that night of intense passion, the sentiment of which had not been repeated and, indeed never referred to by my master.
In short, I wondered where I now stood in my master’s affection and longed to be alone with him.
We hardly looked like conquering heroes as we disembarked. Three hundred filthy ponies in grubby tack that would hardly pass muster on the farm, let alone the parade ground. It was July and the air was thick with a fine drizzle. The Royal Devonshires were less than half the strength that had stood on that hill overlooking the field at Waterloo and we were one of the stronger regiments despite being in the thick of the fighting. However, as we mustered on the quayside, a crowd had begun to form, word spreading that King George’s brave soldiers were returning.
So it was that I lead the column from the docks at Dover to the cheers of men, women and children lining the streets and waving flags, a pattern that was repeated as we followed the main carriage road to London; in every town, every village even, crowds cheered us and hands reached out to pet us and tie ribbons to our harnesses.
The march took two days and fortunately, the drizzle of the first morning gave way to clearer skies though the rains had left the surface of the road slippery with mud. However, this was nothing compared to the quagmire that had been the field at Waterloo for our final charge. Even on the march my master remained busy and it was left to Corporal Troy to care for me and keep my tack clean. It was clear from his manner that he was affected badly by the loss of Bristols although he was seeking some consolation from one of the captured French mares which he had commandeered; a sultry brunette with dark skin and flashing eyes. Her name was Juanita and, it seemed, she was of Spanish descent; captured by the French on the peninsula. She thus held little love for her lost master but this did not mean she saw Troy as her liberator and her quick temper meant she was proving something of a challenge to master in spite of Troy’s considerable experience.
Despite the intimacy with which a man must handle a pony when he cares for her, the corporal had never used me and as ‘the colonel’s’ mare now, none of the troopers or grooms took advantage of my body. Thus, while I’d had plenty of affection from troopers and mares alike after the battle and on a couple of nights before we took ship my master had sought me out, I’d had little satisfaction. Like every pony who’s been kept harnessed and plugged, I was becoming overwhelmed with need and had been forced to hide the orgasms my body generated as I’d trotted before his chariot hoping to enjoy them discreetly.
In truth, I was unbearably horny but, disquietingly, that desire was focussed on one man.
It was on the second night out from Dover as we once more made cold camp that my master came to me as I lay hobbled, still in bridle and in harness.
‘Jesu’ Red.’ He exclaimed as he slid beneath the blanket that covered me. ‘You need a bath.’
Though his presence had excited me beyond belief his comment rankled, exciting every anxiety I had felt at what seemed to me to be the increasing distance between us.
‘I apologishe, Shir,’ I said around my bit, ‘there wash not one available in the hold of the transport ship.’
‘I see that time in the field has not curbed your tongue.’
‘I hope not, Shir,’ I said, my defiance flaring inside me despite my need, ’though it hash taught me to sheek sholace where I can.’
‘And where do you seek solace now?’ He reached up and undid my bit.
‘I take it where I can find it, Sir.’
‘Then perhaps we should both seize this moment,’ he said, his body pressing against mine, his cock hard.
‘And after this moment, Sir? I knew I shouldn’t but I had to ask. Maidens fret over the affections of their beau and we ponies are not as different as all that.
‘We are for London to meet the Duke.’
It was not the answer I wanted. It was not even the answer to the question I had asked.
‘Sir…’
‘Enough!’ His fist slid into my mane and his lips pressed to mine.
I struggled, trying to turn away, seeking to know where I stood in his affection, but he had me and my arms were bound; his hand slid down, undoing the strap of my harness that holds my plugs in place.
‘I want to go home, Sir,’ I said, although I didn’t know where home was now. It wasn’t Mares Manor but I knew I wanted to be with him, wanted to be his pony, kept in his stable, owned by him. I couldn’t take it anymore and I let out a sob that wracked my body as tears blurred my vision. We’d been so intimate and I knew it was over, that I was just his mare, that he was a hero, would be feted, would have a mob of eligible women beating at his door, perhaps with Captain Arlot at their head. I knew there was more than that behind my outburst, there was the terror I had felt on the field at Waterloo and still held within me, all those men and ponies that would not be coming home, Bristols among them; blood and guts and excrement and sightless eyes and parts of bodies lying in the mud.
I sobbed and shivered and wailed and he held me for a long time until I calmed and then he wiped away my tears.
Then he kissed me gently, tenderly and held me in his arms.
He was gone when I awoke.
In London, there was the atmosphere of a festival and, primed for our reception, uniforms had been straightened; buttons, harnesses and boots polished; manes brushed and nipple bells fitted that morning so that as we trotted in along the dock road we finally acquired the look of conquering heroes. The Duke had clearly had a more comfortable journey than us and, as we arrived at the dockside, I saw him disembark the Hawk drawn up alongside and climb into his chariot behind Copenhagen who stood in harness looking every inch the thoroughbred from whom she was descended. She was, I saw, not hooded and, as my master drew me up alongside her, I saw dark eyes framed with thick dark lashes over the cheek strap of her continental bridle and full sensuous lips drawn back around the white teeth that held her bit. Her dark lustrous mane was plaited with red, white and blue ribbons and the leather of her dress harness gleamed dark against the peculiar pale duskiness of her skin. Gold bells hung from her nipples.
‘Welcome home, Sir,’ my master called, ‘I hope you had a pleasant voyage.’
‘Thank you, Colonel,’ the Duke nodded, then looked up at the taffrail of the frigate above him from which the Captain and First Officer watched proceedings, the ship's cat, as always close to her mistress. ‘Captain Arlot has made me feel most at home and allowed me the use of her cabin.’
As he spoke my eyes met Copenhagen’s and I saw the flick of a smile cross her face, then was distracted to find myself confronted by Lady Katherine de Beurre stepping from the gangplank, smiling, her pet at her heels. She reached out and played with my nipple bells while her pet wrapped herself around my legs, rubbing herself against my boots and then nuzzling the crotch strap of my harness.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to play more games together,’ the lovely brunette said quietly.
I looked at her in surprise.
‘Oh, she’s good,’ Kitty whispered, glancing at Copenhagen then leaned in so close I felt her breath on my ear, ‘but you’re far more interesting.’ Her hand moved to my rump and she patted me gently. ‘I do hope we’ll be sailing together again soon.’
We spent a week in London during which I saw my master even less. Stabled at the United Service Club there was no chance of being taken to his room at night as he’d done in Brussels; such an infringement of the rules would have been completely unacceptable. If he’d taken a whore in through the front entrance, I doubt anyone would have raised an eyebrow but take a pony via the back door and he’d have been black balled before I’d reached my first orgasm.
I managed to keep myself from dry humping one of the stable pillars with the help of Lydia who’d been stabled next to me; blonde and voluptuous, if a little vacuous, she reminded me of Fanny but with more breeding and hence less sense.
‘I wasn’t born to the stable,’ she told me a number of times though that was rather obvious from her gentle curves and refined accent that I placed as Dorset or Somerset. She had eloped with a young infantry officer, a Captain Wyckham, expecting to be made his wife but had ended up his pony. ‘It’s only temporary.’ She told me although I think we both knew it wasn’t.
Mercifully, my master had left me in the open stable so several other mares came and went on a daily basis meaning she wasn’t my only stablemate. London was awash with soldiers and their ponies and the club and its stables were full; they were also rife with gossip of Waterloo. ‘You were there!’ became a common exclamation both in the drawing room and the stable, whispered in reverence to those of us that were by those who were not. Thus, while my master dined out, I was at least consoled with the adulation of the mares with whom I was stabled.
The week culminated in a victory parade along the Mall. It was a glorious affair, thousands of men and hundreds of mares, the band of the Coldstream Guards and a twenty one gun salute for the Duke from the Royal Artillery. It ended in a muster in Green Park where all the mares were presented with ribbons and the great and the good assembled to be seen with us. It’s amazing that every man who pins a ribbon to a pony’s nipple ring feels the urge to ensure that the nipple to which it is fastened stands as proud and erect as the pony herself.
Freed from my chariot after the march past, my master led me among the throng on a tight rein mingling with officers from all the regiments represented, the cavalry ones leading their mares now decorated like me with a blue ribbon on their left nipples. For such an event, I was once again fitted with a nipple bridle though was not hooded. In fact, following our charge at Waterloo, none of the cavalry mares was hooded though the ponies of the infantry captains and artillery still wore hoods.
In my dress harness and bridle and with my left nipple decorated with my newly presented blue ribbon, I thoroughly enjoyed the attention being directed at me which was almost equivalent to that being shown my master, now made full lieutenant colonel and sporting a new and hastily sewn uniform. I gathered it had cost him the hundred guineas he’d won from Tarlton and, ironically, was twenty more than he’d paid for me. He did look handsome though or perhaps it was just my need for him. On seeing him in it, my resolve to maintain my dignity in his presence had immediately crumbled. We had not been intimate now since that night on the Dover road when I had sobbed in his arms; after which he had not even used me. I could only gaze at him in frustration as he politely acknowledged hundreds of men who wished to shake his hand and kissed the hands of dozens of ladies. Naturally, all those that addressed him took the opportunity to pet me, usually touching the ribbon on my nipple ‘for luck’ before playing with my nipple bells or patting my rump though a few handled me far more intimately. It was some consolation but it was not him touching me. There were the mares too, of course; all afternoon, my fellow beasts of burden came to nuzzle me, touching shoulders and rubbing their thighs against me in the way be ponies do.
‘You are quite the centre of attention, Red.’ My master said, as a particularly statuesque Saxon mare from the 2nd Life Guards was led away after paying her respects, her blonde tail swinging enticingly beneath her fully rounded bottom.
Being on the nipple bridle, I was fitted with a solid military gag and could do little but grunt in return.
‘Colonel.’
I recognised the voice of Captain Arlot and a moment later was confronted by the pert blonde in full dress uniform, a smile curled on those plump red lips as her blue eyes surveyed my master in his new uniform with its gold braid and epaulettes. ‘Such a shame you couldn’t join us for the voyage home.’
‘Captain.’ My master stood beside me holding my bridle and bowed formally.
‘Henrietta,’ the blonde reminded him with what was almost a girlish giggle as she extended her hand revealing herself as the cheap doxy I knew her to be.
Much to my chagrin, my master took the proffered hand and pressed it to his lips.
‘And the lovely Bryony.’ Captain Arlot reached out and toyed with my ribbon. ‘A decorated mare.’
‘She does seem to be the centre of attention,’ my master observed dryly.
‘If half of what I’ve heard is true, she deserves it.’ The captain tugged somewhat forcefully on my ribbon. ‘You’re lucky to have her.’ She cupped my breast, squeezing gently. ‘Rumour has it she routed a squadron of French cavalry all by herself.’
Though she spoke off-handedly, I’m sure she pouted jealously and I tried to hide my delight. Then, she leaned in towards my master and lowered her voice.
‘Kitty is delighted to see all these pretty mares without their hoods.’ She glanced around knowing she was sharing a scandal. ‘She does love a bit of bestiality.’
I bit back a comment, not difficult considering the size of the gag I was wearing.
‘I hope this one isn’t proving too much of a temptation for you, Michael.’ She stroked my mane. ‘Though I’m guessing she was useful to keep you warm on foreign soil.’
Bitch!
‘I was hoping we could dine together later,’ she said, closing her fist in my mane and using her grip to move me slightly away from my master. ‘You know all the nice girls love a soldier.’
Hussy!
‘Unfortunately, I have orders to sail with the tide.’ She slid in between us.
Very unfortunate! I smiled around my gag.
‘I have a little something for you to remember me by, Colonel,’ she said, reaching into her coat pocket. ‘I’d have preferred to let you remove it yourself.' She held up a lacy red garter. ‘But needs must.’ She slipped it into his hand and pressed herself against him. ‘It’s still warm.’ She whispered though it clearly couldn’t be warm in the way she meant it.
I’d hoped my master might attempt to repel her but he bore her advances and, I dare say, enjoyed them even as she planted a kiss on his jaw before releasing me and turning away to demonstrate her best aspect to him.
She certainly had a pretty stern although a rump always looks better with a tail swinging from it. I’d swear this uniform was even tighter.
‘So what are you going to do with Captain Arlot’s gift, Sir.’ I asked pointedly when he removed my gag and bridle later in the stable of the United Services Club. I was standing in a stall, a private one this time, still harnessed and bridled by the nipples. The captain’s gift had soured the evening for me and I had been brooding on it as he drove me back to the club.
‘I thought it would look very fine on you,’ he told me.
I tensed then glared at him, not deigning to give him an answer and thinking that I could kick him with my iron shod boots and might have done so were he not a little drunk.
‘You do not like it? He pulled it from his pocket and held it up.
‘I do not think it is my colour, Sir,’ I told him pointedly, facing front again.
‘I thought you ponies liked ribbons,’ he said, standing in front of me and playing with the blue one tied to my left nipple ring.
‘I would rather trot back to Devon with a catholic cilice around my thigh, Sir.’
‘I could have Troy stitch a bell to it.’ He held the garter up for my inspection in front of my face. ‘Would you not like your master to adorn you?’
‘I am a military mare, Sir.’ I told him staring straight ahead and trying to ignore the lacy ribbon. ‘I do not recall that being part of my standard tack.’
‘You would rather I kept it close to my heart then? Kept what occurs in the drawing room or, perhaps the cabin in this case, separate from the stable and the stall.’
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I fought to keep myself facing front, not to look at him.
‘I held that you sought to be more than my mare?’ He continued, unclasping the nipple bridle and sliding it out from my piercing rings.
‘I seek only to be your mount, Sir,’ I told him.
‘My mount?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then perhaps I should mount you,’ he said, placing my nipple bridle to one side and toying freely with my nipple rings.
Tears spilled down onto my cheeks. In Brussels and in the field we’d needed each other, needed more than just to be master and pony but now we were back, I was just one of his possessions to be called upon and used when needed.
‘On board the Hawk,’ he said, still playing with my nipple ring and fortunately averting his gaze from my face, ‘I’m told the mate had you play games with her.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Games of a theatrical nature?’
‘They involved the exchange of garments and roles, Sir.’
‘A little like the play of Mr Shakespeare?’ He looked up at me and his expression changed.
‘I am a mere pony, Sir. I know not the intricacies of drama and verse.’
‘In that case, perhaps I should make it clear,’ he said somewhat stiffly even as he used his thumb to wipe away my tears. ‘I had a mind to dress you as something that you think you are not but I know full well that you could be.’
‘I think my master has imbibed too much wine today,’ I said trying not to look at his face, ‘his faculty and reason seem to have left him so that he is speaking in riddles.’
‘I have brought you a present, Bryony,’ he said, his hands holding my face to make me look at him.
‘You think I can be bought with trinkets?’ I said more in hurt than anger averting my eye and the moment seemed to pass. Then, he stepped behind me to begin to remove my harness.
I stood bristling but managing for once to keep my tongue in check despite my lack of bridle.
After my harness he removed my arms sheath and then had me sit on the booting saddle as he knelt to remove my boots.
‘You are quite comely,’ he said breaking the awkward silence that had built between us, ‘very comely,’ he corrected a moment later, having tipped me off the booting saddle.
I stood, naked now aside from the blue ribbon on my nipple ring, unsure what to do with my arms.
‘Do not mock me, Sir,’ I told him, ‘you should know that is not a term that is usually applied to a pony.’
‘But you are my pony and I can describe you as I choose?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And you will obey me when I command?’
‘I have no choice, Sir.’
‘And if I command you to wear a garter you will do so?’
I turned and glared at him. ‘If master wishes to humiliate his pony then he may do so.’
He sighed and bent to pick up a box from his chariot. It was white and wrapped with ribbon.
‘While attending Firmin and Sons for my uniform, I took some time to visit Bond Street,’ he said holding out the parcel, ‘and I bought a gift for you.’
‘It is not common for masters to buy their pony’s gifts.’ I glanced at the box then faced front again, sliding my hands behind my back and pushing out my chest as if I was one of his troopers on parade.
‘I know, Red…Bryony but you are a most uncommon pony.’
I continued to stare ahead. I think part of me knew what was in the box and while it was something to fulfil my heart’s desire it was also terrifying.
‘Just open the bloody box you wilful mare!,’ he said louder than was necessary.
‘Sir.’ I looked at him then reached out and took the box.
I am a pony, I don’t really get to use my hands and besides, I was shaking so much I fumbled with the bow but it eventually came free and I opened up the lid.
It was beautiful. A soft blue silk that shone in the flickering lantern light. It had a low neckline but covered my breasts and a sculpted bodice that hugged my waist; the skirt showed my legs at the front but hung almost to the ground behind. There were shoes too with ribbons to fasten them, shoes that would keep me up on my toes and white silk stockings with blue garters.
‘It is a little ostentatious for the stable, Sir,’ I said, ‘and expensive for just for a dressing up game.’
Part of me still didn’t want to put it on. I had not worn a dress since I was a child, only harnesses and bridles.
‘This is not a dressing up game,’ he said holding up the dress, ‘though it will get you inside tonight.’
‘Will it fit?’ I still held him at a distance.
‘I figured that it would be the same size as your harness.’
‘Could we not stay in the stable, Sir?’
‘You know the club rules,’ he said rolling his eyes; just as mares were not allowed in the club it would be most improper for an officer to sleep in the stables. ‘And, if I have to go another night without you I will not be responsible for my actions.’
‘Sir.’ I looked at him, trembling. ‘If I become your…’ I wasn’t sure what word I should use… mistress… whore… slave… ‘Your…’ I faltered. ‘Sir, you will still let me pull your chariot too, won’t you, Sir?’
‘I am but a poor colonel, Red,’ he said, smiling somewhat ruefully but genuinely for the first time since we’d entered the stable. ‘I cannot afford a mistress and a pony. You will have to double as both for the foreseeable future and you can rest assured that tomorrow morning you will be back in harness in front of the regiment and if you are not perfectly turned out you will be on a charge.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ I flung myself at him.
I’m sure the doorman recognised me as I tottered up the steps of the United Service Club appearing more drunk than my master due to those ridiculous shoes that ladies and those who are not ladies like to wear; the blue silk fluttered around my thighs flashing my stockings; I’d probably have fallen on my arse and flashed considerably more if I hadn’t been clinging on to my master’s arm. However, like all good lackeys he discreetly said nothing; I was, after all, with Colonel James, hero of Waterloo and, even if I was dressed up, something between a harlot and a lady of fancy it was not his position to judge.
He had not been there.
My colonel wasn’t the only one in need and, unaccustomed as I am to having my arms free or, indeed, seizing the initiative, I am a military pony and not without an ability to plan an attack. Thus, on entering his room I launched an ambush, stripping his coat even as he closed the door. I’d have ripped his waistcoat open if he hadn’t prevented me.
‘Perhaps my master should keep his pony more secure,’ I told him, struggling as he gripped my wrists with one hand and fumbled with his buttons using the other.
He pushed me down on the bed and began to undress.
‘Do not keep a lady waiting, Sir,’ I told him, watching him intently, my hunger for him almost unbearable.
‘So you are a lady now?’ He chided.
In answer I pulled up my skirt to reveal more than my stockings and reminded him of the ring he had placed in my sex, watching as he removed his cravat and unbuttoned his dress shirt.
Then he was upon me, his lips seeking mine as I fumbled to free his cock from his breeches.
‘I told you not to keep a lady waiting, Sir,’ I chastened him as he knocked my hands aside and rolled to unbutton his breeches. I took the opportunity to straddle him, my hands going to his chest, feeling the lean muscles there beneath his scarred skin. The bite marks and scratches that Captain Arlot had inflicted had faded or perhaps were lost amid the scars from his life as a soldier.
His cock came free and I mounted him triumphantly, impaling myself on him with primal yell of pleasure, delighted by the strange sensation of my skirt concealing our union.
He pulled me down, kissing me fiercely and rolled me onto my back and I wrapped my legs around him, my fingers clawing at his back, raking his flesh, marking him as mine even as I howled with pleasure.
‘Red, you are as vicious as a lion,’ he growled, his fist in my mane and his lips raking my neck.
‘I am a beast, Sir,’ I said, ‘we are best kept…’ I didn’t finish, I simply howled again, climaxing around him and driving my nails deeper into his flesh.
He pulled my arms from his back and I saw him fumble across the bed for his cravat then, pinning my hands, he bound my wrists above my head. Then his lips were back on my neck and my teeth in his.
‘Jesu’, Red…’ He yanked my head back.
‘I thought you liked the roughness of the Prussian style, Sir.’
He stood up and, for a moment, I feared I had gone too far but he took hold of my ankle and undid the ribbons of my shoes before pulling them off; then he removed my stockings. He used the ribbons of my shoes to bind my ankles apart on the bed.
‘Do you think you can tame me, Sir?’ I pulled on my bonds showing him how helpless I was, how much I lay at his mercy.
‘I will damn well try.’
I lay on the bed, my arms bound above my head, my legs spread wide, my skirt up over my chest and my pussy drooling. I wanted him back inside me and arched up my hips as he climbed back onto the bed.
‘Just one more thing.’ He held one of my stockings over my mouth, and I opened wide. If I’m honest, I’ve have preferred a bit but this would have to do. I just hoped I didn’t shred the silk with my teeth. He pushed the stocking between my teeth and tied it behind my head.
Then he entered me again and I came like the whore I am, squirming beneath him, fucking him for all I was worth, fireworks going off in my head like those I had seen at the end of the victory celebration.
It turns out that stockings are not good gags; I screamed with joy as he climaxed and then moments later as it took me over the top again, thrashing my head from side to side as pleasure exploded through my body.
Epilogue
He did make me wear the garter the following morning, the bastard, after taking me back to the stable and strapping me in harness.
Then, at the head of the column, we marched out of the city and started on the long road home.
It was a joyful time and helped a little to put the traumas of war behind us. We were feted in every town and village; escorted by the local militia into the square where a band played and red, white and blue ribbons hung from every door and window. The mayors and merchants held dinners in my master’s honour which he attended with his officers and every trooper enjoyed the attention of a pretty maid and a picnic basket. We ponies shared in the adulation, petted by townsfolk who tied ribbons in our manes and toyed with our nipple bells. The local ponies played their part. I recall a pair of dreys in Casterbridge so buxom that each of them almost smothered me with their enormous breasts as we played together in the stable.
To my relief, my master kept me as his pony, stabling me and coming to me when he could at the end of the evening. It was not uncommon at these times for him to turn in response to the urgent pressure of haltered breasts and the rub of nipple rings on his back to find the full lips of some hot filly parted seductively around her bit and barely inches from his own; these lips had usually spent the evening sucking on my nipples of pressed against my sex. For my benefit, he mostly swatted these away politely, driving them to their stalls with a smack to the rump although I’m sure on occasions a comely mare or maid had been able to seduce him with a flash of dark eyes that promised entertainment especially on nights when some stout burgher or squire insisted on his presence at their house and plied him with drink. With my own exploits in the stables of these august places I could hardly begrudge him a tumble between the sheets with a saucy maid or pert stable girl.
And so it was that we finally arrived in Exeter and, after ensuring the troopers were settled back in barracks and the mares stabled, my master at last drove me up the hill to the cottage where he lodged. We were welcomed by Candice, the maid, in chains again no doubt for some randy misdemeanour. Fanny, it seemed, had finally signed up as many had in the jubilation sweeping across the country following Napoleon’s defeat; not surprisingly, her aunt informed us, the blonde was being trained as a heavy cavalry mare. Apparently, a lieutenant in the 1st Life Guards had taken quite a shine to her.
Much to my relief, the family’s slovenly pony had been sold leaving me with the stables to myself and it was even more of a relief that my master stabled me there rather than making any attempt to take me into the house.
I’m a pony, it’s where I belong.