Free Simon by Rosemary Sutcliff Page A

over to the care of an hostler, Simon followed his new friend into a shadowy hall where several soldiers were standing about, and up a broad flight of stairs, past the doleful-looking sentry on duty at its foot.
    ‘Of course we could have gone to Major Disbrow,’ said Barnaby casually. ‘Most of the Colonel’s duties fall on him really, but the Lord-General is more likely to listen to reason.’
    There was another man on duty before a door at the end of the long upstairs gallery, and a young officer of the Staff, a Galloper, kicking his heels by the window. Barnaby spoke to him, and he disappeared into the next room, and after a few moments came back and left the door open for them.
    They went in and the door shut behind them, and Simon found himself in a panelled room where a low fire was smoking badly on the hearth. A man writing at a table in the middle of the room glanced up for an instant at their entrance, and then went on writing; while another man in the dark clothes of a secretary sat by him, ready to take the finished paper.
    After the noisy streets, it seemed very quiet here, with no sound save the faint, harsh scratching of the quill pen over the paper; and Simon had plenty of time to take stock of the writer, who he supposed must be General Sir Thomas Fairfax. The Commander-in-Chief was dark; that was the first thing one noticed about him: dark as a gipsy, and gaunt as a scarecrow under the gay scarlet of his uniform coat, with black unruly hair hanging about his cheeks and neck. With nothing of his down-bent face visible save the frowning black brows and great beaked nose, he had a most forbidding aspect; and seeing his gloves and riding-whip beside him on the table, and remembering the horses being walked up and down in the courtyard, Simon began, first to feel that they had not chosen a very good moment to bother him, and then to wish fervently that they had not come to bother him at all, but gone to Major Disbrow, whoever he might be, instead.
    The great man finished his writing and laid down the pen, sanded the sheet and handed it to the man beside him, saying in a slow very pleasant voice, ‘Three copies, John—no, four. Colonel Pride had better have one.’ Then he turned his attention to the pair waiting before him. Now that he was looking up, his dark face no longer seemed forbidding, for the eyes did much to redeem its harshness. Also, Simon saw to his surprise that he was quite young—not more than two or three and thirty. The scar of an old wound showed livid on cheek and temple, and he put up one hand for an instant to cover it, as though he was still very conscious of the disfigurement; then let his hand fall back to the table.
    ‘Yes, Colebourne? You wished to see me?’
    Barnaby stepped forward, doffing his hat in salute. ‘Yes, sir. This is Simon Carey, a friend of mine, and he wants to join the Regiment; so I brought him along to you, sir.’
    The General turned his head in the quick alert way he had, and studied Simon in silence for a few moments. Then he nodded, as though satisfied with what he saw. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Sixteen, sir.’
    ‘You have seen no fighting before, I take it?’
    ‘Only as an onlooker, sir,’ said Simon.
    Barnaby made a quick movement forward, and Fairfax turned to him. ‘Yes, Colebourne?’
    ‘He’s the guide who got us safely through to Barnstaple, after Lostwithiel, sir.’
    Fairfax studied Simon again. ‘That was a good night’s work,’ he said slowly. (Indeed, all through the interview Simon found the slowness of the General’s speech an odd contrast to the quickness of his looks and movements.)
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘I haven’t got a cornet, yet, sir; beg pardon, sir,’ said Barnaby, insinuatingly.
    ‘What about Cornet Wainwright?’
    ‘He—’ Barnaby hesitated, and then plunged on. ‘I know he thinks he has a right to the post, but seniority isn’t everything, and—do you think he’s quite the man for the job?’
    ‘Don’t