Captain Nicholls Character Analysis

He must have known that I would follow old Zoey because he roped me up to her saddle and led us both quietly out of the yard down the path and over the bridge. Once in the road, he mounted Zoey swiftly and we trotted up the hill and into the village. He never spoke a word to either of us. I knew the road well enough, of course, for I had been there often enough with Albert, and indeed I loved going there because there were always other horses to meet and people to see. It was in the village only a short time before that I had met my first motorcar outside the post office and had stiffened with fear as it rattled past, but I had stood steadily, and I remember that Albert had made a big fuss over me after that.

But it was my rider that I disliked more than anything in my new life. Corporal Samuel Perkins was a hard, gritty little man, an ex-jockey whose only pleasure in life seemed to be the power he could exert over a horse. He was universally feared by all troopers and horses alike. Even the officers, I felt, went in trepidation of him, for it seemed he knew all there was to know about horses and had the experience of a lifetime behind him. And he rode hard and heavy-handedly. With him, the whip and the spurs were not just for show.

He would never beat me or lose his temper with me; indeed, sometimes when he was grooming me I think he quite liked me, and I certainly felt for him a degree of respect, but this was based on fear and not on love.

It’s just Jamie and me—we’re the only ones that don’t agree, Joey. We have our doubts, I can tell you that. We have our doubts. None of them in there seems to have heard of machine guns and artillery. I tell you, Joey, one machine gun operated right could wipe out an entire squadron of the best cavalry in the world—German or British. I mean, look what happened to the Light Brigade at Balaclava when they took on the Russian guns—none of them seem to remember that. And the French learned the lesson in the Franco-Prussian War. But you can’t say anything to them, Joey. If you do, they call you a defeatist, or some such rubbish. I honestly think that some of them in there only want to win this war if the cavalry can win it.

“Let’s say, I feel he has a mind of his own. Yes, let’s put it that way. He’s good enough out on maneuvers—a real stayer, one of the very best—but inside the school, sir, he’s a devil, and a strong devil, too. Never been properly schooled, sir, you can tell that. He’s a farm horse, he is, and farm-trained. If he’s to be cavalry horse, sir, he’ll have to learn to accept the disciplines. He has to learn to obey instantly and instinctively. You don’t want a prima donna under you when the bullets start flying.”

“[…] I asked you to train Joey because I think you’re the best man for the job. But perhaps you should ease up on him just a bit. […] He’s a willing soul—he just needs a bit of gentle persuasion, that’s all. But keep it gentle, Corporal, keep it gentle.”

“I tell you, my friends,” he said one day, “I tell you that I am the only sane man in the regiment. It’s the others who are crazy, but they don’t know it. They fight a war and they don’t know what for. Isn’t that crazy? How can one man kill another and not really know the reason why he does it, except that the other man wears a different color uniform and speaks a different language? And it’s me they call crazy! You two are the only rational creatures I’ve met in this stupid war, and like me, the only reason you’re here is because you were brought here […]. As it is, I’m going to live out this war as ‘Crazy Old Friedrich,’ so that I can return again to Schleiden and become Butcher Friedrich that everyone knew and respected before all this mess began.”

Albert suddenly dropped my tail and moved slowly around me running his hand along my back. Then at last we stood facing each other. There was a rougher hue to his face, I thought; he had more lines around his eyes and was a broader, bigger man in his uniform than I remembered him. But he was my Albert, and there was no doubt about it […].

“Joey?” he said, tentatively, looking into my eyes. “Joey?” I tossed up my head and called out to him in my happiness, so that the sound echoed around the yard […]. Then he turned and walked away to the gateway before facing me, cupping his hands to his lips and whistling. It was his own whistle, the same low, stuttering whistle he had used to call me [before].

He must have known that I would follow old Zoey because he roped me up to her saddle and led us both quietly out of the yard down the path and over the bridge. Once in the road, he mounted Zoey swiftly and we trotted up the hill and into the village. He never spoke a word to either of us. I knew the road well enough, of course, for I had been there often enough with Albert, and indeed I loved going there because there were always other horses to meet and people to see. It was in the village only a short time before that I had met my first motorcar outside the post office and had stiffened with fear as it rattled past, but I had stood steadily, and I remember that Albert had made a big fuss over me after that.

But it was my rider that I disliked more than anything in my new life. Corporal Samuel Perkins was a hard, gritty little man, an ex-jockey whose only pleasure in life seemed to be the power he could exert over a horse. He was universally feared by all troopers and horses alike. Even the officers, I felt, went in trepidation of him, for it seemed he knew all there was to know about horses and had the experience of a lifetime behind him. And he rode hard and heavy-handedly. With him, the whip and the spurs were not just for show.

He would never beat me or lose his temper with me; indeed, sometimes when he was grooming me I think he quite liked me, and I certainly felt for him a degree of respect, but this was based on fear and not on love.

It’s just Jamie and me—we’re the only ones that don’t agree, Joey. We have our doubts, I can tell you that. We have our doubts. None of them in there seems to have heard of machine guns and artillery. I tell you, Joey, one machine gun operated right could wipe out an entire squadron of the best cavalry in the world—German or British. I mean, look what happened to the Light Brigade at Balaclava when they took on the Russian guns—none of them seem to remember that. And the French learned the lesson in the Franco-Prussian War. But you can’t say anything to them, Joey. If you do, they call you a defeatist, or some such rubbish. I honestly think that some of them in there only want to win this war if the cavalry can win it.

“Let’s say, I feel he has a mind of his own. Yes, let’s put it that way. He’s good enough out on maneuvers—a real stayer, one of the very best—but inside the school, sir, he’s a devil, and a strong devil, too. Never been properly schooled, sir, you can tell that. He’s a farm horse, he is, and farm-trained. If he’s to be cavalry horse, sir, he’ll have to learn to accept the disciplines. He has to learn to obey instantly and instinctively. You don’t want a prima donna under you when the bullets start flying.”

“[…] I asked you to train Joey because I think you’re the best man for the job. But perhaps you should ease up on him just a bit. […] He’s a willing soul—he just needs a bit of gentle persuasion, that’s all. But keep it gentle, Corporal, keep it gentle.”

“I tell you, my friends,” he said one day, “I tell you that I am the only sane man in the regiment. It’s the others who are crazy, but they don’t know it. They fight a war and they don’t know what for. Isn’t that crazy? How can one man kill another and not really know the reason why he does it, except that the other man wears a different color uniform and speaks a different language? And it’s me they call crazy! You two are the only rational creatures I’ve met in this stupid war, and like me, the only reason you’re here is because you were brought here […]. As it is, I’m going to live out this war as ‘Crazy Old Friedrich,’ so that I can return again to Schleiden and become Butcher Friedrich that everyone knew and respected before all this mess began.”

Albert suddenly dropped my tail and moved slowly around me running his hand along my back. Then at last we stood facing each other. There was a rougher hue to his face, I thought; he had more lines around his eyes and was a broader, bigger man in his uniform than I remembered him. But he was my Albert, and there was no doubt about it […].

“Joey?” he said, tentatively, looking into my eyes. “Joey?” I tossed up my head and called out to him in my happiness, so that the sound echoed around the yard […]. Then he turned and walked away to the gateway before facing me, cupping his hands to his lips and whistling. It was his own whistle, the same low, stuttering whistle he had used to call me [before].