How many people today can say for sure where Goulds Crossing is? People outside of the local area that is. Forty years ago travelers north or south would, of necessity, have had to drive down the main street and cross the second of the bridges that replaced the earlier ford that gave the place its name. But a bypass moved State Highway One and a new bridge a kilometre to the east and put Goulds out of sight and, therefore, out of the life of outsiders. Except if it should come to our attention for one day each year on Trackside Television. Yet it thrives. Typical of the smaller country towns it continues to be the business centre and the healthy heart of a thriving farming district. It is here that ‘The Rifles’ began. A modest beginning in a modest town and at a Combined-Districts Pony Club meet. It was intended to be a one-off display. Horse-based entertainment that would, hopefully, impress visitors from other clubs with the town’s exceptional horse-back skills. Goulds has a higher proportion of horse people than most towns and a lot of horse-related activities. There is the racing club already mentioned, the hunt, hares are common thereabouts, there is strong interest in show jumping and dressage, and, of course, the pony club. The town fancies its expertise in such matters. The display was the brainchild of Annette Fowldes the pony-club president who leaned on her husband Jeff to help make it happen. It was to be a sort of military dressage with elaborate and, hopefully, precise horse manoeuvres rather along the lines of a marching-girls display, which meant to music, and that was why, in their first demonstration and for the only time ever, one of the six ‘soldiers’ was a woman Rachel Farr. Rachel was, fortuitously, both a capable horsewoman and former trainer of the Gould Grenadiers. It was she who choreographed that first presentation to the stirring strains of ‘Soldiers Of The Queen’, Jeff knew when he was out of his depth, and it was she who replaced one of the men who fell sick or claimed to be sick at the last minute. That first display went well although those taking part were conscious of some minor fluffs, the slight losses of precision. Yet what could one expect from a first effort and from just a few weeks’ practice? The onlookers, however, were prepared to be more forgiving and let the slight lapses be over-shadowed by the sheer novelty of the display. They recognized only too well the difficulty in persuading ones mount’s gait to fall exactly into step with music. Word got about and they were invited to perform at agricultural shows well outside the district. This presented no problems since horse-float-people are normally nomadic on summer weekends anyway. With time, their efforts gained polish and, after their initial success, the sick man never again found himself ill which released Rachel from further riding duty. And soon, the troupe gained four additional recruits which allowed her to plan even more elaborate moves to add to the spectacle. Word reached further still and there came to be a number of copy-cat groups in other parts of the country which indicates the measure of their success. Even at that stage their idea was beginning to acquire a life of its own. In the early days, the various groups never met with each other but even then there was a form of competition. The larger centres could field larger troupes and one even boasted its own regimental band although admittedly a small one. And the troupes tried to outdo each other in authenticity. Firstly it was in the matter of uniforms. A few, possibly influenced by marching-girl tradition, opted for the showy but impractical nineteenth-century parade-dress of some famous British regiments. However, in this small world, where the ends of the earth are as close as one’s internet connection, these regiments quickly found out and threatened legal action. The majority of the troupes, more sensibly, adopted the undress uniforms of the British troops and militia who fought in our own country. Yet, while red coats had been definitely ruled out, shiny brass buttons, distant warning for any enemy, remained a necessity. The Gould group had felt some need to fall into line with this trend and, with the help of local historians, made an educated guess at the uniform issued to the Gould Militia which was raised during the troubles of the sixties but never saw action. They had made a wise choice and a cheap one. Apart from an issue of uniforms the Gould Militia had been forced to provide its own equipment. The danger had been much greater elsewhere and supplies had been short. The horses, saddles and other tack, even the rifles had been their own or borrowed. They had paraded twice weekly and had stood guard duty at night and the pay for this was welcome at a time when work was hard to find. In their original performance the now-to-become Gould Militia had worn short denim jackets and leggings, their only concession to military uniform and to former days being their home-made forage caps patterned on those worn by Union Troops in the American Civil War. Elsewhere, authenticity and cost began to run riot. It was competition gone mad. Saddlery and other horse tack, rifles and cavalry sabres, had to be exactly equivalent to that of a chosen regiment at a now fixed point in history and, at this distance in time, such equipment had become custom items. But as always where there is a demand there will appear those who can fill it. Bespoke saddlers, gunsmiths, and swordsmiths and all of them at a price. And such prices demanded sponsorship which at that stage was not too difficult to find. It was a new sport and very much in-your-face which gained lead-on attention for its sponsors. There began to be a few inter-troupe competition days arranged directly by the individual troupes themselves. But somewhere along the line it had become forgotten that the main issue was supposed to be displays of horsemanship. Now it was playing at being soldiers. The larger city troupes came to have officers and N.C.Os, weekly full-dress parades, padres, veterinarians and farriers, their own armourers and all of this apart from the exhibition team, the supposed reason for their existence. Some began running summer camps under canvas with route marches and square bashing. It appeared that these were necessary to discipline and toughen-up the younger generation. Military bearing had become an important factor. Had the government re-introduced the Territorials for that purpose there would have been an outcry but, in this case, where there was seen to be no coercion, young men flocked to join. It was somehow the in-thing. Horses and their care did continue to play some part. This was after all an army of the nineteenth century. Living history. Opinion was favourable at this stage particularly with an older generation who felt that today’s youth was badly in need of this sort of discipline and needed to be instilled with a sense of duty. It tends to be forgotten that, in a similar way, Boy Scout training had originally a covert intention which was to provide the Empire with young men who would serve it selflessly and obey orders without question. This was seen at the time as being highly beneficial. There were already in Germany organizations who were training their young men for that very same end. It was foreseen on both sides that conflict between the two powers was inevitable. Which soon proved to be true. It was not at all clear what the ultimate aim of the present training was. Inevitably, there came to be a national organization which took as its title The Colonial Mounted Rifles and had a War Office at its head. According to its tenets Victoria was on the throne, the British Empire was one on which the sun never set, and a stone-age Maori were rebelling against the benign efforts of the British crown to civilize them . As was to be expected, there were furious and continuing charges of racialism made but the organization claimed bewilderment at these claims and the outrage that went with them and pointed to the few ’loyal’ Maori in their midst. Loyal that is to Victoria. They did not say as much but managed to imply that it was all make-believe and not to be taken seriously; that the critics were crying ‘wolf.’. They pointed to the United States where major battles of the civil war are regularly re-fought by large forces of the Blue and the Grey with authentic weapons of the period, including cannon firing blank charges. There was no animosity involved. No-one got hurt. It was all good clean harmless fun. The critics replied that if there was any pretense in the ‘Rifles’ it was the pretense that it was only pretense. To them the ‘Rifles’ was clearly showing a sinister underbelly. Sponsorship melted away. The magazine of the national organization also gave cause for alarm. It also set itself in the mid-nineteenth century and had the British settlers entirely in the right and the Maori of that time in the wrong. Te Kooti and Te Rauparaha were ravaging the countryside right at that very moment. The King Movement was causing problems with British land settlement; stonewalling against the spread of civilization. The Hau Hau apparently had it in for everyone. The magazine raked up every Maori ‘atrocity’ from the past and reported them in inflammatory prose as happening since their last issue. The Boyd massacre made front page news. All the troubles were current in the movement’s time warp. Troopers of the Colonial Mounted Rifles were present it appeared at the fall of Ruapekapeka and at Omapere or were fighting at the side of von Tempsky against the rascally Tito Kowharu. They were in fact in every major battle and skirmish taking place in the New Zealand Wars and in every issue they gave their first-hand account of the latest action and it was necessary action. The Pax Brittanica was the world’s salvation. Useless were the complaints made that the whole tenor of the magazine was toward stirring up trouble. The editors simply shrugged them off and countered that the accounts had been carefully checked for factual accuracy as indeed they were. And yet can any history ever be said to be accurate? It seems to depend entirely on where one is standing. And the magazine’s lawyers, who remained firmly fixed in the present, pointed out that not one word of criticism of living persons, Maori or Pakeha, had ever appeared in the magazine; no criticism of the existing government nor of any other contemporary institution. But the long-dead were welcome to sue if they wished. With a national body came a national dress uniform. The individual troupes, now called units, continued to compete in the dress they had originally chosen but at any other time, when on duty, the standard uniform had to be worn with shoulder flashes giving unit indication. By now, public opinion was being completely ignored. Cries of ‘blackshirt’, ‘brownshirt’, private army’ went unanswered. No laws were being broken. If a religious body could wear a military-style uniform without complaint then, in all fairness, a sports body should be able to do the same. Precision military horse manoeuvres continued to be the ostensible reason for the movement’s existence. There came to be nationally-organized district competitions with the winning teams going forward to the national finals. Yet this had become more than just a sporting competition. To represent one’s troupe and in particular to compete in the finals was to clothe oneself with valour, to be present at these finals a great honour, the chosen stadium a veritable temple. With the presentation at the finals there was elaborate and colourful ceremony. The sacred Union Jack was paraded in while the crowd rose to their feet with hand on heart in reverence. There was a credal dedication to Victoria with the audience loud in their responses. There was the marching and counter-marching of units in review, the awarding of special honours, the blessing of unit flags and the presentation of personal flags to new units. It was carefully arranged theatre. And there were the impassioned speeches. Calls to duty and to self sacrifice. The demagogues were very much in charge. To an outsider the fervour they aroused was frightening. While the responses were prolonged bouts of clapping and enthusiastic shouts of ‘Yes, Yes’ rather than ‘Seig Heil’, it was all too evocative of a former demagogue and his rallies on the Zeppelin Field in Nuremberg. If this was play, it was very dangerous play, it was a lit fuse. And Annette—and Jeff—and Rachel? They had long since left the movement. Their baby, so promising, had proved to be a changeling—an elf child—an incipient monster.