Nothing Travels Faster Than Money. Poem by Roy Ballard

In fallen Crete did Captain Hildyard die,
or so they said, although he was not dead
but, living as a fugitive, he tendered
a cheque to hire a boat, at worst a raft,
to flee somewhere that had not yet surrendered.
His bank in England then received the draft
some weeks before he set off in this boat
when no one knew that he was still alive
to spend this money and to get afloat.
The bosses at the bank then phoned his mum
to ask about the signature, the date
with figures adding to a tidy sum;
doubtful they were when, from a seat of war,
capricious fortune, gambling with fate,
sent them this cheque to be referred to drawer.
The draft was honoured I am glad to say
though Hildyard's mother fainted quite away
and Captain Hildyard crossed the wine-dark sea
to join his regiment of yeomanry.