The Sabre's Edge mh-5 Page 14

  Hervey was taken aback somewhat. Indeed, he suspected a prank. It had never been the Sixth's custom to speak of matters of this sort, and Oliver Finucane had certainly shown no previous zeal. He glanced at the other subalterns, each of them showing quite extraordinary attention (except Vanneck, whose eyes were lowered), and wondered what transformation there might have been in the months of his absence. 'I am not rightly sure it is a proper subject to discuss in front of a guest such as Mr Stephenson,' he replied, with a note that implied he would somehow welcome clarification.

  'Oh, do not desist for my part,' implored the chaplain. 'These are matters of very evident moment to gentlemen of your calling.'

  Hervey would rather have received a less enthusiastic endorsement of the subject, which now commanded the attention of the whole table, and which the serving of soup did nothing to abate. 'It is not reducible to an absolute position. It depends on the nature of the engagement. And opinion would also vary depending whether we spoke of the old- or the new-pattern sabre.'

  'But it is so, is it not,' continued Finucane, 'that but three or four inches of the point only is generally sufficient to despatch an adversary, whereas a cut will wound him only - albeit perhaps grievously.'

  'True, but if you close with your adversary at speed - which is to what cavalry ought to aim -then it is not easy to draw back the blade after the thrust home. I have known of swords being struck from the hand, or breaking, with the hilt striking a man's breast after the blade had run through his body—'

  Hervey did not see Cornet Green's face drain rapidly of its colour - only that he suddenly sprang up with hand clasped to mouth and rushed from the room.

  There was much laughter.

  Hervey now saw what was the game, and was in two minds about being used in the subalterns' rag. But he could not find it in him to show it. 'Something I said?' he asked, with an expression of forced solemnity.

  Seton Canning shook his head in mock despair. Vanneck continued to look down, and the others stifled their sniggers as best they could.

  The rest of dinner was a wearying affair, for the chaplain's conversation proved as uninteresting as it was wholesome. He seemed entirely in innocence of what had passed, so that there was little profit in Hervey's trying to explain it, and instead there followed a tedious dialogue on the state of the various missions to Hindoostan. Afterwards, when the port had circulated twice, Hervey led the party back to the ante-room, where a game of primero was got up. He himself stood aloof from it taking his brandy and soda - the married officer's 'nightcap', the sweetener of libatory breath.

  Seton Canning came up. 'I fear you've had not so diverting an evening. Stephenson can be earnest, but he's a good man, and he can still thrash me at fives.'

  Hervey smiled. 'He must have thought me very dull. I fear I had little by way of conversation. I confess my mind was otherwise engaged.'

  'Agreeably, I hope.'

  'As it happens, no.'

  Harry Seton Canning had joined the Sixth just before Waterloo and had been cornet during the battle when Hervey found himself in command of a troop. Canning had, indeed, brought the troop out of the charge against the French lancers, to the acclaim of many an old hand. But until late he had been Hervey's subordinate, and the two had never become quite as close as officers might who had shared so much. Today, however, they were equals in rank just as they were equals in society. 'Disagreeably on account of Barrow, perhaps?'

  Hervey looked surprised at the mention, though he knew it was unreasonable to be. 'As a matter of fact, yes. And other things.'

  'What is your opinion?'

  'I don't have one, for at present there are no facts as I discern.'

  'But are you inclined to think it the smoke and the fire?'

  Hervey frowned. 'Harry, I have said; I am not inclined to think anything without facts.'

  'But what's to be done about Barrow? There can't be this talk for long. It's not good for any of us.'

  'Joynson's to have it out with Nirmal Sen. I think there might have to be a board of officers.'

  Seton Canning frowned. 'That would be tricky, in the circumstances.'

  'What circumstances are these, exactly, Harry?'

  'You know perfectly well. Barrow has never been popular. He's always kept himself to himself. And . . .'

  'And what?'

  'Well, with this other business . . . Rose, I mean.'

  Hervey sighed. There was no doubting that the Rose business would divide opinion in the mess, and a divided mess was not a good place from which to assemble a board of officers. 'Then it would be better to have a board of officers from another regiment. An unhappy day that will be.' He put his empty glass on the khitmagar's tray, declining more. 'I beg you will excuse me, Harry. I want to see my mare before retiring. She's running a high fever. I had thought to see David Sledge at mess this evening, but . . .'

  'Yes, of course,' said Seton Canning, taking another glass of port. 'I hope I shall not be long detained myself. Where do you suppose your new cornet is, by the way?' he added, with a wry smile.

  David Sledge wore a long smock like a shepherd's, and he was looking grave. 'I'm sorry not to have dined, but Johnson sent word soon after evening stables. He feared she was about to have a seizure. I've been with her since. I thought it best not to trouble you until after mess. I'm afraid I see no alternative to opening up the tumour. She's deteriorated so quickly I wouldn't lay odds on her seeing the morning.'

  Hervey simply nodded: there was evidently no alternative to the knife.

  The trouble was that Sledge knew little more than Hervey in the matter. He had his manuals for reference, but he had seen nothing the like of these symptoms. 'I must warn you it's a desperate remedy. The blood's in so bad a state it renders it difficult to bring the wounds to a good digestion, and if this is not effected, there'll be a gangrene and mortification.'

  Hervey understood. 'Where is Johnson, by the way?'

  'I sent him for brandy. I find it has admirable cleansing properties, better than water for digesting dirt and blood. And it will preserve the flesh, too.'

  Hervey smiled to himself. How alike seemed the methods of a good surgeon and a veterinarian.

  Sledge opened his valise and laid out the tools of his trade on the manger — lancet, probe, scalpels, forceps, clamps, a cautery and two needles with gut already threaded. And a great quantity of lint, and a large bottle of green liquid.

  Johnson returned soon afterwards with two flasks of arrack. Sledge took one of them, poured a good measure onto a handful of lint and began swabbing the mare's swollen breast. 'A bit more light, please,

  Johnson. And then this, if you will.' He handed him the cautery.

  Johnson shifted the oil lamps closer, then set about lighting the cautery stove.

  Sledge crouched looking at the swelling for some time, touching occasionally to feel for a vein. Then he picked up the lancet. 'Very well, let's try to expunge the malignance.'

  He made five incisions in all, using the scalpel to elongate the lancet's work. After each one he expressed a quantity of fluid and blood, wiping the wound gently with arrack before studying it closely with his magnifying glass.

  Throughout, the mare remained perfectly still. Her resignation warmed Hervey to her the more. He leaned forward as far as he could to see at close hand the veterinarian's art. 'What do you think, David?'

  'I'm tempted to make more incisions. From each there's come a good deal of corruption. But there's a greater risk of mortification each time. No, I think I'll cauterize now, and sew up the two longer incisions. Johnson—'

  Johnson handed him the cautery. 'I thought there'd be more blood, sir.'

  'Yes, I think I did too. It seems that bad blood was likely not the cause of the inflammation. It was as well we didn't bleed her this morning.'

  Johnson's admiration for Sledge these days was as great as it had been for his predecessor, Selden. Selden had elevated the Sixth's veterinary method from farriers' lore to science, an
d Sledge had confirmed the regiment in that practice.

  'I wish she would take a little feed, though. Nothing at all, you say, Johnson?'

  'Not a thing since yesterday, sir.'

  'And the purgative?'

  'Not 'ad a lot of effect, sir.'

  'Mm.'

  When he had done with cautery and needle, and had dressed the wounds with the green digestive ointment, Sledge turned to Hervey. 'Colic is the immediate concern. I worry about her gut twisting if she's eating nothing. A watch on her all night, and call me at once at any sign of distress.'

  Hervey nodded. 'Thank you, David.'

  'Ay, sir. Thank you,' added Johnson, moving the lamps back to safety.

  Sledge nodded, wiped his instruments clean with lint and arrack, put them in his valise and bid them both goodnight.

  'I'll bed down 'ere, then, sir,' said Johnson when he was gone.

  'Thank you, yes. I have some matters to attend to first, and then I'll come in the early hours and relieve you.'

  'I'd rather tha didn't, sir. I wouldn't want it said I couldn't stag for a night.'

  Hervey smiled. 'Very well. I'll come before muster, though. And if you have to send for Mr Sledge then send for me too.'

  'Right, sir. 'E's good, Mr Sledge.'

  'He is,' said Hervey, gently pulling the mare's ear. 'And as good a man too when not wielding a knife.'

  There was a light in the bungalow next to his when, an hour after midnight, Hervey walked the cantonment road. He paused for a moment, then turned down the path to the door. The chowkidar, squatting on his haunches at the foot of the verandah steps, stood and made the exaggerated salute which native servants thought correct in acknowledging the soldier-sahibs.

  'Good evening, chowkidar. Is the sahib returned home?' said Hervey in confident Bengali.

  The chowkidar nodded his head vigorously, gesturing with his night stick towards the door.

  Hervey ascended the three steps to the verandah and pulled at the bell rope.

  The bearer came quickly, saluting as high as the chowkidar, and admitted him at once. 'Captain Barrow-sahib, Captain Hervey-sahib is come,' he called as he closed the mosquito door.

  Barrow appeared in his shirtsleeves, glass in hand. 'What are you doing up and about at this time, Hervey? You're not captain of the week.'

  Hervey smiled as best he could. 'I've been with Sledge. He had to cut up my mare.'

  'Oh? What's her problem?' The voice of Birmingham was always that much more pronounced when Barrow had had a drink or two.

  'The feltoric, he thinks.'

  'Lord. Will you have a peg?'

  'Yes; thank you - brandy.' Hervey hoped it would wash away the dispirits as effectively as it had the blood.

  'Brandy-pani for Captain Hervey, Ranga.'

  The bearer produced glass, decanter and bottle as Hervey settled himself into a chair, and began to pour.

  'No, Ranga: chota brandy,' Hervey protested, although his instinct was to take a very large measure indeed.

  'A good evening at mess, was it?'

  'Yes, though we were few. Only Seton Canning of the captains.'

  'I'm not long back from Calcutta - one of the Shitpoor road wallahs. Quite a tamasha, it was. Fine wine - hock and best burgundy. And women.'

  Hervey nodded non-committally.

  Barrow smiled. 'Or boys, for that matter, I suspect. You know these Bengalis.'

  Hervey had been to tamashas at the merchants' houses, in the early days. They were lavish affairs, and the generosity of the hosts could indeed be great. Some of the merchants were undoubtedly men of culture and sensibility - and, he supposed, of honour - who merely enjoyed the company of the sahibs. But all the sahibs knew that the entertainment was in some expectation of pecuniary benefit. Barrow made no secret of his enjoying the hospitality, however much the 'proper' officers might disdain it. He was never entirely at home in the mess, and it was hardly surprising that he found his situation as guest of honour in a merchant's house so agreeable. In any case, it gave Hervey his pretext. 'Whose tamasha was it?'

  'The man I bought my last lot of remounts from. And good they were too.'

  'Nirmal Sen, is that?'

  'You know 'im?'

  Hervey thought it unworthy of their long acquaintance to dissemble. 'Barrow, I'm sorry to put this to you thus, but tomorrow Joynson will call Nirmal Sen to orderly room and question him about rumours of you and him dealing . . . improperly.'

  Barrow looked stunned.

  'I'm sorry. It seems the rumours are abroad so much that Joynson feels he has no alternative but to act . . . formally. I understand he will ask to speak with you first in case—'

  'In case what?'

  'In case, I imagine, that you wish first to say anything.'

  Barrow drained his glass. 'And what might there be to say?'

  Hervey saw a face he had never before seen. Barrow had looked death in the eye, and defiantly, many a time, yet now he had the look of a fearful man. The eyes spoke of losing all, not simply life. And for the first time Hervey imagined him guilty. What a wreckage he had wrought in but a few seconds. 'I don't know, Ezra. I truly don't.'

  'Do you think me capable of a corrupt thing, Hervey? You know me better than most, and longer.'

  What was the point in expounding on the doctrine of original sin at such a time? Loyalty demanded that Hervey support him now. 'To me it is inconceivable.'

  Barrow stared at him, as if trying to judge his sincerity. 'And what do you suppose the others would answer - Rose and Seton Canning, and Strickland?'

  'I cannot say.' He knew it to be false, at least in the one case. 'Why should they answer different from me?'

  'You know why, Hervey. You know very well why.'

  Barrow's bearer returned to refill their glasses. Hervey wanted no more, but it was not possible to refuse at such a moment.

  Barrow drained his new glass at once and held it out again. 'Burra peg, Ranga. And leave the bottle and be off. And tomorrow morning, my best dress.'

  'Acha, sahib.' He left, looking anxious.

  'He knows summat's up,' said Barrow, scarcely waiting for him to leave the room. 'Probably did before you said a word. Before you came, even. Whole cantonment's probably jawing me dead: "Ezra Barrow, on the picaro. What d'ye expect from one as is no better than us?" - or them if it's Rose an' 'is like!'

  'There's no cause to think that way.'

  'Isn't there! Isn't there indeed! Hervey, you think me a fool. I wasn't wanted when Lord George brought me in, but I never flinched from doing what was right on account of popularity.'

  'That might go for many a man brought in. But there aren't that many that get field promotion. What does that speak for the regard in which those who mattered held you - hold you, indeed?'

  'Hervey, you've no idea what it's like to be despised from above and below.'

  For all their years in arms together, Hervey had no wish to debate with a man in his cups. If he had made a mistake in coming here in the first place, there was little to be gained by staying. And if he had not, then Barrow needed not brandy and commiseration but sleep and a clear head to hold up high in the morning. He stood up. 'Forgive me, Barrow. It's been a long day.'

  'Ay, that it has. Home then to your bibi, Captain Hervey. The colonel wouldn't like it, you being a proper officer and all, but it's nothing like the sin of being a ranker.'

  Hervey picked up his forage cap. 'Good night, Barrow. I'll come tomorrow morning.'

  ★ ★ ★

  An hour later, as Hervey lay beside his bibi in the moments before sleep, there was a shot. He knew its cause at once. And the stab in his gut was as if the ball had struck him too.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HALLOWED GROUND

  Three days later

  The coroner was disobliging. Although Joynson and Hervey had gone to considerable trouble to sow doubt in the minds of the jury, that upright officer of the court had summed up in such a manner as to make that doubt seem unreasonable. Under oath,
Hervey had been unable to give any indication that Barrow had wanted to clean his pistols at that time of night, and so the suggestion that he might have could be but speculation. And why, indeed, just the one pistol? It was the greatest pity that the inquest was not held under military jurisdiction. Accident or misadventure was not the probable cause, the jury decided, but death by the officer's own hand.

  The verdict presented Joynson with several problems, the most pressing of which was Barrow's funeral and interment. The chaplain, who had turned a blind eye to the rubrics when Private Sisken had hanged himself aboard ship during the regiment's passage east, found himself in some difficulty on this occasion, for the circumstances were known to the entire city, and episcopal supervision was very much closer at hand. However, when it had become known in the canteens that Barrow could not be buried in the consecrated ground that was the regiment's corner of the cantonment cemetery, a deputation had come to the RSM - NCOs and sweats mainly, but not exclusively, from Barrow's troop - to request in no uncertain terms that the captain be laid to rest 'alongside the other poor souls who've succumbed to this place'. Accordingly, and on the recommendation of the RSM, Joynson had summoned the chaplain, adding materially to his troubles by insisting it be done.

  The chaplain was tolerated, respected even, to an unusual degree in the Sixth. It was well remembered that he had stood up to Lord Towcester in the matter of Private Hopwood's flogging, so far as he had been able, which was in truth not very far. And there had been Private Sisken's committal at sea, when all who heard his address had been much moved. Indeed, there had been many occasions since when the chaplain's funerary eloquence had been displayed - altogether too many occasions for so small a regiment. But in Barrow's case, the chaplain's solution was, the officers all agreed, worthy of a Jesuit. An hour before the funeral he conducted a ceremony of deconsecration, limited to the ground that had been prepared to receive the coffin, and had then read over Barrow's mortal remains, in the usual way, 'in the sure and certain hope' and all the other ringing phrases that somehow gave succour to usually godless men who stood in ranks fearful that the next time might be theirs.