On His Majesty's Service mh-11 Page 7

  ‘I hope profoundly that that is all it will take. He appeared to me to be quite worn out. I am no doctor, of course, and the surgeon made no remark on it, but I have read of these things.’

  ‘I am no doctor either, Malet, but I should say that he was in the best of health when he went aboard his ship – for a man who had been eviscerated almost as cruelly as if by a Zulu spear. I think that time and regimental duty will work a cure. And Mrs Ellis, of course – Mrs Armstrong, I mean.’

  Malet nodded, more dutifully and in hope than with conviction. ‘Did you want him with you in the East?’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Any man would be a fool not to want Armstrong with him when there was the prospect of action. But I must concede there are prior calls on his service – and not least Mrs Armstrong. I shall need a coverman, though. Wainwright’s not yet back to condition; he was cut up a good deal in that stand of Armstrong’s against the Xhosa – else I should have brought him back with me. There are others who would serve, but the Cape troop’s in need of its best NCOs, which is why I’m applying for a serjeant – or a corporal – from the home troops.’

  Malet thought for a moment. ‘I would ask the sar’nt-major were he here, but he’s with the RM, in Yorkshire, buying remounts.’

  Hervey hoped fervently that the regiment would have need of remounts, rather than the need to cast them, but more immediately he wondered if Mr Rennie, brought in last year, would know which NCO was the best sabre and possessed the best coup d’oeil. He would not venture his misgivings on that account, however; and the serjeant-major would anyway consult the troop serjeant-majors. He simply nodded.

  ‘Do you recollect Acton, D Troop?’ tried Malet. ‘He was made corporal a year ago, won “Sabre and Carbine” and did sar’nt-major’s orderly corporal for the annual inspection.’

  Hervey did recollect: a fine-looking man who might pass for an officer of sorts in plain clothes. And if he had won ‘Sabre and Carbine’ – even in the absence of the competition of his own troop at the Cape – then he was a good prospect for coverman. ‘Where are D?’

  ‘Guildford. I can send for him today if you wish it.’

  Although the adjutant had the authority to act on the commanding officer’s behalf in all matters, Hervey would have preferred the courtesy of asking Lord Holderness. Time was pressing, however; a letter would have to suffice. ‘If you would. Now, to return to the reduction in the regiment: is Lord Hol’ness intending to issue any orders?’

  Malet shook his head. ‘He scarce had time to tell me what the Horse Guards were thinking. He understood there would be nothing decided presently, and in any case he thought it rightly a business first for the colonel.’

  ‘Indeed so. Has there been any communication with Lord George?’

  ‘By the Horse Guards? I cannot say. Lord Hol’ness has not yet written – or rather, he gave me no letter before leaving. As I said, he was told somewhat irregularly, just before leaving for the north. You do know that Lord George is at this time in Canada?’

  ‘I did not know. How so? For how long?’

  ‘He’s gone to inspect the defences at Fort York on behalf of the Ordnance. I can’t say when he’ll return, only that in September he’s to hold a levee for the colonel-in-chief.’

  Hervey groaned inwardly: the absences seemed to be conspiring against him. And he knew he had stretched Malet’s loyalty as far as he ought: these were properly matters for the commanding officer, even if their consequences would – might – be his. ‘Then I must write to Lord Hol’ness and trust that we shall be able to meet over the business before I embark for the East. Meanwhile, might we speak, you and I, about the sar’nt-major?’

  Fairbrother rose. ‘With your leave, gentlemen, I will take a turn around the barracks.’

  Malet stood and made to open the door for him.

  ‘No, permit me,’ said Fairbrother, a shade abashed. ‘I will look over the stables if that is in order.’

  Malet bowed. ‘By all means, Captain Fairbrother. And you are at liberty, of course, to take your ease in the officers’ house.’ He turned to Hervey: ‘You will lunch here, sir?’

  Hervey nodded.

  Fairbrother had no special desire to look over the stables. He had seen the Sixth’s troop horses in the summer and he did not suppose they were in any way changed in the six months since then – what few remained here (except that he had a passing interest in how the Sixth shaved their troopers). His reason for leaving the adjutant’s office was simply to spare both men the discomfort of speaking of a matter of regimental delicacy within his hearing. Besides, he knew exactly what was Hervey’s opinion. Instead of the stables, therefore, he went at once to the officers’ house.

  It was empty, although it had the signs of occupancy. There was a good fire, and a copy of that day’s Times on the writing table, in which he was happy to engross himself for an hour or so until his friend was satisfied with what arrangements he could make, or influence. He had no need of refreshment, so did not seek out the servants. He would read the news in every detail.

  But almost as soon as he had taken up the paper he laid it down again. He was not given greatly to introspection – at least, not recently – but he began wondering about his welcome at Hounslow. He had been most civilly received at dinner, paid compliments by the commanding officer, no less, and every captain and subaltern had shaken his hand. And this morning, too, the adjutant had received him with the greatest courtesy. Was all this not, however, an exaggerated politeness, a way of asserting superiority through a sort of patrician graciousness? Had he truly been admitted an equal, would the greeting have been so courtly? At least at the Cape, where the late governor had repeatedly cut him, he could believe himself a man; whereas here he might be no more than an object of exotic interest, of amusement even, tolerated because he was the friend of another and rather senior officer, and because there was scarcely any ill consequence in it. He liked the Sixth – not least for what he had seen of their capability in the field – and he liked London and Hounslow and Horningsham and everything he saw (almost) of England. But what if Hervey were to take command, especially of a reduced Sixth; what then would be his welcome – a too-frequent visitor, a hanger-on, a resented confidant of the colonel? In embracing the offer, did he not merely succumb to the worst of his self-indulgent side (of which he was all too aware, whatever appearances suggested otherwise)? Wasn’t it, albeit in a pretty minor way, a folie de grandeur? Ought he to have quit the sphere, even if temporarily, in which he had been raised and in which he had found a comfortable niche at the Cape – not truly in trade, connected just enough with the product of his father’s plantation to give his enterprise respectability (he was concerned with selling, crucially, not buying)? Mislike me not for my complexion, the shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun – ha! Here it seemed they all liked him for his complexion. But it could not last. And, indeed – should it ever come to this – what would some English Portia say to his advances? He had once been crushed (he knew he bore the marks still) by such a one in Spanish Town.

  Sighing, he took up the Times again. His life had been that of the outsider, from the earliest days of his consciousness. Would it not be better that he sought a place where he did not mind that status, rather than here where he wished most fervently to be wholly a part of things?

  V

  THE VOLUNTEER

  Later

  Luncheon was a quiet affair; there were but nine at mess. Even Myles Vanneck, captain of the one troop still in barracks, was out, hunting stag at Windsor. To Hervey it was another foretaste of the hollow life of a depot troop, as the regiment en cadre would become – and the more disagreeable for its being manifestly unwarranted. Why the Sixth? After the war with France it had made sense that so many of the regiments hurriedly raised to fight Bonaparte should be equally hurriedly disbanded, but then had followed corps which had served for sixty years and more – the 18th, 19th, 20th and 21st Light Dragoons, regiments not much younger than his own, but which
by some quirk of seniority (itself a somewhat precarious attribution) found themselves laying up their guidons. And now even seniority appeared to be no guarantee of preservation.

  But were there not grounds for hope? It was one thing to disband a regiment, as those had been, and another to reduce it in strength, with the implicit prospect of raising in strength at a later (he hoped not much later) date. Did he not dismay himself without cause therefore? He just wished he could be certain of it, for once a regiment were reduced to a ‘representative’ troop, it would be easier to remove it subsequently from the Army List: it would raise no great tumult in parliament to dismiss, say, a hundred or so half-forgotten dragoons. Indeed it appeared to be a process not unlike the hunting of Vanneck’s runnable stag – harboured, tufted, set at bay, despatched. It looked, at this moment, very much as if the Sixth were being harboured. If they were, could they outrun the tufters before fresh hounds were brought up? He began wondering if Bulgaria were not the very last place he should be; for with Lord George Irvine in Canada, and Lord Hol’ness in the north (and anyway soon to receive his promotion), who would see that the stag was allowed a free run?

  In one respect, however, he was pleased to see that there was yet no sign of a falling off: the Sixth kept a good table – a righteous dish of mutton, a stew of green vegetables in a rich cream sauce, potatoes roast in the mutton fat, with a very passable claret, and then an orange dessert simply done with baked sugar, delicious. Fairbrother found himself answering to questions on the boiling of sugarcane, which he did with easy authority.

  ‘May I ask,’ tried one of the new cornets, ‘what are the prospects for the plantations now that sugar is being extracted from beet?’ The Royal Navy’s late blockade of the Continent had meant that sugar-beet had supplanted cane in France and Prussia. ‘I had occasion last year to visit a factory in Silesia which made syrup from it.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Townshend,’ said Malet, with mock solemnity. ‘Your people in Norfolk will no doubt soon be essaying the same with the turnip?’

  There was good-natured laughter, and Fairbrother was content to let his earlier misgivings subside. ‘My understanding is that it takes a very great deal of beet to make a very little sugar. Does not Adam Smith write that the real price of a thing is the toil and trouble of acquiring it? I suppose in the end it will therefore be but a simple matter of whether there is a greater return on a beet crop than another. And of that I confess I know nothing.’

  Hervey too was content to enjoy the banter – and his friend’s erudition – but at the suitable remove of contemplating the Romney portrait of ‘Queen’ Caroline, now restored to its rightful place in the dining room. It was perhaps one of his few Whiggish inclinations, and he always smiled at the thought of it. Although the regiment had not for a dozen years borne the honorific ‘Princess Caroline’s Own’, he had never seen reason to put her portrait away privily. She had been dead these eight years, and if the King chose to dine with the regiment ever, then it was an easy enough affair to have the painting removed. And while the common view was that Caroline’s appearance was not exactly … striking, it was by no means displeasing – certainly not in Romney’s portrait of regal girlishness (he had more than a suspicion that Hayter’s great conversation piece, of her trial before the House of Lords, which made her fat and coarse, was painted thus for a purpose). In the Romney, her eyes were agreeably large, though her mouth was, he had to concede, simply too small to tempt. Henrietta’s mouth had been generous, while Kezia’s was perhaps the most perfect, her lips slightly thinner than Kat’s. An image of marble came to mind, for Kezia was the perfect subject for the sculptor’s art …

  ‘Colonel Hervey?’

  He woke. ‘I’m sorry …?’

  ‘We were speaking of Trimalchio,’ said Malet. ‘Mr Agar says the Sybil of whose acquaintance he boasted was of Cumae, and Mr Jenkinson disputes it.’

  As the senior officer present, Hervey assumed his position of adjudicator. It had always been the way in the Sixth: one minute the conversation might be of the most advantageous degree of curve in a sabre, and the next upon some point of antiquity or philosophy – or equally on the relative ratting prowess of officers’ terriers. Conversation was never dull for long, and often as not ended in the wagers book. ‘What brought the talk to Trimalchio? He was rather a low fellow, was he not?’

  ‘Captain Fairbrother said that Trimalchio could not have served better mutton than he had just enjoyed.’ Malet wore just the suspicion of a complicit smile; he knew the cornets well, and intended letting them have a little rein.

  Hervey was tempted to be grave, but he too could not entirely keep a smile from his face. ‘Why say you otherwise than Mr Agar, Mr Jenkinson?’

  Cornet Jenkinson, new joined from Oxford in the year just gone, had the air of a questioning, even puzzled curate. ‘I recall, sir, that Plato spoke of but one Sybil, and she at Delphi. And since the Delphian oracle was the best known to all, why should Trimalchio boast of another?’

  Hervey inclined his head in a way that acknowledged the proposition. ‘Mr Agar?’

  Cornet Agar, new joined in the same month as Jenkinson, and also from Christ Church, had an altogether acuter air, though not lacking in warmth. He and Jenkinson had lived cordially on the same staircase for several terms despite the difference of their families’ politics (the Jenkinsons were Tories of a most unbending sort – Lord Liverpool, the prime minister, had opposed Catholic relief to the last day of his administration; while Agar’s family stood prominently among the Whigs). ‘There is no doubt of it, sir. Petronius writes of the Sibyl of Cumae, who because of her great age was suspended in a pot – ampulla – for eternity. And since Trimalchio’s estate was at Cumae, why indeed would the Sybil be the Delphian?’

  Hervey raised an eyebrow, and turned to Cornet Jenkinson for his response.

  ‘I cannot dispute it further, sir. Agar’s memory serves him better than does mine.’

  ‘You are well that it did not come to the wagers book,’ concluded Malet, signalling that the conversation could resume its former dimensions.

  Hervey turned a little in his chair to where Fairbrother sat with a fathoming look. ‘It’s as if I were a cornet again and Laming were here, sporting. I’m quite transported. You would have found his company most engaging. A considerable scholar … Something troubles you?’

  Fairbrother shook his head. ‘Not troubles me, no. But I had thought that a Sybil spoke her own prophecies, not those of an oracle.’

  ‘A very apt observation. You should put it to Jenkinson.’

  Instead he put it to Agar, quietly, as they rose from the table.

  Agar nodded confidentially. ‘Just so. It was the Pythia who spoke for Apollo at Delphi. The Delphian Sybil spoke for herself. But it wasn’t necessary to make a show of that too. Jenkinson’s an excellent fellow.’

  Hervey heard the exchange, and he warmed to Agar for it.

  In the ante-room, to which they returned to take more coffee, Jenkinson took his leave for picket duties, while Malet engaged Fairbrother in an examination of the wagers book (always a diverting pastime). Hervey chatted dutifully to the new paymaster, but after a few minutes that officer excused himself, for the imprest account was due its monthly reconciliation.

  Agar saw, and detached himself from the little knot of other regimental staff hugging the fire. ‘Colonel Hervey, sir, I understand you are to observe the war in the East.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Sir, I should like very much to accompany you.’

  Hervey, slightly taken aback – not so much by the desire as the directness of the request – made an expression that suggested the notion was impractical.

  But for a new cornet, Agar was singularly undaunted. ‘Sir, if I might add, I have travelled throughout Greece and a good part of Macedonia and those places close to the seat of the war, and I speak a little Persian.’

  Hervey nodded appreciatively, though he feared Agar misjudged the nature of the business. ‘I
t is not a dragoman I need but a coverman.’

  Agar looked earnest. ‘I should be honoured to serve as your coverman, sir.’

  Hervey suppressed an instinct to smile (for pluck was not to be derided); but a greenhorn cornet was no substitute for a winner of ‘Sabre and Carbine’. He shook his head. ‘The place is taken, though I take note of your zeal.’

  Agar stood his ground, however. ‘Sir, there is no pressing need of me here – and I might add, no useful work – and since there is so little action to be seen other than scattering riotous assemblers, I must seek it out.’

  Hervey frowned. ‘I wonder you did not choose an India regiment then,’ he said, suddenly inclined to be a little severe.

  ‘My mother’s people – cousins – served with the regiment, sir. That was my reason for wishing to join, rather than an India one.’

  ‘Indeed? Their name?’

  Agar cleared his throat. ‘Lankester, sir.’

  Hervey was too practised to betray emotion, but no mention of the name Lankester could be without effect. Both brothers had died at the head of the regiment; and, not least, Kezia had briefly borne the name – of which Agar must be aware. ‘Your mother’s people, you say?’

  ‘Cousins, sir.’

  It guaranteed nothing, of course – only that his reason for joining was copper-bottomed – and yet here was a man of evident learning and eagerness, and there was no reason why he should not come with him to the war. Hervey supposed that the Horse Guards would have no objection (Agar could surely pay his own way), and nor in the circumstances could Lord Holderness. Malet would anyway be able to say how needful they were of a cornet not long passed-out of riding school and skill-at-arms – which, he imagined, was not at all.

  He nodded several times, thoughtful. ‘Very well. I shall have Malet speak with Lord Hol’ness.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel Hervey.’ Agar bowed, and made to withdraw.

  ‘One more thing.’