‘I shall, Colonel, and very glad of it.’ The arrangements, given the interminable ways of the law, would now mean an appeal against the commuted sentence by Askew himself. It would be months before his passage, even if there were a ship working south. ‘I’ll go with the sar’nt-major at once and inform him … No, that won’t do. I’ll send word to him.’
‘No, Edward, I think your first instinct was the better. Bad news directly from the top, yes, and good news down the chain of command, but there are exceptions: a life and death business is no small thing.’
As they passed the defaulters’ room Hervey caught a glimpse of home service uniform.
‘That was Cornet Kynaston, I presume,’ he said sympathetically, taking off his cap as they came into his office.
‘Yes, Colonel. Arrived this morning and just presented himself. His letter’s on your desk. I’ve sent for the senior cornet.’
‘Well, we must hope he arrives before Kynaston expires, and gets him into tropicals. Have you had chance to speak?’
‘I have. A fine fellow. Oh, and he brought out a draft of fifteen.’
‘I would see him now, then, before he wilts any further. Give me chance to read his letter … Has the sar’nt-major braced the new draft yet?’
‘The orderly serjeant’s gone for them.’
‘Splendid. Then I look forward to seeing them. Tomorrow at riding school. What a treat’s in store for them.’
‘For Kynaston too, Colonel.’ (Every new cornet fancied himself a rider, until his first encounter with the RM.) ‘I’ll bring him and then go and tell Askew of his new lease of life.’
‘And then I’ll tell you what we’re about these next six months.’
Sammy came meanwhile with coffee, while Hervey read.
St Alban returned a few minutes later with the Sixth’s newest joined officer. ‘Cornet Kynaston, Colonel.’
Hervey rose and held out his hand. ‘You are very welcome, Mr Kynaston. Remove your shako and be seated.’
The punkah had begun to swing, but it produced only a disturbance of heated air rather than anything cooling.
‘Thank you, Colonel.’
‘Sammy, coffee for Mr Kynaston please.’
It was probably the last thing that Kynaston wanted, Sammy thought, replying to Hervey’s Tamul with an additional ‘Nimbu pani, Colonel- sahib?’
Hervey nodded, and saw that Kynaston evidently understood too – a promising start.
‘How was your passage out?’
‘A little faster than expected, Colonel, and without incident, though I regret to inform you that one of the draft in my charge died not long after leaving the Cape – of an aneurysm.’
Hervey nodded. Another letter to be written by someone, St Alban probably, and without the consoling words of one who knew him, or that he’d died bravely in action against the King’s enemies, or that he was held in high esteem by all ranks – and so on and so forth. But this was India, and even getting here was not without its perils.
‘I am sorry to hear of it. He was given a Christian burial, I trust.’
‘He was, Colonel. There was no chaplain, but the captain spoke the words.’
‘Then please give to the adjutant before the day is out what details you have so that he may write to his people.’
‘Of course, Colonel. I presumed to write, myself, already, and sent it by way of an Indiaman we passed off Mozambic.’
Hervey hid his surprise, saying simply ‘Good man’, and then, ‘The draft – a likely cohort, are they?’
‘I believe so, Colonel. There were no defaulters to speak of. The serjeant, from the Thirteenth, with a draft for his own regiment, had them under good regulation.’
‘Capital. Thank you for your letter, by the bye. Tell me, was it India or the regiment that claimed your interest?’
Kynaston smiled readily. ‘Both, Colonel. I had the great good fortune to be recommended to General Irvine, and I have a relative in Calcutta.’
Sammy came back with the lime water. Kynaston thanked him for his in confident Tamul.
Hervey was not minded so much to enquire about the recommendation to the colonel of the regiment – it was as it was – but he asked out of civility and mild curiosity what was his connection with Calcutta: a fellow officer, preferably; or a writer, perhaps (not entirely to be sneered at); but he hoped not a box wallah.
‘He is governor-general, Colonel.’
Hervey managed to keep his countenance, just. He didn’t relish a spy in the camp, for good or ill. Not that it was fair to call Kynaston a spy, but a cornet on terms with the governor-general was a confounding prospect.
He was, however, a fine-looking subaltern: tall, fair, with a good leg for a boot, and an openness of expression, without hint of guile – exactly the cut of officer he, Hervey, prized. Evidently, too, from his Tamul, he was a man of application – as already it seemed by submitting himself to the unnecessary and no doubt toilsome regime of the military college.
‘Tell me, what of Sandhurst? I am not well acquainted with its method.’
‘There is much drill and equitation, Colonel, and the military sciences – administration, topography and fortifications especially – and field sketching.’
‘Admirable,’ said Hervey, though warily. He knew perfectly well of the several academies that purported to prepare a cadet for service, of which that now at Sandhurst was carried on at public expense, but he was of the opinion still that a gentleman born, brought up to horse and hound, God-fearing and of good appearance and constitution, was best brought to his regiment quickly, so he could learn its particular ways and the regulation of men. It was not so for officers of the Ordnance – the artillery and engineers – for they had practical matters to be expert in before they joined, but a cavalryman …
‘Well … I am glad you’re come. There’s work to be done.’
Kynaston rose to take his leave.
He was sensible of cadence, at least, thought Hervey, whatever the military college had drilled into him – and which the regiment might have to drill out. Indeed, he was already inclined to like him, whatever his status as ‘spy’. He certainly didn’t have the stamp of a Channer or a Waterman.
St Alban returned a little afterwards. ‘Well, Colonel, Askew is apprised of his fortune, and pretty humbly. How did you find Kynaston?’
‘Did you know his uncle is Bentinck?’
St Alban started. ‘No, I did not, else I would have told you at once.’
‘To his credit, he didn’t volunteer it, nor yet try to conceal it. Which troop is he for?’
‘You’d said Oliphant’s.’
‘Had I? I think better it is B.’
‘Very well.’ St Alban supposed he knew why. There wasn’t a place to fill in B Troop, but if there was to be communication with the governor-general, better that it be informed under Worsley’s command. He knew that, to Hervey’s mind, there was no surer troop captain than Worsley – not even Vanneck, who was sure enough. Worsley had first commended himself by his address and courage in the affair of the gunpowder mills at Waltham Abbey – long before he, St Alban, had joined (but it was still spoken of) – and he’d seen himself how Dorothea Worsley had been the staunchest of supports at Hounslow. And, of course, they’d both come to India …
‘And tell me when he’s first at riding school.’
Just as he’d thought. St Alban nodded, with a smile.
‘Now, send for the sar’nt-major, and I’ll tell you what we’re about.’
VIII
Salvete et Vale
Riding school, two days later
‘Att-e-en-shun!’
Fifteen recruits – they’d not be given the distinction ‘dragoons’ until they’d passed out of riding school and skill-at-arms – came to attention sharply, testament at least to the daily routine the serjeant of the Thirteenth had maintained aboard ship.
Roughrider-Corporal Walcot saluted as if his life depended on it, which with Armstrong standing by Hervey�
�s side he almost certainly thought it did – a life worth living, at any rate.
‘Recruit-ride all present and correct, Colonel.’
It was their second morning. They’d been in uniform for the best part of a year, but only now had they come under the prodigious regulation of a regiment. Hervey insisted on seeing recruits in their first raw days, before they’d been made so ‘regimental’ as to lose the frankness that might reveal just a little of the man. Not that he’d be able to remember them exactly, but that didn’t matter. He’d pen a few words about each in his order book. He might never have need or reason to read them again, but the Sixth were a small corps. Singletons mattered, for good or ill. It was different in the Guards or the Line. His late and much-lamented Coldstream friend D’Arcey Jessope used to say that he could never recognize his company unless the serjeants were posted. Except that Hervey always suspected it a conceit – and, indeed, in Jessope’s baggage after Waterloo his friends found a pocket book wrapped in oilskin containing the particulars of every man in his erstwhile command.
‘Name!’ Armstrong barked, but not unkindly.
‘Steele, sir!’
‘Steele, Colonel!’
Armstrong turned and glowered at Walcot.
‘Why, Corporal, have you not instructed these men in how the commanding officer of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons is addressed? Or is there some new regulation of which I am unaware and to which you only have been made privy?’
It happened not infrequently even with the dragoons. In the tautness of the moment a man could forget that if the commanding officer was on parade, any question, remark or order, no matter by whom it was asked, made or given, was answered as if direct to the commanding officer. And in the Sixth, it was the duty – and privilege – of all ranks to address the commanding officer as ‘Colonel’ rather than ‘sir’; even a recruit who was not yet accorded the distinction of being called a dragoon. (It didn’t require ‘the brains of an archbishop’ to grasp these particularities, as Armstrong was fond of remarking, but it did require alertness – although on a man’s second day it didn’t merit too excessive a verbal flogging.)
Corporal Walcot knew there could be no answer to the serjeant-major other than to repeat the instruction he’d already given them half a dozen times that morning (and which Armstrong knew of perfectly well, though he’d never say).
When he’d finished, Armstrong tried again. ‘Name!’
‘Steele, Colonel.’
‘Well, Private Steele,’ began Hervey at last; ‘you are very welcome in the regiment. Where did you enlist?’
‘Stow, Colonel.’
The orderly corporal accompanying them made a note.
‘Gloucestershire,’ said Hervey, both to be certain and to put the man a little at ease.
‘Colonel.’
‘And your occupation before?’
‘Shepherd, sir – sorry, Colonel.’
‘Retained or hireling?’
‘Hireling, Colonel.’
‘How were you brought, by recruiting party?’
‘Yes, Colonel, at the hiring fair.’
‘The good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. But he that is an hireling seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth: and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep. The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep?’
The orderly corporal wrote simply ‘Colonel says some Scripture.’
‘No, Colonel, I’d never’ve fled. But there was no more sheep, Colonel.’
Hervey nodded. The country parts had been much depressed since the war with France – the natural check to the unnatural growth in demand. But it was an ill wind that brought no good, and this ill wind brought good countrymen into the army. ‘I had heard it. And I don’t doubt you’d have stood by your charges … You know those words, do you?’
‘Oh yes, Colonel, but the parson, he said they weren’t to be taken as meaning an English shepherd would.’
Hervey smiled to himself. Shepherd Steele would do. He asked of his family and sundry things, then nodded and moved to the next man.
‘Name!’ rasped Armstrong.
‘Beale, Colonel.’
‘Well, Private Beale, where were you listed?’
‘Hungerford, Colonel, but originally I am from—’
‘As you were, Beale!’ roared Armstrong. ‘The colonel asked where you enlisted. If he wishes to know the particulars of your childhood, or indeed of your paternity – if, that is, you are yourself aware of the latter – he will ask!’
‘Colonel! I just thought—’
Corporal Walcot winced. Armstrong thrust the head of his whip under Beale’s nose.
‘You don’t think, Private! You does as you’re told. You speak when you’re spoke to, an’ you keep it short!’
‘Colonel.’
Hervey was intrigued by the ‘originally from’, for here seemingly was a more articulate recruit than usual, and perhaps with some sort of story. But he could hardly enquire now, what with Armstrong telling the man he’d no interest in his particulars, which thwarted somewhat his purpose in addressing them direct. That, however, was discipline.
‘Your previous employ?’
‘Apprentice bookbinder, Colonel.’
Corporal Walcot winced again. Armstrong’s eyes narrowed.
Hervey nodded, and sensing ‘trouble’, moved to the next.
‘Name!’ Armstrong’s bark somehow managed to convey a note of warning.
‘Stratton, Colonel.’
‘Listed where?’
‘Braintree, Colonel.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Near Colchester, Colonel.’
‘In which direction?’
‘West, Colonel. That is, to the west of Colchester, Colonel.’
Hervey liked that reply. Not only did Stratton know the points of the compass, he had the presence of mind to realize his answer might have been ambiguous, and therefore clarified it. He’d be a corporal in eighteen months no doubt.
‘And before enlisting?’
‘Silk-thrower, Colonel.’
‘Handloom, was it?’
‘No, Colonel: was in a factory, power-loom, Colonel.’
‘And you found that … insufficient?’
Stratton reddened. ‘Most of the others there were women and girls, Colonel.’
Hervey nodded. There was no further explanation needed. He moved to the next.
‘Name!’
‘Prettyman, Colonel.’
And so it continued – Prettyman, a postboy from Kent; Newing, a farmhand, also from Kent; Shaw, an engineman from Somerset, the first engineman they’d ever had (Hervey asked why he’d joined the cavalry and not the Sappers, and Shaw said that he’d grown wary of ‘exploding things’ and would rather take his chances face to face); then there was Lange, the son of a corporal in the old King’s German Legion; Needham, a tall, good-looking youth from Warwickshire who’d been in service with the Earl of Denbigh; and Harben, who’d come by way of the Canterbury petty sessions – the option of enlistment or a month at the treadmill (for common assault). And six more, all different and yet all somehow the same – men who’d not sought out the recruiting serjeant, but whose fortunes or otherwise had propelled them his way. He, Hervey, could never abide the Duke of Wellington’s ‘scum of the earth’ remark (though he didn’t doubt there were some who answered that description), not least because the Duke had meant it fondly, that the army took men whom the world rejected – and see what the army made of them. He supposed there must be an unsuspecting hero or two among these now. Why should there not be, indeed?
‘You have all of that, do you, Corporal Spence?’
‘Yes, Colonel. I’ll make a fair copy for you at once.’
Hervey returned his salute and let him cut away to the orderly room. (He’d pay one of the clerks to write in a fine hand for him; it would be a good investment.)
‘I suppose a likely enough lot, Mr Kewley. Nothi
ng out of the ordinary run of things,’ he said as they left the draft to Walcot’s tender words of advice.
The riding-master said they’d had a bit of schooling at the depot, but that Canterbury wasn’t much of a place for equitation, and that, anyway, six months at sea was a sure way of forgetting everything. ‘Two are promising, though. That Lange’s been around horses for sure; and Needham’s got capability. Four months, I reckon. The usual, Colonel.’
Hervey wished it were less, but there it was. At least they’d had plenty of sabre and carbine on the passage out. ‘Mr Armstrong?’
‘That Beale’ll get knocked about a bit till he’s learned what’s what, Colonel, but ’e didn’t flinch when I shoved the whip at ’im. Good sign, that.’
‘Promising, certainly.’
‘And what of Cornet Kynaston, Mr Kewley?’
Hervey had watched that morning as the RM put him through his paces.
‘I’ve rarely seen the like, Colonel. Specially not after six months at sea. It is very pleasing to see a young officer ride so. I couldn’t fault ’im.’
Hervey smiled. ‘No doubt you tried.’
‘Round and round the jumping lane sans saddle and bridle till I got dizzy watching. You saw it, Colonel. Horse was blown afore young Kynaston broke sweat. Not once did ’e even look like ’e’d lose ’is balance.’
Hervey had indeed observed it. Evidently the military college taught something, though a seat like Kynaston’s was a gift of God. (He was already inclined to overlook the unfortunate connection with Fort William.)
‘Very well. Carry on, RM.’
* * *
‘Mr Channer, sir,’ announced the senior subaltern, looking testy (whether because of distaste for the task or for what he supposed was Channer’s offence – the dalliance with the survey wife and refusal to fight her husband – was impossible to tell).
St Alban looked severe. ‘Thank you, Mr Hastie. Have him come in, please. Then dismiss, if you will.’
Channer was not in arrest; there was no need of Hastie as escort. But St Alban intended leaving Channer in no doubt. It was rare that the senior lieutenant was required to attend at adjutant’s orderly room, and that alone would serve his purpose. Hastie himself was scarcely delighted by the duty, for he had six years’ seniority in the rank over St Alban, but the appointment of adjutant carried with it in effect the seniority of the commanding officer himself, and so there could ultimately be no resentment. But any temporary vexation would only serve St Alban’s purpose; whether Hastie blamed him or the unfortunate Channer was by the bye.
The Tigress of Mysore Page 10