It was true. Not even Strickland could be expected to give up home leave for a month in Dehli. 'Then I suppose I had better make ready at once. Am I at liberty to speak to the engineer?'
'I see no reason why not.'
'Is that all, sir?'
'Yes, Hervey. That is all. Unless . . .' 'Unless what?'
'Would you dine with us this evening?'
'Of course, Joynson. I should be delighted.'
There was even more satisfaction in the major's smile, however (and, had Hervey known it, relief). 'Shall we say seven?'
Hervey nodded, replaced his cap, and took his leave.
There were any number of things he would rather do, especially with only a few nights remaining in Calcutta, for he knew perfectly well why he was bidden to the major's table. But how he might be expected to exert any benign influence in Frances Joynson's direction he could not think. Regimental duty was a queer thing at times.
Only later did Hervey realize that in going at once to Dehli he would miss the RSM's wedding, and it displeased him. It was not just that it was already being spoken of as the best tamasha in Bengal, undoubtedly to be the most notable event in the living memory of the Serjeants' mess, rather it was an instinct that he should just be there. He decided at once that he would leave Armstrong behind until after the nuptials, for to do otherwise would have been a deprivation to both his serjeant-major and the RSM - and, indeed, to Caithlin Armstrong, for Lincoln had become a regular guest at their table since their return to the regiment. Armstrong greeted the news exactly like a serjeant-major who knew where his duty lay. 'An' it'll do Collins the power of good to wear a fourth stripe for a while,' he added for good measure.
Myles Vanneck was not so pleased. He had no desire to leave the nominal administrative duties of troop-lieutenant for the weighty ones of adjutant, and he certainly had no need of the modest increase in pay. The adjutant of a cavalry regiment, by long custom, came from the ranks. Often he came from another regiment, as Barrow had done. Assheton-Smith had been the first gentleman-adjutant, as his fellows had soon dubbed him in mock reference to the hyphen in his name (the first not counting Dauntsey, that is, which none of the officers did). The trouble was, he had done so fine a job that it was natural for Joynson to wish to replace him with another of his like. And indeed, Joynson also held the novel notion that an officer might be the better troop-captain - and ultimately even colonel - for having seen the workings of the orderly room. Come what may, all Vanneck's protests were to no avail. By the end of the morning he had handed the various ledgers to Cornet Arthur Perry and taken his seat in regimental headquarters.
Meanwhile, Hervey had been at the garrison engineer's searching for the requisite maps and dak instructions. As the crow flew, Dehli lay in excess of seven hundred miles, and by the dak route nearly eight. With the marching norm for cavalry being twelve leagues a day, it would be a journey of three weeks, and an occasion for sport and other pleasant diversions which could scarcely have come at a better time. He was half disappointed, therefore, when that evening at dinner Joynson declared it his opinion that he should stay for the wedding. 'Give Perry his head a bit,' said the major, with unusual zest. 'They get precious little chance otherwise. You and Armstrong'll be able to catch 'em up in a few days. You should both be there.'
Joynson's dispensation gave Hervey much cause for pleasure, but it was only next day that he began to learn of the import of his mission. He rode over to the Somerviles in the middle of the afternoon for just that purpose, feeling sure that he would learn more useful intelligence there than the commander-in-chief's office was likely to divulge.
Emma was not at home, but her husband was, and deeply engrossed in his book room having come immediately from the council's luncheon table (only the writers and junior officials returned to their offices of an afternoon). He looked up absently as the khansamah announced his visitor. 'Oh, Hervey: you are come very early today. Is there another to-do?’
'Not at all. I’m for Dehli with my troop for a month or so.’
Somervile was transformed in an instant, at once all attention. 'Indeed! I had notice yesterday that Ochterlony had asked for an escort, but I hadn't supposed a decision would be reached so quickly. Indeed I'm surprised: Ochterlony doesn't enjoy the confidence he used to have. Sit you down. Tea, sherbet? Ghulam!'
'Tea, thank you. And some limewater if you have it.'
Ji, sahib?'
‘ Bhat, nimbu pani, Ghulam.’
‘ Ji, sahib.’
'That is the reason I came here, to discover what I could about the assignment. Joynson knows nothing yet.'
'Sit down, sit down,' Somervile insisted, even more attentive. 'There's trouble brewing in that direction.'
Hervey's ears pricked up. He had not supposed the escort wholly ceremonial, but . . .
'Ochterlony's an old man - "Loony Ochter" they're calling him, and not entirely in affection. You must have heard?'
'No, I have not. I know of him of course - everybody does.' There could be no one who needed reminding of his reputation - Major-General Sir David Ochterlony, victor of the Ghoorka war a decade ago.
'Ay, well, he's an old man, as I said. I think Amherst believes him a fool. But I'll say this too: he's one of the few men with any true understanding of the country. He knows when to fight and when to parley. And how to fight, for that matter - but that's not my principal concern.'
Ghulam returned with a khitmagar bearing lime-water. Another followed with tea a few minutes later. Somervile waited for them to leave before resuming, and in a voice deliberately lowered.
'I'd wager any amount that what lies behind this is Bhurtpore. There's an unholy tussle for yonder throne coming. The old rajah's not long for this world by all accounts.'
Hervey looked unenlightened. 'And this is the Company's business?'
'It may well become so. You have to be especially careful with sleeping dogs in India. And Ochterlony's backed the rightful heir, the son - invested him with a khelat, or some such. Doubtless the old fox wants to parade the escort as a promise of troops from Calcutta if things go against the claim. And you know why Bhurtpore would have the doocots aflutter here, don't you?'
'We are speaking of the same Bhurtpore, the fortress that Lord Lake failed to take?'
Somervile smiled, but pained. 'The same. Our only defeat in two centuries. When first I came out from England there was still the taunt, "Go take Bhurtpore!" And the truth may well be that we could no more do so now than we could then.'
CHAPTER NINE
A GREAT TAMASHA
Two weeks later
Mr Lincoln further added to regimental lore when the major asked if he would like to be wed as a quartermaster rather than as serjeant-major. He had replied, with absolute decorum went the story, that he would prefer to take the biggest fence first.
The wedding day had been postponed a fortnight on account of Barrow's death. A fortnight's mourning in India was a long time by all but the most fastidious standards, for death was so commonplace and sudden that it was neither especially appropriate nor practical to observe the passing of one man, or woman, many days after the committal of their mortal remains. The bereaved or the orphaned went home to England, or else the former began life anew, and as often as not remarried in a short time with someone in their own circumstances. Alternatively a widow might accept a proposal from one of the many all-too-eager bachelor-writers, while a widower might make one to 'a new-arrived angel' from England - a member of what later wags would know as 'the fishing fleet'.
The arrangements for the RSM's wedding were overseen by Mr Lincoln himself. There were to be upwards of four hundred guests - all the officers and non-commissioned officers of the regiment, together with a good number of the latter from the other regiments of the garrison, and a surprising number of civilians. And the commander-in-chief, for such was Lincoln's reputation in Calcutta.
The marriage service would take place in the garrison church, which, with its double galleri
es, had just enough space for all of the guests and the regimental band. Its decoration was the only arrangement that Lincoln left entirely in others' hands, for the future Mrs Lincoln was a staunch member of the congregation. On the day itself, she and other members of her Dorcas circle came early, before watering parade, with great boughs of greenery and bunches of vivid orchids in the regiment's colours.
Meanwhile, the regimental quartermaster-serjeant and his working parties were labouring in the garrison gymnasium to work a similar, if secular, transformation - to prepare for what the future Mrs Lincoln delicately referred to as the wedding breakfast, but which all in the Sixth called the tamasha. The RSM came at midday to inspect the work, said not a word as he walked the 'assembly room', as it had become, then astonished the quartermaster-serjeant by saying simply,
'Thank you, Harold’ - the first time he had ever addressed him by his Christian name (indeed, the quartermaster-serjeant was astonished to discover that Lincoln even knew it).
At four o'clock, the worst of the heat being past, the first arrivals at the church heard the band strike up its programme of music. The RSM confessed to having an untutored ear, but he had nevertheless scrutinized the programme, striking out the overture to The Marriage of Figaro (being uncertain of its propriety) and 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind’ (being certain of its ambiguity), and approving more Haydn and Piccini instead.
At twenty past the hour exactly, Mr Lincoln marched up the aisle, eyes front, spurs ringing, as if on parade. He wore review order, shako under his right arm, sword scabbard grasped in his left, leather and metal shining as no one had quite seen either element shine before. Beside him (in truth, half a pace to the rear, for the man could not bring himself to draw level even on such an occasion), was his supporter, Deedes, the senior troop serjeant-major and next RSM. On his left, the same half-pace behind, was his long-serving orderly, who now took from him his shako and gloves and handed him the service sheet. Lincoln made a sharp bow of the head to Sir Edward Paget, the commander-in-chief, and to Joynson sitting in the row behind, and took his place at the end of the front pew. The band then struck up 'Treue Husar’. Herr Hamper had not included it in his submission, for Lincoln would never have approved, but it was a favourite of the Sixth's, and the best part of the congregation believed it exactly apt. The murmur of approval at the end caused the bandmaster to repeat it.
At two minutes to half-past the hour, Herr Hamper and the band embarked on the final 'overture' - Alceste, which seemed to compose the congregation perfectly, as indeed the RSM had intended when he chose the piece 'for its dignity and bearing'. The bandmaster particularly approved of the choice because it could be repeated without an obvious break in case of the customary delay in the arrival of the bride.
The future Mrs Lincoln was, however, a soldier's daughter and a soldier's widow, and she had no intention of being, as she put it, 'late on parade'. At exactly the half-hour, Herr Hamper was startled by the signal to curtail the Handel and launch at once into 'Sweet lass of Richmond Hill', to which the bride would process to the chancel. It had been an express choice, for the future Mrs Lincoln hailed from Putney, where her father had been a waterman before enlisting in the artillery train, but Putney was close enough to Richmond to make the choice of music fitting. And in any case, though few knew it, her mother had kept the cows in Richmond Park - together, indeed, with Beau Brummell’s mother, as she was proud to relate. She walked up the aisle on the arm of the light infantry's commanding officer, in a blue dress trimmed with yellow and white, which at once won the approval of all in the bridegroom's camp.
'Dearly beloved,' began the chaplain, managing somehow to overcome the inappropriateness of the salutation, and commanding a respectful silence. 'We are gathered together in the sight of Almighty God . . .'
And so the old, familiar words began to come, like a warm breeze bringing the scent of happy memories. Hervey let them drift over him, savouring a phrase here and there, and with no regrets.
When it came to the homily, seeing the commander-in-chief sitting attentively not more than a few feet before him, the chaplain's nerve almost failed him. But in glancing at the RSM he was suddenly more afraid of his opinion than the general's, and he managed somehow to fill his lungs with sufficient air. In truth, he need have had no worry, for he had composed what all would agree was a very proper address, by no means too long, at once respectful yet sound in its teaching, combining as it did appropriate adulation for the RSM and all his works, the recognition that in Mrs Lincoln the regiment had gained, in his words (or rather those borrowed from Scripture), 'a pearl of rare price', and last but by no means least God's rightful due in this blessed state of affairs. None of the parties, on earth or in heaven, could have been in the least disappointed.
There followed more singing - Toplady served the mood of temporary exile extraordinarily well
- and the signing of the register, on only the second page.
And then, as it were, came the command stand at ease (if not quite stand easy) as Mr and Mrs Lincoln began their march down the aisle to the band's lusty rendition of 'Young May moon', the regimental quick march. Here and there a brave Serjeant clapped a hand on Lincoln's shoulder, wishing him well and 'God bless, sir!'
The troop serjeant-majors had already slipped out of the church to form the guard of honour, sabres in salute at the carry, smiles broad and eyes twinkling. Mr Lincoln took it all in - not least the shine on the leather and the buttons, judging with special satisfaction that Armstrong was better turned out even than Hairsine. Lincoln had never shown a moment's emotion in living memory, and he was not about to do so now, but he could never have imagined such a day, his last as RSM, and he would miss not a detail of it.
Bride and groom left for the gymnasium in a caleche which one of the nabobs had put at their disposal, a gesture that said as much for the RSM's personal standing in Calcutta as the regiment's, and which those from outside the Sixth could not fail to note. The carriage was bedecked with ribbons - blue, yellow and white
- with two dragoons posted behind, and driven by the rough-rider Serjeant high on the box. It was a turnout fit for Lord Amherst himself, yet none was inclined to think it in the merest degree inflated for Mr Lincoln.
Especially not the private men, who, unknown to the RSM, had lined the road from church to gymnasium in their watering order, having come straight from stables. The cheering could be heard all about the garrison. It broke the rules, of course. Cheering superiors was not approved of. The Duke of Wellington himself had forbidden it - 'for if once you permit them to cheer they may do the opposite when circumstances are not so favourable'. But it was the RSM's last day, and no regulation could adequately apply to that.
In the gymnasium, where the sutler's little army of khitmagars were turned out in their best white, Mr and Mrs Lincoln took post to welcome their guests. On the platform at the other end of the hall, which served usually as a boxing booth, bandsmen were taking their places. The band-serjeant would direct them this time, and the music would be altogether merrier, with the regimental glee club joining them later with glees written for the occasion. The huge punkahs hanging the length of the gymnasium's high ceiling, and strung specially, now began to swing, the punkah-wallahs in the gallery heaving for all they were worth, like ringers first pulling up the bells of a Sunday morning.
The sight which would command greatest admiration, however, was that evidence of the sutler's craft (and the RSM's generosity) which lay on trestles the entire length of one wall. Here was a collation worthy of St James's - sides of beef, mutton, fowls of all kind, fish lying on ice, lentils, rice, pickles and sauces. And on tables down the middle of the hall was the means to quench the thirst of the four hundred: six whole hogsheads of Allsop's pale ale, decanters of Madeira for the officers and their ladies and any others who preferred it, and for those whose taste was neither for beer nor strong wine, punchbowls of lol shrob.
When the speeches came they were brisk and brief, the RSM's es
pecially. Mr Lincoln was ever a man of few words. From the band platform he made his thanks to all, paying handsome respects to his wife and her maids, and called for three cheers for the regiment. Serjeant-Major Deedes spoke next. It was considered the form to make some jesting remarks about the bridegroom, revealing past indiscretions perhaps, or some embarrassing aspect of his life off parade. Both Deedes's research and nerve had failed him, however, and he contented himself - and, he hoped, all who heard -with a harmless story of how once, in the middle of a battle in Spain, Lincoln had ridden up to a British and a French officer locked in furious combat and ordered them to stop at once: 'for it is very unseemly, gentlemen!'
There was great laughter and cheering all about the hall, but in truth, any words delivered with a smile would have served this day.
'Ay, it's a fact I did,' declared Lincoln, permitting himself to be a heckler just for once. 'But
I made the French officer give up his sword to me there and then!'
There was even greater cheering.
And then Deedes braced himself for the final jest. 'Mrs Lincoln, ma'am. I'm sure I am permitted to say that you are most welcome in the regiment. And doubly so, for tonight you retire with a serjeant-major and tomorrow you awake with an officer beside you instead!'
There was now rumbustious, earthy cheering.
'That will touch a raw nerve or two,' said David Sledge to Hervey as they stood together by one of the hogsheads.
'The Broad-minded, you mean?'
Sledge grimaced in mock disapproval. 'I reckon Rose has had a very close shave. A funeral and a wedding to distract attention - I call it very lucky indeed.'
'Well, I for one would not welcome being Paget's quill-driver.'
'Maybe not, Hervey. But then you would not have bedded another man's wife in the first place.'
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