Hervey blanched. 'David, you take it a little too personally. And there's something in Scripture, is there not, about casting the first stone?'
Sledge was a son of the manse, however, and knew his Scripture rather better than Hervey recalled his. 'That was speaking of punishment, not judgement. Anyway, it's not the same, is it, if the lady's not a lady - not a real officer's wife?' He took a long draw on his pot of ale.
'Oh, David, that's unfair. Joynson has the very devil of a job at present.'
'Ay, well, that's as maybe. But a horse that's once kicked over the traces is best shot from the team.'
Hervey was saved by the commander-in-chief. Just when it seemed the speeches and toasts were done, the general ascended the platform.
There were murmurs of surprise, and then silence.
'You tell 'im, sir!' came a voice from the back of the hall, followed by more laughter, and a certain anxiety on Joynson's part that the hogsheads might be emptying too quickly for comfort.
'Mr and Mrs Lincoln, it is an honour to be here,' began Sir Edward Paget in a voice at once commanding and warm. 'Mrs Lincoln would not know that I first met her husband more than fifteen years ago, in Spain. Indeed, it was on a very dark night and it was at a place called Corunna.'
The proverbial pin could now have been dropped. Corunna was a distant memory to just a very few of the bluecoats, but it was second only to Waterloo in the consciousness of the Sixth.
'I, a general officer, was in command of the reserve during that battle, and I and my staff had become lost. I will say no more, but had it not been for the address of a certain serjeant-major the French would have had me in their bag that night.'
There was much approval about the hall, if muted still. This was news indeed.
'As it was' - Sir Edward broke into a broad smile - 'they had me but two years later, I'm sorry to say, else it might have been me and not my brother with you at Waterloo!'
'Yer wouldn't be standing as steady then, sir!' came the voice of another wit from the back of the hall.
And there was cautious laughter about the room from those who understood the reference to Lord Uxbridge's missing leg (while Paget had lost an arm).
'It sounds as though you're not standing all that steady either!' returned Sir Edward.
There were hoots of laughter now. There was nothing more entertaining than the heckled putting down the heckler.
'But let me not suspend the celebrations any longer. Except to wish the bride and groom the best of good fortune, and to say that I half think I could send the Sixth east and be finished with the Burmans at once!'
There was now loud and sustained cheering from all quarters. Sir Edward played to the gallery, but he did so perfectly.
Eyre Somervile shook his head. 'A most curious animal, the soldier.'
Emma smiled. They stood apart from the regimentals, and she was enjoying this intimacy. 'In what way, my dear?'
'He is happier to be thought of as a number in a line, just so long as the line is his own, and with others who belong to it. You saw. There cannot be more than a few dozen who were at Corunna, and yet they all think of it as their honour, as though they had all been there, indeed.'
Emma nodded. 'A very proper pride, the sort that comes not before a fall.'
'And in men who might otherwise be outside all society.'
'Oh, indeed. They sang well in church, but I have no illusions.'
Her husband took another glass of Madeira. 'And I have observed how they are with their officers, some of whom are as stupid as half those in parliament, yet the little that is good in them is somehow magnified by the connection. And these men' - he nodded to the dozens of chevrons about the place - 'would no doubt be hurling bricks at magistrates were they not in regimentals. Yet here they all are, as if the same family. And those we saw on the road here without chevrons just biding their time until they're allowed a bit further under the blanket. I tell you, it's a system that defies reckoning. I've mocked its little absurdities often enough, but I half believe the Company could go anywhere with men like this.'
Emma sighed. 'I hope, therefore, that the Company will remain in ignorance of its treasure.'
Somervile touched her arm, for him a public gesture of unusual warmth.
'Good afternoon Mr Somervile, sir. Good afternoon, ma'am.' Armstrong's greeting recalled the two of them.
'Good afternoon, Serjeant-Major - and Mrs Armstrong,' replied Somervile, with a look of genuine pleasure.
Emma smiled as wide. 'Oh, please, don't on my account,' she said to Caithlin as she curtsied. Emma's Indian maids might bow gracefully, but they never curtsied, and, in any case, she could never think of Caithlin Armstrong as of inferior status. 'Especially, my dear, not in your condition.'
Caithlin and her husband glanced with customary pride at the swelling beneath her dress.
'I should say in our condition,' added Emma, with the same look of pride.
'Oh, Mrs Somervile,' exclaimed Caithlin, her melodious Cork never stronger. 'How happy I am for you! Is that why Miss Joynson is to be your companion, then, ma'am?'
No fact remained in the possession of but two people in Calcutta for more than a day. 'It is,' said Emma, agreeably. She could not very well add 'ostensibly', although indeed she might. Hervey's suggestion of taking in Frances Joynson for a while had come at a propitious time, though Emma certainly felt in no need of a companion.
Somervile himself was looking rather embarrassed, especially since Armstrong was smiling in a manly, confidential sort of way. There were affairs, indeed, that transcended all barriers. That did not trouble him in the slightest - Somervile was more impatient of the confines of rank than most men - but 'country matters', as he was still wont to call them, he was not at home with.
'What is the news from the east, sir?' asked Armstrong, thinking to save further talk of domestic affairs.
Somervile shook his head. 'Not good, I'm afraid, Serjeant-Major. The business is taking longer than was imagined.' He did not say by whom imagined, nor that there were some who never imagined it otherwise - the commander-in-chief, for one. 'And I fear that our embarrassment there will encourage others to . . .' (he noticed both wives listening intently) 'to . . . become rather impudent.'
Armstrong nodded. 'Well, sir, I for one shall be making in the opposite direction tomorrow with Captain Hervey. And pleased of it, too. I've no partiality for fighting with trees everywhere you turn. That Burma is no place for cavalry.'
The band had struck up a lively jig, and the commander-in-chief had rejoined the major. 'A capital display, Joynson; capital. My compliments to you. But I fear I must return to my desk. The despatches from Rangoon this morning were not at all felicitous.'
'But you still do not think the Sixth will be needed, Sir Edward?'
'No, I think not. If Campbell can break himself out of Rangoon then all should be well, even if takes some weeks more - months, even. And break out he's bound to do at some stage. But the country isn't suitable to develop cavalry operations. I've sent him reinforcements, and if need be, for escorts and the like, I'll send one of the Madras light horse.'
Paget began taking his leave, shaking hands with Mr and Mrs Lincoln, and several others besides, his smile in contrast with the earnestness of his manner with Joynson. As they reached the door he turned again to Joynson, and his former look returned. 'Things are by no means settled among the country powers hereabouts, and our difficulties in the east will only encourage them. I want a handy force here in Bengal if trouble ensues. I have to be able to count on King's cavalry. You'll have the Sixth in best condition, Eustace?'
'I'm sure we understand that, General.'
Sir Edward nodded. 'Hervey will soon be at Dehli, I should imagine?'
'The troop left on Tuesday. Hervey goes tomorrow.'
Sir Edward nodded again. 'A good choice, Hervey. Ochterlony will like him.'
Joynson raised an eyebrow. 'And what's equally to the point, General, Hervey will like Ochterlony
!'
Sir Edward smiled. 'Oh, yes, indeed. That is equally important!'
CHAPTER TEN
THE RESIDENT
Dehli, three weeks later
Sir David Ochterlony, the Honourable East India Company's political resident at the court of Shah Mohammed Akbar Rhize Badshah, the Great Mughal, was sixty-six years old. He had entered the Bengal army when he was not yet twenty and had spent his entire service in Hindoostan. He had fought the French, the Marathas and the Nipalis, and each time he had added garlands to his reputation as both a soldier and a diplomatist. He had been a major-general since 1814 and resident since 1803. His name was held in the highest esteem - venerated, even - throughout India, although it was the opinion of some members of the Bengal council, and Lord Amherst himself, that his retirement was overdue. Indeed, if any man gave the lie to the oft-heard native lament that a grey hair on the head of a European was never to be seen in India, it was Ochterlony - although, ironically, he had been born and bred in America.
Hervey reported to the residency towards the end of the afternoon, within an hour of entering the great old Mughal capital, but already he had formed the strongest impression of decay and ruin in Dehli - of desolation, even. The city walls, half of stone, half of brick, were in poor repair, tombs and mausoleums were everywhere in dilapidation, grass grew long all about. In places there was a smell of corruption as bad as in Calcutta, and his guide told him there was not a house from where the jackal's cry could not be heard of a night. The centuries of depredations, the sackings and the looting, the sieges and the slaughter had brought the once sumptuous imperial city to little more than a tract of dreary and disconsolate tombs.
'Sahib, here nothing lasts,' said Hervey's guide. 'There is much tribulation and little joy. In years past, the living thought only of reposing after death in splendid sepulchres, and their descendants have thought only of destroying what was intended for eternity.'
And Hervey had half shivered in the chill of that judgement.
But the guide had not been melancholy. He had spoken with the indifferent acceptance of fate that was the mark of his religion. And indeed there was cheer in his judgement, for he told Hervey that things would have been immeasurably worse without Sir David Ochterlony. 'Ochterlony-sahib is greatest man in all of empire after Great Mughal himself, sahib.'
Hervey considered himself well used by now to native blandishments, whether from gholam or pandit. Perhaps, though, in the living memory of Hindoostan - and certainly that of his guide
- Sir David Ochterlony had a reasonable claim to greatness. It had been he who had kept Jashwant Rao, the Holkar of Indore, the most powerful of the Maratha chiefs, at bay two decades before, while the Wellesleys made war on the Scindia and the Bhonsla. Greatness, indeed, did not seem too inapt a word as Hervey now contemplated the residency, a classical palazzo on Chandnee chouk near the Lahore gate. It spoke of a confident power, for it had nothing to do with the art of the empire of Tamerlane, only that of the Honourable Company.
As he rode up to its gates, the quarter-guard turned out and presented arms. The havildar saluted and stood his ground, so Hervey dismounted and obliged him by inspecting his men
- smart Bengali sipahis, red-breasted, bare-legged, straps and pouches whitened, muskets burnished. Then a young ensign, very fair-skinned, came. He wore a frock coat and forage hat, as if on picket duty at St James's, and he saluted as sharply, introducing himself and then conducting Hervey to Sir David Ochterlony's quarters. It was, truly, just as if he were arriving at the Horse Guards again.
For weeks Hervey had wondered what he would find at the residency, so many had been the stories. But all he knew for certain was that Sir David was an elderly major-general, and so he composed himself accordingly: the usual military formalities, the stuff of any general headquarters - a brief interview, the presentation of compliments, and so on and so on. But instead of being bidden to wait in an ante-room and then being announced at the door of the resident's office, as he would have expected, the ensign showed him at once into a sitting room furnished in the Mughal style with cushions and divans about the floor, in the middle of which sat a barefoot major-general in a bamboo armchair, wearing a florid silk dressing gown, with a hookah to his mouth.
Hervey rallied quickly enough. 'Good afternoon, Sir David. I am Captain Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons.' He had considered the mode of address carefully, concluding that as Sir David Ochterlony was the political resident it was more appropriate to address him by that style rather than as 'General'.
Sir David did not reply at once, nodding as if in a dream.
Hervey stood at attention but removed his cap, uncertain how the interview would proceed. Without doubt, there was here before him what in Calcutta they called a 'mofussil eccentric', one who had been overlong in native India. Any reference to military rank seemed incongruous, and the display of military normality that had attended his arrival only served to make the situation seem more absurd. It was not entirely true to say that his heart sank, but it was not nearly so light as when he had begun his assignment. 'I have the honour to report for duty, three officers and fifty-three dragoons at your service, sir.'
Sir David took the pipe from his mouth and beckoned a khitmagar to bring a chair. 'And a pipe,' he called after him in Urdu, or something very like it, for Hervey grasped its meaning.
'No, thank you, sir. I am, in truth, rather parched.'
'My dear boy, my dear boy!' Sir David took the pipe from his mouth again and bellowed, ‘Quai hai! Sherbet for Captain Hervey-sahib!'
Hervey took his seat and waited to be spoken to, doubts crowding in apace.
The silence continued. Sir David, pipe to his mouth once more, was content to sit and contemplate the new arrival.
At length he seemed satisfied. He took the pipe from his mouth and nodded. 'How are things in Calcutta?'
It was a not unreasonable question, except that Hervey had scarcely moved beyond the confines of the garrison save to the Somerviles' house at Fort William since coming from Rangoon. He trusted that the resident had no more appetite for drawing-room gossip than he. 'In as far as I can say, Sir David, the war with Ava goes badly. There is news, or rumour perhaps would be the better description, that Lord Combermere shall succeed Sir Edward Paget next year. Beyond that I fear there is little I know.'
Sir David's expression of surprise was very pronounced. 'Calcutta has become an exceedingly dull place these late years if that is the extent of your intelligence!'
Hervey sighed inwardly; this was very like keeping company with an ageing parent. He would have to try hard not to become by turns impatient or indulgent. 'In truth, Sir David, I have been laid low these past months, and confined largely to the military lines.'
Sir David looked vexed. 'Laid low? Laid low with what?'
Hervey forced himself to remember that he was speaking to the hero of Nipal. 'I received a ball in my shoulder at Rangoon, Sir David, and thereafter contracted the fever.'
Sir David's mien changed at once. 'Rangoon? Tell me of it.'
It was like the stirring of a sleepy old lion - at first the mere twitch of an eyelid, a flick of the tail, until by degrees the huge beast was on all fours and circling with intermittent grunts and snarls. Hervey spared him nothing. At the end of his account the resident shook his head and sighed. 'That won't do; it won't do at all!'
'I wonder, sir, if I may have more sherbet?'
Sir David scolded the khitmagar for his inattention, as a lion might swipe at an errant cub. 'You will stay to dinner, Hervey, and lodge here. You will no doubt wish to see your troop properly billeted, but your lieutenant may easily exercise command.'
Sir David, for all his eccentric attire, had by now acquired a wholly commanding bearing. Hervey saw no point in protesting. It threw onto Perry an undue burden of society with Green, but that was the way of it: he was captain and he had other concerns. 'I am very obliged, Sir David. But I had better send for my small kit. I have nothing but . . .'
'Oh, we shall not dress,' said Sir David, airily. 'Not in this month. I'll have the khansamah bring you a robe.' He looked at him intently. 'And at dinner I shall tell you of where our troubles may lie in the months ahead.'
Hervey bathed and then lay down on the narrow divan in his otherwise ample quarters. All about was marble, like the palace at Chintalpore, but whereas at the Rajah of Chintal's seat the air was full of intrigue and menace, here it was peace, although in the resident's words there was a promise of action. He began looking forward to his commission once more. Dereliction there might be - in so many ways Dehli reminded him of Rome - but he sensed it could fascinate. In any case, it was good to be away from the Calcutta garrison, a station full of left-behinds while hounds were hard at work elsewhere.
Hervey closed his eyes. There was not a sound but for a hoopoe and its mate in the garden beyond his shuttered window. They brought to mind Chintalpore again. How long ago it seemed. Was it seven, eight years? He remembered telling the rajah how he wished one day to entertain him in England. Had he really imagined that he might? Or was it that everything was lived so intensely in India? Could he go back there? It would be easy enough - one of the Calcutta coasters down to the Godavari, thence by budgerow as far as he might up that disobliging river, and on to Chintalpore. Godaji Rao Sundur, Rajah of Chintalpore - Hervey was, after all, one of his jagirdars, and his jagir returned a respectable income each year, not all of which was covenanted to the widows of those desperate days' fighting the nizam's guns and the Pindarees. Would the raj kumari be purged of her crimes? Would her father have recalled her from deep in the forest of the Gonds? Or did she scheme and plot still - so reckless a daughter of so sensible a man? Did he really want to see her again? In one respect at least he had no doubt, for even as he lay, her allure had its effect.
At seven, the sun on the horizon and the heat of the afternoon given way to a balmy dusk, Hervey put on the green robe that the bearer had brought him and joined Sir David Ochterlony in his Mughal courtyard. With the resident was a tall, well-made native man, clean-shaven, with sleek hair drawn back and held with a clip. He wore a loose-fitting kurta, white trousers and embroidered slippers, and he spoke freely and easily.
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