Hervey 05 - The Sabre's Edge

by Allan Mallinson

  '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.

  There was no carouse afterwards, though. The canteen was a dull place that evening, and few officers were at mess. Hervey himself did not dine, an omission that made him feel uncomfortable, for he had berated poor Green for not having the pluck to return to the mess the night he had parted with the contents of his stomach. No one had so much as suggested it was unfortunate that he had called on Barrow that evening, for there was a supposition that the outcome was preordained. And, indeed, Barrow's act had spared the major and those about him the shame of an investigation. Above all, it had spared the regiment the dread board of officers from outside. Barrow's guilt was presumed by the very fact of his noble action, yet Hervey felt his own hand in the business, and he did not rest easy.

  Joynson had asked him to be president of the board of adjustment, which would make an inventory of Barrow's possessions so that those of a personal nature might be sent to his next of kin - when that detail was discovered - and all else sold at regimental auction, as was customary. This Hervey had now done, by himself, and at the expense of dinner in the mess, for it had occupied the entire evening after stables. But that was no matter: it afforded him an alibi.

  It had been a thoroughly melancholy job. So much more than he had imagined. Whatever his pleasures on the Chitpore road. Barrow's habits had been sober and moderate, his practice soldierly and prudent. His possessions were few and utilitarian; nothing out of the ordinary, and if he had gained pecuniary advantage in his dealings with Nirmal Sen there was no evidence of its enjoyment here. Barrow's papers were no more elaborate than his other possessions, but there was one letter that indicated to where Joynson might write his condolences - and, indeed, the trouble he would have composing them. The superscription, in a spidery hand, read 'The Almshouses, Yardley', and the signature 'Your ever proud father'.

  When he had finished, close to midnight, Hervey bade the bearer secure the bungalow, and left trusting him to the job. What opportunity of thieving could there be, indeed, if he had a list of everything? Anyway, Ranga looked sad, and it could not have been for his own situation, for he had already been offered another. It pleased Hervey to think there was other than a father who had some attachment to Barrow, for although he himself had slowly come to respect the man's capability as a soldier, he had never been able to count him a boon companion.

  He walked slowly to his own bungalow. It was a cold night for all that it was not long since the monsoon. The stars were as bright as in the Peninsula - those long, bitter-chill nights when he had learned so much about the heavens. And the air was sweet, perhaps with incense or spices;

  he could not tell. A barn owl hooted. It seemed strange to think that Ezra Barrow was no longer on this earth when all else remained the same. But things had changed. Tonight would be the last time he enjoyed the companionship of his bibi here. Tomorrow he would set her up in a little haveli outside the cantonments, like so many others. And it really would not be the same.

  Next day, the Sixth busied themselves more than usual. Things had to be brought back to good order, and quickly, and nothing helped so much as activity, especially when it was compelled by an RSM of Mr Lincoln's mettle. There were inspections all morning and drill all afternoon. And at colonel's rounds of evening stables, the major, though it was never his bent, made a very passable attempt at what the regiment knew as jaldi. At any rate, he managed to roust about the more timid.

  At midday, the adjutant had conducted the auction of Barrow's effects. Usually, when a widow was known to the officers, or else the family, it was an occasion for generous over-bidding to provide a gratuity that a grateful government could not find itself able to disburse. In Barrow's case there had always been mixed feelings, although in the end there was a grim admiration for his ultimate gesture of honour. The major, it was agreed, excelled himself, opening the auction by telling the assembled bidders to where the money would be sent, declaring that 'a man is more than his wo
rst error' and that Captain Ezra Barrow had served his king for over thirty years and the Sixth for more than fifteen. At the end of the proceedings, the adjutant announced that the sum of £8’7 would be sent to Mr Joshua Barrow of the Almshouses, Yardley, near Birmingham. It was a handsome figure, and, in the curious way of these things, it did something to restore the pride of those assembled, for in the last resort they had not let down their erstwhile comrade; and loyalty was nothing if it was easy. Barrow had certainly paid a heavy price himself: a pennyworth of powder had blown away three thousand pounds, at the very least, for on death the value of his commission reverted to the Crown.

  That evening Hervey dined with the Somerviles. He was especially glad to do so, for as well as having the ugly circumstances of the past days to put behind him, he had not seen his friends in more than a week. He arrived a little late, however, having gone by way of the horse lines to reassure himself of the progress of his mare. Within a day of the veterinarian's surgery, the little Marwari had begun to eat - at first warm mashes, and now hard feed. The wounds had remained clean, the inflammation was gone, and so was the fever. In so short a time, Hervey thought it a veritable miracle, and he was extolling David Sledge's skill for a full quarter of an hour after arriving at No. 3, Fort William.

  'And what so particularly commends him’ he concluded, now well into his second glass of champagne, 'is his devotion to his own greater understanding. His rooms are piled with treatises and papers.'

  Somervile was happy to indulge him, and for practical reasons. At the onset of the unhealthy season, confidence in any practitioner, even veterinary, was reassuring. 'Calcutta is as full of quacks as anywhere - fuller, probably. I shall ask him to dine with us,' he said. 'Would it be entirely proper to ask him to look at my stable?'

  'I don't see why not. He's not greatly engaged at present, I'm pleased to say.'

  Somervile nodded, indicating that the matter was decided.

  A khitmagar made to top up Hervey's glass, but he declined. 'Is Emma to join us?'

  'Yes, very shortly. I'm sorry to say she has been sick these last few days.'

  Hervey supposed that few husbands in Calcutta could be as direct as Somervile. 'I hope nothing—'

  'No, no. I shouldn't think so. Calcutta's just a deuced sight unhealthier place than Madras, but Emma has a native constitution. I shouldn't distress yourself.'

  He would try not to, difficult though that was with notice of even the slightest illness.

  Somervile seemed keen to change the subject. 'I have some intelligence that will interest you.'

  'I dare not hope it is of Peto?' replied Hervey, sounding a shade despondent. 'His last letter was a disheartening affair. Said he might as well be commanding a guardship.'

  'I regret not. Not even of the war, indeed, for that generally proceeds ill, although there are to be reinforcements - and in good measure -for Rangoon. Campbell ought soon to take the offensive.'

  Hervey snorted. 'That was, of course, his purpose in going to Rangoon in the first place!'

  Somervile merely raised his eyebrows. 'Well, I am glad to say that my intelligence has at least provided Campbell with the means to do his job. No, the news I was referring to is that Combermere is to replace Paget.'

  Hervey sat up. A new commander-in-chief would at any time be ripe news, but now, and the name Combermere - it was the ripest. 'Is this the Governor-General's doing? It would be ill indeed if Paget is to take the blame for things in Ava!'

  'Oh no, there's no suggestion of Paget's being relieved. His tenure in command is routinely ended. Indeed, the change - if our intelligence is correct - will not be until next year. But Combermere is a friend of yours, is he not?'

  Hervey smiled. 'I could hardly claim that. We have met on occasions, and he has a good memory.'

  Somervile smiled broader. 'Then you shall have to meet on more occasions, and place yourself at the forefront of his memory!'

  Hervey smiled again. But that, indeed, was how it was done. He'd seen it time and again. Perhaps if he had not been so keen to leave the Duke of Wellington's staff he would by now be well placed for advancement instead of, in truth, having marked time a full ten years. And - he hardly dared admit it - with things as they were in the Sixth, what future was there at regimental duty? In Calcutta nothing happened other than death by Nature's hand (or one's own, for every regiment had its Barrow). 'We must see.'

  Emma Somervile came in. She looked well enough, thought Hervey, but the rouge did not entirely mask her pallor. She sat next to her husband on a high-backed settee and placed her hand on his. 'And how are you, in the circumstances, Matthew?'

  Hervey returned her smile. 'In the circumstances, well, I believe. I am troubled to learn you are not in the best of sorts, however.'

  Emma frowned. 'Oh, these things . . . but tell me, what else have you been speaking of?'

  'I was telling him the news of Lord Combermere's being appointed to commander-in-chief, my dear.'

  Emma brightened again. 'Yes, good news for you, Matthew, is it not? Tell me of him.'

  'He was at the best of schools.' Hervey smiled just a little wryly.

  She at once understood, and turned to her husband with mock solemnity.

  'A very long time in advance of me, my dear.

  And I do not recall his name in academic honours.'

  ‘He was a great man for campaigning’ added Hervey. 'Since the Peninsula, though, he has not been at field duty. There again, neither, indeed, has anyone other than here in India. I confess I don't know how things are in Ireland. He's commander-in-chief there.'

  'So I understand too,' said Somervile. 'Well, he is going to need a very fine head upon those fine military shoulders of his to ravel up the mess in Ava. And believe me, there's trouble brewing in Hindoostan too. Every week that we flounder in Rangoon - and Arakan for that matter, since it seems little better there - the malcontents among the country powers grow more impudent. But Amherst won't see it.' He glanced at Emma and shook his head a shade wearily. 'Oh yes, be in no doubt: if Combermere takes the reins here he'll be pitched into the middle of trouble - east and west.'

  'Shall we go and dine?' said Emma, looking a little anxious, and making to stand. 'Ghulam says we may.'

  . Somervile was on his feet at once with a hand to Emma's elbow, but she rose unaided.

  'I really am in fine health, Eyre,' she insisted, using her fan just a touch. 'I should have returned a little earlier from the assembly, that is all.'

  The dining room minded Hervey of home, for whereas the mess and his bungalow were handsome enough, they were wood-built, and the houses at Fort William were stone. And there was a solidity about the place that spoke more of the permanence of the Honourable Company than could the military lines, whose occupants were after all mere birds of passage. The furniture and fittings were mahogany, teak and brass rather than the quartermaster's pine, cane and pewter. And the family portraits, here and not at some English seat, said that the Somerviles were India people - native almost, as Eyre Somervile himself had once said. Emma had been to England, as she always called it, not 'home', but once in the dozen and more years since she had first joined her brother in Madras. Her husband had not been even once.

  'How is your groom?' she asked, as a khitmagar began to serve them soup. 'And that corporal of yours - the one who brought you to the ship?'

  'Wainwright, you mean.' Hervey's face at once registered intense pride. 'Without whom I should not be enjoying your hospitality now. I'm pleased to say he has been advanced to the head of the seniority roll. He may be corporal, full, before the year's out.'

  'Bound to be, at this time of year,' said Somervile without looking up from his soup.

  Hervey smiled disconcertedly. 'There are other ways, Somervile.'

  Somervile continued to give all his ocular attention to his soup. 'Men putting bullets in their brains, you mean?'

  'Eyre!'

  Somervile at last looked up. Emma's scold was not to be ignored.

>   'What I meant,' said Hervey, not in the least perturbed, 'is that Serjeants leave or are promoted, making vacancies below. Nothing more.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' said Somervile, as if it were well known to be otherwise. 'And when do you suppose it will be the same for officers?'

  'In essentials it is,' replied Hervey, sounding cautious.

  'Humph! You and I know it's a case of money and little more. How much would a majority cost you?'

  Hervey looked rueful. 'Another thousand at least. If we were posted home probably twice as much.'

  Somervile smiled. 'Then your toasts should be to a short war but a bloody one.'

  'Eyre, I really think this a most unedifying line,' Emma protested.

  But Hervey was now smiling. 'No, Emma: that was the toast in the Peninsula. Grim, perhaps, but that is the soldier's way with his humour.' He turned back to Somervile. 'We shouldn't forget the brevet. They're a good deal easier to come by here than in England. There were a fair number in Rangoon, as I recall.'

  'What is a brevet?' asked Emma.

  'Promotion in the army as a whole, but not in the regiment as such. It's all very well if you want a life on the staff.'

  The khitmagars began clearing away the soup, breaking the line of conversation for the moment.

  'But how are things otherwise, Matthew?' asked Emma, as the khansamah poured a little claret for her husband to taste. 'We have so missed our visits to the regiment. The officers are well?'

  Somervile nodded; a good vintage, predating even Bonaparte.

  Hervey inclined his head, as if to say the reply would not be straightforward. 'For the most part I suppose things are pretty good.'

  'Oh? No more than "pretty good"? That sounds ill to me.' Emma knew him better than he sometimes remembered.