Hervey lowered his telescope. ‘Nice work … nicely done. Come on, Neale, let’s see if any of them have anything to say.’
Serjeant Acton unbound the firelock of his carbine. The Thirty-ninth might have secured the far bank, but that didn’t mean he would take any risks.
By the time they made their way through the press of muskets, the Coorgs were having their wounds bound up. They’d live, said the Thirty-ninth’s surgeon, who seemed uncommonly far in the van, as indeed was the commanding officer. Those who’d surrendered unscathed were already enjoying the Dorsets’ tobacco.
Lindesay handed him a pichangatti. ‘By custom, as I recall it, the first trophy goes to the general officer commanding.’
Hervey thanked him. The pichangatti was more cleaver than knife – heavy, broad steel blade, with a single fuller on each side.
‘Or an ayagatti, if you prefer.’
The ayagatti was like the Gorkhas’ kukri, but longer. Both trophies were made of fine steel. ‘Fearsome weapons, if handled fearlessly,’ declared Hervey. ‘But evidently not this day.’
He saw two of the guides talking to the captives, who seemed to be answering readily. Neale, by his side, caught the word otteya’u.
‘He said “hostage”, Colonel.’
‘Indeed? Who is hostage? Go to it, Neale.’
The Coorg was willing enough to talk, and willing enough to talk slowly and clearly, and to repeat as much as was necessary until Neale was sure he understood. Hervey caught a few words, but not the sense.
It was scarcely necessary to pay a captive for information, but Neale gave him coin – and with some show – to encourage the others to think about it.
‘Apparently the rajah’s taken hostage a member of every family, and they’ll be put to the sword if a feringhee so much as touches his person. An exaggeration, no doubt – every family – but I suppose a man doesn’t know if it’s his family or no.’
‘Indeed; seven thousand hostages? Impossible. But if that’s what they believe … Will he join us, though, and set free his family? Ask him.’
Neale put the question. The vigorous rocking of the head in reply needed no translation.
One of the other guides had been successful too. ‘It seems there are a dozen stockades between here and Madkerry, though not all are occupied,’ said Lindesay. ‘Doubtless they’ll fall back to each in turn.’
‘Doubtless,’ agreed Hervey. ‘Some you must be able to enfilade from a flank, though. If only we can get these Coorgs to show us the forest tracks. Some of them must be from hereabout.’
But Colonel Lindesay’s men needed no urging. The skirmishers were already moving on, with a guide and two of the captives.
‘Green will find a way,’ said Lindesay. ‘A most pushing ensign.’
Hervey wished the guns were nimbler, though. If only he’d the Chestnuts with him. He’d seen them bring a team forward, the gun come out of action, limber up and be away in less time than it took to soft-boil an egg …
‘Colonel?’
He turned. ‘Mr Jenkinson?’
A face already flushed with the exertion of a good deal of galloping reddened further. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Colonel, I meant “General”.’
Lieutenant Jenkinson, the adopted son of the late prime minister – and then of the succeeding earl (of Liverpool), his brother – was always more than he first appeared. Indeed, Hervey had been much pleased when he’d learned that he’d not be exchanging but coming with them to Madras. ‘Proceed, Mr Jenkinson.’
‘Sir, I’m come from Colonel Jackson with this despatch.’
Hervey read it.
‘Were you with Colonel Jackson from the outset?’
‘I was, General.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
For a moment, Jenkinson was puzzled. He’d read the despatch, and didn’t think he could add much, but an order was an order … ‘Sir, I joined Colonel Jackson’s force on the 28th, at the border with Coorg. He had been there two days—’
‘Why so early?’
‘I don’t know, Colonel – I mean, General. But he told me at once of his concern for Mangalore, which he’d had to leave with very few troops. He thought it “defenceless”, he said, and it has much treasure – thirteen lakhs of rupees, he said – which might be the object of attack, either by the Coorgs or by discontented Moplas in that neighbourhood. So he’d decided on a spoiling attack, and before dawn on the 29th he struck camp and advanced on the interior, with his company of white troops leading, and yesterday they took the stockade at Coombla, about six or seven miles, and without loss, though several Coorgs were killed, and in the afternoon his scouts reported an abandoned stockade, whose garrison the local people said had withdrawn to Madkerry. And this morning he continues the advance but he asks for artillery, for he has none.’
‘I am well aware of that, Jenkinson. His force was intended as one of observation only … Why did he not think to inform me of his going early?’
‘I cannot tell.’
‘Did you yourself not think it proper to report?’
‘Only this latter day, General, which was when Colonel Jackson himself determined he would ask for guns. Hitherto, I confess I comprehended my task to be that of a galloper.’
Hervey nodded. It wasn’t unreasonable. If a lieutenant-colonel considered it unnecessary to report, then so might an officer lately a cornet. But he couldn’t welcome Jackson’s advance if it required artillery, for he had none to spare. Indeed, he could scarcely welcome it even if it didn’t need guns, for although clearly it put more distance between Mangalore and the Coorgs, it placed his force in the most perilous of positions if the worm turned, so to speak. And while Mangalore wasn’t his responsibility, he’d have no option but to accept that it was if the place were overrun.
‘What is your opinion?’
‘My opinion, sir?’
Hervey waited. It didn’t do to repeat himself.
‘I could only concur with Colonel Jackson.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is a colonel, sir, and I a lieutenant.’
‘And I a brigadier-general.’
‘Sir?’
‘By your own logic, if I require something, then by the seniority of my rank I must be right in requiring it.’
Jenkinson hadn’t doubted his own judgement, only his place to give it (he had a very proper view of these things). Hervey certainly didn’t doubt his judgement; he’d seen it in the affair with the French three years before. On the other hand, he’d not had opportunity to meet Jackson, and couldn’t therefore be certain of his temper.
‘General, I believe that if Colonel Jackson were to garrison the stockade that he now has possession of, the Coorgs would not be able to take it without the greatest loss, and much time. I think that he needs no guns to do this, though they would of course be helpful. But he’s advanced further – by now perhaps another ten miles – and may not be so securely placed were he to face an attack. The country in the west becomes tricky as soon as you reach the jungle – there are so many tracks which animals and forest people make, and which the Coorgs can move undetected by. But by all accounts they won’t stand against artillery, and two guns – even one – would do great service. Whether or not it was right that Colonel Jackson advanced rather than merely observed, I can’t say, General. It was a question of judgement, and he was infinitely better qualified to make and exercise that judgement than I.’
‘Handsomely put, Jenkinson, but a question to be addressed when we’ve taken the rajah and Madkerry is ours. What matters now is your judgement of the need of guns.’
He turned to Neale.
‘We’d better send a 12-pounder. Just the one, mind. We’ll need every other here if Lindesay’s men are to move at more than the snail’s pace. And it had better have an escort of dragoons.’
‘General.’
Hervey turned back to Jenkinson. ‘Who took your place with Colonel Jackson?’
‘Cornet Stubbs, General.’
‘Who came with you?’
‘My coverman only, sir. The change of horses would otherwise have been—’
‘How long were you?’
‘Five hours, sir, a little under.’
And some of that before dawn; Hervey nodded approvingly. ‘Very well, I would that you conduct the gunners there as soon as may be, though I can’t suppose it can be done in a single march. Tomorrow midday at the earliest.’ He turned to Neale again. ‘Better have the dragoons relay a note to Jackson telling him.’
‘At once, General.’
‘Jenkinson, take what refreshment you wish and then hustle the artillerists. My compliments to Colonel Jackson, but impress upon him that there’s no honour for being first to Madkerry. Our business is to secure the person of the rajah, and the peace of the country, and I won’t have it put in jeopardy.’
‘Yes, General.’
He gathered his reins and saluted.
Hervey acknowledged with a touch to his peak. ‘And Jenkinson …’
‘General?’
‘Good work.’
‘Sir.’
Two hours later they’d gone but a couple of miles. Hervey had seen enough of the infantry in his time to know that at some things they couldn’t be rushed. At this rate, however – and with scarcely a shot fired – the Coorgs would have leisure to turn Madkerry into a redoubt. He began wondering whether an inducement to be first at Madkerry might not have been a bad thing after all, though ‘licence to loot’, as at Seringapatam, wouldn’t serve in these enlightened times.
He’d just got back into the saddle, intending to go up the column to see for himself what stayed them, when Colonel Lindesay rode back.
‘The beggars’ve felled so many trees, my pioneers are sorely pressed cutting and hauling ’em clear; and they’re harassing too – from a distance, and without effect, but a ball singing in the ears and no notion where from is trying for the skirmishers too.’
Hervey nodded, but they couldn’t clear the whole way like this. He turned to Neale. ‘Have Captain Worsley come at once.’
Neale detailed an orderly to take the message.
Worsley wasn’t long in coming. ‘What’s the delay, General? I was about to come and ask if I could off-saddle.’
‘Quite. The advance guard’s having the deucedest job, it seems – trees felled and random shots. Do you feel able to take the lead for a while to hustle the shooters?’
‘I don’t see why not – at least up to the first stockade, or whatever it is. I’ll take the whole troop. Luck might go with us.’
‘Quite,’ said Hervey, turning back to Lindesay. ‘You’ll keep your men well up, though, Colonel, if you please.’
‘Of course. They’re as eager for the fight as any.’
‘I don’t doubt it. So let’s keep them for it, rather than this lumbering. Leave the rearmost company to do it.’
‘I shall.’
Worsley was already cantering back to his troop, to the consternation of the Dorsets’ baggage-train.
Hervey was glad that he’d put them second in the order of march, before the native infantry. He’d been uneasy about their churning up the ground, making it a trial for the foot-soldiers following, but the road was better going than expected. He took the risk because he intended loosing them as soon as resistance slackened, which he’d every reason to suppose would not be long. What he did now, though, was not in the drill book – cavalry helping infantry forward in close country – but he’d a notion that the sight of horsemen, and their red tunics, might actually discourage would-be marksmen.
And sharp they were about it. They were, so to speak, on parade, after all. Just ten minutes was all it took. Hervey nodded to the salute as they trotted past, scouts and dowra well forward, then the advance guard, and Worsley himself leading the main body – fifty sabres, with Troop Serjeant-Major Wainwright at the rear like the second whip at hound exercise. A commanding officer could not show favouritism; but none worth his salt could have no favourites. Wainwright was the best of men, and from so unpromising a place as they’d found him – in the biggest fencing crib twixt London and Bristol. In his less reverent moments, Hervey reckoned that Wainwright must have been born without Original Sin. And he’d so nearly gone to his Maker in the skirmish at the Cape those five years ago. But then another dragoon—
‘Sar’nt-Major – what do you do here?’
Armstrong halted and saluted. ‘Just wanting to keep an eye on young Wainwright, Colonel.’
It was none of Hervey’s business, and he knew it, even though Armstrong persisted with the compliment of ‘Colonel’. What happened in the Sixth at this moment was the major’s affair. He’d known Armstrong long enough, though. ‘You thought there might be opportunity to draw your sword, no doubt?’
‘It’s been a while, Colonel, except for the flat.’
‘It has indeed. I shall accompany you.’
Serjeant Acton sighed to himself. It was trial enough covering a general officer commanding the field force, let alone one who still thought himself a colonel. The country was impossible.
Neale too looked uncertain, though the prospect of action – even just observing it – likewise lofted his spirits.
They didn’t have to wait long. In five minutes there were shots – a fusillade; and then nothing. By the time they got up – taking several teak trunks in their stride – Worsley’s men had sabred two and captured three.
Rough handling and then a canteen of water brought intelligence of a stockade a mile ahead, where the road turned back on itself to ascend a cliff.
The officer of the advance guard, Warde, a wheaten-haired cornet come from the Bays, asked Worsley if they could slip into the forest when they came a bit closer – it was clear of undergrowth here, the canopy complete – and try to work round the flank, for otherwise they’d only be seen without seeing.
Worsley agreed. He’d proceed with the main body, slowly, but enough to make the Coorgs think they were wary, masking Warde’s party so that they could break away as close as possible to work round behind the stockade and open a harassing fire. Shots from an unexpected quarter, however light, could unnerve an unseasoned defender. They might well bolt the garrison, and if not, his dragoons could begin probing to test their resolve.
He didn’t need to, but when he’d finished he looked at Hervey for assent. ‘Leave to advance?’
‘Kick on.’
The first of the Dorsets’ light company were coming up, cursing the slope and the dragoons who could take it at their ease. Just behind were the lighter guns, and Hervey decided that once the stockade was behind them he’d give Worsley the 6-pounder. The ‘whiff of grapeshot’ could do wonders.
Meanwhile he thought it best to lighten his hands. ‘Corporal Johnson, take these, if you will.’ He passed him the knife-edged trophies, which he’d hung rather precariously on his saddle.
Johnson tried to cram them into his saddle bags, but admitted defeat and got down with muttered profanities to stow them in the panniers on the bat-horse.
‘I’ve more blades now than t’bloody Master Cutler.’
But Armstrong heard – he always did, one way or the other – and it made no difference that Johnson was now groom to a temporary general officer.
‘Then perhaps they’ll be pleased to see you home in Sheffield at last, Corporal Johnson – which can be arranged if you wish.’
Johnson owed his survival over the years – and the affection in which he was generally held – to being able to judge how to turn away from the wind, having sailed too close. ‘Beg yer pardon, sir,’ was enough.
Decorum on parade, whether in the field or in barracks – Armstrong had himself offended against it in his greenery, and taken a few cuffings. Not that an outsider could have thought it of this paragon of serjeant-majory now. Hervey smiled to himself. Somehow these things were passed on, and there was no profit in asking exactly how. It was a mystery – like the apostolic succession, but without the laying on of h
ands.
‘Let’s see them go to it then, gentlemen. Do you propose to accompany, Mr Armstrong?’
‘With your leave, General.’
Acton groaned quietly.
Hervey reckoned it was just short of a mile before they halted, but the road was twisty and the grade increasing. He’d checked his instinct to close up; Worsley didn’t need him, and he didn’t want any to think that he thought he did.
In sight now was the stockade – a furlong at most.
‘Horse holders,’ said Worsley quietly.
The order was passed down the column quietly too, and then ‘Dismount.’
It was the lot of the junior dragoon, one in three, to hold the troopers while the other two, carbines unshipped, had their sport. None preferred it, but they supposed their time would come.
Warde’s men were already in the forest, but there was no knowing their progress. They’d do well simply to keep direction.
Armstrong dismounted and gave the reins to his coverman. Worsley’s was one of ‘his’ troops; he needed no leave to go forward.
In a minute or so Hervey followed. He was damned if he was going to ride to Madkerry at the back of a column of his own men.
He found Worsley studying the stockade.
‘Not a sign of life,’ he said, handing Hervey his telescope. ‘But it’s a deuced good position. Why would they not garrison it? I’ll give Warde another five minutes and if there’s nothing, we’ll approach on foot.’
Hervey nodded, handing back the glass. ‘You’ll be careful of your flanks, will you. It’s the very devil to see where the fire comes from.’
‘I’ve put in flankers a dozen yards.’
‘Capital.’
Two dozen dragoons in two ranks, and five unseen on either flank: it ought to make the defenders of the stockade think twice, for although theirs was indeed a commanding position, two dozen red-coated men could only mean many more behind.
But then, if they were fearful for the hostages …
Wainwright walked behind the line dispensing words of ‘advice’. Few of the dragoons had ever been shot over – Bhurtpore had been the last time – and so many had joined since the skirmishing at the Cape. They might scoff at the Coorgs as ‘’eathens’, but it never did to underestimate an opponent, especially one who defended his country against an invader – and whose families’ forfeit life was the stake.
The Passage to India Page 29