Six months at sea has seemed a great many more than six months in the saddle. No day has been the same as another, although the ship’s routine is so regular. Wind and weather may change with such rapidity – sometimes, it seems, almost perversely within but a few minutes – and hands must race aloft to set more sail or to shorten it. As a soldier, changes in the weather have rarely meant more to me than variations of discomfort. You, of all men, will remember talk of the campaigning season, but you, as I, have fought in the depths of winter often enough. But, on the whole, weather might mean putting on capes and oilskins, or taking them off, and the difference between a hot meal and a brew, or biscuit and a nip. But beyond that the weather troubled us nothing much. Once or twice in Spain we had posted extra sentries during storms at night, when hearing was made difficult and it was feared the enemy might pass through our vidette line undetected, but these occasions were exceptional. To a soldier, changes in the weather bring no habitual extra duties. But the captain of this ship, the Nisus, owns that that is the first purpose of a frigate’s crew, to trim the ship to the weather, and declares that fighting her is secondary. And I do so very much see what he has of mind, for without apt sailing, her gunnery is to no avail. Indeed, Dan, I have learned so much from this captain that might with profit be taken up on land by light dragoons. Captain Peto says that, in the navy, navigation precedes gunnery, and I can see how likewise it should be with light cavalry, for if one could but manoeuvre one’s force to advantage, and with surprise, there might scarce be need of a single shot. These past months have been the first time that I have had any leisurely opportunity to address affairs of strategy, and in Captain Peto I have found a most unexpected teacher.
Likewise have I greatly enjoyed the companionship of the wardroom, cramped though it is. To a man, I declare, the officers are fine fellows, and, would you believe, the lieutenant of Marines was my senior at Shrewsbury. I like him very much, though he is at times melancholy, though that is in large part accounted for by a most unhappy history. But I shall be most sad to part from him and all the Nisus’s crew.
I do not know, Dan, if you were ever tempted to go to sea, or, for that matter, were ever close to the press gang, but I must say that, this companionship apart, I have not seen anything that might recommend the Service to a free man in place of going for a soldier. There are the evident advantages, of course, a bed and a roof over the head for at least part of the day, regular if indifferent food, and, perhaps, a little prize-money, but beyond that it seems the meanest existence. Drink keeps order here, where in the Peninsula it was the cause of so much disorder. Here the officers control it with strict regulation and precise application, for no liquor could mean mutiny and too much could mean dissent. Nisus’s officers are what others call, charitably, enlightened. Captain Peto would not have it otherwise. He promotes selfrespect in the way that the Sixth does. The purser has told me that the ship’s victuals are better and more varied than on any other he knew of, and that it is the captain’s own pocket which causes it to be so. And so, too, with the crew’s uniform, for it is not provided at Admiralty’s expense, as ours is by the Horse Guards. Every man has a smart, round japanned hat with a gold-lace band with ‘Nisus’ painted on it in capital letters, a red silk neckerchief, white flannel waistcoat bound with blue piping, white canvas trousers and a blue jacket with three rows of gold buttons. The crew parades on Sunday mornings in their best dress, and after divine service come pickles and beer, and there is music from two black fiddlers whom the captain engaged in London at a not inconsiderable premium. Sometimes, too, there is much skylarking, as they call it. In the middle of November, when we crossed the Equator for the first time, King Neptune paid us his apparently customary visit. In truth, this king is always the longest-serving rating, and I and the other first-timers (one of the lieutenants and all the midshipmen) had to do homage to the briny deep, as they say, and with as much good humour as we could manage. This we did in a great bathing tub of seawater on the deck, and there was much skylarking which followed, until I was grateful that a sudden squall doused us all and sent the larboard watch aloft to shorten sail. And then there was Christmas, a day which I confess I found uncommonly difficult to bear, for my thoughts kept returning to Horningsham, where I have not seen Christmas in nine years. But the southern seas were heavy all that night and throughout the morning, and Captain Peto had his work cut out keeping the rig balanced while allowing the crew what they considered their rightful merrymaking. I do not envy him this command, Dan, as once I might, and I confess that he exceeds even Major Edmonds and Sir Edward Lankester in my estimation, for he sits on a powder keg in more than just the actual sense. Can you imagine, Dan, that a sentry should ever be posted by the headquarters of your old regiment or mine to guard the colonel from assault by his own dragoons?
I have dined with the captain on so many occasions during this voyage, for he has been kindness itself to me. Our table has become less rich of late, and preserves of all kinds are now our staple, as well as fish, of course, and, for one week in January, turtle. But the captain’s cellar has good wine still. I long for a plate of your best mutton, though!
I should tell you that Jessye has borne the voyage very tolerably well. Only once has she given me true anxiety, and that was lately in what they call, aptly, the ‘horse latitudes’, but it proved no more than a common chill. I cannot tell you (though perhaps you will know) how much I ache to have her feet on dry land again so that she might enjoy a run. She is the best of horses. I could not imagine what it might be like to take a blood on board, but I should not want to put her through the confines of a journey such as this for a long time to come. For the moment, though, I am only too relieved that she is well.
I have been able to learn a little of one of the native languages from the captain’s clerk, who has spent some time in Calcutta, and I have had much opportunity for reading and contemplation. Milton I have read copiously; and Wordsworth and Coleridge, for Henrietta gave me a little collection of the latter’s work as yet unpublished – you will not know, I think, that she meets and corresponds with some who are called the ‘romantic poets’ (how strange to think that Coleridge once shared our calling, albeit briefly!). I confess they give me intense pleasure. Milton is as ever improving, though. Do you recall how you used to say that ‘Paradise Lost’ was the best of gazetteers? Too much of its allegory eludes me still, but it is apt to conclude with it, for the passage describes our position and condition almost perfectly:
‘As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours from the spicey shore
Of Araby the blest, with such delay
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles.’ Well, Dan, I trust that so it shall be until our proper landfall, and ask, when at last you receive this, to pray for a safe passage for Henrietta by these same waters, or for my return by them in due course – whichever it is to be.
Your ever most loyal friend,
Matthew Hervey.
As evening came on, he took a turn on the quarterdeck. There was the lightest breeze, and in consequence a full set of sails, but it was quiet enough to hear the contented purling of the hens in their coop as they settled for the night. It was warm, though without the sultriness of the latitudes through which they had lately sailed, and there was a scent of land on the breeze, part dust, part spice. In any event, it seemed to bear a scent of mystery. Yet he could see no lights, and therefore no shore. It must be just beyond the horizon, and he wondered whether it were desert or rainforest. He knew nothing at first hand of the former, nor indeed of the latter. But he had read, and he had listened to others, and he knew which would be his choice if pressed to make one, for even the thought of what things would be in such a forest repelled him – what creatures crept, stalked or slithered unseen. He shuddered at the schoo
lroom visions. Nothing short of absolute necessity would ever compel him to enter the jungle. That he swore.
Peto came upon him just as he turned his head from landwards. ‘I’m pleased to say, Hervey, that I shall have no further call on your admirable travelling library, for I have now completed my manuscript.’
Hervey expressed himself pleased, not that Peto should have no further need of his books, but that he had evidently reached a conclusion in his strategical conception.
‘Yes, and I am quite certain that it is a true model for the future,’ he said emphatically. ‘I have called it The Action off Lissa, A Latter-day Punic Victory. Note, mind, that I choose the word “action” rather than “battle”, for it was the manoeuvre before the engagement that was the really significant.’
Joseph Edmonds would have approved. That much Hervey was sure of, for Hannibal’s outwitting of the consuls at Cannae was his constant inspiration. Indeed, Edmonds had a notion that all military truth was extant in the three centuries before Christ, and that gunpowder merely hastened things rather than changed any fundamental principle. ‘Acceleration’ was what he called it.
‘I should have liked to meet your Major Edmonds,’ said Peto. ‘Indeed I believe I half-know him, for scarcely a week has passed that you have not spoken of him. Well, Hervey,’ he smiled, ‘you may now read my monograph at your leisure since I have had my clerk make a fair copy. He finishes it even as we speak.’
‘Captain Peto, I am very grateful—’
‘And you will mind, mark you, the inscription I have placed in it.’
Hervey inclined his head and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘De l’audace, et encore de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace!’
‘Danton?’ Hervey smiled by return. ‘Pour les vaincre, pour les atterrer! Goodness, how it must give you satisfaction to turn the words of the enemy so!’
‘The enemy? Hervey, let me remind you: there is now peace on earth!’
It amused them each as much.
Flowerdew came up, knuckled his forehead and went to the hen coop. A few moments’ searching through the bedding produced two good-size eggs, and a little smile of satisfaction. ‘There, Captain, I said as they’d start layin’ again. It was that foul weather off Madagascar that stopped them up!’
‘Yes,’ shrugged Peto, ‘and I was the one who wanted to put them all in the pot! An egg for breakfast: oh what a prospect again! Captain Hervey shall have the other.’
‘Oh no, Flowerdew should have it by rights.’
‘As you please, Hervey, but Flowerdew will sell it to the highest bidder in the wardroom – isn’t that so?’
His steward merely grinned.
‘In that case,’ grinned Hervey back, ‘I shall claim the right to be the highest bidder. You will let me know the final price?’
‘Ay, sir, that I will! Right generous of you, sir.’
‘That egg may cost you more than a whole breakfast in St James’s, Hervey. A nice gesture, though. You’re a good sort. Men will always follow you, even though they’ll curse your ardour at times.’
Hervey was rather flattered.
‘How is your horse? Still out of sorts?’ Peto seemed done with fighting for the time being, theoretical or otherwise.
‘Out by the merest degree,’ he replied, ‘but it’s nothing more than a chill – nothing like as bad as that she came aboard with. It was that same foul weather near Madagascar, I think. The worst is over.’
‘She looked rather sorry for herself this morning, I thought.’
‘Well, she would wish for a good gallop, but her stall allows her plenty of movement. She’s borne it handsomely. Neither heavy seas nor heat appears to trouble her. I’m intensely obliged for your allowing her so much of your gundeck.’
‘And you yourself have not found things too . . . confining?’
Hervey smiled broadly. His ordeal was all but over, and he had much to thank Peto for. ‘My dear sir, for me it has been pleasure without alloy. I have read much, I have learned a language in no little measure, for your clerk has been a most excellent schoolmaster, and I have greatly enjoyed – and profited from – our colloquies.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Peto, with genuine satisfaction; ‘and you have maintained a most vigorous regimen: I see you racing to the tops from time to time with the alacrity of a seasoned hand.’
‘And I believe that I am stronger than before through the exercises that Mr Locke puts upon his marines.’
‘Very probably,’ smiled Peto. ‘Locke is a diligent officer, though life has dealt him ill indeed.’
The stern lights were being lit, and Hervey lowered his voice lest the mates heard. ‘You know, when we were at Shrewsbury he was . . . well, an Olympian to us younger boys. He seems now . . . altogether cut down, diminished.’
Peto understood. ‘He would take no leave when last we were in Portsmouth. He broods too much. Sea air seems to revive him, though. I warrant he could swing one of those cutlasses clean through the best Baltic fir sometimes.’
It was curious how little they had spoken up to now of Nisus’s officers. In the Sixth they would have talked freely about those who shared the regiment’s badge, for the officers and men were the regiment. Unlike His Majesty’s Ship Nisus, the 6th Light Dragoons had no other corporeal form. But Hervey and Peto could only agree: Locke needed a more clement diversion than a cloister with wooden walls.
When Peto broke to speak with the officer of the watch, Hervey went to the main deck, to Jessye’s tranquil stall. There she stood four-square, a little back from the door, grinding hay in her mouth in a slow, rhythmical motion, as content as he had ever seen her. She had lost the roundedness whence came so much of her supple agility, but not as much as he had feared, and he prayed again that soon they would be ashore to begin restoring that muscle. He pulled her forelock gently, and rubbed her muzzle. She whickered. Just loud enough for him to hear – no-one else. So many thoughts crowded in upon him – the years they had spent together, the shot and the shell, and the terrible sights and the terrible sounds. Could there be any secret closer, or safer, than that between a man and his horse? Thank heavens, then – for her sake at least – that there was peace on earth. She had seen and heard and done enough. India would be kinder to her, and he left for his cabin with a smile of satisfaction at the thought.
In his cot he turned to the psalms appointed for the evening – for the sixth time of reading during the passage. He smiled again when he saw them. ‘Be ye not as the horse, or as the mule, which have no understanding,’ said Thirty-two. He frowned in dissent, for Jessye gave the lie to any literal rendering. ‘A horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man: neither shall he deliver any man by his great strength.’ Again, he dissented at Thirty-three. But in Thirty-four he could at least acknowledge a lament for Henry Locke’s condition: ‘Great are the troubles of the righteous.’ ‘Righteous’ was perhaps too preachy a word, but that admirable officer of Marines deserved something of equal worth. Without doubt, though, he brooded too much. Perhaps Locke would see his fortune restored in some future action, but with peace on earth it seemed unlikely. Jessye’s deliverance – and Hervey’s too, if he were to own to it, for only peace was likely to see Henrietta restored to him – would therefore be Locke’s damnation. It was, he pondered, a rather wretched sort of corollary to the adage of the ill wind.
Next morning
Captain Peto was standing with his clerk on the quarterdeck, dictating letters of presentation to the authorities in Calcutta. He had been minded to address this courtesy for some days now, seeing Nisus’s progress, by the chart, northwards along the coast of Coromandel towards the Bay of Bengal. And yesterday he had known it to be pressing when the crew had seen sea snakes swimming alongside – a sure sign of being in those waters, said his trusty almanack. They were vivid serpents, their sinewy lengths – dark blue with yellow bands – gliding effortlessly at the ship’s side alternately on and just below the surface. Peto had not cared
for the sight, and even less when one was netted, and displayed later in a bottle of pickling fluid by an old hand who delighted in collecting such curios. This morning there were no serpents, but they were joined by a pair of squawking parakeets, as appealing to Peto as the snakes had been repulsive, their greens and reds all the more brilliant for the drab contrast of the quarterdeck in whose rigging they now sat whistling and calling. ‘Shall I try an’ catch one, sir?’ asked one of the mates at the wheel, in gentle Devon: ‘’E’d be a ’andsome thing in yome cabin.’
‘No,’ replied Peto, shaking his head; ‘we should only get the one, and then the other would fret. Leave them be.’ And in truth he had no special regard for the thought of the bird’s squawking the while in his quarters. He turned back to his clerk: ‘I shall take it as a propitious omen for our run into Bengal – like Noah’s dove!’
The Nizam's Daughters Page 10