An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Mr Barrow, let me remind you that it is the court which will decide whether or not the charge be proved. Nevertheless, if it is the wish of the prosecution then so be it. Proceed.’

  Hervey sighed, but inaudibly. It seemed to him that Barrow was letting off Daly lightly. Why should Treve’s word, on oath, be doubted? He would be as guilty of perjury as Daly.

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour. Serjeant Treve, tell the court what happened when the picket-officer came.’

  ‘Sir. Mr Hervey was picket-officer, sir. He came after about ten minutes, not more. He asked what had happened to the colt, and if the veterinary had been called. Sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mr Daly said as how it was his business and he wanted Mr Hervey to place me in arrest, sir.’

  ‘Go on, Serjeant!’

  ‘Sir, Mr Hervey asked me what I had said to Mr Daly, and I told him what I told you earlier, sir, and said that Mr Daly had been abusive. At that point, sir, Mr Daly said it was a lie and stepped towards me and—’

  ‘Stepped towards you, Serjeant?’ The judge martial, who alone of those sitting at the members’ table had seen the written witness statements, sounded incredulous.

  Hervey was glad of his diligence.

  ‘Sort of . . . lunged towards me, sir, as if with a sword, though I could see he hadn’t one, sir.’

  ‘Did you believe it to be in a menacing fashion?’

  ‘Sir, yes, sir.’

  ‘You thought Cornet Daly was about to strike you?’

  Hervey almost breathed his relief.

  But Treve hesitated. ‘To be honest, sir, I cannot recall if I believed Mr Daly was intent to strike me, sir. But he was very angry.’

  Hervey groaned.

  ‘Mr Daly had taken much drink, sir.’

  ‘Oh, indeed?’ The judge martial looked at Barrow. ‘There is no mention of that elsewhere.’ He turned back to Treve. ‘Did you see Mr Daly consume this drink?’

  Barrow’s eyebrows were now rising. He and the lieutenant-colonel had hoped to keep this out of the proceedings.

  ‘Sir, I did not, sir.’

  The judge martial turned to Barrow again. ‘Unless the prosecution intends calling witnesses to testify in very particular terms as to this assertion, I rule that the remark be struck from the record, and that the members of the court take no notice of the assertion. Mr Barrow?’

  Barrow shook his head. ‘There is no intention to call witnesses, Your Honour.’

  The judge martial now turned to the defending officer. ‘Mr . . . Beale-Browne, may I take it that Cornet Daly will not be entering any plea in mitigation to this effect?’

  Lieutenant Beale-Browne’s first instinct was to check the certainty of this with Cornet Daly, but he recognized the difficulties of doing so in front of the court. ‘No, Your Honour.’

  ‘Very well, then. The remarks will go unrecorded and are to be entirely disregarded by the members of the court. Proceed please, Mr Barrow.’

  Lieutenant Barrow found the page in his notes. ‘Serjeant Treve, what happened when Cornet Daly . . . lunged towards you?’

  ‘Mr Hervey stepped in front of Mr Daly, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I didn’t actually see that well, sir, it being dark, but Mr Daly seemed to be very angry and lunged again, and then I saw him fall to the ground. At that stage, sir, the veterinary came.’

  It was the truth, Hervey knew, and if it was not the whole truth then that must be because Treve genuinely could not have seen. The court must conclude that his own blow was gratuitous.

  The adjutant turned to the president. ‘I have finished with this witness, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Barrow. Mr Beale-Browne, do you have any questions of the witness?’

  Hervey was conscious of renewed, and urgent, whispering behind him, and wondered what might be Daly’s objection to a most impartial account. How he wished the adjutant had questioned Treve about Daly’s condition that night: it could only have helped his case. Except, of course, that to do so would have risked suggesting the regiment’s discipline was defective, as the president had already intimated, and that would go hard with mess and canteen alike.

  Lieutenant Beale-Browne stood up. ‘Only one, sir. Serjeant Treve, the language in which Mr Daly addressed you: though it sounds indelicate, no doubt, in a court such as this here, now, was it unusual for the horse lines?’

  ‘Sir, with respect, it is most unusual to hear an officer speak in that way.’

  There was a degree of throat-clearing in various quarters. Beale-Browne, having done Daly’s bidding in asking the question, might now have withdrawn decently, saving himself – and others – the risk of ridicule. But strong though his own distaste for Daly was, Lieutenant Beale-Browne perceived he had a duty to perform, and when this business was over, from which he knew that none could emerge with much honour, he was damned if he was going to give anyone the opportunity to find him wanting. ‘Serjeant Treve, have you ever before heard Mr Daly speaking in the language, let us say, of the horse lines?’

  Treve hesitated. ‘Sir, if I might put it this way, Mr Daly, sir, is known for his colourful language.’

  There was more throat-clearing. Hervey groaned inwardly again. Daly would now appear to the court as the quintessential Irish squireen, fond of the bottle, as all his fellow countrymen – ‘splendid fighting men, if unruly’ – his language strong, but affectionately so. Hervey felt the court turning against him even before he had had the opportunity to speak.

  ‘I have no more questions, sir.’

  The president looked at Lieutenant Martyn, who rose quickly.

  ‘I have no questions, sir.’

  The president turned to the judge martial, who shook his head, and then to the members of the court. None had any question.

  ‘Thank you, Serjeant; dismiss.’

  Serjeant Treve sprang up, replaced his Tarleton, turned to his right and saluted, then left the room at a brisk march.

  The adjutant got to his feet again. ‘Mr President and gentlemen, I wish to call as witness Veterinary Surgeon Knight.’

  The president nodded, and the court orderly went out to summon him.

  A full minute passed. Hervey was aware of half a dozen whispered asides and exchanges, but he said nothing, looking straight ahead throughout, conscious that the members before him must now think the regiment to be little more than a collection of—

  The heavy oak doors opened and John Knight entered. He had the gait of a man used to marching in his own company, his right arm describing curious and erratic patterns as he swung it, his left elbow sticking out as if to barge someone out of the way, and the hand grasping a borrowed sword scabbard without its slings. His right spur was adjusted too high and the roundel was jammed, so that only the left spur rang as he marched, which made for added curiosity among the members of the court. He came to a halt, more or less precisely, and saluted by placing several fingers to the point of his bicorn.

  ‘Remove headdress, sir,’ said the court orderly, voice lowered.

  Knight took off his hat and handed it to the serjeant, who, surprised, found himself trying to hold it while handing him the bible. It was managed, but not as a serjeant of Foot Guards would have preferred, and to the amusement of the junior members.

  The court orderly cleared his throat pointedly, composing himself and the court for the due gravity of the swearing-in.

  ‘I swear, upon the holy Evangelists, that the evidence which I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; so help me, God.’

  Hervey heard Daly whispering to Beale-Browne again, and insistently. He could not imagine to what he might already be objecting.

  ‘Be seated, Mr Knight,’ said the adjutant, respectfully.

  The court orderly brought a chair. Knight sat down, letting his sword clatter to the floor, and crossed his legs.

  ‘Please state your name, appointment and qualifications.’

  ‘John Knight, veterinary surg
eon, Sixth Light Dragoons, licentiate of the London Veterinary College.’

  ‘Would you tell the court what happened on the evening of the twenty-fourth of July in respect of a colt belonging to Cornet Daly.’

  ‘At about nine o’clock I received an urgent summons to attend at H Troop’s horse lines. On arrival there I saw Daly’s colt lying on the ground – as well as Daly himself, I might add. I attended at once to the colt, but the animal had died.’

  ‘Did—’

  The defending officer rose, hesitantly.

  The president glowered at him. ‘Yes, Mr Beale-Browne?’

  ‘Sir, I . . . I beg you would forgive the interruption, but . . . Mr Daly would know why it is that the veterinary officer was sworn, since he is an officer.’

  The president was taken aback. He turned to the judge martial.

  ‘Really, Mr Beale-Browne,’ began the judge martial, laying down his pen and taking off his spectacles. ‘Such enquiries are not appropriate at this time.’

  Beale-Browne cleared his throat apologetically. ‘I am sorry, Your Honour, but Mr Daly is very desirous to know why it is that an officer is sworn to tell the truth, which is not the usual practice, his word being always taken for the truth.’

  ‘Mr Beale-Browne,’ replied the judge martial, sounding more than a shade irritated, ‘it has not been the practice for an officer to take an oath in a regimental court martial, but it has ever been the practice in a general court martial. And, I might add, parliament has very recently passed an act requiring the same of regimental courts martial. So, I hope that is an end to it.’

  Beale-Browne looked deeply embarrassed. ‘Thank you, Your Honour.’

  The president sighed, audibly. ‘Proceed, Mr Barrow.’

  Barrow bowed. ‘Mr Knight, did you ascertain the cause of death?’

  ‘Yes. It was from the shock, occasioned, in my opinion, by the introduction of a red-hot cautery into the animal’s mouth.’

  ‘By whose hand?’

  ‘Daly’s; the cautery was still in his hand, and he later admitted he had used it.’

  ‘Had you earlier spoken with Cornet Daly on the subject?’

  ‘I had, earlier in the day. The colt was suffering from lampas. Daly wanted me to burn it out. I refused. I disapprove of the practice.’

  ‘If you had approved, would you have instructed a farrier or would you yourself have done it?’

  ‘I most certainly would not have instructed a farrier. The procedure would require a very particular skill.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Knight. I have no further questions.’

  The adjutant turned again to the president, and bowed.

  ‘Mr Beale-Browne, do you have any questions of this witness?’ asked the president doubtfully.

  Beale-Browne was still in an agitated, whispering exchange with Daly.

  ‘Well, sir?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have but one question. Mr Knight, is the universal opinion of your profession against firing of lampas?’

  ‘By no means.’

  Beale-Browne cleared his throat apologetically again. ‘Might I press you to more?’

  ‘It was in my time a procedure taught at the London Veterinary College, but progressive opinion is against it.’

  ‘Then you would not dismiss Mr Daly’s opinion as being without foundation?’

  ‘No, but I would dismiss his skill as a veterinary practitioner as without foundation, and that is the material point.’

  Beale-Browne had seen it coming. He had seen it coming before he rose, but Daly had insisted. He wondered, now, how to make a retreat without looking too bruised. It did not help that he was uncertain of the law, but he had one more line of enquiry. ‘Mr Knight, there is nothing in law, so far as I am aware, that prevents a farrier from attempting such a procedure. He regularly attends to the horse’s teeth, for instance?’

  ‘That is my understanding.’

  Beale-Browne cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Knight, besides the many learnèd books by veterinary surgeons, you will know the work of Mr Francis Clater, in particular Everyman his own Farrier?’

  ‘Of course. In the main an admirable book.’

  ‘And in that book, in the part addressing the lampas, it says that the cure is generally performed by burning it out with a hot iron.’

  ‘Indeed it does. But it goes on to say that it requires care and a man of judgement to perform operations of that kind, and that in general farriers are too apt to take more out than is necessary.’

  There was a murmur of appreciation in the ‘public seats’ for the evident depth of John Knight’s professional opinion.

  ‘But the law nevertheless does not prevent it?’

  ‘As I have said, Mr Beale-Browne, it is my understanding that the law does not, but that is not an end to it: by regimental standing order, no farrier is allowed to make any surgical intervention without the express approval of the veterinary officer.’

  Beale-Browne was crestfallen, and becoming desperate. He fired one last round, even sounding hopeless. ‘And burning out the lampas is a surgical intervention?’

  John Knight huffed. ‘If it ain’t medical then it’s surgical, and I’m damned if I can see how anyone could administer medicine with a cautery!’

  The president cleared his throat very pointedly. Knight had overstepped the mark, but with provocation. ‘I think we have reached the end of this line of questioning, Mr Beale-Browne?’

  Beale-Browne made a determined effort to hide his mortification. ‘Yes, sir.’

  But he conceded too soon. The judge martial had a question. ‘Would that standing order be known to every officer?’

  John Knight half shrugged his shoulders. ‘I cannot say. My business is the horses and the farriers.’

  The judge martial turned to the man most likely to be able to answer.

  ‘No, Your Honour,’ said the adjutant. ‘There are general standing orders, which every officer and non-commissioned officer is required to be conversant with, and standing orders particular to certain duties or appointments. The order which the veterinary surgeon refers to would be a particular.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Barrow,’ said the judge martial, in a manner suggesting that he ought not to have been the one to ask the question. He glanced at the president, and then back to Barrow again. ‘If Mr Beale-Browne has now finished, you may proceed.’

  Barrow bowed. ‘Thank you, Mr Knight. Be pleased to dismiss.’

  The court orderly brought the veterinary surgeon’s bicorn. Knight gathered up his sword, noisily, bowed rather than replacing the hat and saluting, and then left the court with the same single spur ringing with every other step.

  The president raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. ‘And now, Mr Barrow?’

  ‘Mr President, at this time I would call Cornet Daly to give evidence.’

  Hervey heard the urgent conferring again, but it went on longer, and sounded even more insistent.

  ‘Mr Beale-Browne!’ snapped the president.

  Beale-Browne rose, hesitantly. ‘Mr President, sir, I . . . Mr Daly requests that he not be sworn.’

  ‘What?’ The president’s brow was deeply furrowed.

  The judge martial looked up from his ledger. ‘Mr Beale-Browne, I have already explained: it has ever been the practice for evidence to be given upon oath in general courts martial.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour, but Mr Daly maintains that it is unbecoming for an officer’s word to be doubted.’

  The judge martial sighed, but with apparent sympathy. ‘Mr Beale-Browne, there are many who share that opinion, but the law is what it is, and it is that an officer give evidence upon oath.’

  Beale-Browne leaned across the table to confer once more with Daly. Hervey was the only man in the court unable to see Daly’s head shaking furiously.

  The president thumped the table with his fist. But it was Barrow who spoke. ‘Mr President, the prosecution is content not to call Cornet Daly, if the defending officer is of like mind.’
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br />   Lieutenant Beale-Browne looked like a drowning man who had been thrown a lifeline. ‘I should be content, sir.’

  Barrow almost smiled. ‘Very well. Mr President and gentlemen, the prosecution’s case is concluded.’

  The president looked bemused. ‘No further witnesses, Mr Barrow? No closing address?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Beale-Browne, you are free to conclude.’

  Beale-Browne rose again, wearily. ‘Mr President and gentlemen, er . . . Cornet Daly would wish to state that he believed he had every right and skill to attempt the burning out of the lampas, and that the death of his charger was the unfortunate but not uncommon outcome of any surgical intervention. He would state that he did not abuse Serjeant Treve, rather did he speak generally in the direct language of the horse lines, and that he had no intention of assaulting the serjeant at the time that he was struck by Cornet Hervey.’

  The silence that followed was so pronounced that the judge martial looked up, curious, and then at the president. ‘Is that it, Mr Beale-Browne?’

  ‘I do believe it is, Your Honour.’

  The judge martial laid down his pen. ‘Well, upon my word, I never came across anything so contrary. Mr President, I beg an adjournment in order to consult with myself on the matter before us.’

  The president looked relieved. ‘Very well. The court stands adjourned. All shall remain within the environs.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LONG SHADOWS

  Badajoz, 29 December 1826

  It was so cold that a hoar-frost whitened the hangings of Hervey’s bedchamber. He lay still, listening for a sound that might tell him someone was come with news, welcome or otherwise. Since wine with Dr Sanchez the day before, hourly he had expected him to return with either a letter from Elvas telling him that his release was arranged, or else a summons to attend the tribunal. He had slept little, partly on account of the cold, but in larger part because his mind had wandered, back and forward, over a decade and more, from one misjudgement to another, every excess and indiscretion. They oppressed him, and yet none of them, in his imagining, compared with what was to come. How could it be that he had not learned his lesson until now, and that it should come to so low a point? He had learned the easy things well enough – the business of his profession, the drills and such like – but all else, when he contemplated it from the perspective of his present condition, appeared as nothing so much as failure.