For the time being, however, they were still at work with brush and curry-comb. It was just that bit easier while horses had their summer coats, but there was sweat on every dragoon's brow nevertheless. It was not a time for shouted commands, rather of careful observance of standing orders and the accumulated experience of the corporals. Above all it was not a time for officers. It was the serjeant-major's hour. It was he, and his trusted NCOs, who turned out the troop to perfection -both horses and men. Then the officers led them in the practice of war, real or imagined. And the serjeant-major did not expect supervision.
Hervey's appearance in the lines this morning was therefore doubly unusual. He had not even sent word to Myles Vanneck, his lieutenant, that he was reporting himself fit for duty, and there was at once a buzz as the news passed from stall to stall. The dragoons nearest the end stood to attention as others gawped or tried to steal a look. Hervey felt as if he were some ghost. 'Carry on, Harkness,' he said, nodding and smiling as he began walking the line of stalls.
Private Harkness, the broadest of shoulders making his trooper look short-backed, returned the smile confidently.
Another dragoon came to attention as Hervey reached his stall.
'Carry on, Hicks. How is your leg now?'
Private Hicks turned red. His leg had been mended for all of three years, but still his nickname in the troop was Giles, 'the cripple'. 'Very good, sir, thank you, sir.'
The next man had neither brush nor comb in his hand, and he therefore saluted.
Hervey smiled again. Beneath the watering cap were thick black curls, unmistakable. 'Good morning, French. What is the news from Wales?'
'Agreeable, I think, sir. My father has taken another living, and my brother is to be ordained too.' The voice was not perhaps so differently cast from the other recruits' as first it had seemed on joining; but it was still the voice of a man of some education.
The ringing of spurs made Hervey turn.
‘Good morning, sor!'
Hervey smiled the more - an indulgent sort of smile. 'Corporal McCarthy!'
'It's good to see you on your feet again, sor. And back in time for all the drill, too.'
'Indeed, indeed.' Yes, he had timed his return well - as if he had had any say in it.
'Go and fetch the sar'nt-major, Rudd,' said McCarthy, addressing the next stall.
Hervey looked across keenly; he had not noticed Private Rudd, and he watched with satisfaction as he doubled away, for he had saved the boy from a cloying mother and the dubious occupation of milliner. Rudd ought to be corporal soon: if only there were more places.
He carried on down the line, Corporal McCarthy by his side. 'How is your section then, on the whole?'
'Well, sor; very well. Not a horse lame nor a man sick.'
Hervey nodded appreciatively. It was as well at the beginning of what they called here the unhealthy season.
Next he stopped by Private Needham's stall. Needham's hair almost covered the stub of his right ear, but the old wound was vivid enough. Hervey recalled the bloody sight when the Burman tulwar had sliced the flesh away. Needham stood to attention now with brush and comb clasped in each hand by his side, as fit as the day Hervey had enlisted him on Warminster Common, but he did not smile.
'Good morning, Needham. How is your mare?’
Hervey chose well. Needham and his mare were ever closer by the day. 'She's doing a treat, sir. She won best turnout last week.’
'A credit to you,’ said Hervey, nodding approval. And he would say no more for the time being, for they had buried Needham’s best friend, Private Spreadbury, barely a week ago, and there were now but two of the original 'Warminster pals’ left.
How well the pals had served him, thought Hervey. That day, five years ago, when he had defied all his instincts and gone to Warminster Common to look for recruits - it had repaid his efforts no end. Indeed, would he be alive this day had he not done so? For Wainwright was first of the pals. He smiled at the thought of what the King's shilling could buy - and what the King's uniform could do for a man in return. He hoped he would live long enough to see four chevrons on Wainwright's sleeve.
'Good morning, Captain Hervey sir!'
The voice filled the stables. There was no need for Hervey to turn to see whose it was. 'Good morning, Sar'nt-Major!' he replied, as cheerily as he had been hailed.
'Not a horse off the road, sir, nor a man neither.'
Troop Serjeant-Major Armstrong, collier-turned-cavalryman - the only horse he had seen before enlisting was pulling a coal tub; but what a source of strength, always, was that voice of the Tyne. Hervey's thoughts were at once of Sahagun, Corunna, Albuhera, and a dozen other places where Armstrong's voice had done its work: cursing, checking, cajoling. To his mind, Armstrong was the Sixth, as much as was Lincoln (and, God rest his soul, as Strange had been). Without him the regiment could surely never be the same - or as good?
'Corporal McCarthy tells me so. Very good husbandry, Sar'nt-Major.' It was, perhaps, fortunate that Hervey was enquiring this day and not a week before. That the last man sick, poor Spreadbury, had died was not something to be reflected in the day's parade state. In their five or so years in Calcutta E Troop had lost eighteen men to the agues and fevers that plagued the cantonments every season. And before he had left for Rangoon the sick rate had been three men in ten. The other troops had fared no better, but that was little consolation to mess mates -nor to Hervey and Armstrong whose concern it was to maintain a decent muster. But no men sick this morning - not a bad way to begin command again.
'The vet'in'ry's round the other side, sir, if you want me to tell him you're here. Just doing his rounds, that is. No problems.'
'Just say not to leave before I'm able to have a word.'
Armstrong nodded to Rudd, who cut away smartly.
They advanced another stall. 'A new face, I perceive.'
The dragoon stood at attention, as Needham before him, with brush and curry-comb in either hand. But his look was a touch anxious rather than melancholy.
'Private Toyne, sir,' said Armstrong. 'Joined last month.'
Hervey looked him up and down - a well-made youth, fresh-faced and clean. 'Where are you from, Toyne?'
'Appleby, sir,' in a voice not unlike the serjeant-major's.
But Hervey was none the wiser.
'Westmorland, sir,' explained Armstrong. Long years had taught him that officers spoke of counties, not places.
Hervey knew there were hills in Westmorland, but that was about all. 'What brought you to the Sixth then?'
'My cousin is in the Fifty-fifth, sir, and 'e took me to enlist. But I said I wanted to work with 'orses, and so the Fifty-fifth let me change.'
'Did they, indeed? That was very generous of them.' And most unusual, too. No doubt the recruiting serjeant had sworn blind that the Fifty-fifth were mounted on the best bloods and more besides if it would secure another man.
'Well, sir, I had to pay a bit of money.’ 'A recruit buying into the cavalry. Now there's a thing!'
Toyne would not understand the humour just yet, but Armstrong smiled pityingly. 'There's not much for company but sheep up there, sir. He's made a good start, though. Sits well.'
Hervey nodded to show his appreciation. 'You worked with horses in Appleby then?'
'Yes sir. I used to help with the fair, sir.'
'Fair?'
'Yes sir. There's an 'orse fair twice a year. People comes from all over to buy.'
Hervey nodded again. 'Well, I'm pleased to have you in my troop. Carry on.'
Toyne turned as red as Hicks had done.
'A good 'un,' said Armstrong, voice lowered, as they stepped off. 'A real liking for horses. He'll make a good groom in his turn.'
Hervey took note. It was difficult not to when a man had parted with money in order to be with horses.
At the other stalls it was reunion rather than introduction - and sometimes banter. Hervey, his spirits already lifted, was content, for here were a confident troo
p, who thought themselves a cut above the others since the affair at the river three years before. None of the other troops had so much as chased a dacoit, let alone bloodied a sabre, and a man who had not cut or thrust - or even fired carbine or pistol in anger - could hardly think himself a proper dragoon. For sure, it was the veterans of Waterloo who were honoured above all others in the wet canteen. Not with exaggerated reverence, but with the nodding respect that they had seen something never to be seen again, and were therefore possessed of certain insights and certain rights. And sometimes an E Troop man who had overreached himself in the canteen on the business of fighting would be brought up sharply by a Waterloo hand and reminded that the affair at the river, sharp though it had been, could never compare with that day in June. But an E Troop man stood in the veterans' respect nevertheless.
It was no longer true perhaps that the army divided into two parts - those who had been at Waterloo and those who had not - but the army was just as divided in its opinion of the future. It was true, certainly, that no officer believed in his heart there would be a battle the like of Waterloo again; never so many men in the field at once, never so great a number of guns. And - worst of all for those of Hervey's calling - never again so many cavalry manoeuvring to decisive effect. No, not even in India. What, therefore, would be their fate? Was it to be as mere spectators, from afar even, as in Burma - a pretty corps of escorts, in uniforms more and more elaborate and less and less serviceable? Or would they just become a corps of skirmishers, little better than Pandours and Croats?
Hervey had his opinions. They were formed in the Peninsula, confirmed at Waterloo and proven often enough these past three years. Perhaps he would write of them - write a book - as Peto had suggested. Many would sneer at his doing so of course, but he didn't care; not any longer.
'Good morning, Captain Hervey,' said the veterinary surgeon.
'Ah, David - good morning.'
David Sledge was the only officer habitually called by his Christian name, from colonel to cornet. The veterinary surgeon stood in a curious position regarding rank and seniority, and the Sixth had come to an admirable working arrangement.
'You wanted to see me?'
'No, not especially. Only to say that I am returned to duty. I gather I have a fit troop?'
Armstrong took his leave. There were things he would attend to with Serjeant Collins: 'Them gram-grinders, sir. Still not sized off.'
Hervey nodded, then turned to Sledge again. 'It says a good deal for Armstrong, that parade state.'
'Yes, very satisfactory,' said Sledge, checking his pocketbook. 'Not a cough nor a warm leg in the stables these past six weeks. And I take my hat off to Brennan too.'
Hervey had long been convinced that E Troop had the best farrier. And so much steadier was
Brennan these days with a fellow countryman in McCarthy to share tobacco and grog with (and a fellow with stripes to boot). 'I shall tell him. But he's had light work in respect of numbers, I see -a good dozen short. Do you know what are the remount arrangements?'
The purchase of remounts was not the business of the veterinary surgeon, but he had an obvious interest. 'Nothing's coming from the Company studs this year, apparently, so it's all down to dealers. When you're ready to look I'll come with you if you'd like. We've kept the lines free of infection all year and I shouldn't want anything brought in on approval.'
Hervey smiled. 'David, I should value your opinion on more than just the animal's health. But not for a day or so, I think - unless you say others will be looking too. I'll ask the RM as well.'
Sledge looked pained. 'Broad's not been in best sorts of late. Ledley's had to dose him a good deal.'
'Fever?'
Sledge still looked pained. 'N-o-o.'
'Well, I hope whatever is the cause he will not be indisposed long. I've seen no better man with remounts.'
'I shall be seeing him later. I will pass on your regard.'
Hervey scowled. 'Come, David; you are not telling me all.'
Sledge looked relieved. To be explicit, it's a case for mercury and nitrate.'
'Oh God,' groaned Hervey. 'But what of Annie Broad? Has she gone home or something?'
Sledge raised his eyebrows. 'I should ask Rose.'
'What?'
'Been drawing his yard there, it seems. Better not speak of it here.'
Hervey shook his head slowly. 'Is it much talked about?'
'What - the mercury or Rose?' 'Both.'
'Neither generally, but the mercury's out in the ranks, I think. The Rose business Broad himself told me. But not here, Hervey. Can you come to my dispense later?'
Hervey finished his tour of the horse lines alone, then went to the troop office, where he found Myles Vanneck and his new cornet, Green.
'Good morning, Hervey!' said Vanneck, and with evident pleasure - even though his captain's return meant he would no longer have charge of things.
Hervey had found it easy leaving the troop in his lieutenant's hands. It was, after all, what was intended by the name of that rank. But in Myles Vanneck he had especial trust, as much as he had known in Seton Canning, even. Vanneck had been with the Sixth scarcely five years, but he had taken to command with the greatest of ease - the same ease, indeed, as that of his elder brother in the Eighteenth, whom Hervey had known in the Peninsula. And Vanneck had been lucky, too, for the means to buy a lieutenancy when the time came had been but a trifle to him at 'India rates', though when it was his turn for a captaincy the regiment would, for sure, be back in England and he would thereby have to pay well over price. Not that that should present the Honourable Myles Vanneck with too much difficulty, however: Lord Huntingfield's sons did not go in want of anything. And it was one of the reasons that Hervey so liked him, for he could easily have bought into a home regiment and enjoyed the pleasures of London or Brighton rather than the dust and heat, and the doubtful society of Calcutta. And, of course, the young Cornet Vanneck had comported himself so admirably in the affair of the river. Blue blood, and not afraid to shed it - it was hardly surprising the men regarded him.
Hervey smiled and took off his cap.
'This is Cornet Green.'
Hervey held out his hand, which the cornet took a shade hesitantly.
'How d'you do, sir,' said Green.
The cavalryman's coup d'oeil was not always faithful when it came to the man rather than the situation. That much Hervey would freely acknowledge. But Green was not of the usual stamp: that much was impossible not to observe. He looked ungainly, a touch heavy-limbed to be a man at home in the saddle. And his features were a deal less fine than the subalterns prided themselves on. In the few words of his salutation he revealed that he came from the north of England (although that in itself said nothing, for the proud and independent gentry of the northern counties had provided many a son to the regiment during the war). But there was just something . . . No, thought Hervey; here indeed was a queer card.
'When did you come?' he asked, with deliberate kindness.
'Three months ago, sir.'
'Did you come via the depot?'
'No, sir.'
Nothing more volunteered than the precise answer - this was going to be heavy.
Vanneck sought to help. 'He has bought two fine chargers, I might say. One of them was that bay of Williams's in the bodyguard.'
Hervey nodded. 'I much approve. I had a mind to buy him myself if ever he came up.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Green's hair was sticking up by his right temple, like a duck's tuft. Hervey found himself staring at it.
Vanneck kept trying. 'Green was just about to go to the adjutant. He's picket-officer today.'
'So I see,' said Hervey, glancing at the cornet's review order.
Green's tunic, and all, looked in themselves immaculate, but even Mr Gieve's best efforts could not make a military coat hang well on a dumpling.
'Very good, Green,’ said Hervey, trying hard not to sound dismayed. cWe’ll speak at length tomorrow when you
r duties are done.’
Cornet Green coloured a little, put on his shako (askew, but Hervey thought best to say nothing -the adjutant would correct it soon enough), saluted and took his leave.
When he had gone, Hervey sat down and looked at Vanneck quizzically.
Vanneck sighed. 'I know. But he means well. The others have given him quite a rousting, though. His nickname's "grocer’’.’
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