'I fancy that two squadrons of light cavalry with galloper guns might dash from Agra to Bhurtpore in a night, before the garrison were properly alerted. They could seize the bund before dawn, until our engineers came up, and would have the advantage of daylight to beat off the immediate sallies.'
Lord Combermere at once saw the sequence perfectly. 'And the relief to attend on them by dusk.'
'It would be hazardous if they were not to be reinforced by then, General. If the enemy did not overwhelm them in the darkness, they would surely mass during the night and do so at first light.'
'Very well,' said Lord Combermere, nodding slowly, as if turning over the facts one more time.
Hervey judged that his services were now done with. He picked up his shako and began making to leave.
'Thank you, Captain Hervey,' said Lord Combermere, looking up. 'Your information has been most valuable. You shall have the honour of leading those two squadrons. And you had better have the rank for the affair, too, once we take to the field.'
Hervey left the commander-in-chief's office with the promise of a local majority. It would give him the authority he needed for his limited command, but in terms of seniority it meant even less than a brevet. He wondered when that recognition might come his way again, if ever. He wondered even more when the next regimental vacancy might occur, though he could not begin to contemplate how he might find the means to buy it. Advancement in times of peace and retrenchment was a snail's gallop - they all knew that - so he had better make the most of his temporary command. He would go at once to the adjutant-general's office to discover for himself the exact order of battle for this, Lord Combermere's first sovereign campaign.
There, he was at once astonished by the scale of the undertaking. The body of cavalry was the largest, it was certain, since Waterloo: a division of two brigades, each comprising a King's regiment, three of the Company's and two troops of horse artillery, the whole under command of Lieutenant-Colonel Sleigh of the 11th Light Dragoons in the rank of brigadier-general. Hervey was content enough with that; Sleigh he knew from Peninsula days, and considered him a good man. But it was the Devil's own luck that Sir Ivo Lankester should have prolonged his furlough, for his seniority would have given him a brigade. And the only reason Sir Ivo had prolonged his stay in England was to coax His Majesty into appointing a royal colonel-in-chief to the Sixth. An expensive adornment that would be, mused Hervey, if it cost Sir Ivo the opportunity of the sabre's edge at the head of his regiment.
And the two divisions of infantry were strong ones, too, each of three brigades, with two King's regiments - the 14th and ‘9th Foot - and the Company's 1st Bengal European Regiment. There were a good many troops of foot artillery, as well as the experimental brigade with their rockets, and strong detachments of the Bengal Sappers and Miners. The strength returns were not yet received in full, said the officiating adjutant-general, but his estimate was that the army would take to the field in excess of twenty thousand combatants.
Hervey scanned the order of battle keenly. The last regiment he came to gave him especial satisfaction, and did as much to assure him of victory as any other. Two rissalahs of Skinner's Irregular Horse would accompany the army, unbrigaded. He resolved at once to enlist them in his independent command.
In the afternoon he sent Corporal Wainwright with a dozen sicca rupees to buy provisions for the budgerow which would - he hoped - soon be taking them back up the Ganges. 'Calcutta will be no place to be these next weeks,' he said, smiling wryly. 'Not for sabres, that's for sure. You haven't seen an army assembling for the field, Corporal Wainwright. It's a grand affair of adjutants and quartermasters and serjeant-majors. Parades, lists, inspections - no end of a business!'
Corporal Wainwright hid his partial disappointment. The oldest sweat in his barrack-room had told him many things when he had first joined, not least that a dragoon should never volunteer for anything. Yet Jobie Wainwright would have liked to see the serjeant-majors and the adjutants and the quartermasters about their business, for he himself wanted one day to fill their boots, and how was he to learn if he did not see? But he was his troop-leader's coverman - Major Hervey's coverman, indeed, though he did not yet know it -and he went only where he might parry the cut or the thrust directed at his officer. That next meant to Dehli, or perhaps straight to Agra.
But his officer had a prior duty, one that could not possibly be spoken of between them. When Wainwright left for the bazaar, Hervey went to the Chitpore road.
The whole of native Calcutta, from nabob to bhisti, knew now that the army of Bengal was mobilizing. And every bibi knew likewise. They also knew that the army's object was what Lord Lake had failed to accomplish, and what had been the shaming cause of Sir David Ochterlony's death. Would John Company rise in triumph this time to the old taunt 'Go take Bhurtpore'? It was the talk of the princely palaces and the havelis of the Chitpore road, debated in the more modest dwellings of the Brahmins and around the bazaars. And in the bibi khanas; especially in the bibi khanas, for they knew all about Bhurtpore - 'the Pride of Hindoostan'. Was the fortress not impregnable? Did not the Futtah Bourge, the tower of skulls, stand as reminder to all who would forget it? No, it was impossible that a man should leave for Bhurtpore without visiting his bibi to bid her a proper goodbye, and to receive the soldier's farewell in return, and to assure her of the arrangements he had made for her well-being should he not come back.
Hervey now spoke the words that a bibi needed to hear, but they could never be enough. She loved him. She thought him the world itself. She also understood that in the army's hands lay the Company's honour and prestige, and it made her doubly fearful, for she knew what honour meant to her sahib, and the price he would be ready to pay if it were necessary. She would not say so -it would only distress him - but if his body were brought back to Calcutta she would throw herself into the flames of his funeral pyre in the duty of suttee. Except that for her it would not be a duty, rather an end to interminable grief.
She pleaded with her sahib to let her go with him to Bhurtpore; even to walk among the dhoolie-bearers and syces if she could not be with him. But tempted sorely as Hervey was, his soldier's duty stood all too clear: she was not welcome in the cantonment, and she could not be welcome on the campaign.
But leaving her was harder than he had supposed. He did not for one moment imagine he would not return (she would not tell him that she imagined only this) but the necessity of proceeding on that possibility gave their parting a fateful edge that all but overcame him. It was not possible for a man - a man with a soul - to see even native eyes which looked so loving, and not be touched deep. In truth, Hervey had come to love her, too, in a certain way. It was not a love which fulfilled all his needs; their minds, so differently schooled, could never wholly meet, but there was a tenderness that could make him content, for a time. He saw that period of contentment, however, only as time that stood still, not the sharing of life's time.
It was of no consequence, however. He had long known that he could only have shared life's time with Henrietta, and it mattered not how or with whom he shared time that stood still, for it was a wholly different property. As the sun began to sink in the direction to which his duty called, he rose from beside her to bathe. He was certain of one thing: he had not the will, and certainly not the heart, to sever himself from her now. It would take the lawful command of a superior to accomplish that - a return to England, alone or with the regiment. Yet did he have the desire and the will even to comply with such an order? Why should she not accompany him home?
That twisting ache which came in his vitals in such moments of apprehension hauled him back to the truth - that here in Hindoostan he might live largely as he pleased, but that in England (above all in Wiltshire) he must live as he was expected. All the Christian charity of his family combined could not accept an Indian paramour, let alone a wife. And beyond his immediate family - Henrietta's guardians and the gentry of those parts - such a thing could signal only that Hervey h
ad announced his intention to withdraw from all society. He might even come to know what his late friend Shelley had called 'social hatred'.
Would that matter to him? As he lay in her arms he had imagined not. But now, as he sponged the cold water over his shoulders, he knew that he would always hark back - no matter how infrequently - to the earlier, sober days, and that it would begin eating at the heart of the arrangement. And his career? He would have to forgo it. Any arrangement with a native girl, except in a native station, was insupportable. Perhaps he might implicate Georgiana, to appoint his bibi as ayah to her? But what passed as a decent and honourable association in India would in England look no better than the slave-owner visiting the cabins of an evening.
As they embraced at their parting, Hervey was in more than half a mind to seek a commission in the Company's forces, to make his home here, to see how long he could make time stand still, until events resolved his troubles.
In the army's hands lay the Company's honour and prestige. If Hervey's bibi understood this, how much more did Somervile. The King's honour, indeed, now rested in the balance at Bhurtpore, and there were some in the great houses of Calcutta
those connected with the native powers especially
who would say that the very presence of the British in India was at stake, that in Combermere's hands lay the course of history.
'There is much to speak of, Hervey,' said Somervile, welcoming him at the door of No. 3, Fort William. 'Send for all your necessaries and rest the night here. A good dinner's the very least the council might provide before you go and pay their rent for the next hundred years.'
Hervey needed no inducement to stay with the Somerviles, for besides the unflagging pleasure he took in their company he had no agreeable alternative. He could not return to the bibi khana having said his farewell, the officers' mess was at this moment being readied to lumber in a score of yakhdans and bullock carts in the direction of Agra, and his own bungalow was once again shuttered and draped with dust sheets.
Emma joined them, the ayah with her, babe in arms.
For a moment Hervey saw something - the timeless vision of mother and child, perhaps - that reached deep into his own void. And his godson
-a contented baby, swaddled with affection, a child that would grow to manhood sure of its nurture. Mother and child seemed somehow to rebuke him. 'I had a mind to stay here when the Sixth is recalled,' he said, absently.
Emma read that mind, and thought better of questioning it.
Her husband was less nimble. ‘Be sure to take six months' home leave beforehand, mark. It would be perilous to chance the marriage stakes on the angels who come out here.'
Serious advice, well-meant as ever - if blunt: Hervey could not take offence. 'Perhaps I shall,' he said, vaguely; and then, in a tone suggesting his true thoughts, 'and I should want to know how my own offspring fares.'
Emma sensed the danger. She nodded to her ayah. 'Mehrbani, Vaneeta.'
The ayah bowed and smiled back, and took the child to the nursery.
'When do you leave, Matthew?'
Hervey, whose eyes had followed the child from the room, turned attentively to his hostess. 'I, er . . . tomorrow. At first light. By budgerow as far as Agra. Johnson is there with the horses.'
Somervile uncorked a bottle of champagne noisily. 'Damned carriers! They must have trotted every case for a mile and more. I had a bottle blow up in my hand last week.'
Hervey smiled. 'A perilous position you occupy these days, Somervile!'
'I wouldn't trade it for a safer one, I assure you.'
Looking now at the third in council of the Bengal presidency, with his thinning hair and spreading paunch, it was difficult to imagine the defiant defender of the civil lines twenty years ago when the Madras army was in one of its periodic foments, or a decade later the angered collector going at the gallop, pistol in hand, for the Pindaree despoilers of one of 'his' villages. Hervey knew of the first by hearsay, but he had witnessed the latter himself, and he had not the slightest doubt that, after all due allowance for the increasing effects of gravity and claret, there was no one he would rather serve with on campaign than Eyre Somervile. The erstwhile collector looked an unlikely man of action, but man of action he was, at least in his counsels, as well as being a fine judge of men, of horses, of the country, and above all of its people. No, Eyre Somervile did not seek safe billets.
'I am of the opinion that it will not be a safe place inside Bhurtpore. There's a fair battering train and good many sepoys,' said Hervey airily.
'Tell me of it.' Somervile handed him a glass after Emma.
Hervey at once retailed the order of battle, including the line number of the Company's regiments. He had fixed them in his mind as if the printed orders were in front of him - a happy knack, and one he had found could endure indefinitely if he recollected the picture once or twice a day.
Emma, by her eyes, expressed her admiration.
Hervey's exposition lasted the whole of Somervile's glass.
'There was a deal of speculation in the drawing rooms as to his capability when first the news of his appointment reached here’ said the third in council when his friend had finished. 'You know it's tattled what passed when Wellington proposed it to the Duke of York? The grand old man's supposed to have protested Combermere was a fool, to which Wellington's supposed to have replied, "Yes, but he can still take Bhurtpore."' Hervey frowned.
'You're right, no doubt,' said Somervile, though by no means contrite. 'We all know the respect Combermere's held in from Peninsula days, but now he's no longer subordinate, and it is not for him only to implement the design of the commander-in-chief. The design must now be his own.'
Hervey merely raised an eyebrow.
'So we must trust in Wellington's faith,' continued Somervile blithely. 'And I certainly take it as a mark of Combermere's capability that he should seek out the opinion of a junior officer. How was he, by the way?'
'Cool, thoughtful. He listens very attentively, and reads too, it would seem. He had read all there was about the last siege.'
Somervile nodded with satisfaction. He liked a thoughtful commander. He considered it the prime military as well as manly virtue. But he had his fears still. 'I would wish that he knew something of India, though. The bones of a host of Englishmen and sepoys are piled in those walls, and Lake was a general of much practice. They've stood as succour to every malcontent and freebooter who thought he could tweak the tail of the Company or chew off a bit of the bone - look at how the Jhauts have rallied to that murdering usurper just because he dares hoist his colours in the place! There must be no possibility of defeat this time, Hervey. If Combermere does not take Bhurtpore, then we may as well recall Campbell and his army from Ava and hand in the keys to Fort William!'
Hervey sipped at his champagne, judging that no answer was required.
'By my reckoning there are not so many engineers,' said Somervile suddenly, and looking puzzled. 'I should have thought the requirement in a siege was for more of these, even at the expense of your own gallant arm.'
Hervey sat up again. 'I had thought the same. But it seems the engineers can't drive tunnels far enough. And Durjan Sal will have a host of cavalry to hold at bay.'
'Has Combermere good interpreters? He must have someone who is fluent in Persian as well as others for the native languages.'
It was a detail Hervey had not missed, for the officer was an old friend. 'Captain Macan, from the Sixteenth Lancers. Do you know him?'
Somervile nodded contentedly. 'Yes indeed. A most able linguist.'
'Then I regret the position appears filled.'
Somervile saw the tease. 'Believe me, Hervey, if I thought it was safe to leave Calcutta for one hour without Amherst changing his mind about this enterprise then I should take to the field at once. But you will see me there as soon as you take the place. After your gallant comrades have reduced Bhurtpore and put Durjan Sal in a cage there will be a good deal of political work to do, and q
uickly. The new resident will need all the help he can get in the first months, and I for one would not stand on ceremony on that account.’
Sir Charles Metcalfe's name - Ochterlony's successor - was rarely absent from any conversation in Calcutta these days. Hervey wondered he had never heard of him before, so prominent a place he now took in the counsels of state. 'I hope I shall meet him, then.’
'I think he would hope that too, for he knows your work.’
'How so?’
Somervile took the champagne bottle from its cooler and refilled their glasses. 'I shall tell you.’
It had been in July, the evening of the Ochterlony minute guns, that Somervile had declared his opinion to Emma, who had understood him at once, as she always did. 'They would do better to take yonder guns and go finish what he began at Bhurtpore,’ he rasped, flinging down a sheaf of his home papers. 'This defiance by the Jhauts cannot stand!’
No one but Emma knew how much Somervile had striven those past months to conclude a satisfactory outcome to the usurpation. He had come to regard it as a rebellion against the Company rather than solely as a source of humiliation, and his object had been its crushing. 'What does Lord Amherst say? Does he feel Ochterlony's death in any measure?' Emma had asked.
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