The Sabre's Edge

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey had never before ridden ground with the major, and he was eager to do so. He wanted to learn how good was his eye for country compared with that for administration, for in spite of the banter of the camp at Agra, he was certain that the cavalry must be more active in this siege than the textbooks allowed. He had studied the accounts of Lord Lake's failure. He was certain that if the cavalry became a mere arm of the commissary then the siege would go the same way as Lord Lake's.

  They rode with only their covermen, Hervey marked by Corporal Wainwright, Joynson by the senior corporal. The major was not one for panoply, and in any case he scarcely expected trouble within the ring of scarlet around the fortress.

  Everywhere was purposeful activity. Hervey could not remember scenes the like since San Sebastian, perhaps Badajoz, even. Columns of sepoys tramped to and from great breastworks thrown up in a matter of days like molehills on greensward. Guns and ammunition wagons lumbered forward continuously, and empty wagons passed them on their way back from dumping powder, shot and shell at the batteries in anticipation of the great pounding to come. And the engineers, the sappers and miners, who opened the way for the infantry, whether by bridge or breach, worked oblivious to their surroundings, and to the enemy's guns which periodically sent hissing spheres of iron arching into the sky, then to throw up fountains of earth where they struck before bowling along the ground to knock down men and horses like skittles if they didn't look sharp.

  Hervey had observed the same curious detachment in the Peninsula, the sappers working as calmly as if they were navigators at an English cut. It was a cool courage, theirs, not one fired by dash or steadied by the touch of cloth. He wondered if it could endure as the guns began to take their toll. Sapping to the foot of the walls would be hot work indeed.

  'Do you think Durjan Sal doubts the outcome, seeing all this, Hervey?' asked the major suddenly. They had ridden for ten minutes and more in silence.

  Hervey was unsure what he had heard. 'You mean will he ask for terms?'

  'No. I mean, does he consider those walls impregnable? Does he believe we shall just go away? You could scarce call firing from those walls much of a counter-action.'

  'I confess to being surprised,' replied Hervey, watching warily as another ball arched from a distant bastion towards them.

  Joynson watched it too. It hit an outcrop of solid rock a hundred yards ahead of them, sending a shower of deadly shards in all directions.

  'But he must think those walls solid enough. And, in truth, he might be right. I've not seen their like before, I think.'

  'Do you know why it is the engineers can't tunnel?' Joynson supposed only that the ground was too hard.

  'The distance, pure and simple, is my understanding. They can't get close enough to begin a gallery.'

  'I can't say as I understand. If they can sap forward, why can't they then tunnel?'

  'Because after two hundred yards there isn't air enough to breathe, or to make for a good explosion.'

  They rode on a further half-mile in silence, or rather without a word, for Durjan Sal's guns were now speaking continually. Three of them fired at once from the long-necked bastion, the report so loud that both men looked its way. Hervey saw the homing shot first - low and straight, not plunging like the others. 'She comes our way,’ he said warily.

  Neither man moved a muscle more than had they been on parade. It was as unthinkable as it was pointless.

  Eighteen pounds of iron grazed the rocky outcrop fifty yards to their right then ricocheted half a right angle, but chippings the size of musket balls shot their way, drawing blood from Hervey's hand and his mare's shoulder.

  Joynson, on his nearside, but half a length in front, cursed as his shako was all but knocked from his head, the silver cross beneath the oilskin having stopped a stone bullet. He didn't see his mare's wound at first, looking about her legs and flanks for marks. 'Oh, God!' he cried suddenly, jumping from the saddle.

  Blood spurted from her breast as if from a stirrup pump. Joynson took off his silk stock and pressed it to the wound - a neat slice like the sabre's work. 'An artery, Hervey, for sure,' he groaned.

  If it were an artery there was nothing that they -or even David Sledge - could do. But Hervey got down and took the bandages from his valise.

  Corporal Wainwright did likewise, and Joynson's coverman the same. But Joynson's sleeves were soaked through, and the pool of blood at the mare's feet was spreading rapidly.

  'It's no good, Eustace.' But Hervey knew the major had bought the mare for his wife years ago.

  Conceding would be a doubly painful business. 'Give me a pistol!’

  Hervey took one of the flintlocks from his saddle holster, already loaded, tamped. He held it out to him. 'Shall I do it while you steady her?’

  'No, Hervey. It wouldn't do,’ said Joynson simply, taking the pistol and letting go the silk stock.

  Nevertheless, Hervey took out his second pistol and made ready. He had no idea if the major had ever shot a horse. It was the Devil's own job even without sentiment.

  'Offsaddle her, will you, Hervey,' said Joynson resolutely.

  When it was done, the major wiped his hands on his overalls, rubbed the little mare's nose, cocked the pistol and put the muzzle gently but firmly into the fossa above her left eye, angling it so as to aim at the bottom of her right ear.

  He pulled the trigger. The mare's forelegs folded, and she fell to the ground without so much as a grunt.

  Hervey was impressed - a businesslike despatch, as neat as any he'd seen. It had not been two minutes since the stone had done its worst. 'She was a fine animal,' he said, with real admiration.

  Tears welled in Joynson's eyes, which he did nothing to hide. 'She was. And I should have left her with Frances.' And then, with an almost bitter note, 'except that I couldn't have trusted her to see to her rightly.'

  Hervey thought to say nothing.

  Joynson knelt and cut off a lock of the mane. 'The last of Anne Joynson, then . . . save for Frances herself.'

  Hervey still thought it best to stay silent. Indeed, he had begun wondering how they might decently dispose of the carcass.

  Joynson's coverman was already resigned to walking back to the lines. ‘I’d swear them guns was trying to do that, sir,' he said, making ready to hand the reins to the major.

  ‘So would I, sir,' added Wainwright. 'Somebody in that fort knows how to shoot. That's for sure.'

  Hervey frowned and shook his head. 'The way that shot ran level, the gun must be a giant. It couldn't be retrained quickly enough to aim. Anyway, I doubt they can even make us out from that distance. No, a lucky shot I'll warrant.'

  That evening, however, the camp was abuzz with rumour about the accuracy of the Jhaut guns. It was confidently asserted that the gunners were Frenchmen or Italians, as there had been in native service throughout the Maratha wars. And there were wilder stories, too - that the deserters from His Majesty's artillery were directing the fire. The direst retribution was sworn for any who had changed sides, nor was it clear where a Frenchman would stand in this reckoning. Hervey did his rounds that evening well pleased with the evidence of the Sixth's fighting spirit. Even the grocer - a name that Hervey found himself thinking of increasingly, if not actually uttering - seemed more animated at dinner. Joynson, certainly, had an edge not usually apparent. It had been a dozen years and more since he had been shot over. The sudden taste of gunfire that afternoon seemed to have been an exceptional tonic.

  Hervey turned in just before midnight after walking the horse lines. They had been quiet, with nothing but an occasional whicker and grunt from the animals themselves, or an 'evenin', sir' from a sentry of the inlying picket. And although it was the picket-officer's job to check that the running lines were taut, he had inspected each of the troops' in turn. He had known enough times in Spain where a loose line had ended in runaways and broken legs. And he had checked, too, that the sentries knew the parole and how they were to be relieved. The men were alert, and it had g
iven him much satisfaction to go to his tent knowing that the Sixth were as keen in their field discipline as they were in their fighting intent. He was afraid the former would be tested far longer than the latter, for what he had seen of the siege that day did not lead him to suppose there would be anything but cannonading and sapping for a month or more - save, perhaps, an obliging sortie by Durjan Sal's cavalry.

  But now he was pleased for his campaign bed, and that it was the Sixteenth - Daniel Coates's old regiment - who stood sentinel. He could rest assured. Private Johnson had placed a bowl of hot water on one of the chests, but it was now only lukewarm. Hervey undressed, put on his nightshirt, washed his hands and set to work with sponge and tooth powder. Then he unmade his bed in the nightly routine of shaking out anything that might have crawled there during the time his groom had been gone, and, satisfied at last of his safety, lay down between white cotton sheets beneath two thick woollen blankets. He took care to double them and fold the edges under, for he knew he would need their warmth on so starry a night. The pillow was soft, and he had no desire to read or to contemplate anything. He turned down the lamp to the merest glow, and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RUMOURS OF WAR

  The early hours

  F

  rom the depths of sleep, Hervey was called rudely to arms. To awake to the 'alarm' -the bugle's repeated C and E, unmistakable, and easy enough for the most frightened trumpeter to blow - had been a thrill in his cornet days, but now it meant only anxiety in the knowledge that there had been some failure. Perhaps his own? There was firing, too, distant but near enough to take account of. He turned up the lamp and began hauling on his overalls as Private Johnson, breathless, pulled back the tent flap. 'Major 'Ervey, sir!'

  Hervey had no idea why his groom was already abroad and dressed.

  'They 'ad me up cos thi mare's got a bit o' colic. All 'ell's broke loose over where t' Six-teenth are.'

  'Very well. You'd better saddle up Gilbert if you will.' He began wondering who had given the order to sound the alarm.

  'Bring 'im 'ere, sir?'

  'No. Just where we stand to.’ This was no time to be making things complicated.

  Johnson picked up Hervey’s boots and shook them.

  'Thank you, Johnson. Now away.’

  It took him but a minute more to finish dressing, fastening on the swordbelt last and picking up his pistols from beside the bed. He put on his shako as he ducked out of his tent, straining his eyes in the darkness, which fires and torches made all the darker in the unlit places. Men were hastening all about him, but with order and purpose. All they did, indeed, was the same as for stand-to before first light every day, except that it was at the double and in the expectation of action rather than merely the possibility. When he reached E Troop's line, the chargers to the right, he found Johnson with Gilbert under saddle, fastening up the bridle. He put both pistols into the holsters then made to tighten the girth and surcingle.

  'Right, sir,’ said Johnson, taking away the head collar rather than spending any more time looping the straps.

  Hervey was not yet ready to mount, though. 'Mr Perry! Mr Green!’ he called. There was a good deal of calling all around, and he was not about to enter into a competition with the corporals; but he wanted to know his officers were at their posts.

  Serjeant-Major Armstrong came up with a lantern. 'Mr Perry's reporting to the adjutant, sir.’

  Of course he was. Hervey had forgotten for the moment that Perry was next for picket-officer. 'And Mr Green?'

  'Haven't seen him, sir. Both sections'll be ready in not many minutes more. They were quick out of their pits, I'll say that for 'em. Mind you, Collins was on picket.'

  Corporal Wainwright now came up, leading his trooper. 'Sir.'

  'Where is Mr Green?'

  'I don't know, sir. I'll find 'is groom.'

  'No. Let it be, for the moment. Come with me to the major.'

  'Ay, sir. He's by the picket tent.'

  'Very well. Johnson!'

  'Sir?'

  'Get someone to find where Mr Green is.' He turned to Armstrong. 'Carry on, then. Not to mount without the order, though.'

  'Right, sir.'

  Hervey strode off with Corporal Wainwright down the flanks of the horse lines, noting the state of each troop as he passed - so far as the darkness allowed him. Only A Troop looked unready. He found Joynson and the adjutant at the picket tent, the RSM standing with his notebook poised, the picket-officer just taking his leave. There was still firing from the Sixteenth's lines, but no sign of a galloper from brigade.

  'Well, Hervey?' said Joynson, a touch wearily.

  'Have we sent anyone to make contact?'

  'No. And I'm not inclined to risk it,' replied

  Joynson firmly. 'Finding what's happening would be the very devil of a job. If there's a real reverse we shall hear of it soon enough.'

  'Then I believe we should move up to support the Sixteenth without orders.'

  'Why?' The major's tone did not so much challenge as request elaboration.

  'Because - unlikely as it may seem - it might just be the sortie in strength that we were speaking of.'

  'Why have we not had orders to that effect from brigade, then? I've sent Perry there, by the way.'

  'Well, the brigadier will be no more certain than we are, in all likelihood.'

  Joynson was clearly troubled. 'Yes, but the general must be given the opportunity to exercise a proper command, must he not?'

  Hervey was becoming exasperated. This was the Joynson of past years, not of late months: the Joynson cowed by Towcester, sick headaches and the like. 'Eustace, since when did cavalry have to await an order to close with the enemy?'

  There was no answer to this. The major turned to the adjutant. 'Very well, then. Have the regiment mount.'

  The adjutant turned to the trumpet-major. 'Troops to mount, please.'

  'Sir!' The trumpet-major put his bugle to his lips and sounded the regimental call followed by the octave leap of 'prepare to mount', then the simpler repeated Cs and Gs of the executive.

  'I'd like you next to me, Hervey,' said Joynson, perfectly composed. 'It'll be a deuced tricky business in this light. Perry can look after E Troop. They can ride under second squadron.'

  'With respect, sir. It might be better to keep the troop in hand. You never know—'

  'Very well, very well. If you are content with that then I have no objection. Perry's able enough to have them on his own.'

  Hervey would say nothing more, but he was hardly content, for the troop would be under command of the grocer until Perry returned from his galloping. Assuming, that was, that Green would actually find them. However, there were Armstrong and Collins, and he could always take the lead again before they were committed. He turned to Corporal Wainwright, who nodded his understanding and made off at once to E Troop.

  Hervey had greater concerns, however. The handling of a regiment of light dragoons in troop ranks was, even by day, a testing undertaking. When the ground was unbroken, as on a review, it could pass off at the trot tolerably well, though anything beyond a couple of hundred yards led to bunching and bulging of the line to such an extent that it was difficult to recover proper dressing without coming back to a walk. When it was dark, however, and the ground broken as here, the undertaking verged on the reckless. He took out his telescope, stepped the other side of the picket tent's fire, and tried to see what was happening in the Sixteenth's lines.

  Meanwhile the troop orderly Serjeants were reporting to the RSM. It was only another minute or so before Mr Hairsine could report to the adjutant that the regiment was ready. Johnson had brought Gilbert up, and Hervey now pulled down the stirrups and mounted.

  'Skirmishers out?' said Joynson as Hervey closed up to his side.

  'I would think it better to advance with a clear front,' replied Hervey.

  'Very well. "Advance", please, trumpet-major.'

  That Joynson asked for such an opinion did
not in the least diminish his standing in Hervey's eyes. That he accepted it only increased it, too. Seeking support for a decision already made was the true sign of the weak-spirited.

  'If it is a sortie, they might just be intent on mischief,' said Hervey, having to raise his voice against the jingle and clamour behind him (it took a fair few yards, always, before the NCOs got the dressing passable in close order). 'But it sounds a determined affair. They might be making for the guns.'

  'I take my hat off to them if they are,' said Joynson, matter-of-factly.

  'They know the ground better than do we.'

  'But it would be a desperate affair nevertheless.'

  The adjective struck Hervey forcefully. Perhaps a night sortie was indeed the act of a desperate man.