A Regimental Affair (45 page)

‘Bloody ’ell, sir. Who’s been telling you that?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You mean you thought of it yourself?’

Hervey raised his eyebrows.

‘Sir, I’d be thinking about half-pay if I were you!’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I saw a pretty sort of crib being knocked up yesterday in the serjeants’ lines.’

Armstrong made an unconvincing huffing sound as he left the troop office.

In the modest but comfortable Hervey quarters, Henrietta was being stoical – as was Caithlin Armstrong in that corner of the barracks that served as the Armstrongs’ quarters. This sort of thing – the Niagara patrol – was after all why the Sixth had come to the
Canadas, although both wives had perhaps thought that winter quarters would allow them the months of their confinement united with their men.

‘The captain’s lady and Molly O’Grady!’ said Hervey, smiling proudly when Henrietta declared she was not in the least preoccupied by the prospect of his leaving her.

She looked at him, puzzled.

He frowned. It was easy to forget that it had been less than a year since she had been taken on strength, so to speak. Barrackroom wisdom took rather longer to acquire. ‘ “The captain’s lady and Molly O’Grady are sisters beneath the skin.” It’s one of the things the men say. Except they say the
colonel’s
lady.’

Henrietta did not tell him that a day had not passed without her imagining Princess Charlotte’s terrible trial – and fate – and without wondering why she, Lady Henrietta Hervey, should expect to be spared when a royal princess, attended by the foremost obstetrician of the land, had fared no better in her labour than a beast of the field. She wondered if she would bear it well when her own trial came. The newspapers had made much of the princess’s courage, of her bearing the agonies ‘with a Brunswick heart’. Not for Charlotte the laudanum’s ease. Did
she
have a heart as strong as a Brunswick? She feared not. Indeed, she knew it.

‘Matthew, you will be close when the time comes, won’t you?’

He knelt by her side and took her hand.

‘Just at your duty in the fort,’ she explained, placing her other hand over his, ‘so that if . . . then I should feel I could bear it the better.’

‘Yes,’ he said, gently. ‘I don’t imagine there’ll be another patrol in months. When the time comes I shall remain in my office until you send for me.’

He kissed her forehead, and then she kissed his lips.

‘Matthew, if anything were to happen . . .’

She seemed to be searching for the words; but Hervey could not help because he was unsure of what exactly was her fear, especially as she had said not a word to him about Princess Charlotte since they had set sail from England.

‘If anything should happen to me . . .’

He saw at once, and put an arm around her. ‘My dear, I was not going to say anything of this, but our surgeon told me he
would never have allowed the princess to go on as she did had he been in attendance.’

Henrietta looked at him, perplexed.

He hesitated. ‘He would have delivered the child by section.’

Well had he hesitated, and better had he said nothing at all. He cursed himself as the colour drained from Henrietta’s face like sand from a minute-glass.

‘My darling, I—’

She gripped his hand hard. ‘Matthew, do you know what you say?’

He had thought he did, but now he was not sure.

‘No woman survives that, Matthew!’

‘But the surgeon is a good man. Why would he have said that?’

Henrietta’s distress took longer to subside than her husband expected, but subside it did, and they agreed that there would be no more talk of such things, and that they would rest confident in the will of God and the combined wisdom of the several doctors and birth attendants at her disposal.

At dinner that evening, Henrietta was as gay as she ever was, and later, in each other’s arms, she told him she feared nothing as long as he was with her. Only the next day did he really comprehend the fright he had given her in speaking of a Caesarean section, for when he confronted the surgeon with Henrietta’s dismay, the Glasgow veteran of many a field amputation had rounded on him and cursed him for his ignorance, telling him it was only in the last decade that his profession had been able to perform a live section successfully, and that every woman knew it was but a desperate remedy to save the child only. ‘D’ye know naught about these things, man?’ he had demanded. And Hervey had had to confess that there was indeed a void in his learning.

When the time came for the patrol to leave, Henrietta said her goodbyes nobly, bidding her husband a happy, even carefree, farewell. She had, after all, a good reserve of novels, she assured him, and the frequent company of Lady Sarah Maitland. And he in turn was content to believe that her anxiety had been of the moment only, exacerbated by his clumsy reassurance. And if he had been alarmed to know the truth, he would have been proud nevertheless to know how completely she had been taken on
strength, how completely she now played the role of captain’s lady – though not so much for the sake of the Molly O’Gradys but for the man she considered was her very life.

From an upstairs window a little later, Henrietta watched the half-troop parade for the lieutenant-governor. Thirty-two dragoons and four officers – the lieutenant colonel, adjutant, Hervey, and Seton Canning – ranked past Sir Peregrine Maitland in their red cloaks as the trumpet-major and four trumpeters blew the general salute. Red cloaks against the snow: confident, uncompromising contrast, just like Hervey himself. ‘Please God, deliver him,’ she prayed passionately, clutching her hands together. ‘Deliver him from evil, and from himself.’

Outside the gates Major Lawrence joined them, on a hardylooking cob, together with two Cayuga Indians equally sure mounted. The three were well wrapped in buckskin, fox and beaver, their feet especially.

Lawrence stared incredulously at the patrol. ‘Why in God’s name are you not wearing winter warms, Hervey? When the sun goes you’ll turn to blocks of ice.’

‘We’re going to trot in a minute or so,’ replied Hervey.

‘Then you’ll be warmer while you do.’ Lawrence frowned. ‘But you can’t trot the whole way to Burlington. And on this snow if you rush it you’ll have falls. Four or five inches down there’s ice like glass, and this fresh stuff will ball up too.’

‘To tell the truth, my intention is to catch up the bat-horses.’

‘You’ll be sorely pressed to do that: they left an hour ago!’

Hervey paused just long enough to judge his secret safe with the superintendent. ‘I told them they were to mark time at the first five-mile point.’

Lawrence smiled. ‘That was wise as well as cunning. But I promise you you’ll never make the same mistake of parting from your supply again after an hour of this in cloaks and boots!’

Hervey sighed. ‘That’s what I was hoping,’ he said with a sort of knowing frown. ‘Why are you come, incidentally?’

‘I’ve called a meeting of my field officers at Fort Erie. It seemed opportune.’

‘And the Indians are your escorts?’

Lawrence smiled indulgently. ‘I rather fancied they would do you well as scouts.’

‘Ah, yes, indeed. I’m very grateful. Shall I send two dragoons with them?’

‘I think not. They’ll be happier left alone.’ He nodded to the Indians.

The Cayugas sped off at once to take the far point. The Iroquois were not known as a horse nation, but that was not apparent as they put their ponies into a canter in a very few paces. And besides being able to warn early of anything that might hinder the patrol’s progress, they would be excellent guides, it seemed; for in the dusting of snow, as Lawrence called it, which the dawn had brought, their tracks stood out plainly. Not that taking a false turn on Dundas Street seemed likely, since on either side was a formidable barrier of fir trees. Only here and there would they find a clearing for a dwelling house, or where timber had been cut for a more distant purpose.

Serjeant Armstrong had been let in on the bat-horse plan only late that morning, and he had obligingly continued to pretend he had no idea that Hervey was acting other than with an entirely free hand. The bat-horses’ tracks looked as fresh as the Cayugas’, for there was no wind to drift the snow, and the sun was not strong enough to melt so much as one snowflake on a pine needle. But they were not the trailing lines of trotting horses, and certainly not the furrows of the Cayugas’ hand-gallop. Clarkson was doing his job – thank God.

Major Lawrence had fallen in beside the lieutenant colonel as the patrol set off, but he soon found him too taciturn to persist with, and so Hervey had his company again before not too long. And glad of it he would be, too, for otherwise Dundas Street was but cold monotony.

It was not long before they made the rendezvous with the bathorses, however, and Lord Towcester’s obvious relief was such that Hervey did not even bother with the lines he had rehearsed. They had ridden for little more than an hour, yet he knew they would soon have had men slipping into winter torpor. He had seen it once before, in the Astorgias. It was the easy way: they would stop fighting the cold, allow the numbness to come, and then a sleep they would not emerge from.

In that hour, too, they had not seen any living thing of the wild, nor even a trace of one. There would surely be no more talk of living off the land. Indeed, the lieutenant colonel now seemed
content to let Hervey have command of the patrol in all its details, and did not object when he ordered horses to be led from time to time, even though he himself had made his objections to the practice known often enough.

The rest of the march to Fort George was as without incident as the country was without wildlife. An owl was heard in the night, and some birds briefly at first light. But the call of the wolf, which the men had hourly expected (and keenly so), did not come. The bivouac at Burlington was a hard one, and a wolf’s call would have been some consolation, something of which to write home to thrill the humdrum, for little sleep was had by any. The campfires had seemed without heat, the rum without ability to warm beyond a few minutes. Resuming the march, if not actually a pleasure, had been a relief; except that everywhere the forest enveloped them, the trees so heavy with snow that it seemed as if they were beneath the walls of some great white city. For miles there was nothing else to see. And the steamy breath of six dozen horses and men gave it an eeriness quite unlike anything Hervey had seen before – or, for that matter, Armstrong too.

But Fort George welcomed them generously. Its quartermaster was relieved to have an opportunity to break out the stores, for he had laid in provisions for twice the number of troops that would need them now the threat of hostilities seemed certain to be past. The patrol ate well on salt pork and buffalo, pickled
pomme blanche
and
compote
, and they slept well in the stove-heated barracks. Lord Towcester was entertained by the fort’s commandant, and retired early, leaving Hervey to listen to one of Major Lawrence’s field officers.

‘The condition of the Six Nations between the Erie and the Huron is daily more distressing,’ said the lieutenant, an officer who had been so long seconded to the Indian Department that he still referred to his own regiment as the Royal Americans. ‘It’s the want of game, everywhere. Three of the hunting groups have already broken camp and moved to find other grounds, and they haven’t had to do that in more than a generation.’

‘Why
is
there so little game?’ asked Hervey. He understood this winter to be a not especially hard one.

‘The winter’s by no means the harshest,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘And that’s puzzling the Six Nations too. But there’s no doubting
the deer and the bear have gone – and the beaver above all. Some of the younger braves are saying it’s the fault of the white man. They know he doesn’t rob them or harry them as his cousin below the Lakes does, but they reckon he upsets the balance of things in the wilderness.’

‘And do you think that resentment will turn against us?’ Hervey was intrigued rather than anxious.

‘Well,’ said the lieutenant, noting that Major Lawrence too was waiting intently on the reply, ‘I’ve heard talk again of the affair of the Niagara scalplock, and how it spoke for the way the white man would abandon his Indian friends to save his own skin when the time came. The braves wonder how long it will be before the white man above and below the Lakes makes common cause against them.’

‘Are there other voices?’ said Major Lawrence, relighting his cigar.

‘Yes, the elders are saying that spring will see the return of the deer, the bear and the beaver. But again, the younger braves point out that, after the spring, and the summer, and the autumn, there will come another winter.’

They sat late into the small hours talking of what it might come to.

They left Fort George at nine the next morning, red cloaks over winter warms. It must have been a good display to the American garrison across the river. Lord Towcester seemed content that it was, steadfastly refusing even to glance towards Fort Niagara, such was his contempt for the American revolutionaries, as he insisted on calling them.

They made the heights of Queenston before eleven. They passed above the falls after midday, hearing more than they saw of the great cataract, though the winter flow was a trickle compared with the spring thaw. They took their ease for an hour in Chippeway, where reports of their progress brought out villagers bearing kettles and pots of boiling water even as they rode up. In the afternoon they passed through the rich settlements of the upper Niagara, and on down to Fort Erie, arriving a little before last light. Here the evening was much as the one before, with another of Major Lawrence’s field officers confirming the troubling assessment of the
Indians’ condition, although he was not inclined to believe that the younger braves’ blaming the white man would come to much once spring began to show.