Hervey 10 - Warrior (17 page)

'He's got his work cut out has Blackie Patch, sir.'

'Evidently so. A new entry?'

'Ay, sir. Bought from Eerste River not long after you went back. Not what I would have fetched, but . . .'

'Mm. Sarn't-major, can we walk? There is something I would tell you.'

'Of course, sir. The mission in Zulu-land?'

Evidently the sar'nt-major was more comfortable with the notion than was Brereton, but that was neither here nor there. 'That, yes, and . . .'

They walked via the huttings towards the parade ground.

'By the way, sir, we saw the notice in
The Times.
We're all very glad for you and Mrs Hervey.' He said it in a tone at once respectful and brotherly.

Hervey had to swallow hard. 'Thank you, Sar'nt-Major. It is most thoughtful.'

'And did you see my bonny lass at Hounslow, sir?'

He could hardly speak the words. 'I did.'

'Ay, well, just another few months . . .'

Hervey stopped, and turned to him. 'Geordie, there's . . .'

'Sir?'

He took a breath as though he would dive deep in a pool. 'Caithlin . . . Caithlin is dead.'

Armstrong started like a man struck by a ball.

Hervey steadied him with a hand to the shoulder. 'Come, I'll tell you all.'

'Them bairns . . . them poor bairns.'

'Don't distress yourself on that count, Geordie. Quartermaster and Mrs Lincoln have them fine.'

'Ay, sir, but . . .'

Hervey knew the 'but' well enough.

They sat on a bench at the edge of the parade ground, and Hervey told him all that he knew. Caithlin had fallen – the merest thing, but a poisoning of the blood had resulted. There had been the seemliest of funerals – with all the proper Catholic rites, and a bishop, no less, and the whole regiment willingly on parade. And the children wanted for nothing – well, nothing that could be provided for them; some of the dragoons had even been fashioning toys and the like.

But instead of reassurance, with each word Armstrong appeared diminished, like a doll whose stuffing was picked from it bit by bit. In twenty years (for it was two decades since the greenhorn cornet had first encountered this pocket Atlas from the Tyne), Hervey had never seen Armstrong thus.

'Them bairns,' he repeated, shaking his head. 'An' my lass.'

Hervey stole a glance: a tear dropped from Armstrong's right eye, and then another began running down his left cheek. The serjeantmajor was a man defeated; and Hervey felt suddenly as helpless.

They sat in silence a good while.

At length Armstrong made to rise. 'I'd better gan a yon stables,' he said, with a resignation that sounded neither convinced nor convincing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. 'Feed off, an' all.'

'There's no need of that,' said Hervey, putting a hand to Armstrong's forearm to stay him. He cleared his throat for the next part, which he knew would be every bit as painful to his comrade as it might be welcome. 'Geordie, there's a ship leaving for Falmouth tomorrow, and I've arranged passage for you. Indefinite leave of absence.'

There was only silence.

Hervey tried again in a minute or so. 'The troop'll be returning to Hounslow in the new year. Just routine. Even Battle could arrange things.'

Armstrong continued to gaze into the distance. 'And what about this affair with the Zulu?'

Hervey took another deep breath. 'Geordie, I've brought Jack Collins back with me.'

The informality – familiarity, indeed – of the absence of rank would have surprised many (dismayed them, perhaps); but these were circumstances wholly without the ordinary. For the circumstances were a suspension of natural justice. A man who placed his life at the service of the nation might well make a widow, but for a much younger wife to die of a fall, and five children to be made half-orphans (and to Armstrong's mind, orphaned of the better half) – that was not how it ought to be.

'Jack Collins taking my troop. . .' He sighed, shaking his head.

'Only until we return to Hounslow. I would not have done it were there not this expedition to the Zulu.'

Armstrong rose, slowly but resolutely. 'Well, I suppose I'd better go and tell 'im what's what.'

Hervey rose, too, and replaced his forage cap. 'I'd like you to come and stay at the castle tonight. Easier for the ship tomorrow.'

Armstrong thought for a moment, and then shook his head. 'No, sir; that's not the way. I'll have my work cut out handing things over to Collins. And I'll take my leave prop'ly – at muster tomorrow.'

The lump in Hervey's throat grew so large that his reply was inaudible.

VIII
AMOUR EN GUERRE

Later

At five o'clock, Hervey went wearily to his quarters in the castle. He could have – ought perhaps to have – dined with the troop officers and stayed in the lines, but his need of retreat took precedence. And there was, after all, the business of the Zulu to discuss.

In driving back he had passed the house which he had engaged as his married quarters, a pleasant place with its window boxes in spring bloom. Tomorrow he would have to go and find the owner, and surrender the lease – and he had cursed at the need to do so, and wondered if he ought to have done more to persuade Kezia; or, indeed, brought Georgiana by herself, and a governess. But the days before his leaving London had been full of affairs, with little time for thinking. Even when he thought he might have half a morning or a part of an afternoon to spare, he had invariably found himself detained at Hounslow on regimental business, or in seeing to Caithlin Armstrong and her children. Kat he saw but once more after that Hammersmith evening, at a drawing room. He had even had to send word to Sister Maria, deferring another meeting until his return from the Cape, so that her counsel had been left, so to speak, in the air. The turning of the paddle wheels at Gravesend had been a welcome thing.

He found Private Johnson in the servant's room, saddle-soaping the leather that had hung unused since March.

''Allo, sir,' tried Johnson, cheerily.

Hervey nodded.

'It's not bad at all – only a bit o' mildew 'ere and there. Tea, sir?'

'Yes, please . . . if you would.'

Hervey went back into his sitting room, sank down into the low armchair next to the unlit fire, and closed his eyes.

In barracks, Johnson served tea in one of two ways: on a tray, with linen and silver, and the china which Henrietta had bought; or in an enamelled mug. His choice depended on what was convenient to him, and his perception of Hervey's indifference. This afternoon – or evening, for the light was fast failing – he was in no doubt, and he returned with a steaming mug of the strongest brew.

'Si-ir.'

Hervey opened his eyes, smiled gratefully and took it.

''Ow was Eli, sir, an' Molly?'

'The veterinarian says they're well. I'm afraid I had not the heart to go in.'

''E's a good'n is young Toyne.'

'He is.' Private Toyne had looked after the chargers while they were gone.

Johnson had brought in the second spare bridle, and he now resumed his saddle-soaping.

It was, perhaps, a strange place to be cleaning leather, but Hervey was glad of it, for the smell of saddle soap was always pleasing, and the company welcome.

There was a few moments' silence, and then Johnson put the question he really wanted to ask. ''Ow were t'serjeant-major, sir?'

Hervey sighed, took a big sip of his tea again, and then rested the mug on his foreleg. 'I never saw a man so broken by anything I said. Nor, I believe, any man so broken by ill news.'

'Will 'e be gooin back?'

'Yes. Tomorrow. And it's as well that I brought Collins. The sar'nt-major was dismayed at first – the thought of handing over the troop to another – but it couldn't be to a better man, and he said as much. And Collins will keep watch tonight, which I admit was occupying me rather. I wish there were someone to go back with him; it will be a hard thing to make that passage with no one to speak to.'

'Mebbe 'e's better off by 'imself,' said Johnson, reattaching the reins to the snaffle he had been polishing. 'Don't reckon ah'd be wantin anybody, and ah'm not a serjeant-major.'

Hervey nodded: perhaps Johnson was right. 'Well, let us pray it is so.' He took another sip, and frowned. 'I don't complain, but this is uncommonly strong.'

'Ah thought ah'd make thee a good mashin', sir, but a'may've put in a bit too much. It's gunpowder ah foraged from Mrs Somervile's.'

Hervey smiled resignedly. He had long given up teaching Johnson correct form.What did it matter if no one were accorded their title: there would always be tea. 'Johnson, would you send word to Captain Fairbrother to come at eight? And I would sleep for an hour, and then write a letter for tomorrow's sailing . . . and then a bath, if you will.'

'Right, sir.' Johnson looked suddenly contented. He was contented, for the uncertainty that was his position in Hervey's new domestic establishment (he was sure that Kezia would give him his
congé,
as the officers called it) was several thousand miles behind them. The old routine was returned.

Fairbrother came carefully upon his hour. They drank whiskey brought with them from London, and Hervey listened while his friend recounted the intelligence he had gained in an afternoon with his barber – and with his housekeeper, M'ma Anke.

M'ma Anke: she was round, her thick curls were white and she walked with a rolling motion, but somehow she combined the qualities of mother, aunt, sister and housemaid in ideal proportion. How fortunate his friend was in having such a good soul as she to keep house! When Hervey had first called on Fairbrother's little establishment by the Company's gardens, he had formed the distinct impression that without her, his friend would rarely have bestirred himself, content as he seemed to spend his day with books and wine, living comfortably on bank drafts from Jamaica in exchange for a very modest effort in commerce. Indeed, if the man whom Somervile had superseded, Lord Charles Somerset, had not recommended Fairbrother's employment as guide-interpreter (although Fairbrother was convinced of the governor's contempt for him, and therefore reciprocated the supposed emotion), then Hervey would have turned on his heels early, dismissing him as a mere idler, jealous in honour, too sudden and quick in quarrel. It had been M'ma Anke's evident regard that had made it otherwise. Hervey had much to thank her for. His life, in truth, for if Fairbrother had not been with him at the frontier, the Xhosa would have had the better of him. He was certain of it.

The talk on the Rialto, said Fairbrother, greatly warming to both his whiskey and his role of intelligencer, was of the new governor and the necessary, or rather, unnecessary expense that such an august figure as Sir Lowry Cole would occasion them: a military man such as he would expect to see an impressive order of battle. While Somervile, it seemed, was held in some regard for his economies. The talk in the bazaars, on the other hand, was of Somervile's repressive new restrictions on the control of powder, too much of which was being sold to the Kaffirs in an unregulated fashion (as well as much grumbling about taxing Malays whose income was in excess of fifteen shillings a week).

Hervey drew the same conclusion as his friend, that the situation of the colony was unremarkable.

The one thing that surprised him was the evident absence of anxiety with regard to the eastern frontier and the Zulu beyond, and he could only suppose that Somervile was in possession of very particular and secret intelligence which impelled him to his mission, and their early recall.

The sentry at the steps of the residence, a mere stroll across the courtyard from Hervey's quarters, presented arms as they approached. The garrison battalion, the 55th (Westmoreland) Regiment of Foot, had been accorded the privilege of mounting single rather than the usual double sentries for the castle guard. Somervile had been much moved by the reports of their steadiness at the battle at Umtata River, the first occasion since Waterloo (by common reckoning) that one of His Majesty's battalions of infantry had formed square in the face of the enemy. 'In square my battalion could not be broken,' their commanding officer had said when asked if they should give battle at the ford; 'and in line it could not be resisted.'

Chief Matiwane's Zulu had come on that square like a great wave upon a beach, falling to the Fifty-fifth's disciplined volleys, or impaling themselves upon their bayonets, until the Westmorelands' colonel judged it the moment to turn the tide. Extending then into the line which could not be resisted, they had driven Matiwane's warriors back across the river, and with renewed volleying finally put them to headlong flight. Hervey could picture it as if yesterday. How he had cheered the legionary infantry, where only a day or so before he had come to think them of little or no use in this country except for close garrisons and parades!