The Sabre's Edge (17 page)

'Deedes's time will be up in a couple of years in the normal course of things. And Harrison's not much later. I suppose we could take a chance on him, and Hairsine could bide his time a while longer.'

'There'll be more talk of dead men's boots. But it wouldn't do any more harm, I suppose. What would Sir Ivo want to do?'

'Strange to say, we never spoke of it. Marsh looked the last man to give up so cosy a billet as quartermaster.'

Hervey supposed it an apt description of quartermaster in a station such as Calcutta. 'Can he not be persuaded to remain in post a little longer?'

Joynson shook his head. 'He's determined to leave by October - to have the spring in Ipswich, he says. And in any case, all we should have is six months of jockeying and wagering and heaven knows what else. All very unedifying. No, it's a decision I shall have to take myself, and be content with the notion that it will not be possible to make the right one.'

Hervey smiled again. Joynson knew his pack. The only decision that had the remotest possibility of being acknowledged the right one was that made by the commanding officer himself. The major might carry the horn this season, but he was not the master. 'Anything else?'

Joynson hesitated. 'Are you sure you won't have some Madeira?'

Thank you, no. In truth, I think my gut ought still to be listed sick at present.'

'I list mine sick one week in every month, and feel the better for it. Coffee then?'

'Yes, coffee.'

Joynson called for his bearer to bring two cups. 'What do you make of Barrow?'

It seemed a strange turn in the conversation. Hervey looked wary.

'If he has any he could call a friend it would be you, I think,' said Joynson, polishing his glasses again.

'I think it would be fairer to the three of us if you first said why you asked, sir,' replied Hervey. 'Especially since I have been absent for the best part of the year.' And he always tried that much harder with Barrow, for Barrow was an officer from the ranks - the ranks of another regiment, indeed - and Hervey had not cared for him to begin with. Not that Barrow had seemed to want to help himself in terms of popularity with his new-found fellow officers.

Joynson nodded. 'You're right. It may come to nothing. Let's hope so. But I've had word - it doesn't matter where from; it's not the regiment - that he's on the take with his remount fund.'

Hervey smiled. 'I saw some of his remounts this morning. How he's managed to find that quality
and
take a backhand glass I can't imagine!'

'I thought that too only yesterday when his troop paraded for escort. However, the accusation comes from one of the dealers, it seems.'

'What are you going to do?'

^C
I
don't know. I was only apprised of it yesterday. The next board of officers isn't for another six months. I can't very well roist his accounts about meanwhile without good cause. We can't jump to every bazaar-wallah who complains of
backshee
.
I'm inclined to have the dealer arrested if he won't make a proper deposition.'

'What do you want me to do?'

Joynson looked uncertain. 'Could you think it of Barrow?'

'Why should I think it any more or any less of Barrow than of the others?'

'You know very well why.'

'So
Barrow's coming from the ranks puts him more in the way of temptation?'

'Don't sport with me, Hervey. If it were Hugh Rose we'd never hear the charge out.'

Hervey frowned. 'I think that if we are making private means the touchstone then we would be obliged to enquire whether Rose's fortune had disappeared.'

'You are not being of much assistance.'

The bearer brought their coffee. Hervey took his and began stirring the strong black liquid. 'I'll keep an ear cocked,' he said when the man had gone.

'Thank you.' The major took his coffee and heaped sugar into the cup.

Hervey thought he would try to end the line of questioning. 'How is Frances? I haven't seen her in months.' He meant it not unkindly. No regimental officer could be an island when it came to domestic troubles, and it was as well to know if there were any vexations in that respect.

Joynson sighed, heavily. 'I have been on the point of speaking to the colonel of the Thirteenth, and several of the Company's, many times these past six months. I feel they have as much responsibility in allowing her to expose herself in so frequent a way. I am very happy that she has such diversions as these levees and balls, but . .
.'

Hervey nodded.

'She sorely misses a mother. She always has.'

Hervey felt the footsteps over his grave.

'Are you quite well, Hervey?' asked Joynson, narrowing his eyes.

'Of course, sir. Perfectly well. Very well indeed.'

Poor Joynson. His nickname had been 'Daddy' for the short time he had had a troop in the Peninsula. He had his weaknesses, and he knew them, but in intention he had served his country as well as anyone, and he had a true attachment to his regiment. Hervey thought it most unjust that his standing should be risked by a silly daughter.

'I think it would be ill to deny her any society properly ordered. Perhaps she might attach herself to some matron here?' It was as well as he could manage, for he had little enough experience to draw on.

They sat awhile, talking of how things were going in the east, and of what the regiment might do in the autumn by way of field days. At length Hervey rose to take his leave so as to catch his troop at morning stables.

'Very
well, Hervey,' said Joynson,
a little brighter. It's good to have you back again. Come and dine with us soon.'

'I should like that, sir. Thank you.' He put on his forage cap, saluted, then left the regimental headquarters pondering the peculiar trust that Joynson had shown. He liked the intimacy of the personal confidences, even if they had momentarily reminded him of his own situation. And in respect of the succession of serjeant-majors, it was good to be assured periodically of one's own stake in the regiment.

E Troop's stables stood at the end of the single line of back-to-back standing stalls that stretched for three hundred yards beyond the regimental maidan. They were brick-built and whitewashed, with a good thatch and khus-khus tatties that extended from the joists to about the chest height of a dragoon. In the summer, therefore, the troop-horses stood in shade, and the doused tatties and punkahs provided some relief in the otherwise still, oven-hot air, while in the monsoon season and the winter the animals were protected from rain and wind, be it hot or cold. At the end of each troop block was the stabling for the officers' chargers, six loose boxes in line with a separate store for saddlery and tackling.

At nine o'clock of a morning at this time of year, early October, the lines were all activity. The rains were receding, and the regiment had begun its cool-weather routine. Horses had been fed two hours before and the dragoons had breakfasted. It was a hearty meal, a dragoon's breakfast, just right for a morning's work: half a pound of bread, the same of beef, and plenty of coffee. Hervey wondered if he would be able to keep such a meal down ever again. But a dragoon needed his beef for such a morning - the fetching and carrying, the brushing and strapping, for there was only so much the native grass-cutters were allowed to do. The men clattered about the brick-laid floor in their clogs and stable dress like workers in a cotton mill, but ten times as lively. At nine-thirty the trumpeter would sound 'boot and saddle', and the Serjeants would check every last buckle and strap. And many a hapless dragoon who had thought the shine on his leather more than adequate as he polished by lamplight would find that the Indian sun was a merciless revealer of insufficiency. And then he might think for a moment, but only a moment, that he might prefer other employment.

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.