‘Thank you, sar’nt-major. And my compliments, again, to Mrs Armstrong. The durbar was a capital idea.’
Indeed, he’d often wondered if it might serve with the dragoons too, as well as the wives. He’d once seen a regimental durbar with Skinner’s, and thought well of how the men conducted themselves. But, as Armstrong had been keen to point out, an English dragoon was not a Rajpoot silladar, who was likely as not a man of some standing in his village. And besides the evident perils in allowing a dragoon to speak directly to his commanding officer without the checks and balances of the chain of command, mightn’t the practice actually weaken that chain? Three dozen wives, of course, was a different matter.
Armstrong looked gratified anyway. ‘Colonel. I shall tell Mrs Armstrong the instant I am home.’ (Hervey knew that that would not be before watch-setting, long after ‘the patroness of the dames who follow the drum’ had gone to her bed. For Armstrong was not a one to quit the lines till he was certain he’d find them in one piece the following morning.)
But there was no ignoring the darker cloud over the lines. Hervey picked up the single sheet of paper on his desk, and frowned. ‘I fear there’ll be no commutation for Askew. The sentence is subject to confirmation, of course, but I can see no grounds for clemency.’
Striking a superior officer, whether that officer be on or off duty, was punishable by death, and Private Askew had assailed Lieutenant Waterman in front of witnesses. It was a rare charge in the Sixth – the penalty and the NCOs saw to that – but …
‘The Mutiny Act’s the Mutiny Act, Colonel. We all live by it.’ (Whatever the opinions on the justice of Askew’s particular case, ‘the interests of the service’ took precedence. ‘We are where we are’ was not a bad maxim, however much they might wish they were somewhere else.)
And yet Hervey, perhaps because he was one remove from the serjeant-major when it came to discipline, remained uneasy, even while seeing no alternative. It was undoubtedly true that unbending justice kept discipline in an army that was still recruited by and large from the sweepings of society, but the cavalry prided themselves on a better class of recruit and a less draconian regime of discipline thereby. The Sixth, like several other regiments, did not flog, and therefore when some capital offence was committed the surprise was the greater. They’d not executed a man in some years, the last being for rape and murder rather than an offence peculiar to the Mutiny Act; and no one could look forward to the event with anything but distaste.
‘I shall not permit it to be before the garrison, though. Askew’s previous service was satisfactory; he’s earned the privilege of meeting his maker with just his fellow dragoons as witness.’
Armstrong nodded. He’d already begun making plans for the parade; this was a welcome simplification. ‘Colonel.’
‘I still can’t comprehend it, though. What could have possessed him?’
It had certainly not been drink, not that excess of it was any plea in mitigation. Provocation, yes – but there were daily provocations in the life of a dragoon, and far worse than being called the son of a whore. Hervey deplored the abuse – more appropriate for a roughrider chastising an idle recruit than an officer addressing a dragoon – and in a public place too. In a regiment of foot no officer would ever speak directly to a private man, but in the cavalry, with its fellowship of the stable, the rule was not so rigid. He’d not had a high regard for Lieutenant Waterman since his arriving from the Tenth, but once condone the striking of an officer, no matter what the provocation, and you made every dragoon his own judge and jury in the matter. And who knew what tongue-lashing an anxious dragoon might need when the guns began to play?
But they’d had this conversation before, and Armstrong had nothing further to say. ‘With your leave, then, Colonel?’
Hervey nodded.
It was a slightly later hour for orderly room, the first day of the post-Monsoon routine. It could hardly be called the cool season, for although the thermometer no longer broached a hundred, it refused to fall very much below ninety during the day – at least in the first month. Nevertheless, Hervey was glad to have the day restored to something like usual, the hot weather stand-down from midday to four o’clock being rarely gainful.
The adjutant, who’d stood silent during the serjeant-major’s report, beckoned to Sammy, the orderly room’s bearer.
The little Tamul brought in a silver tray of coffee and two cups, the customary accompaniment to ‘officers’ memoranda’ – the discussion of matters not requiring the presence of the serjeant-major. Lieutenant St Alban would one day command the attention of the House of Commons, and undoubtedly from the despatch box (and in the Whig, even Radical, interest): of that, Hervey was certain, for besides aught else, it was St Alban’s own desire. But for the moment the adjutant’s ambition was in abeyance, overtaken by the conviction that, as he put it, ‘we do good here’. Besides, he found being adjutant the most agreeable work. Hervey had told him he’d be no use in the appointment unless he knew his commanding officer’s opinion on everything and everybody, and had proceeded to give it him very decidedly. The confidence was beguiling.
Officers’ memoranda had no fixed procedure. Unlike orderly room, however, St Alban usually tried to keep anything untoward till the end.
Hervey spoke first, though, this morning: ‘This may amuse you,’ he said, taking up a close-written sheet. ‘From Lord George:
‘I tell you that at the levee His Majesty, pursuant to a scheme of the Horse-Guards to raise an additional brigade of Hussars, said he was desirous of converting the regiment to that style, but that I begged a few days’ consideration, at the end of which I informed His Majesty that I was grateful of the honour he implied in so doing (for I judged he thought it an elevation, and I thought it better to avoid discussion on the point) but that I believed the regiment would, for the time being at least, prefer to retain the distinction under which it served in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. You may treat with this intelligence as you see fit, but I surmise that it will not long be before it is out, especially as I understand the Eleventh are to be offered the “honour” instead.’
St Alban inclined his head.
‘Quite,’ said Hervey. ‘I might add that it will be only prudent to share this singularly disappointing news with all ranks as soon as may be.’
Sammy waited for the first tasting of the coffee and sign of approval. Hervey’s smile remained as he took a sip, unsweetened. ‘Shukria, Sammy. Mikka nanri.’
Sammy answered to Urdu and Hindoostanee, more or less – he’d been around cantonments long enough, and the two were all the same to him – and even to some English, but Hervey liked to use the odd word of Tamul as well, if only out of respect for the bearer’s incomprehensible satisfaction in doing small things. Sammy owned nothing but what he stood up in, and lived each day without knowing – perhaps even without contemplating – where his bread would come from next. He swept the floors, ran errands for the clerks, made coffee and tea (and tolerably well), and smiled so continually as to make the blackest day a shade brighter. In exchange, the quartermaster gave him a few rupees from time to time to buy rice, and let him sleep in a little thatched lean-to by his stores. The dragoons called him all the names under the sun – and would then give him a few annas of their own, for a little old Tamul who smiled when he’d nothing but their company was comfort in a hard world. And one day, no doubt, they’d find him dead, with a smile on his face, and they’d give him a ‘regimental’ funeral, for as far as they were concerned Sammy was on the strength.
Hervey smiled the more as he contemplated the remarkable world of those who wore the King’s coat. His Majesty spoke to Lord George Irvine, Colonel of the 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Augusta’s Own); Lord George wrote thence to him, Matthew Paulinus Hervey, the Sixth’s commanding officer – Lieutenant-Colonel and Brevet Colonel, indeed; and in turn he conveyed His Majesty’s pleasure to Lieutenant the Honourable Edward St Alban, while at the same time exchanging words with a man who
probably didn’t know even who was his own father or mother.
On the face of it, in Madras men like Sammy were as the sands of the sea. Were they all as he, though, in their simple virtue? On Sunday they’d sung of bringing them enlightenment:
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand,
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error’s chain.
Good Bishop Heber had written it, a rousing hymn (and a fit memorial too to that tireless Christian). Hervey had known him a little in Calcutta when the regiment was there – and Kezia even better. But what chain fettered Sammy?
Yes, they did good work here, for it wasn’t so much error’s chain but chains – so many practices repugnant to civilized society. But for how long would they do good? Theirs, the Sixth’s, was a temporary reinforcement, contrived in large measure by Sir Eyre Somervile, the pro-governor and Hervey’s old friend, and the purpose for which they’d come here – the overthrow of the Rajah of Coorg, and the pacification of Mysore thereby – was accomplished. The court of directors of the Honourable East India Company would soon wish to see retrenchment.
‘Is any more, Colonel-sahib?’
‘No, thank you, Sammy.’
‘I dismiss, Colonel-sahib?’
It had become a ritual. ‘Dismiss, Sammy.’
When the door was closed, St Alban sat down. ‘The sar’nt-major says he’s the best scout in the garrison. There was adulterated flour brought in yesterday, and Sammy gave the quartermaster the word.’
‘Did he indeed? How did he learn of it? I trust that Collins made much of him?’
St Alban nodded. ‘These Hindoos and their damned “caste”: it seems that when it comes to “untouchables” they never bother to guard their tongues.’
‘And Sammy has a good ear, evidently.’
‘Just so. And Collins has made much of him, yes.’
Hervey smiled. He could picture the scene – and when the quartermaster turned the tables on the corn merchants. Collins could make his one arm even more fearsome than two.
But there was work to be done, of a sort. ‘Well now, Edward, what shall be the answer to the King’s pleasure?’
‘Oh, I can’t suppose it will be of great moment to the serjeants and other ranks, Colonel. It scarcely affects their fortunes, I would think. I imagine it will provide diversion for the officers, though. I venture to say opinions will be equally divided. There’ll be those who calculate it a financial advantage in the longer term – raise the price of their commission – and those who baulk at the cost of the uniform.’
‘No doubt.’
St Alban opened his order book and smiled wryly. ‘Well, it spares us the trouble of growing mustachios. There’s an order from the Horse Guards commanding they be abolished.’
‘The sky falls! What say the Horse Guards?’
St Alban read: ‘The mustachios of the cavalry (excepting in the Life Guards, the Royal Horse Guards, and the Hussars), to be abolished, and the hair of the non-commissioned officers and soldiers throughout the regular forces, to be cut close at the sides and at the back of the head …’
‘As has been the regimental practice since time immemorial,’ said Hervey, barely able to contain his amusement. ‘I recall Lord George’s dismay at the sight of the Hussar brigade in Spain: “More like Jews than British officers” … Is there anything else of moment from the commander-in-chief? Lord Hill must be sorely tried by our new sovereign, what with changing the uniforms of half the cavalry, and now hairdressing.’
St Alban raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. ‘A month’s worth of the Gazette came with the last Indiaman. I’ve made a beginning on them … I saw that General Greville had died of an aneurysm.’
Hervey sat up. ‘Indeed?’
Sir Peregrine Greville had presided at the inquiry at Bristol. It had been an awkward business.
Hervey cleared his throat and assumed a sudden air of business. ‘Then I had better write to his widow.’
St Alban said nothing. There were rumours, but there were always rumours about everything and everybody. Besides, they were the far side of the world.
A quarter of an hour passed on matters of regimental moment, yet which to an outsider would be of no moment at all – even if comprehensible. The one unmistakable detail was that a fresh cornet was to come – but, ominously, from the new military college at Sandhurst.
‘Is he a gentleman, do you suppose?’ asked Hervey. He’d every confidence in Lord George Irvine, but Lord George had been detained in the north of England a good deal, and had perforce to leave some matters to the regimental agents – and there’d been some shocking bad hats join these late years. They didn’t last long, as a rule, but they left their mark nevertheless. The trouble was, the Horse Guards, for all their avowed intention to regulate purchase, had once again lost control of the practice, so that anyone willing to pay over-price was bound to be able to pick up a commission or promotion, since it was only natural that the officer selling-out should want to obtain the highest price. The old Duke of York, when commander-in-chief, had forbidden sales above regulation price, but the agents were not servants of the Crown, and while appearing to observe the order to the letter, were only too willing to negotiate the balance ‘off the books’. Yet cadets at the military college were not notably flush with money, which did, of course, present other difficulties – though not so much in India, for there a man could live tolerably well on a smallish allowance.
‘His letter of introduction is in your box, Colonel.’
Hervey nodded.
‘Oh, and the Coromandel Cup,’ St Alban continued: ‘the committee has made the change to the rule. It will be run with couched spears.’
Hervey brightened. ‘Capital. Jobbing’s not a military practice, and the stand-off’ll be a deal safer for the horse. I saw a boar all but sever a mare’s leg once. Tusk clean through the ankle.’
‘Though not so safe perhaps for the rival spears?’
Hervey smiled. He’d seen the long spear catch a rival’s leg time enough – and worse; at least the shorter jobbing spear was wielded with less hazard. ‘No, perhaps not; but the rival spears can shift for themselves.’
‘Just so, Colonel.’
‘Very well. And that, I suppose, is that?’
St Alban raised an eyebrow. ‘I fear not quite. Channer has got himself into a fix: “Crim con” with Mrs Ellison, and Captain Ellison demands satisfaction.’
Hervey groaned. Criminal conversation – the common-law tort arising from adultery; but the injured party wishing to settle it with pistols rather than the court. Which was as well, perhaps, for Lieutenant Channer had no money to speak of. Yet an affair of honour rarely in his experience did honour to either party. He passed no judgement on Channer (how could he, indeed, given his former amour with Lady Katherine Greville?), but officers duelling, besides the question of homicide, was not edifying. ‘Who, precisely, is Captain Ellison?’
‘He is new, of the Engineers, the Survey to be precise.’
‘And Mr Channer has wasted no time, evidently. You have forbidden him to give satisfaction, I take it?’
‘He refuses anyway.’
Hervey’s mouth fell open. ‘Does he, indeed.’
St Alban cleared his throat. ‘He says … He says he gave satisfaction to Mrs Ellison and he fails to see why a man should be obliged to give more.’
Hervey angered. ‘That is impudent as well as unbecoming. I trust it was not his reply to Ellison himself?’
‘I fear it was, and in others’ hearing.’
Hervey sighed. There was a rule, an understanding at least, that while a superior officer mayn’t seduce the wife of a junior, the wife of a superior could bestow her favours as she wished. Both acts were abominable in the eyes of God, of course, b
ut not in King’s Regulations (the latter act being no abuse of rank). In all things, however, discretion was the better part, both during and afterwards.
‘How do we know of all this?’
St Alban again raised an eyebrow. (As well ask a priest what his penitent had revealed as ask an adjutant how he came by his information.)
‘Very well,’ said Hervey; ‘So not a matter to be settled quietly.’
‘No. And in the meantime I’ve detailed Channer for duty at Bangalore. Waterman too.’ (He disliked them both – Channer from Eton, where he’d thought him a blackguard.)
‘Very well, I’ll think on it.’
‘And that is all, Colonel.’
‘Then if you’ll leave me in peace for an hour and Sammy will bring more coffee, I shall write the quarterly report to Lord George … You’ll dine with our family party tomorrow, I hope? I intend shooting duck with Captain Fairbrother this evening.’
‘With pleasure, Colonel.’ St Alban rose and made to leave.
‘By the bye. Where is the moonshee? Georgiana is keen to continue the instruction she had on the passage out.’
‘I don’t know, Colonel. I asked the same only yesterday of the quartermaster. He said the moonshee’d told him he’d be back before the monsoon.’
Hervey shook his head. ‘These Hindoos.’
‘Quite.’
Whatever their religion.
III
‘Progress’
Next day
Morning exercise of a Wednesday was a regimental parade. All but the quarter guard, the picket officer, the sick and the prisoners turned out in cotton-drill stable jackets – ‘drab’ rather than the white preferred by many a regiment, for Hervey could see no reason to employ any more dhobi-wallahs than strictly necessary – to walk and trot for an hour and a half on the plain west of the lines. Three squadrons – five troops (the sixth still at Madkerry, former seat of the Rajah of Coorg), a little short of four hundred sabres – and the regimental supernumeraries parading in column of route, the sun not long up and the smoke of countless fires rising to make a meagre hazree with which to face the labour of the day. It was Hervey’s favourite parade, assembled with all the formalities yet ridden at ease, the dragoons at liberty to chat with each other.
The Tigress of Mysore Page 3
