But for the present Hervey was content simply to bask in that economical praise ‘smart work’. Then, as suddenly as he had found himself in that grand assemblage, a trumpeter of the escort sounded ‘Markers’. The courtyard ceased to be a forum and became instead a parade square as volleys of shouted commands echoed from the high walls and signalled the time for Field-Marshal the Marquess of Wellington to ride in triumph into the city.
Captain Lankester was in his cell when Hervey found him, writing letters to the next of kin of the dozen dragoons from ‘A’ Troop who had died in the previous fortnight. How the orderly room would discover who and where the troopers’ kin were, and how many of them would be able to read the letters for themselves, was another matter, but that would not deter him. Hervey stood at the open door watching him – Captain Sir Edward Lankester, baronet, the senior troop and squadron leader, with a good-sized estate in Hertfordshire and a handsome income: he could have delegated this task to anyone and spent his time arranging comfortable quarters for himself in the city, and few outside the Sixth would have thought a deal of it. But he had not, and scarcely would he have contemplated it, for it was as much his own as it was the Sixth’s way. Lankester could give him no news, however, save that Edmonds wished to see him the instant the surgeon warranted him sound.
‘Why does the major wish to see me? Is it on account of General Slade?’
There was more than a note of foreboding in the question, but Lankester did not seem minded to allay it, even if he had had the power to do so. ‘I have not the shadow of an idea, since he has evidently elected not to confide in me – and, you may be sure, with every good reason.’ Hervey made no reply. Lankester dipped his pen in the silver ink-bottle of his exquisitely fitted writing-case and signed another letter with painstaking care: an illegible hand was to him as abhorrent as rust on a sabre. ‘My advice is that you present yourself before him at once,’ he added at length, and without looking up, for there were three more letters to write (the month had taken an unusually high toll) and his cornet’s troubles were trifling by comparison.
Hervey supposed well enough what the reason for Edmonds’s summons must be. But, God willing, he would endure no more than a rebuke. Even that, however, would be disagreeable in the extreme: some of the NCOs might take refuge in the knowledge of Edmonds’s soft heart, but his tongue could scourge an officer as surely as the lash scourged a defaulter. Hervey’s release from arrest had also been irregular – of that he was only too aware – and Edmonds’s imprecation ‘God preserve us, boy!’ rang in his ears still. A mere rebuke seemed improbable.
Hervey’s grip on the sword-scabbard had become clammy, even inside his glove, and his right hand was clenched so tight that his fingernails dug into the palm. The crucifix and the guidon had blurred as one, his eyes stinging with the effort of not blinking. Edmonds had addressed him with pronounced formality: ‘It is a very singular thing indeed, Mr Hervey, for a cornet to be placed in arrest upon the field of battle.’ He had asked for an explanation of the circumstances, ‘precisely and dispassionately’, and Hervey had in some measure done his bidding. He had at least given as wholly indifferent an account as anyone might. It was, perhaps, a more exact report than Edmonds had required, but Hervey had been at pains to elaborate on Serjeant Armstrong’s conduct in the affair with the battery, which he had deemed to be of the highest order. As he finished, he glanced down for the first time, as if to reinforce his closing cadence. He saw at once, and he had not done so before, perhaps not surprisingly in view of his trepidation, that Edmonds’s face was no longer swollen. So trivial was the observation in the circumstances that it discomfited him still further. The fact was not without its significance, however, for the tooth-operator had cleanly drawn the abscessed molar that morning, and the pain had at last given way to a soreness which the laudanum, in prodigious quantities since, was able to ease. The opiate was undeniably an element in the unexpected warmth with which the major now addressed him.
‘My dear boy,’ he began, rising from his chair and indicating another to him. Major Joseph Edmonds always took inordinate trouble to guard against any sign of favour towards Hervey, though heaven only knew how difficult he found that. Sometimes he concealed his regard so well that he appeared abrupt and unsympathetic, and it would have been the profoundest wonder to Hervey to discover in what affection, admiration even, the major held him. Lankester may have been the regimental paragon, and Edmonds would have been loudest in his praise, but something in the captain’s Corinthian accomplishment put Edmonds not wholly at ease in his company. In Hervey he saw something of himself as a young cornet, but – and this was the distinction – he saw in him, too, a quality, not easily defined, which might with care and good fortune secure his advancement beyond mere field rank. ‘My dear boy,’ he repeated, ‘everything you have told me accords perfectly with all that I have heard from several different quarters. The matter is entirely closed.’
Hervey’s relief was palpable. That relief in itself was sufficient balm in his troubled circumstances, but Edmonds’s next pronouncement was in the nature of a miracle-cure.
‘I have, no less, a letter of appreciation from the commander-in-chief,’ the major continued, his words now betraying just the faintest trace of the opium’s solvent. ‘The field marshal seems to be making a particular effort to praise his cavalry for a change, doubtless because there has been no riot since Vitoria. But then again, everyone will ascribe this new and godly discipline to an increase in flogging,’ he declared sardonically, for he himself loathed the practice intensely, and he considered the Sixth’s discipline to be the stronger for its absence. Clearing his throat he began to read the formal commendation: ‘“His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief is pleased to express his appreciation of the valuable service performed yesterday by the 6th Light Dragoons under the immediate command of Major Edmonds” – no doubt they had to delve hard to discover my name,’ he added caustically, ‘“… the soldierlike conduct … the constancy of duty … the celerity and gallantry of execution … The Commander-in-Chief will commend these observations to the Horse Guards in the highest possible terms of approbation …”’
Edmonds placed the letter on the table. ‘But the honour is all yours, my boy, and you may be assured that I shall convey that fact in my reply, though I must confide that my recommendation will hardly count for much. But Sir Stapleton Cotton, too, wants you to have some preferment. There will be a lieutenant’s vacancy soon when Rawlings goes to the Tenth and, while you are not the next in seniority, there would be no objection in the circumstances to the lieutenancy’s being yours if you can find the money.’
Praise had been one thing, but Hervey was taken wholly aback by the offer of seniority. He had been superseded so many times by others with greater means that he had reconciled himself to a long wait. By his rapid reckoning he could own to six hundred pounds – just – but he would need twelve hundred for the lieutenancy, and his cornetcy would bring, say, eight hundred and fifty. It would be tight, especially with new regimentals to buy, but if he could purchase lieutenant’s rank it would mean that in twelve months he would be eligible for a captaincy, and a troop, though how he would be able then to find the additional two thousand pounds when his father was a mere country parson, with no other patron but the diocese to the living, and a modest enough living at that, was quite beyond him for the present.
‘Well, then, Mr Hervey? How say you? Is it “yes” or are we to put up the lieutenancy for auction in Craig’s Court?’
Hervey accepted with alacrity, and left the orderly room in higher spirits than he had known in many a month. But as he did so a voice hailed him from across the courtyard, a voice which only another from the Black Country could find appealing, and which, for a cornet, invariably portended something bothersome. Lieutenant and Adjutant Ezra Barrow’s eighteen years in the ranks of the 1st Dragoons had made him long on soldierly wisdom but short on ceremony – the ‘inelegant extract’ as he was known by the dandier offi
cers.
‘Mr Hervey, you look sound to me; you can be picket officer. Stables now, if you please.’
In God’s name, Hervey recoiled, how those Birmingham vowels grated! He wondered how anyone could deride Johnson’s when Barrow’s sounded so witless.
‘Oh, and congratulations on the lieutenancy. I reckon your troop’ll pass the plate round if yer father can’t pass his: they’re all sitting high in the stirrups – there’s a deal of Vitoria gold in them ’aversacks!’
Hervey smiled thinly. That Barrow of all people should taunt him for his lack of means irritated beyond measure. It was bad enough with the likes of Rawlings sneering, good-natured though it might have been. He had a perfectly adequate allowance – adequate, that is, for campaign service: he did not suppose it would amount to much in Brighton or Dublin. Perhaps Barrow did not think much of the clergy or their younger sons? Queer fellow – efficient, certainly, but no boon companion. He supposed Lord George Irvine must have known what he was doing when he brought Barrow in from the Royals, though Hervey could hardly believe that there were not others as congenial as they were capable.
‘Thank you, Barrow. Decent of you to say so,’ he replied with as much courtesy as he could summon: he would have preferred the company of his mess, and its table, to this sudden imposition of picket duty.
As he entered the cloisters, where standing stalls for the three hundred or so troop horses had been improvised, just within the letter of Wellington’s ordinance that churches should not be taken for stabling, there was an audible groan. Every dragoon knew that Hervey on picket meant twice as long an inspection, but if the respect were grudging it was real none the less. ‘This hay is poor, Sarn’t-Major,’ he began, though he might have said the same at any stables parade since the summer before.
‘As bad as I’ve seen, sir. We’re damping it down but I hope the quartermasters come back with better soon or they’ll all be coughing on it.’
It was C Troop’s man on duty, a long-limbed Salopian whose father had been the Wynnstay’s huntsman for twenty years, and with the best hands in the Serjeants’ mess.
‘And what is the ration of hard feed today?’
‘A half-stone of corn, sir; and good crushed barley it is, too. They had two pounds with chop first thing, then the same again at midday.’
‘Better than it has been but still not enough.’
‘About half what they need. We would not be hunting on this at home now.’
Hervey’s eye was next drawn to a sorrowful-looking chestnut tied up in a dark corner, away from the others, with its head down almost to the floor.
‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked the farrier close by.
‘Moon blindness, sir. I’m to shoot ’im as soon as I’ve taken ’is shoes off.’
‘Moon blindness?’ he replied.
‘Sir; it’s a disease of—’
‘Well, I know what it’s a disease of, Corporal, but there has not been a single case since I have been in the regiment.’
‘Tell the truth, sir, I ’aven’t seen a case, either.’
‘And nor have I,’ added the troop serjeant-major, whose fourteen years as a dragoon settled the question of its incidence.
‘This is the veterinary officer’s judgement?’ asked Hervey, though it was unlikely that it could have been any other’s.
‘Ay, sir,’ replied the farrier. ‘He saw ’im after first parade and then again after watering this afternoon.’
Hervey stepped closer and reached out slowly to the gelding’s head, but the horse made no move. He crouched down and saw that the left eye was closed, with swelling around it and a heavy discharge.
‘Careful, sir,’ called the farrier, ‘he’s terrible shy about the head.’
‘How does his eye look?’ Hervey asked.
‘Tell the truth again, sir, I ’aven’t seen it. It’s been closed all day. I’ll fetch his trooper.’
Private Clamp was a young man, eighteen or so, recently joined from the depot squadron. He wore his stable-clothes with the mark of the recruit and he looked unhappy.
‘Clamp, have any of your troop officers seen this horse?’
‘No, sir, not today. They’re all on outpicket.’
‘How long have you had him?’
‘Since I came, sir, just after Christmas,’ he answered, sounding even more unhappy.
‘Clamp, there is no need to look quite so troubled: I am not about to have you arrested.
’Clamp’s eyes began to go misty.
‘God help us,’ sighed the serjeant-major.
‘It’s not that, sir,’ continued the trooper, his soft Devon voice in a quaver, ‘I ’ave two ’orses to do, an’ they’re both chestnuts, an’the other one were bad like this when I got ’ere, and if he goes like this one, too … well …’
‘That’s enough, Clamp, and stand properly to attention there!’ snapped the serjeant-major, though with just enough sympathy in his voice to stay the boy’s rambling without precipitating tears.
Hervey’s brow furrowed at the thought that there might be a second case. T don’t understand it at all, Sarn’t-Major. Moon blindness – Specific Ophthalmia – it’s so rare that none of us has seen it before, and now there sounds as if there might be two horses in the same troop! Clamp, the other chestnut – he has been well enough since Christmas?’
‘Sir!’
‘And did anything cause that sickness that you know of?’
‘He’d had a bang on the ’ead from something, but I can’t remember what.’
‘Had he indeed! And this one, number …’ Hervey stooped to find the regimental number on the off-fore hoof (the Sixth had lately adopted this practice instead of the approved method of cutting the number into the coat). ‘J77 – did he have any knocks about the head?’
‘He ’ad a thorn in ’is eye a week ago, sir.’
Hervey made a thoughtful umm sound. ‘Fetch a candle, Clamp!’
‘What are you thinking, Mr Hervey?’ asked the serjeant-major.
‘I’m thinking that I should like to see the eye for myself. Would you hold up his head for me?’
‘His eye will be way back in its socket by the time you prise it open.’
‘That’s why I’m not going to force it. Hold the candle up close, Clamp!’ He placed his hand carefully on the gelding’s brow and gently extended his thumb so that it rested on the margin of the upper lid.
‘What exactly are you doing, then?’
‘There’s a muscle just above the eyelid, the retractor muscle,’ he replied. ‘If you press gently but firmly on it, it ceases to act with any strength and the lid can be lifted quite easily.’
Hervey pressed for almost a minute and then drew up the lid slowly, using his other hand to pull down the lower lid. The gelding stood quite calm and still.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ muttered the serjeant-major.
‘An old trooper taught me that: Daniel Coates – he was with the Sixteenth in America. He taught me to ride, use a sword and a pistol, and everything about handling a troop – and all before I was twelve! I should think there is very little that Daniel Coates does not know,’ said Hervey absently.
‘Do you see anything?’ the serjeant-major pressed, even more intrigued.
‘Take a look at the pupil for yourself, Sarn’t-Major. What do you see?’
‘The middle’s very blue.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing that I can tell, sir. It’s very watery of course.’
‘The pupil – is it diminished?’
‘No, I would not say it was.’
‘Just so, Sarn’t-Major!’ And with that Hervey let the eye close. ‘We must summon the veterinary officer.’
‘I’m afraid he’s been bedded down, sir – fever again.’
‘The poor devil’s riddled with it. He ought to give up. Well, Sarn’t-Major, this horse is not to be shot. He needs some damp muslin over his eyes and then turning out in a day or so. He has Common Ophthalmia, not Specif
ic. The symptoms are all but identical, except that with moon blindness the pupil is invariably diminished. Clamp, what is the other chestnut’s number?’
‘J78, sir. Him and 77 was bought as a pair in England.’
‘Umm,’ went Hervey again. ‘Order feeding-off, then, Sarn’t-Major.’
And now at last he could go and see his own chargers, stabled in a tithe barn on clean straw, the first they had seen in months. Inevitably they were chewing it.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ chirped Johnson, ‘it’s wheat straw.’
Hervey’s little mare whickered in recognition while continuing to chew her bed, but she looked badly run up.
‘Is there no hay anywhere?’ he asked, pulling her ears.
‘Not yet, sir, nothing decent; quartermasters are still out progging.’
Jessye was by common consent the handiest charger in the Sixth, although when Hervey had first joined for duty she had been derided as a covert-hack, fit only to take a blade to a meet but not to follow hounds. Barely an inch over fifteen hands, yet she had the sturdiness and intelligence of her dam, a Welsh cob which for twenty years had carried his father round his parish, and the speed and endurance of her sire, a thoroughbred whose bloodlines went directly back to the Godolphin Arab. She had struggled out of the womb on Hervey’s fourteenth birthday, the day he left the vicarage for Shrewsbury School, a birthday present of such apt timing that his understanding of natural history was unusual for some years to come. He alone had schooled her, though she had taught him almost as much as he had imparted to her, and he always counted it an act of providence that an outbreak of farcy prior to sailing had kept her behind in England during the first campaign: the thought that he would have had to shoot her on the beach at Corunna with all the others filled him still with a peculiar dread.
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