Emma was intent on the little garden at the front. ‘I envy you the tamarisks. The pink is so naturally pretty. My pots are full of things, but they look as though they’re the work of a paintbrush.’
Hervey stopped, held up a hand to bid Emma to do likewise, and pointed to the fence post a dozen feet away.
Emma just saw the orange spots before the object of their attention scurried off along the rail and down the further post into the scrub grass. ‘Yes, I think it the same as we have in our bathroom. The colours here are so much more vivid than the Madras geckos. I wonder why it might be?’
‘Must there be a reason?’
‘God surely has a purpose in Creation, Matthew?’
‘Yes, I suppose …’ He had not before imagined it extended to such details.
‘There is a most interesting theory about it all. Eyre was speaking of it only last week. There is a naturalist called Lamarck, a Frenchman. Eyre has collected all his work. He suggests that living things adapt to their surroundings and then pass on the changes to successive generations.’
‘How do they do that?’
Emma smiled broadly. ‘In the usual way, I suppose!’
Hervey looked somewhat abashed. ‘In what way does he suggest an animal’s surroundings exert an influence?’
‘His exemplar is the giraffe, which lengthened its neck over successive generations through its habit of grazing the tops of trees.’
Hervey frowned. ‘I had imagined that it grazed the tops of trees because it had a long neck,’ he replied, not altogether facetiously.
‘We pass on characteristics of our own family do we not?’
Hervey’s home thoughts in that instant told him it was so, and painfully. He almost checked in his stride.
Emma did not appear to notice. ‘Ask Eyre to show you his books when you come to dine with us tonight. You are able still to come?’
‘Yes; yes, indeed,’ he replied, a shade absently. ‘But I beg you would forgive me if I leave earlier than usual. I have letters which I must finish if they’re to go to Calcutta tomorrow. There’s a packet for England at the end of the week.’
‘Of course,’ said Emma, brushing away a persistent dragonfly. ‘Now, I must show you the aviary the collector here has built. You will not have seen it, I think?’
When Hervey wrote home that night, there was an unusual degree of contentment in his letters. Chittagong may have been restricted in its society, but that which there was was entirely agreeable to him. He liked the country, with its wooded hills within an easy day’s ride, and the climate was very equable. Its people, both country and city, seemed contented, and there was not the clamour of Calcutta – and certainly not the stench. Above all, his troop was making progress. The horses were in better condition than before, and the dragoons’ seats were becoming altogether securer. In sum, Hervey was confident that by the beginning of December they would be ready to rejoin the regiment – as the manual had it – ‘fully trained’.
In the weeks that followed, Serjeant Collins worked tirelessly to have each class in turn master the six cuts and eight guards against cavalry, and, too, the point, and the cut and guard against infantry. He drove them hard, and they cursed him when they got to their beds. But Collins had many a time had to parry a sword and wield his own with deathly intent, and he had seen what happened when a man lost his nerve or misjudged his distance and bent his elbow. It would be over in an instant, the cut disabling the sword arm like the serpent’s strike, and the mortifying edge following. When a man had seen his fellows, or even his antagonists, fall because of their unproficiency, he was not inclined to stint his charges in their instruction.
And when the dragoons were not at stables or skill at arms, they were at troop drill. Every day but Sunday – when they paraded for church – they rode out onto the wide flood plain of the Karnaphuli and manoeuvred to the bugle. So it was that, one morning in early November, Hervey recognized that before him was a handy troop, not a recruit ride.
‘Very well, Sar’nt-Major. We’ll have one last turn. Trumpeter, sound “front form line”.’
Private Storrs breathed a sigh of relief. It was perhaps the easiest of all the calls: nine notes, all the same – Gs. Only the triplets at the end to worry about. He had blown so much in the last two hours, and his lips were cracking. He blew the call perfectly.
Into line the forty and more dragoons trotted, then halted on the marker. Hervey nodded contentedly. He could not have asked better of them. Private Storrs turned his head towards him, expecting to hear that his troop-leader would ride to the front to dismiss the parade.
‘Trumpeter, sound “retire”.’
A moment’s surprise delayed the call a fraction of a second. ‘Retire’ was tricky. Storrs cracked the last E semi-quaver. Hervey hardly noticed, and certainly didn’t show it. The troop turned about as one, and struck off at the walk in a very fair line. But Storrs knew what to expect next. Although the heat of the summer had long gone, and the dust with it, his mouth was still dry. He began slaking it with all the spittle he could summon.
‘Trumpeter, sound “front”.’
Demi-semi-quavers this time, but no repeats. Storrs just managed it. The troop fronted with only the merest hesitation here and there, and dressed quickly.
Hervey smiled. ‘That will do very nicely, Sar’nt-Major.’ He rose in the saddle and looked down the line. Yes, it would do very nicely indeed. He could now dismiss them. ‘Fall out the officers. Carry on, Sar’nt-Major.’
Armstrong saluted, and Hervey turned his horse away, followed at the regulation one length by Trumpeter Storrs.
Seton Canning trotted up, his face a picture of satisfaction to equal his captain’s. ‘My God, Hervey, but that was fine! I wouldn’t have thought it possible even a month ago.’
‘There’s a long way to run yet, Harry. We could scarcely call this a field day.’ Hervey’s smile, however, said that perhaps it might not be too hard a race. ‘We have another month, perhaps two. It should be enough if we can keep up this progress.’
They needed a day or two for making and mending, though; for ‘interior economy’ as it was known in the Sixth. Hervey would give over the rest of the week to the saddler and farriers. It would be good for Seton Canning to have the charge of things, too. There were ever more letters to attend to, and he felt the need of a break from the routine of the troop – from the cantonment, indeed. Perhaps he could persuade Somervile to ride with him along the coast. It was by all accounts an easy country of sand dunes, scrub and salt jheels, a haven for greenshank and tattlers, and for spoonbills when the tide was high. On the forest’s edge there was plenty of game; tigers were not unknown, his bearer had told him. Their guns would not be idle.
Johnson came out of the stables at the sound of hooves on the hard ground. He wore no hat for the sun had lost its strength, but his stable jacket, made up from stone-coloured local cloth, was stained with the signs of his exertions with body brush and curry comb. ‘Parade all right, Cap’n ’Ervey?’
There was no one else within earshot now. Hervey could speak his mind. ‘Very well, Johnson. Very well indeed. By the time we’re relieved I’d pit the troop against the others any day.’
‘T’troop’s ’appy ’ere, sir. An’ it’s not as sticky, an’ there’s not so many sick. Reckon they’d be glad if we stayed a bit longer.’
Johnson’s report was not surprising. Detached duty was always preferred. The eyes of the troop serjeant-major were one thing, but those of Mr Lincoln were another. ‘We need to do some regimental drill. We can’t call ourselves a real troop until we can manoeuvre in squadrons.’
‘Thought yer said all that was done for now, sir?’
‘Not the business of working as a regiment. What I meant was that the drill book needs rewriting. There’s not enough about work other than in close order, and the evolutions just aren’t quick enough. Not for well-trained squadrons, that is. It will do us very well for a fair while yet, though.’
; ‘ ’E’ll need shoein’ soon,’ said Johnson, content that drill matters would never be his concern again, and nodding to Gilbert’s forefeet.
‘I’m going to take leave for the next two days. I thought I’d ride along the coast towards Manikpur and take my gun. Do you want to come? You can bring your mongoose.’ Hervey vaulted from the saddle and handed over the reins.
Johnson made a snorting noise. ‘Useless bloody thing. That ferret I ’ad in ’Orningsham would’ve put up a better show – an’ ’e were next to useless, an’ all.’
Hervey took off his cap and frowned. ‘I haven’t an idea what you’re talking of.’
‘That mongoose that I paid two rupees for!’
‘Yes, that much I understood. What is its problem?’
‘It’s frightened o’ snakes.’
Hervey could hardly blame the animal, improbable though the idea of a mongoose afraid of snakes sounded. ‘Nonsense. They fight cobras, don’t they?’
‘Well, that’s what we all thought. An’ so ’alf a dozen clubbed together an’ bought one, an’ put ’im in one o’ t’stalls, an’ when we put t’mongoose in ’e saw t’snake an’ shot straight out through an ’ole in t’wall.’
Hervey had to laugh. ‘Can’t you get your money back for the mongoose?’
‘I’ve tried already but I can’t find ’im as selled it me.’
‘And what about the snake?’
‘Ay, well, we caught ’im and selled ’im to somebody else. An’ made a rupee on it.’
‘I wonder you couldn’t have made more,’ suggested Hervey, smiling quizzically now. ‘A snake that can see off a mongoose must be something of a curiosity.’
‘I didn’t think o’ that,’ replied Johnson, sounding vexed.
‘So shall you come? With or without the mongoose?’
Johnson nodded, still frowning at having missed a trick.
‘Good. Well, I shall take a bath and then pay a call on the rissalah’s officer. And then I shall dine with the Somerviles. I’ll send word about tomorrow. Not too early a start.’
The bhistis had drawn his bath before he could take off his boots. After four months they had the routine timed to perfection. A boy kept watch on the exercise ground, and as soon as he saw the serjeant-major salute and take over the parade, he would run back to Hervey’s bungalow to alert the bhistis. They would draw off water from the copper boiler, fired before dawn, and fill the big tin bath to a line which allowed the sahib to get his shoulders under water without displacing any over the side. Hervey still looked about and checked before committing himself to the bathroom, as the old India hands warned (and as he had done in Madras), but now with diminished expectation of finding anything; he had concluded that ‘the things that creepeth upon the earth’ heard him coming and preferred other company.
He took his bath more content than he could recall in a long time. He bade his bearer wait outside as usual, and poured water over his head with a big conch shell half a dozen times. He languished longer than was his custom, enjoying a soak so well earned, and with an afternoon free of duties. He called to his bearer in another five minutes, just as the water was beginning to lose its heat, and the wiry little Bengali brought him towels and then his dressing gown. If deadly danger were always close at hand here, the pleasures were real nonetheless – perhaps even more so because of it.
Once dry, he sat down in the cane armchair from which he always had so pleasant a view of the country beyond the lines, took his glass of fresh-made nimbu pani, which would take the skin from his teeth at first sip but revive him even better than brandy, and dismissed the bearer for an hour. He had not written to Daniel Coates since coming here. He could do so now with real pride, having turned three dozen raw recruits, and as many unpromising native remounts, into a troop which was steady and exact on parade. Next week they would begin on scouting and picket duties. And then, from nowhere, came tears. He had no one to share his triumph with but a sheet of paper, and the words would not be addressed to Henrietta. He did nothing to fight back the tears, for they made him feel a little closer to her. It was all he would ever have. The tears just ran – no sobs – and when they were finished he felt the better for them. Something told him they would not come again. He picked up his telescope to watch a kite hunting the plain beyond the civil lines, and he studied it intently for several minutes. It was curious, he mused, how he wished luck to the bird rather than to its prey.
Hervey went early to the Somerviles’. He and they had no definite time of meeting – they dined together several times each week. The evening was cool and the air fresh, a light breeze having blown off the sea for most of the afternoon. There was no one about so he sat outside, facing west, the bungalow being verandahed on all sides. In an hour he could watch the sun fall, into the mouths of the Ganges it seemed, and listen as the night noises replaced the cicadas. A khitmagar brought him champagne, the glass misted. He did not at first sip it, intent as he was on a flock of hoopoes grubbing at the far end of the Somerviles’ short-mown lawn. The birds were at ease, their crests down, almost tame. Pretty birds; Henrietta would have liked them. It was a happy thought.
‘Hervey!’ came Somervile’s voice behind him, enough almost to make the hoopoes take flight. ‘By heavens, I’m glad to see you. What a perfectly appalling day it’s been. I don’t know whether I’m more angry with my fellow countrymen or with that damned barbarian over the hill.’
That ‘damned barbarian over the hill’, as Somervile was wont to call the King of Ava, had been so frequent a topic of their conversation that Hervey supposed the latest complaint to be routine. The other sounded much more interesting. ‘What have your fellow countrymen done to offend you?’
‘Not me. Nothing to offend me. They’ve offended against every decent principle, that’s all!’
Hervey raised an eyebrow.
‘Two indigo-planters from just this side of Bangamah, two brothers, flogging ryots, putting them in irons, and the same with their wives. And then of all things parading them through the district sitting astride donkeys, looking arse-end, putting them in fear of their lives.’
‘Is it pertinent to ask why?’
‘Oh, for some indolence or other. But I shan’t have it. The magistrate up there says the villagers refused to proceed against them at the trial, they’re so terrified of them, but that there’s enough evidence notwithstanding. I shall send them to Calcutta to stand trial. And I shall recommend they be expelled.’
Hervey was not surprised by the strength of Somervile’s opinion. Many a time in Madras he had railed against the new breed which saw Indians as somehow inferior, undeserving of either justice, compassion or simple respect. ‘What becomes of people here?’
‘They think their Christian religion elevates them.’ Somervile sighed. ‘But we have had this out many times before, you and me.’ He pulled a bell rope for the khitmagar (he hated the practice of clapping or shouting). ‘Bring the captain and me a bottle of champagne, please, Rama,’ he said in confident Bengali. ‘I’ll sit with you a while, Hervey, and then have my bath. I’ll not trouble you with the Burman affair.’
‘As you please,’ said Hervey, with a wry smile. King Bagyidaw was tiresome in his demands, in every respect.
The khitmagar returned with a wine cooler, poured Somervile his champagne, replenished Hervey’s glass and then retired to the end of the verandah. Somervile took a good measure, breathed deep and pushed his legs out straight. ‘Last case. Let’s hope there’s more on next week’s packet. How was your day?’
‘Very satisfactory. I could report the troop ready for review. I thought to take a couple of days’ leave, to ride down towards Manikpur. Seton Canning says there’s bustard there.’
Somervile emptied his glass, and the khitmagar advanced at once to fill it. ‘Half-size bustard, yes – the Bengal florican, to give it its proper name. Black front and head. Dozy birds, not much sport in them, but good to eat.’
‘I thought you might like to come too.’
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Somervile sighed again. ‘I should like that very much. But not until I have a better sense of what Bagyidaw is up to. Emma will go with you. Take the man from the rissalah as well. He’s decent enough company.’
‘He’s bedded down.’
‘Well then, take Emma by herself.’
‘I’m not sure that would look proper.’
‘Proper be damned!’
‘Why don’t I wait a few more days? Until your Burman business is resolved.’
‘If you can. Yes, that would be much the better. I owe Manikpur a visit in any case.’
That decided on, they returned to ornithology and the behaviour of the hoopoes. But at length, and after a third glass of champagne, Somervile changed his tack suddenly. ‘You know, Hervey, it isn’t right that a man lives as a monk.’
Hervey made to speak, but Somervile raised a hand. ‘No, hear me. I’m talking only of the primary urges, the want for comfort, nothing more permanent. Hervey, we all had our bibis. I don’t mean something dirty from the Feringhee bazaar here. Some decent girl in the Paterghatta that you can talk to – with a bit of Portuguese in the blood. Send word to my babu. He knows everything, and he’s discreet. He’d never breathe a word, not even to me.’
Hervey made to speak a second time, but Somervile turned and beckoned the khitmagar.
‘One more glass and then my bath. I say, look at that night heron!’
Night herons were hardly so remarkable. Hervey understood the cipher.
At dinner, the conversation soon turned to King Bagyidaw. Emma had read her husband’s evening despatch before joining them. ‘The problem is, it seems to me that the king has some cause for exasperation,’ she began. ‘It is not many years since that we permitted hostile acts from Company territory.’
‘Hostile acts by those dispossessed of their own soil in Arakan,’ countered Somervile.
‘Hostile acts nevertheless, my dear. We cannot escape the consequences if we permit it.’
‘That much is true,’ he conceded, refastening a persistent button on his straining waistcoat. ‘But it was five years ago at least, and since then there has hardly been raiding on a great scale. Nothing, certainly, to threaten the crown. Indeed, we have almost recognized Bagyidaw’s suzerainty in Arakan. But he will demand that we surrender the Mughs, the Arakan refugees, and that Lord Hastings has made clear we could never do.’
A Call To Arms Page 23
