The Sabre's Edge

by Allan Mallinson

  'Still, dead men's boots are a sight easier to come by 'ere than at 'ome,' chirped Johnson. He did not actually nod to the garrison cemetery, and its growing regimental plot, but the timing of their passing could not have been more apt.

  'For heaven's sake, Johnson, have a little compassion!'

  Johnson mistook Hervey's meaning. 'Sorry sir, I didn't mean as I thought tha were—'

  'Oh, thank you. You'll be sure to let me know when the canteen shortens the odds on my getting to the end of this posting, won't you?'

  Johnson looked only very slightly abashed.

  'Come then,' said Hervey, sighing. 'Let's shorten the reins instead and see what we can do.'

  Gilbert broke into a trot a fraction before the - aids applied, leaving Hervey to curse his own lack of handiness as well as his horse's. It was going to be a long business, this getting back to condition.

  When they returned to the bungalow the best part of an hour later, for he had wanted to ride right out of the lines onto the plain, Hervey slid from the saddle in better spirits and health, and said that he would attend morning stables. Then he went inside for hazree and an hour with his pen. There was correspondence long overdue and he meant to make a start today, just as he intended taking back the charge of his troop.

  On his desk were five letters. Two were from Horningsham, one from Elizabeth, the other from his father. They had been written a fortnight apart but had arrived together. That from his father contained the same warm paternal sentiment as that sent to Shrewsbury when first he had gone up, on his fourteenth birthday. Indeed, it was in essence the same letter, except for a line or two on diocesan affairs (which hitherto Archdeacon Hervey had rarely mentioned) and the news that his monograph on Archbishop Laud was at last nearing completion.

  The letter from Elizabeth was not greatly longer but contained altogether more information - about the village, their part of Wiltshire, the country as a whole (garnered, she admitted, from the newspapers), about their parents and relatives, and last, but at greatest length, about his daughter. Georgiana was six months older than when Elizabeth had last written, and it seemed she was a favourite at both Longleat and the vicarage. She showed all the signs of a fine intelligence, was able to read, and she could sit a pony well. She laughed a great deal. It was a letter to reassure an absent father that he should have no concerns for the well-being of his child. And yet this agreeable report had the effect of making Hervey want to be with his daughter as keenly as would an unhappy one, for Georgiana was Henrietta's offspring.

  He laid the letter to one side. It would be as difficult to begin a reply to his sister's as to his father's, if for wholly different reasons. He picked up the third, from John Keble. He imagined it written with that same prospect before the writer against which he had inveighed the evening before at the Somerviles. It was a letter composed in a Gloucestershire curate's house, an untroubled place where dreams could be dreamed, a letter full of rebuttals of this divine and that, with a lengthy description of the work he was jointly embarked on with Hervey's father - a charge to the clergy of the archdeaconry of Sarum. There was the startling revelation that Keble had been asked if he would go to the West Indies, as archdeacon of Barbados no less; and the wholly unsurprising addendum that he had declined. The letter concluded with an evidently pained enquiry into whether or not Hervey had yet had occasion to discourse with Bishop Heber, it being more than a year since that prelate had been enthroned. It was, indeed, so worthy a letter that Hervey felt it required a peculiar state of grace before any response could be attempted. He laid it down and picked up the fourth.

  He already knew its contents. Yet even as he began rereading a third or fourth time, it had its effect. The hand was the freest of the four, the sentiment likewise. What it was to have a female of the likes of Lady Katherine Greville bestowing her time on him. How diverting seemed the gossip that had formerly repulsed him so. How fondly, now, he remembered their brief company, and her uninhibited pleasure in it - and how lame his own response had been. But it had been different then

  - too close to events, his mind encumbered by all sorts of notions and doubts. Things were not the same now. India, for all her heat, had moistened that dried-up interior of his. First she had given him back his very being as a soldier. It did not matter that in reality the affair of the headwaters of the Karnaphuli had been unhonoured by Calcutta, or that the campaign he had so recently left in a dhoolie was the re-creation of that muddle in the Low Countries a quarter of a century before. India was a stage on which the soldier could expound his art, learn stratagems and devices unheard of at home, and above all might have that most prized thing - the true exercise of command. Yes, Hervey was angry with Major-General Sir Archibald Campbell and the campaign in Ava; but it and the other diversions of this singular country made him feel as alive as ever he could remember.

  He took a sheet of paper from the drawer and picked up his pen. Perhaps as little as a year ago he would have begun his replies in the strict order of filial duty, then sibling love, then respectfulness for the cloth, and then . . . But this morning he began, 'Dear Lady Katherine’. An hour or so later, having written rather more than usual to this wife of an absentee husband, and likewise having returned her teasing and toying in fuller measure, he put on cantonment dress - the looser-fitting cotton jacket that the Sixth had adopted soon after arriving, with light cotton overalls and forage cap - and walked to the regimental headquarters to report himself back at duty.

  Major Joynson heard him through the open door of his office and came at once into the adjutant's room to add his salutation. 'And a word with you as soon as you are done here’ he added, in a manner that Hervey could not quite determine as encouraging or otherwise.

  He wanted to appear neither apprehensive nor indifferent, and so after ten minutes with the adjutant, in which he was apprised of the comings and goings of his troop, and its defaulters, Hervey signed the orders book and then repaired to the major's office.

  Since the death of his wife, an invalid to laudanum, and the military demise of Lord Towcester, Eustace Joynson had grown steadily in stature and affection in the regiment. His reputation for painstaking administration had always been high, but the demands made on him by his late wife had sapped his vigour, and Towcester's martinet command had all but eviscerated him. Now, the sick headaches that had removed him from duty with monotonous regularity had all but gone, and he enjoyed many a mess night where before he had found them a sore trial. However, he did not feel himself entirely a match for the decision before him now. And there were none, perhaps, who would blame him, for the decision was one of the utmost importance to every man in the Sixth.

  'Hervey, close the door and take a seat. Have you had coffee? Would you like a little Madeira? No? Perhaps a shade early. I never do, not before eleven. Have you heard that Mr Lincoln's to marry?'

  Hervey sat in a tub-chair that creaked with the slightest move of a muscle. 'I have. Joyous news.'

  'You think so? Possibly, I suppose . . . yes.'

  'Is there some objection to the lady?'

  ‘Oh no. No, indeed not. She is a very respectable woman; very highly regarded by the light infantry's colonel. Lincoln's calling on him this very morning.'

  'Then why do you sound uncertain?'

  'Because Marsh is to send in his papers. Says he wants to spend his declining days in Ipswich rather than be quartermaster here.'

  'Singular!'

  Joynson smiled. 'A man who prefers Ipswich to Calcutta might rightly be said to have begun his decline already. I could not say that even the worst of the stink here would drive me to such a decision.'

  Hervey nodded, returning the smile, a sort of mock grimace. 'Ipswich. Indeed no.'

  'But you will imagine that there must be a replacement quartermaster.'

  'And a replacement for the replacement.'

  'Exactly so. I am excessively pleased that Lincoln shall join us at last in the mess. Indeed, it is long overdue. But the pleasure is
dulled by the thought of having to determine his own succession.'

  The word was well chosen. Lincoln's had been a long reign by any standard. Hervey wondered what the RSM himself thought of relinquishing the crown. 'It should be Deedes, by rights. Is there any serious objection? It has always been seniority tempered by rejection.'

  Joynson took off his glasses and polished them with a silk cloth. 'I've been disappointed with Deedes these past twelve months. There's a want of vigour. I dare say that he'll make no mistakes, but if we're to have him for any time then I fear he'll begin to drop the bit. Rose thinks so too.'

  Hervey raised an eyebrow. 'Deuced tricky superseding Deedes. He'll fall right away and become a malcontent, no doubt. And the rest of his mess will be ill at ease if they perceive no very good reason for it. Who is next in seniority? Harrison?'

  'Telfer.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'Precisely. Who would you want?'

  'Hairsine.'

  'Exactly.'

  Hervey frowned. 'They've all been too long in the rank, even Hairsine. In that respect the war brought them on too quickly. I can remember Hairsine the night we had word of the surrender, at Toulouse. He was orderly serjeant-major. It was ten years ago.'

  '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?'

  CI 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 th
e 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.