Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears

by Allan Mallinson

  The moon disappeared behind a cloud as they swept the ground. Hervey cursed: the smiles of harlots! But the firing soon stopped.

  They bumped, stumbled and barged on for a minute and more.

  ‘Sir!’ came a dragoon’s voice, urgent.

  Hervey looked right.

  ‘Sir, it’s Lightowler. I think ’e’s dead, sir.’

  He cursed again. F Troop could take care of Private Lightowler. Where was the RSM?

  They found him twenty yards on, not a stone’s throw from the cut. It was still near pitch dark, for the torches served more to light up the line than the way ahead. Hervey jumped from the saddle.

  The RSM lay clutching his left shoulder. ‘Other side of the cut they were, sir. Lightowler took a ball in the throat.’ The voice was as determined as ever but a deal weaker.

  ‘Johnson!’ shouted Hervey. Johnson was no surgeon’s mate, but he knew how to staunch and dress. ‘Did you see how many, Sarn’t-major?’

  ‘Ay, sir, I did: quite a little knot of ’em – a dozen and more, and at least half a dozen shooters.’

  Hervey angered. He clasped the RSM’s right arm, then when Johnson came he sprang up and back into the saddle. ‘Forward!’

  The clouds parted suddenly and the moon lit their front like a stage at curtain-up. Another ragged fusillade crackled directly ahead.

  Hervey saw his quarry. ‘Charge!’

  The canal cut was but a hunting challenge to any half-decent equestrian, especially now the blood was up. The squadron leapt, scrambled and tumbled across it. Sabres sliced left and right. There were screams, oaths and imprecations for a full five minutes until every dragoon had satisfied himself there was not a living thing on the marsh but in blue.

  ‘Rally! Rally!’ croaked Hervey.

  Corporal Parry blew as well as he could, but he too had swung his sabre the while.

  ‘Captain Worsley!’

  ‘Think ‘e’s fallen, sir,’ came a voice Hervey recognized. ‘Sarn’t-major Collins?’

  ‘Ay, sir!’

  ‘Hand over all your torches to E, then get your troop in hand fifty yards back and wait my orders!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Sarn’t-major Armstrong!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘I want every body and weapon recovered. Every last one. Get as many torches as you can forward.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Hervey?’ came his lieutenant’s voice, breathless.

  ‘Mr Fearnley, this is the rummest thing. Those wretches had no more idea of driving home an attack than a bunch of Methodists. I can’t think what in hell’s name they were about. Take a dozen men and see what you find yonder.’ He pointed in the direction the wretches must have come. ‘Horses, boats, waggons – anything. Half a mile, no more.’

  Lieutenant Fearnley touched his peak and called for his serjeant.

  Hervey sat silently astride as the torches began revealing the butcher’s bill, body after crumpled body in grey homespun, a dozen of them at least, more a scene from the plague than a battleground. These men, whoever they were, had not fallen like soldiers; he could not even see their weapons. They had certainly not behaved as soldiers. It had been more like that night at Elvas, when the rebels had opened fire in one of the squares to test the garrison. That was exactly what it was like. Except that the rebels had not been so inept as to get themselves shot. And where were Nasmyth’s men in all this? Hervey cursed worse than before, and shook his head. There was a smell of rat. That, he was sure.

  But why repine? To all other appearances, armed men had tried to storm the Royal Gunpowder Mills, and the 6th Light Dragoons, commanded by Acting-Major Matthew Hervey, had done their duty with economy and efficiency. And with thorough execution.

  He swore again, stood in the stirrups and bellowed the one order he was pleased to give: ‘Sarn’t-major Armstrong, take Mr Hairsine’s place!’

  IX

  LIBERTICIDE

  Hounslow, next day

  The first streaks of a grey dawn followed the squadron into barracks, but it was another three hours before Hervey returned, insistent as he had been on seeing Captain Worsley, the RSM and two injured dragoons into the proper care of the surgeon at the mills, and the body of Private Lightowler into the hands of a decent undertaker.

  He had not known Lightowler. Collins said that he was a waterman’s boy, from Kent, but where exactly he didn’t know. Hervey hoped the attestation papers would say something, though not every recruit would declare a next of kin, for his own good reasons. But however root-less a dragoon’s life might appear in the official records, he had four hundred adoptive kin, the bearers of the numeral ‘VI’ on their regimental appointments. There would be a funeral with all due military honours, for Lightowler had died on the King’s service, and no man in the Sixth would wish to see that go unremarked; for what would that say of the worth of his own life?

  ‘The very devil of a business, sir,’ said the adjutant, as he brought Hervey brandy in his office. ‘I had it all from Fearnley.’

  ‘Not all of it, I’ll warrant,’ came the rasping reply, the anger raw despite the four-hour ride and the lack of sleep. ‘Those were no Whiteboys and Irish navvies. Not those who did the business at any rate.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Hervey unfastened the bib front of his tunic and loosened the necktie. ‘We killed a dozen of them and rounded up half a dozen more, but they were so drunk they could scarcely walk. They could’ve done little harm firing.’

  Vanneck was puzzled. ‘Then who did?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But they didn’t shoot like bolting paddies; that’s certain. The whole affair has a deuced rank smell to it.’

  ‘Well, it has brought some distinction at least,’ said the adjutant, handing him a sheet of paper.

  Headquarters,

  The London District,

  20th March 1827.

  The General Officer Commanding congratulates Major Hervey and detachment H. M. 6th Light Dragoons for their high efficiency and exemplary conduct in the incident at H. M. Gunpowder Mills last night. He much regrets the injury to life and limb among the detachment and assures the officer commanding that the facts of the incident, and the approbation of the General Officer Commanding of their part in the protection of a manufactory so vital to the Nation’s defence, shall be placed this day before the Commander-in-Chief…

  Hervey was impressed by the promptness with which it had been both written and delivered. Had it not been for the mention of casualties, he could have thought it composed in anticipation the night before. Why was the General Officer Commanding troubling to rise so early? Hervey had never known such dispatch, not even in the Peninsula. But without doubt it brought distinction, and that was some consolation. An ill wind, such as could do no harm to his purchase of command…

  ‘Gratifying,’ he said simply, handing back the paper. ‘You had better tell Sarn’t-major Armstrong he will stand duty for Mr Hairsine until Tully is returned from leave.’

  ‘He is already at orderly room, sir. Sarn’t-major Tully is not due back for another month. Shall I recall him?’

  Hervey did not hesitate. Tully may have been the senior, but he was not Armstrong. ‘No. Would you have the sarn’t-major come in. And I’ll see him door-closed.’

  The adjutant left him with his brandy. Moments later Hervey heard the words of command in the corridor: ‘Staff parade, stand easy!’ as the acting-RSM temporarily stood down his orderlies so he could attend on the acting commanding officer. To Hervey the voice sounded exactly as it ought: the ill wind had blown a little more good than he had first supposed.

  ‘Sarn’t-major Armstrong, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Vanneck.’

  The adjutant closed the door as Armstrong marched in, very formally, and saluted. ‘Sir.’

  Hervey, seated, put down the brandy glass. ‘Stand easy, Sarn’t-major.’

  ‘How’s Mr Hairsine and the others, sir?’

  ‘His shoulder is
broken, but it will mend well the surgeon says. Captain Worsley’s leg is cut up, but he’ll make good. The dragoons will be well, too, though Brunton’s very poorly. We’ll not see him at duty in months.’

  Armstrong sighed. ‘Bastards!’

  Hervey stood up and walked to the window.

  ‘What do you make of it all?’

  ‘I can tell you what the men’s saying, sir. They weren’t no frightened paddies doing all the shooting last night.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘We walked into something, and I’m damned if I know what it was.’

  ‘And I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited till morning and had a proper scout about.’

  ‘We were ordered very emphatically to withdraw before daylight.’

  ‘Bad business.’

  Hervey turned. ‘It is. But we’d better gather the reins up quickly. I want to put Wainwright in Brunton’s place, make him lance-serjeant. What do you think?’

  Armstrong tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

  Hervey knew from long years what this signalled. ‘I know the objections, but the man is quite exceptional, and if we do not promote younger men then how shall we have sarn’t-majors enough to find good RSMs?’

  ‘An eight-year man for serjeant? They’ll say he’s your favourite, sir. That you’re promoting him for what happened in Spain.’

  ‘And Ava.’

  ‘Ay, sir, and Ava.’

  ‘And why not? If we promote alone by seniority then it’s mere dead men’s boots. Are we not to reward address and courage?’

  ‘There’s two men in E Troop alone his senior. There must be a dozen more in the regiment. What will that say to them as does their duty quietly every day?’

  ‘It will say that exceptionally a corporal their junior merits superseding them. See, it wasn’t so bad when there were eight troops, but the reductions—’

  ‘He’ll have the devil of a time from the serjeants, and some of the serjeant-majors won’t be too pleased either.’

  ‘He has the disposition to deal with the serjeants, and you have it to deal with the serjeant-majors. Do you oppose me in this then?’

  Armstrong frowned. ‘Not at all, sir. I’d make ‘im serjeant tomorrow. You asked me what I thought, and I think there’ll be trouble. But I wouldn’t be frightened by it.’

  Hervey nodded, slowly. ‘Very well. I’ll publish in today’s orders.’ He sat down. ‘Now, if you can see to the day’s routine, I shall go to see Mr Kirwan and A Troop’s horses.’

  Armstrong shook his head. ‘There’s a dozen of ‘em down this morning, I heard.’

  That was close to the last straw. Hervey felt as if one of them had kicked him in the groin.

  ‘Mr Kirwan, a word, if you please.’ It was entirely proper for Hervey to address the veterinary officer formally in front of dragoons, but it sounded so alien, even to Hervey’s own ears, that he regretted saying anything at all. Yet say something he must, for the farcy had very evidently taken a hold of A Troop’s horses, and the contagion might be abroad in others even as they spoke.

  The veterinarian, coatless, was bathing the eyes of one of the older geldings. He peered over his spectacles. ‘Why certainly, Major Hervey.’ He gave the bowl to his assistant. ‘Just a minute or so more sponging, Tress. Just see all the detritus is out.’

  He took up his coat and walked towards the end of the stalls, where Hervey stood tapping the side of his overalls with his whip.

  ‘Worm in the aqueous humour. You must have seen it often enough in India. Rare here, though. Can’t think how it could have got there; certainly nothing to do with the other condition, though I wouldn’t have seen it had I not been looking at them all so closely for the symptoms.’

  But Hervey was unimpressed. ‘I gave orders for the infected horses to be destroyed. Why did not you carry them out?’

  Sam Kirwan looked surprised. ‘Because you gave the orders when you believed the sickness to be farcy or glanders. But it is no such thing. I have observed it very closely, and I may with some certainty pronounce it to be influenza.’

  Hervey in turn looked puzzled. ‘Influenza? How can influenza be confused with farcy or glanders? And is influenza not bad horse-management? A Troop’s men aren’t greenheads!’

  Sam Kirwan looked about. ‘Hervey, may we go to my surgery? I should feel better able to explain myself.’

  Hervey was not entirely placated by the news that it was neither farcy nor glanders, though in his own mind he was already conceding that the veterinarian was correct in staying the destruction of the horses. Except that influenza passed from horse to horse even more quickly than glanders, and the complications were sometimes lethal. It was not impossible, therefore, that the regiment’s losses would be worse.

  ‘Will you sit down?’ asked Sam as they entered his surgery, a room lined with bottles, and enough bones for three skeletons. ‘I can’t offer hospitality, I’m afraid.’

  Hervey was content to forgo coffee, smarting as he still was from the unnecessary order to have fifty troopers destroyed. ‘Why the damned scare about glanders if all it is is a cold?’

  ‘It’s more than just a cold, Hervey,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘Any horse that gets it won’t be fit for hard work this side of a month.’

  ‘Very well, but how could influenza be mistaken for glanders – or farcy I think the first report had it.’

  Sam shook his head again. ‘It’s not really that difficult, although you will recall I would not commit myself.’

  Hervey shrugged. ‘In truth, Sam, I do believe you said you didn’t think it was glanders.’

  ‘Well, to answer your question, the common symptom is catarrh; and fever. The trouble is, glanders takes several forms, as you’re no doubt aware, but always with the glandular swelling – of the lymphatic specifically. In different years and places influenza, too, varies much in intensity and in some of its symptoms. Therefore it is not unreasonable to be uncertain of which illness is present in the early stages.’

  Hervey took off his forage cap and placed it on the table, a sure sign that cool reason was returning. ‘How prudent you were. It would have cost you nothing to put them down.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sam, with a sigh, ‘I confess it was not entirely without self-interest. I’ve been collecting blood and mucus from the infected animals – the ones recovering, that is – and I intend inoculating some of the others to see what is the effect. With your leave, of course.’

  Hervey’s brow furrowed. ‘We’re taking the most active steps to prevent the spread of the disease are we not, and you now want to spread it deliberately!’

  ‘Both are true, but I should carry out the experiment in such a way that the animal I inoculated, if it developed the influenza, would not be able to infect others.’

  Hervey looked gravely doubtful. ‘Sam, we do not have the best of things at present – you won’t yet have heard of last night’s affair at the powder mills. This is not the best of times to be risking even one horse.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But I trust your science, God help me! How many horses?’

  Sam smiled. ‘Ten; perhaps not even that.’

  Hervey nodded slowly. ‘Very well. And all from A Troop?’

  ‘No, I need some which have had no opportunity of infection.’ ‘Very well.’

  Hervey leaned back in his chair, wishing now that there was coffee. ‘What does your science say of these diseases, Sam? I know Clater, but he says little. I don’t suppose you hold him in any regard.’

  ‘On the contrary: some of his cures, his medicines – perhaps the majority even – are of no use whatsoever, but they are at least harmless!’

  ‘He was no scientist.’

  ‘He was writing thirty years ago and more. I think you should dispose of your Clater. I’ll recommend a more scientific volume.’

  ‘When you have written it?’ He held up a hand to stay the protest. ‘Tell me of your science, Sam. Why do we seem to do no different from when I was cornet?’

  Sam shrugg
ed. ‘We have made some progress – much, I have to say, by observing what our cousins in human practice have learned. But as to the cause of illness, I confess it is true we have not made great steps. If you want my opinion it is simply put: that we may divide disease into two classes, the specific and the non-specific.’ He took off his reading glasses and began polishing them. ‘Each specific disease, into which class glanders and influenza fall, is marked by certain fixed and unchangeable features which distinguish it from any other disease, if not always perfectly to our observation, and it can only arise by propagation from the original source. The non-specific diseases are those of spontaneous growth, such as constitutional disturbance in the lungs, liver, stomach and so on.’

  Hervey frowned. In one sense he himself might have observed as much. ‘To what does this tend?’

  Sam hesitated. ‘Hervey, you look done in – if you’ll permit me.’ He stood and opened one of his medicine cabinets, taking out a bottle and two glasses. ‘I would not as a rule prescribe this, but I myself have been about the whole night.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘I’m as happy to take my medicine from a horse doctor as from any.’

  Sam poured two glasses of brandy. ‘What do you know of germs?’

  Hervey looked blank.

  ‘You have not heard of germs?’

  Hervey raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Or animalculae?’

  ‘No.’

  Sam sipped a good measure of his brandy. ‘What is the root cause of the influenza in A Troop?’

  Hervey took his glass and began warming it between his hands. ‘Since I do not know where precisely A Troop was when it acquired the disease, I cannot say.’

  Sam nodded. ‘That is reasonable enough. But you would ascribe the disease to place?’

  Hervey looked wary. ‘Ye-es.’ He took a sip of his brandy.

  ‘And what particular to the place would be the cause?’

  Hervey frowned. ‘The air, of course. What else? And wind-borne poisons. Miasmas, are they not called?’