"The Sabre_s Edge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mallinson Allan)

PART TWO HOME TRUTHS
CHAPTER SIX

The girl ran a finger down the neat line of the scar. Hervey felt no pain. Quite the opposite, for her touch was always delicate and accompanied by the gentlest of kisses. He sighed with the pleasure of their intimacy. 'You had better go, Neeta. Manu will be here shortly, and you know how you dislike him.'

The girl hissed. 'I do not know why you keep him as your bearer when you have so good a servant as Mr Johnson!'

Hervey smiled. 'Manu is a good bearer too. And he does Johnson's bidding willingly.'

The girl rose from the bed, tied a lungi about her, then sat at Hervey's dressing table and took one of his brushes to her long black hair, as Henrietta used to do.

What a solace she was – companion these past two years, and nurse these last two months. Yet how dismayed he had been when first she had come to Calcutta looking for him. Chittagong had seemed so far behind. He rose, put on his dressing gown, then took her shoulders, watching in the mirror as she brushed – so very like Henrietta, and yet in appearance so different. It was all very safe, therefore. But he broke the rules. A bibi did not visit; she was but a 'sleeping-dictionary'. He kissed the top of her head, then went outside.

It was a quiet afternoon in the lines, even allowing for the usual retreat to the shade and the punkah, although the worst of the south-west monsoon's clammy heat was long past. There were a few mounted men about the cantonment, but no hawkers, no rumble of wheels. The Company was at war with Ava, but the war was so far distant that the seat of government was undisturbed.

It had no right to be. Hervey had seen the effects of that detachment, men dying for want of the staples of war. And if the Calcutta quality, and the clerks and the merchants, really knew how badly went things they would be busy burying their silver and taking passage home. Not that the war would ever come to this. Ava might boast of marching into Bengal, and her great general, Maha Bundula, might lead the army, but the Burmans could never prevail against redcoats. In the end, he believed there was no one who could, for however ill he was served, a redcoat – a King's redcoat – fought with the ferocious conviction of his own superiority. That was why so many of them died: they did not accept defeat, because redcoats were never defeated. Too many people had traded on that simple notion in years past. They did so now with the army in the east.

Hervey wondered how many of those good companions he had known in Rangoon had since been stilled by the enemy's shot or the fever. He scarcely dared think of how Peto was faring, for he knew that gallant man would be everywhere his sailors faced danger, be it the enemy or the country. There would be so many widows' letters, or to other kin. And none of them would say that such and such a good servant of the King had died because other servants of the King had been careless of his life. But, in the end, the merchants of the Honourable Company would not need to bury their silver. The Burmans were no martial race. Their armies had been formed neither by the British, the Moghuls nor the French. Indeed, by what right did they begin a fight they could not win?

But it would be some time. Yesterday, Eyre Somervile had come, as he had every day since Hervey's return weak with fever, and the news from the east had been as dispiriting as might have been. General Campbell's force had fewer than three thousand effectives, and the flotilla was in a poor way too, with whole crews laid low by remittent fevers – even the bigger ships (Larne was so incapacitated she had had to be replaced by Arachne). There had been some successes, but Campbell was besieged still, by Nature and the Burmans. And now there was speculation that Maha Bundula himself, at the head of his army of Arakan, twice the strength of anything Campbell could muster, might soon be marching through the Irawadi's delta.

Well, he must put it all out of his mind. Today he was to dine with Somervile and Emma for the first time since leaving for Rangoon; Ledley, the regimental surgeon, had at last pronounced him fit (Hervey had pronounced himself fit more than a week ago). It was near six o'clock and his bearer would soon be here to supervise the team of bhistis who filled his bath with hot water. The surgeon had been most explicit in his warning against any chill, for he was advised that the fever was born of the malaria of the Rangoon marshes and could recur at any time, perhaps even in severer form. Hervey took care to put on a good lawn shirt when he had bathed, and a linen coat, for as soon as the sun set he would otherwise feel the cool of the evening keenly. He took up his brushes and smiled as he picked the strands of black hair from them. One evening soon he would dine with his bibi here – whatever the rules said. But she dared not return this evening. He would go instead to her at the bibi khana beyond the civil lines towards the Chitpore road, where the rich Bengali merchants lived. It was a comfortable and private place. He liked it there. He was pleased he kept her properly. Emma Somervile greeted him with a kiss to the lips. 'I never doubted you would be restored,' she said, smiling. 'But it has been many weeks, and you looked so fevered when last we visited.'

Hervey took a glass of champagne from the khitmagar and sat, as she bade him, beside her.

'Eyre will be here presently. There is an express boy come.'

'He is much occupied, I think. It must be the hardest thing to be so at odds with the Governor-General.'

Emma raised an eyebrow. 'It wears him more than I could have imagined. Oh, I do not mean the disagreements themselves, but the dismay at seeing so much going wrong when he had counselled against it from the start. And still Lord Amherst is not inclined to listen.'

Hervey frowned. 'There's a certain sort of man who would rather exhaust all his stock than admit to a wrong course and take a new one at half the cost. I fear there's many a grave that will be testimony to our Governor-General's obduracy. I'm only glad there are men such as Eyre who will expose the folly of it.'

Moments later Eyre Somervile entered the room with a look half triumphant and half exasperated. He dispensed with formal greetings. 'This is just as I had expected – worse.' He waved a letter at them. 'Maha Bundula is now in Ava. Bagyidaw's recalled Prince Tharrawaddy and Bundula is to have command of the army they've been assembling these past three months.'

'Do you have any notion how large?' asked Hervey.

'Thirty thousand – over and above the same number back from Arakan.' Somervile consulted the letter again. 'Also, three hundred jingals, the Cassay Horse from Manipur – about a thousand of them – artillery on elephant-back…' 'What is a jingal?' asked Emma.

'A gun,' replied Hervey, turning to her. 'Very light – the ball weighs less than a pound – but they tote them anywhere. And very destructive they are too.'

'Campbell will be thrown out of Rangoon in very short order indeed,' added her husband. 'How do you come by the intelligence, Eyre?' Somervile seemed rapt in thought. 'Eyre?'

'I'm sorry, my dear. I was thinking how much time we had, for the report says that Bundula boasted to Tharrawaddy he would feast in Rangoon in eight days. He could not, of course – not from the time of making the boast. The distance is too great in the best of weather. I suspect he meant eight days after once besieging the place.' Emma stayed her questions for the time being.

Hervey looked uncertain. 'Unless, that is, Bundula were to engage Campbell piecemeal.' 'That is against the best precepts, is it not?'

'As a rule, but there would be advantage in bringing pressure to bear gently on Rangoon, for Campbell's so weakened that he might seek terms-'

Emma looked shocked. 'Do you mean to say that General Campbell could surrender?'

Hervey shook his head. 'I think it the last thing he would do. But Maha Bundula might not. The Burmans do not have a very high opinion of the Company.'

'Well' said Somervile, making to turn. 'I must send to the commander-in-chief and to Amherst. They will surely now wish to reinforce Campbell's garrison. That, or order its withdrawal. You will excuse me for the moment.'

Hervey sat down again, taking a second glass of champagne.

'Do you know the source of his intelligence, Matthew?' asked Emma. 'Is it the same as before?'

'I imagine so,' he replied, cautiously. Somervile's best intelligence had come thence, and he knew of no other capable of yielding such precise and valuable information. Not the girl herself – she had merely been the cause for the boundless gratitude of a father whose abducted daughter had been returned unsullied, an unexpected prize from Hervey's action against the war boats on the Chittagong three years before. But Somervile had played up Hervey's chivalry in the jungled hill tracts to great purpose – like Rama and Sita, he had described her rescue. Indeed, he considered himself to be an intriguer of the first water on account of it. And so a favourite of King Bagyidaw's had become a most willing collaborator with the Company. 'And very good intelligence it is, too. Though I fear that neither Campbell nor the commander-in-chief can make the best of it.' 'How do you mean?'

'I don't know what plans Paget has in hand to reinforce Rangoon, but if there are none it is almost certainly too late to do so. And what will Campbell do when he learns that an army twenty times his strength is bearing down on him? He has the flotilla's guns, of course, but they might not be in a position to intervene decisively. If he is so reduced in numbers through sickness as we hear, then he would be best advised to quit the place, to use the ships to take off his force before it is utterly destroyed.'

'He is not likely to do that, surely? You yourself said as much.'

'I said he would not surrender. But he was with Moore at Corunna. And so was Paget for that matter. He has seen good precedent, therefore.'

Emma suddenly looked worried. 'Matthew, what if the intelligence is false?'

Hervey raised his eyebrows, and nodded. 'Just so. It is highly favourable to the Burmans, that is for sure. And for that reason it must be regarded circumspectly. Campbell's quitting Rangoon on a false report would be a most sorry business indeed.' 'You will warn Eyre of this, Matthew?'

'He will not need my warning, but, yes, I will speak my mind.'

Emma was relieved. She had felt the perturbation of the past year very keenly. Lord Amherst had set his face very decidedly against her husband's opinion. Somervile was a relatively junior member of the presidency council, although he was the acknowledged authority on the country powers and their neighbours. But he was an interventionist. Or rather, he advocated military action to obtain conditions favourable to the Company; the action itself – as in the case of Ava – did not have to take the form of an offensive. And so he found himself frequently in contention with the Governor-General, who thought him contrary, one minute seeming to urge boldness in meddling in native affairs, and in the next seeming to recoil from it. Somervile confided much in his wife, but she knew he did not tell all. That was too often apparent in his countenance and disposition.

'What about the regiment, Matthew,' said Emma abruptly, if brightly. Tve not seen much of them since Sir Ivo left for England.'

Hervey was pleased to oblige her, for although he could not give the best of reports, or the fullest, he would rather be speaking of the regiment now than contemplating the mournful situation in Rangoon. 'I think they are well. But there's little for them to do save guards and drill, says Serjeant-Major Armstrong. And I'm not sure Eustace Joynson is happy with the regiment's reins entirely in his hands.' 'How long shall he have them?'

'A full twelve months, less the two already gone.'

'I do wish it were not so long. We are in need of society here, and Lady Lankester will be a welcome increase. Do you know anything of her?'

'Her people are from Hertfordshire, Lankester's seat. Her father is Sir Delaval Rumsey. I have not met her but it is said she is a very handsome woman.'

'I knew Sir Delaval at one time,' said Emma, just as brightly as before. 'Rather, I knew Lady Rumsey. She was a kindly woman, and herself quite a beauty, and a wit too.'

'Then we should all be content. Did I say that poor Joynson is having trouble with his daughter again?' 'Indeed?'

'According to my lieutenant. Seems she's been a deal too wayward since first we arrived. The attentions of so many officers have sorely tested her senses, it would seem. I'm sure Joynson would wish you would take her in hand.'

Emma raised her eyebrows. 'I should not say it, but I have observed many times how it is the plainer girls whose senses are the least apt for testing.'

Hervey frowned again, but more playfully. 'Frances Joynson is not so very plain, Emma.'

Emma frowned, but more determinedly. 'I rather fancy that that is an acclimated opinion, Matthew.'

Hervey thought it indelicate, and unsafe, to proceed.

'In any case, her reputation has not been remarked on in the drawing rooms yet, so her behaviour cannot be so very bad.' Emma sipped at her champagne. 'Your name has been spoken of, however, Matthew.'

'Oh yes?' He intended to sound only the merest degree interested… curious. 'Lately, at the general's.'

Hervey simply raised an eyebrow and took another sip at his champagne.

'I fancy by the time Sir Ivo's bride is brought here it will be the talk of every drawing room.'

Hervey put his glass down, scarcely troubling now to hide his real sentiments. 'Emma, what is the matter with Calcutta? In Madras-'

'She visits, Matthew. That is what is the matter. And do not be angry with me because I tell you.'

He sighed. 'I am not angry with you, Emma. When I first came to India, almost ten years ago, things were… I am just astonished at so much canting.'

Emma would not be drawn. 'And another thing, Matthew. You have refused all society with Bishop Heber.'

Hervey frowned impatiently and held out his glass to the khitmagar. 'Please do not think I include Heber in my strictures, Emma. He is a good man from all I hear. But I do not feel the need of a bishop's society.'

'He only presses his claim on your acquaintance because your Mr Keble wrote to him.' 'Mr Keble presumes a deal too much.' 'Oh, Matthew!'

She touched a nerve, but he was not minded to give in. 'I sometimes think that Mr Keble believes the prospect from his parsonage window is the only one in the world.'

She frowned again. 'And you have seen so much more of the world!' 'Yes; I have.'

Emma sighed deeply. Had she not known him better it might have been a sigh of despair. Instead it was the mildly rebuking but tolerant sigh that his sister might have breathed. 'Then I should be careful not to see excess of it, Matthew.'

Eyre Somervile returned, to Hervey's relief. 'Well, it is done. I have sent my opinion to both Amherst and Paget. Doubtless they'll think it unreliable. But nothing I've sent them to date has been other than borne out by events. Paget's no fool. He may be a little too ready to defer to Amherst, but he's no fool.'

'You are perfectly certain of your intelligence?' Hervey held his gaze until an answer came.

Somervile inclined his head very slightly. 'There is, of course, the possibility that it was sent to me with but one object. In which case I might well precipitate an evacuation of Rangoon for no reason. That is what you allude to, I imagine? This I have laid out in my memoranda to Amherst and Paget. The veracity of the report is unknowable, unless some corroboration is received, but the possibility of it is certain, and in consequence the peril of Campbell's force. One way or another, it is imperative to act. That is the material point.'

Hervey glanced at Emma, and smiled. 'Somervile, for once I do not fret at not marching towards the sound of the guns. I fear it will be a wretched business either way. Campbell is a brave man, but I give it as my opinion that he has no place in command of a campaign such as this. And I for one am done with such men.'

Emma looked startled, but her husband had heard this opinion often enough these past two months. 'My dear,' he said, half smiling and taking a glass from the khitmagar. 'You must know that we have a dinner companion of very refractory military disposition. I do have a notion that he believes all between him and the Duke of Wellington to be but deadwood.'

Hervey frowned. But as things stood, he felt little inclination to deny it.

'Come, let us eat, then,' said Somervile, content in the knowledge that there was no more a man in his position could do for the moment. 'I would hear of how things are with the regiment.' Emma rose.

Hervey followed, though not so nimbly as once he might. 'Does it matter very much how things are? Whatever course Campbell chooses, there's no place for cavalry in it.'

'Hah!' Somervile stepped aside to let Emma lead them to the dining room. 'You make the same mistake as those in council who seem capable of looking in only one direction at a time. In India, Hervey, as you must surely know, one must be Janus-like with regard to whence the next blow shall come. Let me tell you what has been happening among the country powers while our eyes have been diverted eastwards…' Next morning, Hervey rode out for the first time since returning to Calcutta. Private Johnson had brought Gilbert to his bungalow just before dawn, as Hervey took his chota hazree – sweet tea and figs. He had never, as a rule, taken anything but tea before morning exercise, even in the cold season, but he had felt weaker than he supposed he would on rising. He cursed the time it was taking for him to regain his full strength. The shoulder had, to all appearances, knitted together well enough, but the fever had left him like a woman in the first gravid months – dizzy, puking, listless. It had come and gone, and each time seemed worse, but in the last weeks he had felt himself recovering his proper spirits with each day. It was just the mornings, now, that reminded him there was still a course to run.

'Is tha sure tha's all right, sir?' enquired Johnson, watching him, curious.

Gilbert's manners were not as he would have wanted, and Hervey seemed unable to stop the jogging.

'To tell the truth, Johnson, I'd as soon be listening to one of the chaplain's sermons.' 'That bad, sir.'

'Perhaps not. But it can't go on.' He tried once more to sit easy, to persuade the gelding to get off its toes, but it made no difference. 'What have you been doing with him all these months?' 'Swap 'orses, sir?' 'Don't be impertinent.'

Johnson smiled. Ten years they had been together now – more, almost eleven – longer than any officer and groom in the Sixth, or in memory indeed. He had no pleasure in his captain's infirmity, but he could at least take satisfaction in the tables being turned just a little. "As tha 'eard t'RSM's to be wed?'

The dodge worked. Hervey looked astonished. 'You would as well persuade me that the sar'nt-major is to take the cloth.' He flicked his long schooling whip at Gilbert's quarters in mounting exasperation.

There was little reason why he should believe it. Mr Lincoln had been regimental serjeant-major for fifteen years. It was generally imagined that he was the senior in the whole of the cavalry. Why should he suddenly feel the need of a wife? Except that Johnson's canteen intelligence was almost invariably accurate… 'I'd put any money on it, sir.'

'Who is she?' demanded Hervey, sounding almost vexed. 'Widder o' one o' t'Footy's quartermasters.' Hervey, for all his nausea and discomposure, managed an approving smile. 'She must be a redoubtable woman. How is it known? Has there been any announcement?'

Johnson became circumspect; there were canteen confidences to safeguard. 'Mr Lincoln saw Major Joynson yesterday an' asked 'is leave to marry.'

Hervey smiled again. A clerk with an ear to the door, and a thirst to be quenched by selling tattle in the wet canteen. Things hadn't changed. Not that Johnson would have paid for his information. Hervey had learned long ago that Johnson received word from many a source because the canteen attributed to him considerable powers of prophecy and intercession. 'What a tamasha that will be, then. And colonel and RSM wed in the same year.' Then he frowned. 'Oh, I do hope this doesn't mean Mr Lincoln intends his discharge.'

It was a curious thing, and Hervey knew as well as the next man, and better than most, that 'new blood' was as necessary in the officers and senior ranks of a cavalry regiment as it was in its horses. And yet with Mr Lincoln it was different. It was scarcely conceivable that there could be any want in the performance of his duties, and his grey hairs served only to add distinction to his appearance. In any case, the RSM would yield to no one in the jumping lane at the end of a field day. To many, indeed, Mr Lincoln was the regiment. No one in the Sixth had served longer, though his actual record of service, with its attestation date, had been conveniently lost years ago.

CI bet that's not what Serjeant-Major Deedes thinks,' said Johnson, screwing up his face.

That was the problem. There could only be the one crown, and for as long as the admirable Lincoln wore it above his stripes no other could. Deedes was next in seniority, and had been for five years or more, and behind him were others wondering if the crown would ever be theirs to wear before they were obliged to leave the colours. One of those, indeed, was Armstrong. Hervey had never given it much thought before. Could he imagine Geordie Armstrong filling Lincoln's boots? It was pointless his making any comparison, for so different were the two men. Except, perhaps, that Armstrong's formation had been at Lincoln's hands as much as anyone's.

There was, of course, one man who would by now have been the acknowledged heir. Serjeant Strange could have worn the crown, a worthy successor in every respect, except that by now another regiment might have made a claim on him, or even a field commission might have come his way. It was nigh on ten years ago, in a corner of the battlefield at Waterloo, that Strange had demonstrated his singular worth – and had lost his life doing so. Hervey still thought about that day, and his own part in Strange's fall. He asked himself the same questions, and the answers were always as uncertain.

'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 the 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.

For the time being, however, they were still at work with brush and curry-comb. It was just that bit easier while horses had their summer coats, but there was sweat on every dragoon's brow nevertheless. It was not a time for shouted commands, rather of careful observance of standing orders and the accumulated experience of the corporals. Above all it was not a time for officers. It was the serjeant-major's hour. It was he, and his trusted NCOs, who turned out the troop to perfection -both horses and men. Then the officers led them in the practice of war, real or imagined. And the serjeant-major did not expect supervision.

Hervey's appearance in the lines this morning was therefore doubly unusual. He had not even sent word to Myles Vanneck, his lieutenant, that he was reporting himself fit for duty, and there was at once a buzz as the news passed from stall to stall. The dragoons nearest the end stood to attention as others gawped or tried to steal a look. Hervey felt as if he were some ghost. 'Carry on, Harkness,' he said, nodding and smiling as he began walking the line of stalls.

Private Harkness, the broadest of shoulders making his trooper look short-backed, returned the smile confidently.

Another dragoon came to attention as Hervey reached his stall. 'Carry on, Hicks. How is your leg now?'

Private Hicks turned red. His leg had been mended for all of three years, but still his nickname in the troop was Giles, 'the cripple'. 'Very good, sir, thank you, sir.'

The next man had neither brush nor comb in his hand, and he therefore saluted.

Hervey smiled again. Beneath the watering cap were thick black curls, unmistakable. 'Good morning, French. What is the news from Wales?'

'Agreeable, I think, sir. My father has taken another living, and my brother is to be ordained too.' The voice was not perhaps so differently cast from the other recruits' as first it had seemed on joining; but it was still the voice of a man of some education. The ringing of spurs made Hervey turn. 'Good morning, sor!'

Hervey smiled the more – an indulgent sort of smile. 'Corporal McCarthy!'

'It's good to see you on your feet again, sor. And back in time for all the drill, too.'

'Indeed, indeed.' Yes, he had timed his return well – as if he had had any say in it.

'Go and fetch the sar'nt-major, Rudd,' said McCarthy, addressing the next stall.

Hervey looked across keenly; he had not noticed Private Rudd, and he watched with satisfaction as he doubled away, for he had saved the boy from a cloying mother and the dubious occupation of milliner. Rudd ought to be corporal soon: if only there were more places.

He carried on down the line, Corporal McCarthy by his side. 'How is your section then, on the whole?'

'Well, sor; very well. Not a horse lame nor a man sick.'

Hervey nodded appreciatively. It was as well at the beginning of what they called here the unhealthy season.

Next he stopped by Private Needham's stall. Needham's hair almost covered the stub of his right ear, but the old wound was vivid enough. Hervey recalled the bloody sight when the Burman tulwar had sliced the flesh away. Needham stood to attention now with brush and comb clasped in each hand by his side, as fit as the day Hervey had enlisted him on Warminster Common, but he did not smile. 'Good morning, Needham. How is your mare?'

Hervey chose well. Needham and his mare were ever closer by the day. 'She's doing a treat, sir. She won best turnout last week.'

'A credit to you,' said Hervey, nodding approval. And he would say no more for the time being, for they had buried Needham's best friend, Private Spreadbury, barely a week ago, and there were now but two of the original 'Warminster pals' left.

How well the pals had served him, thought Hervey. That day, five years ago, when he had defied all his instincts and gone to Warminster Common to look for recruits – it had repaid his efforts no end. Indeed, would he be alive this day had he not done so? For Wainwright was first of the pals. He smiled at the thought of what the King's shilling could buy – and what the King's uniform could do for a man in return. He hoped he would live long enough to see four chevrons on Wainwright's sleeve. 'Good morning, Captain Hervey sir!'

The voice filled the stables. There was no need for Hervey to turn to see whose it was. 'Good morning, Sar'nt-Major!' he replied, as cheerily as he had been hailed.

'Not a horse off the road, sir, nor a man neither.'

Troop Serjeant-Major Armstrong, collier-turned-cavalryman – the only horse he had seen before enlisting was pulling a coal tub; but what a source of strength, always, was that voice of the Tyne. Hervey's thoughts were at once of Sahagun, Corunna, Albuhera, and a dozen other places where Armstrong's voice had done its work: cursing, checking, cajoling. To his mind, Armstrong was the Sixth, as much as was Lincoln (and, God rest his soul, as Strange had been). Without him the regiment could surely never be the same – or as good?

'Corporal McCarthy tells me so. Very good husbandry, Sar'nt-Major.' It was, perhaps, fortunate that Hervey was enquiring this day and not a week before. That the last man sick, poor Spreadbury, had died was not something to be reflected in the day's parade state. In their five or so years in Calcutta E Troop had lost eighteen men to the agues and fevers that plagued the cantonments every season. And before he had left for Rangoon the sick rate had been three men in ten. The other troops had fared no better, but that was little consolation to mess mates -nor to Hervey and Armstrong whose concern it was to maintain a decent muster. But no men sick this morning – not a bad way to begin command again.

'The vet'in'ry's round the other side, sir, if you want me to tell him you're here. Just doing his rounds, that is. No problems.'

'Just say not to leave before I'm able to have a word.'

Armstrong nodded to Rudd, who cut away smartly.

They advanced another stall. 'A new face, I perceive.'

The dragoon stood at attention, as Needham before him, with brush and curry-comb in either hand. But his look was a touch anxious rather than melancholy.

'Private Toyne, sir,' said Armstrong. 'Joined last month.'

Hervey looked him up and down – a well-made youth, fresh-faced and clean. 'Where are you from, Toyne?'

'Appleby, sir,' in a voice not unlike the serjeant-major's. But Hervey was none the wiser.

'Westmorland, sir,' explained Armstrong. Long years had taught him that officers spoke of counties, not places.

Hervey knew there were hills in Westmorland, but that was about all. 'What brought you to the Sixth then?'

'My cousin is in the Fifty-fifth, sir, and 'e took me to enlist. But I said I wanted to work with 'orses, and so the Fifty-fifth let me change.'

'Did they, indeed? That was very generous of them.' And most unusual, too. No doubt the recruiting serjeant had sworn blind that the Fifty-fifth were mounted on the best bloods and more besides if it would secure another man. 'Well, sir, I had to pay a bit of money.' 'A recruit buying into the cavalry. Now there's a thing!'

Toyne would not understand the humour just yet, but Armstrong smiled pityingly. 'There's not much for company but sheep up there, sir. He's made a good start, though. Sits well.'

Hervey nodded to show his appreciation. 'You worked with horses in Appleby then?' 'Yes sir. I used to help with the fair, sir.' 'Fair?'

'Yes sir. There's an 'orse fair twice a year. People comes from all over to buy.'

Hervey nodded again. 'Well, I'm pleased to have you in my troop. Carry on.' Toyne turned as red as Hicks had done.

'A good 'un,' said Armstrong, voice lowered, as they stepped off. 'A real liking for horses. He'll make a good groom in his turn.'

Hervey took note. It was difficult not to when a man had parted with money in order to be with horses. At the other stalls it was reunion rather than introduction – and sometimes banter. Hervey, his spirits already lifted, was content, for here were a confident troop, who thought themselves a cut above the others since the affair at the river three years before. None of the other troops had so much as chased a dacoit, let alone bloodied a sabre, and a man who had not cut or thrust – or even fired carbine or pistol in anger – could hardly think himself a proper dragoon. For sure, it was the veterans of Waterloo who were honoured above all others in the wet canteen. Not with exaggerated reverence, but with the nodding respect that they had seen something never to be seen again, and were therefore possessed of certain insights and certain rights. And sometimes an E Troop man who had overreached himself in the canteen on the business of fighting would be brought up sharply by a Waterloo hand and reminded that the affair at the river, sharp though it had been, could never compare with that day in June. But an E Troop man stood in the veterans' respect nevertheless.

It was no longer true perhaps that the army divided into two parts – those who had been at Waterloo and those who had not – but the army was just as divided in its opinion of the future. It was true, certainly, that no officer believed in his heart there would be a battle the like of Waterloo again; never so many men in the field at once, never so great a number of guns. And – worst of all for those of Hervey's calling – never again so many cavalry manoeuvring to decisive effect. No, not even in India. What, therefore, would be their fate? Was it to be as mere spectators, from afar even, as in Burma – a pretty corps of escorts, in uniforms more and more elaborate and less and less serviceable? Or would they just become a corps of skirmishers, little better than Pandours and Croats?

Hervey had his opinions. They were formed in the Peninsula, confirmed at Waterloo and proven often enough these past three years. Perhaps he would write of them – write a book – as Peto had suggested. Many would sneer at his doing so of course, but he didn't care; not any longer.

'Good morning, Captain Hervey,' said the veterinary surgeon. 'Ah, David – good morning.'

David Sledge was the only officer habitually called by his Christian name, from colonel to cornet. The veterinary surgeon stood in a curious position regarding rank and seniority, and the Sixth had come to an admirable working arrangement. 'You wanted to see me?'

'No, not especially. Only to say that I am returned to duty. I gather I have a fit troop?'

Armstrong took his leave. There were things he would attend to with Serjeant Collins: 'Them gram-grinders, sir. Still not sized off.'

Hervey nodded, then turned to Sledge again. 'It says a good deal for Armstrong, that parade state.'

'Yes, very satisfactory,' said Sledge, checking his pocketbook. 'Not a cough nor a warm leg in the stables these past six weeks. And I take my hat off to Brennan too.'

Hervey had long been convinced that E Troop had the best farrier. And so much steadier was Brennan these days with a fellow countryman in McCarthy to share tobacco and grog with (and a fellow with stripes to boot). 'I shall tell him. But he's had light work in respect of numbers, I see -a good dozen short. Do you know what are the remount arrangements?'

The purchase of remounts was not the business of the veterinary surgeon, but he had an obvious interest. 'Nothing's coming from the Company studs this year, apparently, so it's all down to dealers. When you're ready to look I'll come with you if you'd like. We've kept the lines free of infection all year and I shouldn't want anything brought in on approval.'

Hervey smiled. 'David, I should value your opinion on more than just the animal's health. But not for a day or so, I think – unless you say others will be looking too. I'll ask the RM as well.'

Sledge looked pained. 'Broad's not been in best sorts of late. Ledley's had to dose him a good deal.' 'Fever?' Sledge still looked pained. 'N-o-o.'

'Well, I hope whatever is the cause he will not be indisposed long. I've seen no better man with remounts.'

'I shall be seeing him later. I will pass on your regard.'

Hervey scowled. 'Come, David; you are not telling me all.'

Sledge looked relieved. To be explicit, it's a case for mercury and nitrate.'

'Oh God,' groaned Hervey. 'But what of Annie Broad? Has she gone home or something?' Sledge raised his eyebrows. 'I should ask Rose.' 'What?'

'Been drawing his yard there, it seems. Better not speak of it here.'

Hervey shook his head slowly. 'Is it much talked about?' 'What – the mercury or Rose?' 'Both.'

'Neither generally, but the mercury's out in the ranks, I think. The Rose business Broad himself told me. But not here, Hervey. Can you come to my dispense later?' Hervey finished his tour of the horse lines alone, then went to the troop office, where he found Myles Vanneck and his new cornet, Green.

'Good morning, Hervey!' said Vanneck, and with evident pleasure – even though his captain's return meant he would no longer have charge of things.

Hervey had found it easy leaving the troop in his lieutenant's hands. It was, after all, what was intended by the name of that rank. But in Myles Vanneck he had especial trust, as much as he had known in Seton Canning, even. Vanneck had been with the Sixth scarcely five years, but he had taken to command with the greatest of ease – the same ease, indeed, as that of his elder brother in the Eighteenth, whom Hervey had known in the Peninsula. And Vanneck had been lucky, too, for the means to buy a lieutenancy when the time came had been but a trifle to him at 'India rates', though when it was his turn for a captaincy the regiment would, for sure, be back in England and he would thereby have to pay well over price. Not that that should present the Honourable Myles Vanneck with too much difficulty, however: Lord Huntingfield's sons did not go in want of anything. And it was one of the reasons that Hervey so liked him, for he could easily have bought into a home regiment and enjoyed the pleasures of London or Brighton rather than the dust and heat, and the doubtful society of Calcutta. And, of course, the young Cornet Vanneck had comported himself so admirably in the affair of the river. Blue blood, and not afraid to shed it – it was hardly surprising the men regarded him. Hervey smiled and took off his cap. 'This is Cornet Green.'

Hervey held out his hand, which the cornet took a shade hesitantly. 'How d'you do, sir,' said Green.

The cavalryman's coup d'oeil was not always faithful when it came to the man rather than the situation. That much Hervey would freely acknowledge. But Green was not of the usual stamp: that much was impossible not to observe. He looked ungainly, a touch heavy-limbed to be a man at home in the saddle. And his features were a deal less fine than the subalterns prided themselves on. In the few words of his salutation he revealed that he came from the north of England (although that in itself said nothing, for the proud and independent gentry of the northern counties had provided many a son to the regiment during the war). But there was just something… No, thought Hervey; here indeed was a queer card.

'When did you come?' he asked, with deliberate kindness. 'Three months ago, sir.' 'Did you come via the depot?' 'No, sir.'

Nothing more volunteered than the precise answer – this was going to be heavy.

Vanneck sought to help. 'He has bought two fine chargers, I might say. One of them was that bay of Williams's in the bodyguard.'

Hervey nodded. 'I much approve. I had a mind to buy him myself if ever he came up.' 'Thank you, sir.'

Green's hair was sticking up by his right temple, like a duck's tuft. Hervey found himself staring at it.

Vanneck kept trying. 'Green was just about to go to the adjutant. He's picket-officer today.'

'So I see,' said Hervey, glancing at the cornet's review order.

Green's tunic, and all, looked in themselves immaculate, but even Mr Gieve's best efforts could not make a military coat hang well on a dumpling.

'Very good, Green,' said Hervey, trying hard not to sound dismayed. cWe'll speak at length tomorrow when your duties are done.'

Cornet Green coloured a little, put on his shako (askew, but Hervey thought best to say nothing -the adjutant would correct it soon enough), saluted and took his leave.

When he had gone, Hervey sat down and looked at Vanneck quizzically.

Vanneck sighed. 'I know. But he means well. The others have given him quite a rousting, though. His nickname's "grocer''.' 'Green-, I suppose?'

Vanneck nodded. 'That, and his father's a tea merchant, in Lincolnshire.' He paused, then added, 'In Stamford,' as if that fact might be of some use.

Hervey smiled ruefully. 'Evidently they drink a lot of tea in Stamford if he can afford Williams's bay.'

'Oh, he's not short of money. On the contrary. The trouble is his ambition is rather in advance of his capability. He's yet to pass out of riding school.' 'Indeed?'

'I did tell him that he might buy a more tractable charger to begin with, but he seemed keen to make a splash.' 'Poor fellow.'

'Yes. And the RM's been sick the while, so the rough-riders have had their fun with him, I'm afraid.'

Hervey laid his cap and whip on the table. 'Can't you help at all, Myles?'

'I'm doing just that, Hervey. I take him out beyond the syces' huts late of an afternoon, where there's no one to see. But I'm not sure he has the hands or legs for it, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't the head.' 'Oh dear. And the drill season about to start.'

'Quite. I'm afraid the dragoons have a poor opinion of him already. He's too stiff about the place.'

'It's hardly surprising from what you tell me. But there have been stiff-necks before; he can overcome that in time. You will keep at him, Myles?'

Vanneck sighed. 'Yes, Hervey. Of course I will. But the others have no such duty as they see it. The trouble is, he has no conversation – and seemingly no interests. At mess the other night even the chaplain gave up on him, and then he fell off his chair quite stupefied.' 'The chaplain?' 'No, Green.'

Hervey smiled again. 'Well, there at least is sign of a kindred spirit, is there not?'

Vanneck smiled too. 'You would think so, but to hear them you'd imagine the cornets had become temperance Methodists.' 'Seems a hopeless case then.'

But Vanneck's sense of propriety took hold again. 'There must have been worse, Hervey. It's perhaps because there's scarce been anything to do these last few months but bear the heat and the rain.'

It was a decent response, and Hervey would not gainsay it, though in truth he could not think of another officer who had made so unpromising a beginning. 'How has Armstrong been, by the way?' 'It would be impossible to praise him excessively.' 'That's as I supposed. How is his family?'

'All well, I understand. Mrs Armstrong is schoolmistress again. There's an ayah for the three babies.'

Hervey faltered – just an instant – at being reminded there were now three. 'Big babies, two of them.'

'Yes. They brought the eldest to stables the other evening.'

Hervey made an effort to collect himself. 'Now, we must speak of the state of the troop. I think I had better look at the order books of late, and then perhaps the acquittance rolls.'

But first he would need to see the muster, and Vanneck looked pained as he opened it at the first page, for it seemed there were as many names struck through with red as not.

Hervey stared at it forlornly. He had shaken the hand of every man on attesting. These had been his dragoons. The red pen strokes looked every bit as bloody as the sabre's, and not a fraction as glorious.