have been the profoundest wonder to Hervey to discover in what affection, admiration even, the major held him. Lankester may have been the regimental paragon, and Edmonds would have been loudest in his praise, but something in the captain’s Corinthian accomplishment put Edmonds not wholly at ease in his company. In Hervey he saw something of himself as a young cornet, but — and this was the distinction — he saw in him, too, a quality, not easily defined, which might with care and good fortune secure his advancement beyond mere field rank. ‘My dear boy,’ he repeated, ‘everything you have told me accords perfectly with all that I have heard from several different quarters. The matter is entirely closed.’
Hervey’s relief was palpable. That relief in itself was sufficient balm in his troubled circumstances, but Edmonds’s next pronouncement was in the nature of a miracle-cure.
‘I have, no less, a letter of appreciation from the commander-in-chief,’ the major continued, his words now betraying just the faintest trace of the opium’s solvent. ‘The field marshal seems to be making a particular effort to praise his cavalry for a change, doubtless because there has been no riot since Vitoria. But then again, everyone will ascribe this new and godly discipline to an increase in flogging,’ he declared sardonically, for he himself loathed the practice intensely, and he considered the Sixth’s discipline to be the stronger for its absence. Clearing his throat he began to read the formal commendation: ‘“His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief is pleased to express his appreciation of the valuable service performed yesterday by the 6th Light Dragoons under the immediate command of Major Edmonds” — no doubt they had to delve hard to discover my name,’ he added caustically, ‘“… the soldierlike conduct … the constancy of duty … the celerity and gallantry of execution … The Commander-in-Chief will commend these observations to the Horse Guards in the highest possible terms of approbation …”’
Edmonds placed the letter on the table. ‘But the honour is all yours, my boy, and you may be assured that I shall convey that fact in my reply, though I must confide that my recommendation will hardly count for much. But Sir Stapleton Cotton, too, wants you to have some preferment. There will be a lieutenant’s vacancy soon when Rawlings goes to the Tenth and, while you are not the next in seniority, there would be no objection in the circumstances to the lieutenancy’s being yours if you can find the money.’
Praise had been one thing, but Hervey was taken wholly aback by the offer of seniority. He had been superseded so many times by others with greater means that he had reconciled himself to a long wait. By his rapid reckoning he could own to six hundred pounds — just — but he would need twelve hundred for the lieutenancy, and his cornetcy would bring, say, eight hundred and fifty. It would be tight, especially with new regimentals to buy, but if he could purchase lieutenant’s rank it would mean that in twelve months he would be eligible for a captaincy, and a troop, though how he would be able then to find the additional two thousand pounds when his father was a mere country parson, with no other patron but the diocese to the living, and a modest enough living at that, was quite beyond him for the present.
‘Well, then, Mr Hervey? How say you? Is it “yes” or are we to put up the lieutenancy for auction in Craig’s Court?’
Hervey accepted with alacrity, and left the orderly room in higher spirits than he had known in many a month. But as he did so a voice hailed him from across the courtyard, a voice which only another from the Black Country could find appealing, and which, for a cornet, invariably portended something bothersome. Lieutenant and Adjutant Ezra Barrow’s eighteen years in the ranks of the 1st Dragoons had made him long on soldierly wisdom but short on ceremony — the ‘inelegant extract’ as he was known by the dandier officers.
‘Mr Hervey, you look sound to me; you can be picket officer. Stables now, if you please.’
In God’s name, Hervey recoiled, how those Birmingham vowels grated! He wondered how anyone could deride Johnson’s when Barrow’s sounded so witless.
‘Oh, and congratulations on the lieutenancy. I reckon your troop’ll pass the plate round if yer father can’t pass his: they’re all sitting high in the stirrups — there’s a deal of Vitoria gold in them ’aversacks!’
Hervey smiled thinly. That Barrow of all people should taunt him for his lack of means irritated beyond measure. It was bad enough with the likes of Rawlings sneering, good-natured though it might have been. He had a perfectly adequate allowance — adequate, that is, for campaign service: he did not suppose it would amount to much in Brighton or Dublin. Perhaps Barrow did not think much of the clergy or their younger sons? Queer fellow — efficient, certainly, but no boon companion. He supposed Lord George Irvine must have known what he was doing when he brought Barrow in from the Royals, though Hervey could hardly believe that there were not others as congenial as they were capable.
‘Thank you, Barrow. Decent of you to say so,’ he replied with as much courtesy as he could summon: he would have preferred the company of his mess, and its table, to this sudden imposition of picket duty.
As he entered the cloisters, where standing stalls for the three hundred or so troop horses had been improvised, just within the letter of Wellington’s ordinance that churches should not be taken for stabling, there was an audible groan. Every dragoon knew that Hervey on picket meant twice as long an inspection, but if the respect were grudging it was real none the less. ‘This hay is poor, Sarn’t-Major,’ he began, though he might have said the same at any stables parade since the summer before.
‘As bad as I’ve seen, sir. We’re damping it down but I hope the quartermasters come back with better soon or they’ll all be coughing on it.’
It was C Troop’s man on duty, a long-limbed Salopian whose father had been the Wynnstay’s huntsman for twenty years, and with the best hands in the Serjeants’ mess.
‘And what is the ration of hard feed today?’
‘A half-stone of corn, sir; and good crushed barley it is, too. They had two pounds with chop first thing, then the same again at midday.’
‘Better than it has been but still not enough.’
‘About half what they need. We would not be hunting on this at home now.’
Hervey’s eye was next drawn to a sorrowful-looking chestnut tied up in a dark corner, away from the others, with its head down almost to the floor.
‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked the farrier close by.
‘Moon blindness, sir. I’m to shoot ’im as soon as I’ve taken ’is shoes off.’
‘Moon blindness?’ he replied.
‘Sir; it’s a disease of—’
‘Well, I know what it’s a disease of, Corporal, but there has not been a single case since I have been in the regiment.’
‘Tell the truth, sir, I ’aven’t seen a case, either.’
‘And nor have I,’ added the troop serjeant-major, whose fourteen years as a dragoon settled the question of its incidence.
‘This is the veterinary officer’s judgement?’ asked Hervey, though it was unlikely that it could have been any other’s.
‘Ay, sir,’ replied the farrier. ‘He saw ’im after first parade and then again after watering this afternoon.’
Hervey stepped closer and reached out slowly to the gelding’s head, but the horse made no move. He crouched down and saw that the left eye was closed, with swelling around it and a heavy discharge.
‘Careful, sir,’ called the farrier, ‘he’s terrible shy about the head.’
‘How does his eye look?’ Hervey asked.
‘Tell the truth again, sir, I ’aven’t seen it. It’s been closed all day. I’ll fetch his trooper.’
Private Clamp was a young man, eighteen or so, recently joined from the depot squadron. He wore his stable-clothes with the mark of the recruit and he looked unhappy.
‘Clamp, have any of your troop officers seen this horse?’
‘No, sir, not today. They’re all on outpicket.’
‘How long have you had him?’
‘Since I came, sir, just after Christmas,’ he answered, sounding even more unhappy.
‘Clamp, there is no need to look quite so troubled: I am not about to have you arrested.
’Clamp’s eyes began to go misty.
‘God help us,’ sighed the serjeant-major.
‘It’s not that, sir,’ continued the trooper, his soft Devon voice in a quaver, ‘I ’ave two ’orses to do, an’ they’re both chestnuts, an’the other one were bad like this when I got ’ere, and if he goes like this one, too … well …’
‘That’s enough, Clamp, and stand properly to attention there!’ snapped the serjeant-major, though with just enough sympathy in his voice to stay the boy’s rambling without precipitating tears.
