and from time to time he would catch sight of the soaring pagoda of Shwedagon a league or so to the north, rising above the squat meanness like St Paul's above the rookeries of the City.
'I would lay odds that yonder place will be a regular hornet's nest,' said Hervey to Wainwright as they climbed a wall to get a better view. 'I'll warrant that's where they've bolted with the treasury.'
There was shooting still, sporadic shots from the redcoats searching the streets. But it did not trouble him. He knew they were aimed not at the enemy but at obstinate locks. It had been the same every time they had captured a place in Spain. It took a while, always, for the officers to regain order -hot blood, the exhilaration of being alive after the fight, the prospect of a bit of gold, the certainty of finding something to slake a thirst. That was all it was, but it could be brute enough when it ran unchecked for too long. At least he would not see the worst of it today, for there had been no fighting to hot the blood, no long march beforehand. Only the wretched, clammy heat of the day.
They pressed on. Several much smaller pagodas bore the signs of the infantry's passing.
'Ah, this looks worthier,' said Hervey, stopping at one of them. 'As resplendent, I'd say, as any of the shrines around Calcutta. Except, of course, it's all sham.' He prodded at the gold leaf with his sabre. 'In Calcutta it would be marble instead of this teak, and the inlay wouldn't be glass. Evidently our red-coated friends thought little of it.'
The pillaging seemed to have consisted in dashing all the lattices to the floor and then being disappointed to find that the imagined rubies and emeralds became so many cheap shards. Hervey sighed to himself. He'd seen a lot worse – the Prussians, for one (after Waterloo they had been thoroughly wanton in their destruction). But knocking down even gaudy pagodas was hardly the way to win the hearts of the Burman people, let alone their active support. And support was what General Campbell's plan of campaign depended on. He just hoped the officers would have their men in hand soon.
'But solid enough, sir,' said Wainwright, having made his own assessment of the structure. He pointed to the roof. 'Look at that.' An iron shot from one of the broadsides was embedded in a joist. It had not fully penetrated but had somehow caused the wood to splinter on the inside. Hervey had heard Peto speak of the especial danger in teak-built men-of-war. Unlike oak, Peto said, a teak splinter invariably meant a septic wound. He had been most insistent on it, most insistent that while the Indies might be a place of sickness for the soldier, the sailor faced his trials too.
Many would be the trials in this campaign, right enough. Hervey sheathed his sabre and took off his shako. 'You know, Corporal Wainwright, it is one thing to enter the roads of a seaport and bombard the town – many a captain's done that. But it's quite another to sail upstream for all of five hundred miles when the degree of resistance is uncertain.'
Corporal Wainwright had been a dragoon for nearly five years and had worn a chevron for two of them. Hervey held him in particular regard, not least because he was recruited from his own town, but more so because of his thoroughgoing decency and unwavering sense of duty. He reminded him of Serjeant Strange, yet without that fine NCO's somewhat chilly piety. Hervey had made him his covering corporal at the first opportunity.
'Well, it couldn't be less resistance than here, sir.'
It was true that the defenders of Rangoon had been scarcely worth the name so far, but was the town defensible against so powerful a cannonade as that which Peto's ships had delivered at point-blank range? Hervey sat down on the pagoda steps and loosened his collar. 'But what does the disappearance of every living soul, and all their chattels and livestock, bode?'
Corporal Wainwright had not been on campaign. He had tramped through the jungle three years before with Hervey's troop to fire the Burman war boats, but that was a mere raid, scarcely comparable in military organization with the scale of this expedition. This indeed was war. Nevertheless, he could make a fair estimate. 'One way or another, sir, we're going to be here longer than we thought.'
Hervey nodded. He knew from Peninsula days that General Campbell could make battle, but he had no idea if he could make war. What he had seen so far – not least the delays even in getting to Rangoon – was not auspicious. 'Well, Corporal Wainwright,' he said, taking a draw on his canteen. 'I think that it is a show of resistance and we might expect more. I think the battalions had better get this place into a state of defence quickly, lest the Burmans counter-attack. Our men-of-war wouldn't be able to support them. It may well be why the Burmans abandoned the town.'
As if in response to Hervey's assessment, redcoats of His Majesty's 38th Foot now came doubling past. Except that things weren't quite right.
Hervey sprang up. 'Come on, Corporal Wainwright. There's the glint of gold in those eyes.'
More men rushed by, without NCOs, almost knocking Wainwright to the ground. 'Or liquor, sir.' 'Either way it'll be trouble.'
They drew their sabres. Wainwright lashed out with the flat of his to check the barging of another gaggle, this time from the Thirteenth. 'Hold hard! Don't you see the officer?' he bawled.
They took off after the Thirty-eighth, Hervey cursing.
The narrow ways between the houses were soon choked with men, some without their muskets. Then it was impossible to go any further. Wainwright clambered onto the roof of one of the more solid-looking houses to try to see ahead. He was down again as quickly, bringing a shower of tiles with him and a foul string of abuse from the infantrymen below. 'Drink, sir. They're tossing bottles of it out of a warehouse. There must be two hundred men there, at least.'
'Well, we can't do anything of ourselves. Where are their NCOs?' Hervey turned and began pushing his way past men still homing on the irregular issue. 'Always the same,' he snarled, using his own sabre freely to force his way through. 'And these not even Irish!'
Down one of the side streets they found a picket of the Forty-first in good order. The corporal came to attention.
'Where is your officer?' asked Hervey, raising his sword to acknowledge.
'The colonel is only just in there, sir,' replied the man in a pronounced Welsh accent, indicating an official- looking building with a high-canted roof. 'The picket officer 'as just been round, sir.'
Hervey nodded and sheathed his sword, then made for the battalion's headquarters.
The Forty-first's colours were hanging from a window, with a sentry close to. 'I am Captain Hervey, of General Campbell's staff. I should like to speak to your colonel.' Hervey touched his shako in reply to the private man's butt salute. 'Sir!' The sentry turned and went inside.
Hervey shook his head. Between the Forty-first and the Thirty-eighth, and for that matter the Thirteenth, there was nothing to choose as a rule. They were all steady on parade: he had seen it with his own eyes in Calcutta. But once the NCOs had lost their hold-
The adjutant came out, hatless. 'Captain Hervey!' He made a small, brisk bow. 'The colonel is with the brigade-major. May I assist you?'
'There's a riot towards the north gates,' began Hervey, indicating the general direction. 'The Thirteenth and the Thirty-eighth, two companies and more arriving, and no sign of their officers. They've found a drink store.' The adjutant did not hesitate. 'Serjeant-major!'
Out came the shortest regimental serjeant-major Hervey had ever seen, shorter even than Private Johnson. 'Yessah!'
'There's a riot of the other two battalions. Summon the picket.' 'Sah!'
Til have the reserve company under arms at once, Captain Hervey. But the picket – a stitch in time.'
Hervey was not certain he understood. 'I don't think a picket will be-'
The RSM reappeared. His eyes blazed as he struck the palm of his hand with the silver knob of his cane. 'Right, sah!'
The picket – a dozen men – were already falling in.
The RSM was impatient for the off. Twenty years in a red coat told him that indiscipline was contagious, and he was not about to have his Welshmen tempted from military virtue by intemperate roughs from other regiments. 'Follow me, Corporal Jones. Double march!' Hervey had no choice but to take the lead.
A curious sight they made, a captain and a lance-corporal of light dragoons doubling through the alleyways of Rangoon with a dozen red-coated infantrymen in file behind them, muskets at the high port and the diminutive RSM at their head. But the stitch was not in time enough to prevent the drink from doing its worst. When they reached the warehouse there was hardly a man on his feet, and those that were staggered hatless and without their
