On His Majesty's Service

arch told the fuller story, as it did on many of the barracks about the capital. On the first day of February that year, Britain had declared war on France: the soldier could no longer be despised and billeted on reluctant innkeepers if he were to be the safeguard of the nation when the French came (or else be a bulwark against Jacobin ambitions within); he needed the constant drill and regulation of men in barracks. And so Mr Pitt would beggar the Treasury and build them their martial homes (and make an income tax to continue his war).

But this morning the barracks were not the bustle as before. There were no signs of actual dilapidation, yet the absence of dragoons was all too plain – no band, no foot drill, no skill-at-arms, no sound of the blacksmith’s forge. And Hervey could not but admit to himself that this was how it would be every day with the regiment en cadre. The adjutant was at orderly room, however (and had been for many hours), for the work of the lieutenant-colonel’s executive officer was scarcely diminished when the squadrons were out of barracks; here, at least, they would find, so to speak, the regular pulse of the 6th Light Dragoons.

For some years the Sixth had employed ‘regimental’ officers as adjutant rather than those commissioned from the ranks, the more usual practice, and in Lieutenant Thomas Malet, though he had but a fraction of the service normally accrued by a former serjeant-major, they considered themselves possessed of a most diligent executive.

‘Good morning, Colonel Hervey. I knew you would be come, though I only lately saw your name gazetted,’ he said, rising, and smiling with evident pleasure at seeing the man soon to take the place of Lord Holderness. ‘And you, Captain Fairbrother: it is good to see you again.’ He called one of the orderlies to bring coffee. ‘Or Madeira, perhaps?’

‘Coffee,’ replied Hervey.

‘Captain Fairbrother?’

‘Coffee, thank you. Or should I withdraw?’ Hervey had said neither one thing nor the other, but Fairbrother had no wish to intrude on regimental business.

Malet looked at Hervey, who shook his head, and the three of them sat down.

‘Your groom is safely arrived, by the way, sir. He is making himself useful to the sar’nt-major, it seems.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Hervey, returning the now distinctly ironic smile. ‘But I shall reclaim him presently, the sar’nt-major will be pleased to learn.’

The orderly returned with a silver tray and the regimental Spode.

Once he had dismissed, Malet turned to the serious business of the orderly room. ‘Let me own at once that I fear you will find things rather … straitened. Every troop but Vanneck’s is called away. First has gone to Bristol, no less.’

‘The price of light cavalry,’ replied Hervey, with a gesture of resignation. Dispersal in penny-packets, the commanding officer left with no more to command than clerks and bottle-washers – such was the cross to be borne. ‘Where is the colonel?’

‘York. A court martial.’

He raised an eyebrow. That, too, was the price of light cavalry – the commanding officer at first call for the administration of military law, for others were thought more indispensible to their corps.

‘A deuced tricky court martial, it would appear,’ explained Malet. ‘The adjutant-general particularly requested his lordship as a member.’

‘Indeed?’ Hervey took a sip of his coffee. ‘What have you heard of the measure to place the regiment en cadre?’

Malet looked surprised. ‘I had not imagined the news was abroad. Lord Hol’ness was told only when he called on the Horse Guards before proceeding north.’

‘I was at the Horse Guards yesterday. I am glad the news is not yet abroad. It could do untold harm.’

Malet nodded. ‘May I enquire what are your prospects, therefore, sir?’

‘They are not yet clear,’ replied Hervey, truthfully (he saw no occasion to add to the untold harm by saying that he had been offered the Fifty-third). ‘I have first the commander-in-chief’s assignment with the Russians. You knew of that?’

‘I did.’

In any case, Hervey had other concerns before his own at this moment. ‘How is Sar’nt-Major Armstrong?’

Fairbrother had wondered how long it would be before he enquired: Hervey had brooded on the matter during the passage home, but had said nothing since coming to London. He knew that Armstrong stood as strong in his friend’s particular regard – affection, indeed – as any. And Malet’s face, lifted by the mention of the name, was testimony too to the high opinion generally in which the sar’nt-major was held. Here, if he had ever needed it, was clinching evidence that the Sixth held themselves in peculiar mutual affinity. There were the rogues, the villains, the ‘bad hats’, to be sure, but he had never had the sense that officers and men stood in constitutional antipathy to one another, as sometimes they did elsewhere. In his own former corps, the Royal Africans, the officers had had a sense of ownership – though with little enough pride of ownership – the other ranks merely serving out some wretched indenture. Yes, a good many of those were ‘options men’ – prison or the King’s shilling (and often enough without even the option) – with little good character to which a decent officer might appeal, but, even so, the discipline of the Royal Africans and that of the Sixth were as the proverbial chalk to cheese. Would it be so with the Fifty-third? From what he had seen and heard of Lord Hill, their colonel, he could not suppose that it would be exactly so, but he perfectly understood his friend’s desire to command these dragoons. The only question was at what point the Sixth ceased to be the regiment of his understanding.

But meanwhile there was good news of Armstrong to buoy the spirits. When last Hervey and Malet had spoken of him it was in connection with Caithlin’s funeral. Hervey had himself made the arrangements, for Mrs Armstrong was a Catholic, and there was no one else to deal with the unfamiliar obsequies; and then, on return to the Cape, he had broken the news to his old NCO-friend, seeing him afterwards, brave but bowed, onto a steam packet home. ‘He is married and very well.’

Hervey was all astonishment. ‘Married? To whom?’

‘Serjeant Ellis’s widow.’

‘I didn’t know Ellis was dead.’

‘An aneurysm, while on revenue duty.’

Hervey did not know Ellis well, and his wife even less. But if Armstrong had found a mother for his children then he exulted for him. ‘Where is he – Armstrong, I mean?’

‘With Worsley’s troop in Bristol, doing duty for Cox who’s gone to St John’s Wood for three months.’

Hervey looked quizzical.

‘I have a mind to put Cox in charge of rough-riders. If, that is, the regiment has an RM when it’s reduced.’

Fairbrother was as silently thankful for Armstrong’s good fortune as any man might be who knew him only very partially but with infinite admiration. He wished he could intrude on this easy regimental conference, but was wary of breaking the spell. What was St John’s Wood?

By some intuition, his friend turned to him. ‘St John’s Wood is the new Riding Establishment. I say “new”, but it was first at Pimlico. They’ve built a fine school there, roofed-over for winter.’

Fairbrother nodded appreciatively; he had no idea where was St John’s Wood, but that could wait.

‘Well, I am excessively glad that Armstrong is back at muster,’ declared Hervey, warming once more to the news.

‘So are we all,’ said Malet, but with a note of caution in his voice. ‘Though he is not rightly himself, I fear.’

‘It will take time,’ said Hervey, sounding unsurprised. He had his own experience, after all.

‘I hope profoundly that that is all it will take. He appeared to me to be quite worn out. I am no doctor, of course, and the surgeon made no remark on it, but I have read of these things.’

‘I am no doctor either, Malet, but I should say that he was in the best of health when he went aboard his ship – for a man who had been eviscerated almost as cruelly as if by a Zulu spear. I think that time and regimental duty will work a cure. And Mrs Ellis, of course – Mrs Armstrong, I mean.’

Malet nodded, more dutifully and in hope than with conviction. ‘Did you want him with you in the East?’

Hervey smiled. ‘Any man would be a fool not to want Armstrong with him when there was the prospect of action. But I must concede there are prior calls on his service – and not least Mrs