as in Horningsham, but shriller, although a bulbul was giving out its melodious, liquid call from deep inside a leafy shrub. A pair of night herons flapped overhead, from the direction of the river, their distinctive ‘kwaark, kwaark’ more than ever importunate in the quiet of the dawn. Hervey breathed deep, in both senses, eager to begin.
A minute or so later and the sound of hooves on hard earth quickened him even more. Wiry little horses, country-breds, not Arabs, led by equally wiry syces, came up the carriage drive in a restive jog-trot. There had been some heat in Jessye’s leg after their ride yesterday and Hervey had told Johnson that she was to have box-rest for a day or so. These country-breds looked handy enough, however, and he had sufficient respect for the collector’s eye for horses to trust that he would have under him an honest gelding. As the three mounted, each with the help of as many syces — one holding the bridle, one on the offside pulling down the stirrup leather, and the third with palm on knee in lieu of a mounting block — there arrived from the cantonment the patrol that was to determine whether the Pindarees’ incursion was the precursor of another fierce predation, or whether it had been a single freebooting action. And as the Godavari river was to be the limit of their reconnaissance, they carried with them — or, rather, bullock carts would follow with — camp stores and provisions for a week’s essay.
Had the officer commanding the cavalry troop been attired according to the regulations, he would have looked more magnificent than Hervey himself on a full-dress parade, for the Madras Light Cavalry’s uniform was a French-blue hussar jacket, with silver lace across the chest, sky-blue overalls and a Greek helmet with a shoulder- length, white horsehair plume. But this morning, as most days, the officer (as his troopers) wore the same shako as Hervey had at Waterloo, but instead of a black oilskin cover it had one of buff cotton with a piece of cloth to shield the neck from the sun. The officer saluted the party from the civil lines eagerly with his sword — the straightpattern sabre, unlike Hervey’s. ‘Cornet Templer, sir,’ he said, smiling.
‘Yes, Mr Templer,’ replied the collector; ‘I am not likely to forget. I shall not wager my mare against yours quite so soon again, unless I find a more talented jockey than that jackanapes who calls himself your lieutenant! You should take her to Madras: she will win you a small fortune.’
Cornet Templer looked not much more than a boy. His tanned face was framed by curls the colour of autumn corn, and it now seemed to be but one large smile. Hervey took to him at once, for his liveliness was infectious, his eagerness admirable. Just the sort of cornet he would have wanted for his own troop — a clean young Englishman. There was a deal of handshaking following the saluting. Lieutenant of Marines Henry Locke took to the cornet too, though, as his seat was less certain than once it might have been, it was not without some difficulty that he managed to press his mount to within handshaking distance. Cornet Templer looked him straight in the eye, seeming not to see any disfigurement. And that to Locke — more than Hervey or even Peto might have supposed — meant a very great deal.
There was one more introduction to effect. Cornet Templer turned his head towards his troop. ‘Subedar, sahib,’ he called, still smiling. A tall Madrasi, dressed almost identically to Templer, jogged up on his big gelding — an animal in better condition than Hervey had yet seen in the country. ‘Gentlemen, this is Subedar Thangraj. He will not permit us to get into too much trouble.’
Subedar Thangraj straightened his back still further, and saluted high, almost touching the crown of his shako. ‘Captain, sahib, it is an honour to meet with one who has fought at the great battle of Waterloo,’ he said in clear, confident English, looking directly, and with much solemnity, at Hervey.
‘Thank you, Subedar sahib,’ he replied formally, though astonished that these details should already be known to this native officer — and that the man should be so wholly confident of recognizing to whom the distinction applied. But he was puzzled by the rank. ‘Templer, you said “Subedar”; I understood that in the cavalry the rank is “Rissaldar”.’
‘In the armies of Bombay and Bengal, yes sir, but not in Madras.’
‘And is this so for the other ranks?’
‘It is. All our private men are sepoys, not sowars.’
‘How so?’ asked Hervey, vexed with himself for being unaware that there should be this difference.
‘I do not know,’ said Templer, with the elements of a frown now added to his wide smile. ‘But since Madras was the
‘Quite so,’ smiled Hervey, recognizing the propriety. ‘Is there very much difference in other respects between the three armies?’
‘Indeed there is, though I have not been in the country long enough to see at first hand. But when we make camp tonight I shall be glad to tell you what I know.’
There was evidently more to Cornet Templer than his broad, easy smile — and Hervey liked him even better for it.
When all were satisfied that the necessary salutations had been made, Cornet Templer asked the collector for leave to begin the patrol.
Somervile nodded.
‘Walk-march please, Subedar sahib,’ he called. It seemed to Hervey more a friendly invitation than a command.
‘Very good, sahib,’ replied the subedar, who barked the orders in turn to the patrol, but in a tongue Hervey did not recognize. The sepoys straightened their backs once more and the column moved off in a cloud of dust fetlock-high, out of the civil lines and on to the wide palmyra avenue that led directly to the high road north to the Krishna river — and thence, if they were to remain on it rather than branching north-east (the latter being their intention), to the Rajah of Chintal’s capital at Chintalpore.
Dust rose higher as they settled to a brisk working trot, kicked up by the more extravagant action of one or two of the horses, fresh and eager to stretch their legs after a night in standing-stalls. The dust quickly reached his nostrils, yet it was not wholly unwelcome, for it seemed no different from the spices to which he was becoming accustomed. Indeed, he was already of a mind that this taste of baked earth was rather the essence of India, like the light which transformed the way he saw things, or the heat at midday, as if hands were touching him. It was not possible, even momentarily, to be insensate in this land, for the presents to each and every sense were so potent as to be almost compelling. Already he had observed that no bird had anything but the gaudiest plumage. Not even an insect concealed itself by drab colour. No noise was restrained, no taste — in either sense — was mild. No smell was anything but pungent, no belief incredible, no notion too outlandish. And all this within the civil lines of the Company’s very regular station at Guntoor. Now he would see Hindoostan — the country beyond the chunam and the chintz, beyond the exaggerated English manners of the Company’s officials and their liveried servants. He would see it just as he had wanted to see Ireland beyond the Pale, a year and a half ago. The experience of native Ireland had taught him, however, that although he might cross such a divide physically, to do so with his heart spelled ruin. He would be on his guard.
But home thoughts were with him yet as they jogged past pretty bungalows (the word new to him), whose white fences and trim gardens would not have been out of place in Sussex. ‘Which part of England are you come from?’ he asked, Cornet Templer now having drawn alongside him.
‘I don’t call any part home, sir,’ replied Templer, still smiling; ‘I spent three terms at Harrow but went thence to Addiscombe, for I was first meant for the Company’s sappers. My people are from Wicklow.’
So much for his instinct for people, thought Hervey —
Hervey rode thereafter with Locke and the collector, several yards off to the flank in order to avoid the dust. They wore mixed dress, with overalls of light canvas made up for them a day or so before in Guntoor, and their sword belts were simple affairs with snakefastening and no sash. Locke wore a marine man’s hat of black glazed leather, with a neck shield pinned to it, and Hervey wore his own shako with a cream cover and neck flap — like Templer and his men. But neither of them had on a tunic of appreciably martial stamp. Hervey’s was a coat of hunting length, the same colour as his shako, and he wore a yellow silk stock. Locke had on a cutaway of the same weight of cotton, but of a dusty pink colour, together with a white stock and his treasured gorget. Despite this mixture, however, neither man could have appeared to an onlooker as anything other than military, whereas nothing could have been further from the case with the collector, whose black coat made no concession to what Hervey supposed would soon be the excessive heat of the day — though his wide-brimmed straw hat would provide considerably greater protection from the sun than the short peak of Hervey’s shako or the pulled-up brim of Locke’s headdress.
