Nizams Daughters

He had to try his fingers to keep count of the stages. Longleat to… Dover? A day and a night? The crossing — a day, a night? And if she left on the twelfth, early?… Great heavens but it could be done: she might arrive in France this very evening! He rushed from his room to summon the best man for what he had in mind, and then set pen to paper to explain to Henrietta where his new orders were to take him, and their immediacy. Writing at great speed, without time for circumspection, he found himself penning endearments so direct that he blushed as he reread them, unlike some of the lame affairs he had tried hitherto. By the time the knock came at his door, he was positively fired with excitement. ‘Corporal Collins, how is your big French charger?’ he asked, still writing hurriedly.

The NCO looked at him a trifle askance. ‘In hale condition, Captain Hervey, sir.’ The news of his promotion, as any news of note, had not escaped the admirable Collins.

‘Good, I want you to gallop him to Calais, intercept Lady Henrietta Lindsay and escort her to Le Havre, to His Majesty’s Ship Nisus, and by first light on Wednesday! Oh, and I wish you to give her this,’ he beamed, handing him the letter.

Corporal Collins remained as unperturbable as he had been the day of Hervey’s arrest in the middle of the battle at Toulouse. But he did have questions. ‘I take it, sir, that you do not know by which ship her ladyship will arrive?’

‘You are correct, Corporal Collins; I am not even sure that she will arrive at Calais.’

‘I see, sir. Nor, I presume, when exactly she might arrive?’

‘Just so,’ replied Hervey briskly.

‘You wish me, in essence, sir, to patrol the Dover straits and intercept Lady Henrietta?’

‘You have had less agreeable scouting missions, Corporal Collins!’

‘Indeed, sir.’ Collins’s blithe enquiries could hardly conceal his amusement, though not even Hervey’s broad smile could tempt him from his picture of correctness: with a third stripe, maybe, but he still had to secure that precious piece of tape, and correctness meanwhile would be his order of the day. ‘And I presume that at first light on Wednesday your ship will set sail for wherever she is sailing?’

‘India — yes, perhaps even earlier, but not, probably, later.’

‘I shall do my best, Captain Hervey, and, if that is all, I shall take my leave and put my gelding for the coast.’

‘Thank you, Corporal Collins: this may turn out a deuced more important ride than the time you galloped for me at Toulouse.’

Collins allowed himself the suggestion of a smile. ‘I shall at least receive more than a glower at the end of it, sir, unlike with the major!’

Hervey sighed. ‘That you will, though I miss the major’s scowls right enough.’

‘There is not a man that doesn’t, sir. I never imagined we would finish that day in June with so few left in the saddle, but never did I imagine we would see such a battle — just pounding all day.’

‘Well, Bonaparte is on his way to the south Atlantic, so we are told. There’ll be no escape from there.’

‘If I might just say, sir — it’s nice to see you back, and Captain Hervey. I hope you will not be long away, wherever it is you are going.’

‘Thank you, Corporal Collins,’ he replied; ‘I am truly very touched.’

And with that, and the most punctilious of salutes, his erstwhile covering-corporal made off for his gallop, leaving him to the first pangs of regret at promotion away from the family of the Sixth.

Having put his trust in the best NCO-galloper in the regiment, Hervey now followed with military prudence to set in place a plan should Collins fail in his mission. He would seek out the picket serjeant-major, whose name for duty that day he had read in regimental orders with a smile. First, though, he must apprise his commanding officer — for such Lord George still was until formalities were completed — of all that had happened, and next he must inform the adjutant of his despatch of Corporal Collins and the possible arrival, after he himself had left for Le Havre, of Henrietta. And then he would look for the man most likely to serve him aptly, for although Lord George Irvine would be all emollience to any wound, Serjeant Armstrong might have a mastery of Henrietta that no officer was likely to gain.

Hervey found him where in camp he habitually was at that time of the afternoon (whether picket serjeant- major or not), the day’s work largely done, the dog hour before evening stables. The wet canteen was doing brisk trade, and Armstrong sat outside smoking a long meerschaum (the King’s German Legion had made them all the fashion), reading his orders and making entries for such duties as had been completed at this stage of his picket. It was the first they had seen of each other in the best part of a month, and the shared pleasure in the reunion was as much that of friends as of officer and serjeant. Hervey wished first to know how was his arm, for it had taken the glancing point of a lance at Waterloo, and three weeks later — when he had left for England — the wound was not fully closed. Armstrong took off his jacket, pulled up his shirt sleeve and showed him the vivid but dry scar, greatly amused that it was in the shape of a chevron. Which meant, he reckoned, that promotion to serjeant-major was imminent, or — more likely, he sighed — demotion to corporal. Either way, the surgeon had told him that his sword arm would soon regain its full, formidable, power. Hervey told him of his own good news — the promotion and appointment to the duke’s staff (though Armstrong, like Collins, knew of it already) and his India orders. At once Armstrong insisted he be allowed to accompany him.

That was not possible, said Hervey: he had no authority to engage a serjeant.

‘Aw, Mr Hervey, I’d rather gan wi’ ’ee any day than stay ’ere faggin’ aboot like Miss Molly!’

Hervey laughed. How he could lay on the Tyneside for effect! ‘Geordie Armstrong, let me remind you of scripture — “I have married a wife and therefore I cannot come”!’

Serjeant Armstrong had recently drawn quarters by ballot for Caithlin to join him from Cork, and he looked sheepish at the reminding of it. ‘But don’t you preach at me, Mr Hervey!’

‘I should not dream of it,’ he laughed once more: ‘not now that you’re a good Catholic!’

‘Now there’s a rum snitch for you! You know I had no choice!’

‘No, indeed,’ replied Hervey, smiling still. ‘Caithlin was worth a mass!’

‘Bugger the Pope!’

Hervey frowned in a sort of dutiful disapproval.

Two passing dragoons lost step as they saluted, bringing a blistering rebuke from Armstrong and sending them doubling away as if the sutler were after them at pay parade. ‘This new draft from Canterbury — can’t even walk in a straight line. I sometimes wish I had that depot squadron!’ He took another long draw on his pipe, spat with impressive force and direction into a gutter, and all but emptied his tankard. ‘How are things at hind-quarters? Still pushing out horse-shit are they, sir?’

Hervey smiled at the old joke. ‘The duke looked well, the little I saw of him. He had a very handsome young lady on his arm — that much I can tell you.’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Armstrong knowingly; ‘that’d be Lady Shelley. She’s hot-arsed for him!’

‘How do you know that?’ he asked, quite taken aback. ‘Is it common knowledge?’

‘Because I did a stint as brigade orderly serjeant last week and saw ’em every day in the Shamsel Easy. He lets ’er ride that chestnut of his.’

‘Well, doubtless it’s all innocent enough,’ Hervey shrugged. ‘He’s earned a little recreation, has he not?’

‘Ay, no-one would deny that. But there’s many as wish that he’d put pen to paper again and do his cavalry justice for yon battle. Have you read his despatch yet?’ He pointed to the old canteen copy of the Times. ‘A lame affair if you ask me: you’d think there’d not been a British horse within a dozen miles of the place!’

‘No, I have not yet read it — but I have heard say that the duke regrets he did not give more praise. Besides, we know the truth, and that is what matters in the end, does it not?’

‘Ay,’ he sighed; ‘and some of it is best not come out, I suppose.’

Silence followed. At length, when Hervey had forced himself to stop thinking of Serjeant Strange and the French lancers (for he could still not wholly rid himself of guilt in allowing Strange to pay with his life so that he might reach the Prussians in time), he steeled himself to his other purpose. ‘I have a favour to ask. It may not come to it, but I have to be prepared.’

Serjeant Armstrong looked intrigued. ‘Ay, anything sir.’

Hervey recounted the long, involved story — the leaving of Horningsham, the business at the Horse Guards, the frigate, Henrietta’s letter, Corporal Collins’s dash to the Channel… He was beyond being abashed at the muddle