A Regimental Affair

ready, but then realized it was not the orderly room serjeant’s place to answer. ‘Very well, then, Serjeant Short — pen and ink please. And a large pot of coffee.’

Hervey issued a preliminary order at once, but it took him the better part of two hours to complete those for the march itself. The rate of progress shall be fifty miles per diem (a fair compromise between speed and handiness on arriving, he reckoned, for they would have to cover a little short of a hundred and fifty miles). The first ten miles shall be at the walk, led, a full half-hour, then at a steady trot. There shall be a halt of 15 mins… Each horse shall be given water to wash the mouth only and wisp of hay… The next six miles shall be at a fast trot and afterwards a halt of half an hour… horses to be unsaddled and rubbed down, and one peck of corn given, and water… A second ten miles, first walk, led, then brisk trot… with halt as after first… After next six miles at fast trot shall be a rest of two hours… horses to be given hay and feed of corn (they carried this themselves, and Hervey knew he hardly need detail that the men should eat their haversack rations)… then ten miles and halt as the first, followed by last eight without halt… At night billets a warm mash, with beans if weather foul, before evening feed… allowance per diem fourteen pounds of hay and twelve of oats, barley or Indian corn… He made a separate schedule for the order of march, the times of departure, and the night stops — Uxbridge, Northampton, Nottingham itself. And then he made a start on the ‘Directions for Carrying Camp Equipment’…

At length, pleased with his improvisation, he gave the sheaf of papers to the orderly room serjeant for copying and went to find his groom. It was now close on midday and the stables were quiet, Harkaway and Gilbert contentedly grinding corn in their loose boxes; but there was no sign of Private Johnson. His troop lieutenant’s groom emerged from the hay loft. ‘Oh, good morning, Lingard,’ said Hervey, a little surprised, for he knew Seton Canning to be away to Lewes with the assizes still. ‘Have you seen Johnson?’

Private Lingard looked puzzled. ‘He’s not here, sir.’

‘Yes,’ scowled Hervey. ‘I can see that. Do you know where he is?’

Lingard now looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t, rightly, sir.’

Hervey sighed. ‘Lingard, what is the matter?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

This was evasion, by any measure. ‘Come, man! I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re not saying all.’

Lingard had no option but to comply. ‘Sir, he’s at riding school.’

‘Riding school?’ Johnson had been dismissed riding school for many a year. ‘Would you explain, Lingard? This is becoming a little tedious.’

Lingard seemed embarrassed. ‘Sir, he’s learning how to ride sidesaddle.’

Hervey made a chortling noise.

‘Exactly, sir.’

Johnson’s devotion to Henrietta had plainly taken an unusual turn. ‘Very well, Lingard,’ sighed Hervey, struggling hard not to laugh. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to ask Private Johnson to come to my quarters after evening stables — if by then he is still of a mind for soldiery. There are things to do. You’ve heard we’re for the north?’

‘No I hadn’t, sir. I’m only just back from Lewes. You mean you are going north, sir?’

‘The whole regiment.’

‘We’re leaving Brighton, sir?’ Lingard sounded pleased.

‘For a while, yes.’ Hervey gave Harkaway another favour, and then Gilbert. ‘Isn’t Brighton to your liking?’

‘Too much spit and polishing, sir. The best of it was the other night against the French. I wish I’d been there.’

It was a strange thing with dragoons, Hervey marvelled. They were like their horses: they spent their hours in the stable wishing to be out, and then once they were out they were only too keen to make straight back in. He only hoped the news would be greeted as well in the officers’ mess, though in truth he knew it would not. George ‘Beau’ Brummell may have been striking a pose when, the Tenth having been ordered to Manchester all those years ago, he protested that he had not enlisted for foreign service, but Brummell’s sentiments were prevalent in the cavalry still.

Outside the stables he found Serjeant Armstrong in heated contest with the farrier-corporal, except that the corporal was now silent. ‘I don’t care which one of your men did this,’ came the raw Tyneside. ‘If ever I find a dumped foot in this troop again, I’ll charge you — with negligence.’

Armstrong was evidently relishing his duty as serjeant-major during Kendall’s convalescence (Kendall’s dyspeptic ulcer was almost as troublesome as Joynson’s sick headaches). And why should he not, thought Hervey, for Armstrong had been fitted enough for it innumerable times in the Peninsula? ‘Do you know where Johnson is?’ he asked, when the farrier-corporal had gone.

‘He wasn’t at watering parade, so I thought he was with you, sir.’

‘No.’

Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, suggesting a frown beneath his shako. ‘That’s rum. He’s never slipped his collar before now.’

‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ Hervey suddenly thought better of revealing Johnson’s change of seat, for the need to school Henrietta’s little mare was something whose announcement wanted careful judging. ‘What do you make of the orders?’

‘Glad of ’em. This place is getting stale. But I’m not much taken with police work, especially after the other night. I just hope we’re not going to be buggered about by a lot of fuzzled justices!’

‘I know, I know.’ Hervey paused to return the orderly corporal’s salute, on his way to guard mounting. ‘How are things going?’

‘Fine. We’ll be ready all right. Just another half-dozen to shoe.’

‘Any news of the serjeant-major?’

‘Still on gruel. Not even light duties for another week.’ Armstrong sounded content enough.

Hervey huffed, and looked embarrassed. ‘It’s an ill wind…’

‘I didn’t join the Sixth for foreign service either, Hervey!’ Captain Rose blew cigar smoke ceilingwards. There were muttered ‘hear, hears’ all about the ante-room.

‘Leicestershire is adjoining country, Rose; look at it that way!’

‘The place is full of mine shafts isn’t it? And forest? Trappy country to follow hounds in, I’d say.’

The slight inclination of F Troop leader’s eyebrows told Hervey that his objections were not entirely flippant. ‘It might make for interesting sport, though,’ he countered, warming to the imagery. ‘We should see hounds working, rather than just galloping with a big field.’

Rose shook his head doubtfully. ‘But these northern foxes’ll bolt straight back to the woods, or wherever. You’ll lose hounds left, right and centre going in after ’em.’

‘I grant you we’ll not have anything like the runs we’d have in Leicestershire, but we’ll just have to go at our fox a different way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Stop up the earths, for sure. And terriers for if they do manage to run to earth. Perhaps we’ll have to hunt as we do for cubs — drive Charles back onto hounds.’

Rose smiled, still sceptical. ‘We’ll see, Hervey. But I still say I haven’t paid good money to hunt poor country!’

During this somewhat recondite exchange, Hervey had begun to realize that his authority as the senior troop leader, although a matter only of days and pounds, was being accepted with some grace by the other officers. Hervey had already learned that no one expected the report from the revenue officer, when it came, to point a single finger of blame at his handling of events. In the passage of remarkably little time he had gone from dejection to… if hardly triumph, then certainly encouragement. The vexation was that the bubble reputation was not to be had in the cannon’s mouth any longer, but in the columns of The Times — and not by his own feats, but by the guile of his wife.

* * *