‘God surely has a purpose in Creation, Matthew?’
‘Yes, I suppose …’ He had not before imagined it extended to such details.
‘There is a most interesting theory about it all. Eyre was speaking of it only last week. There is a naturalist called Lamarck, a Frenchman. Eyre has collected all his work. He suggests that living things adapt to their surroundings and then pass on the changes to successive generations.’
‘How do they do that?’
Emma smiled broadly. ‘In the usual way, I suppose!’
Hervey looked somewhat abashed. ‘In what way does he suggest an animal’s surroundings exert an influence?’
‘His exemplar is the giraffe, which lengthened its neck over successive generations through its habit of grazing the tops of trees.’
Hervey frowned. ‘I had imagined that it grazed the tops of trees because it had a long neck,’ he replied, not altogether facetiously.
‘We pass on characteristics of our own family do we not?’
Hervey’s home thoughts in that instant told him it was so, and painfully. He almost checked in his stride.
Emma did not appear to notice. ‘Ask Eyre to show you his books when you come to dine with us tonight. You are able still to come?’
‘Yes; yes, indeed,’ he replied, a shade absently. ‘But I beg you would forgive me if I leave earlier than usual. I have letters which I must finish if they’re to go to Calcutta tomorrow. There’s a packet for England at the end of the week.’
‘Of course,’ said Emma, brushing away a persistent dragonfly. ‘Now, I must show you the aviary the collector here has built. You will not have seen it, I think?’
When Hervey wrote home that night, there was an unusual degree of contentment in his letters. Chittagong may have been restricted in its society, but that which there was was entirely agreeable to him. He liked the country, with its wooded hills within an easy day’s ride, and the climate was very equable. Its people, both country and city, seemed contented, and there was not the clamour of Calcutta — and certainly not the stench. Above all, his troop was making progress. The horses were in better condition than before, and the dragoons’ seats were becoming altogether securer. In sum, Hervey was confident that by the beginning of December they would be ready to rejoin the regiment — as the manual had it — ‘fully trained’.
In the weeks that followed, Serjeant Collins worked tirelessly to have each class in turn master the six cuts and eight guards against cavalry, and, too, the point, and the cut and guard against infantry. He drove them hard, and they cursed him when they got to their beds. But Collins had many a time had to parry a sword and wield his own with deathly intent, and he had seen what happened when a man lost his nerve or misjudged his distance and bent his elbow. It would be over in an instant, the cut disabling the sword arm like the serpent’s strike, and the mortifying edge following. When a man had seen his fellows, or even his antagonists, fall because of their unproficiency, he was not inclined to stint his charges in their instruction.
And when the dragoons were not at stables or skill at arms, they were at troop drill. Every day but Sunday — when they paraded for church — they rode out onto the wide flood plain of the Karnaphuli and manoeuvred to the bugle. So it was that, one morning in early November, Hervey recognized that before him was a handy troop, not a recruit ride.
‘Very well, Sar’nt-Major. We’ll have one last turn. Trumpeter, sound “front form line”.’
Private Storrs breathed a sigh of relief. It was perhaps the easiest of all the calls: nine notes, all the same — Gs. Only the triplets at the end to worry about. He had blown so much in the last two hours, and his lips were cracking. He blew the call perfectly.
Into line the forty and more dragoons trotted, then halted on the marker. Hervey nodded contentedly. He could not have asked better of them. Private Storrs turned his head towards him, expecting to hear that his troop- leader would ride to the front to dismiss the parade.
‘Trumpeter, sound “retire”.’
A moment’s surprise delayed the call a fraction of a second. ‘Retire’ was tricky. Storrs cracked the last E semi-quaver. Hervey hardly noticed, and certainly didn’t show it. The troop turned about as one, and struck off at the walk in a very fair line. But Storrs knew what to expect next. Although the heat of the summer had long gone, and the dust with it, his mouth was still dry. He began slaking it with all the spittle he could summon.
‘Trumpeter, sound “front”.’
Hervey smiled. ‘That will do very nicely, Sar’nt-Major.’ He rose in the saddle and looked down the line. Yes, it would do very nicely indeed. He could now dismiss them. ‘Fall out the officers. Carry on, Sar’nt-Major.’
Armstrong saluted, and Hervey turned his horse away, followed at the regulation one length by Trumpeter Storrs.
Seton Canning trotted up, his face a picture of satisfaction to equal his captain’s. ‘My God, Hervey, but that was fine! I wouldn’t have thought it possible even a month ago.’
‘There’s a long way to run yet, Harry. We could scarcely call this a field day.’ Hervey’s smile, however, said that perhaps it might not be too hard a race. ‘We have another month, perhaps two. It should be enough if we can keep up this progress.’
They needed a day or two for making and mending, though; for ‘interior economy’ as it was known in the Sixth. Hervey would give over the rest of the week to the saddler and farriers. It would be good for Seton Canning to have the charge of things, too. There were ever more letters to attend to, and he felt the need of a break from the routine of the troop — from the cantonment, indeed. Perhaps he could persuade Somervile to ride with him along the coast. It was by all accounts an easy country of sand dunes, scrub and salt jheels, a haven for greenshank and tattlers, and for spoonbills when the tide was high. On the forest’s edge there was plenty of game; tigers were not unknown, his bearer had told him. Their guns would not be idle.
Johnson came out of the stables at the sound of hooves on the hard ground. He wore no hat for the sun had lost its strength, but his stable jacket, made up from stone-coloured local cloth, was stained with the signs of his exertions with body brush and curry comb. ‘Parade all right, Cap’n ’Ervey?’
There was no one else within earshot now. Hervey could speak his mind. ‘Very well, Johnson. Very well indeed. By the time we’re relieved I’d pit the troop against the others any day.’
‘T’troop’s ’appy ’ere, sir. An’ it’s not as sticky, an’ there’s not so many sick. Reckon they’d be glad if we stayed a bit longer.’
Johnson’s report was not surprising. Detached duty was always preferred. The eyes of the troop serjeant- major were one thing, but those of Mr Lincoln were another. ‘We need to do some regimental drill. We can’t call ourselves a real troop until we can manoeuvre in squadrons.’
‘Thought yer said all that was done for now, sir?’
‘Not the business of working as a regiment. What I meant was that the drill book needs rewriting. There’s not enough about work other than in close order, and the evolutions just aren’t quick enough. Not for well-trained squadrons, that is. It will do
‘ ’E’ll need shoein’ soon,’ said Johnson, content that drill matters would never be his concern again, and nodding to Gilbert’s forefeet.
‘I’m going to take leave for the next two days. I thought I’d ride along the coast towards Manikpur and take my gun. Do you want to come? You can bring your mongoose.’ Hervey vaulted from the saddle and handed over the reins.
Johnson made a snorting noise. ‘Useless bloody thing. That ferret I ’ad in ’Orningsham would’ve put up a better show — an’ ’e were next to useless, an’ all.’
Hervey took off his cap and frowned. ‘I haven’t an idea what you’re talking of.’
‘That mongoose that I paid two rupees for!’
‘Yes, that much I understood. What is its problem?’
‘It’s frightened o’ snakes.’
Hervey could hardly blame the animal, improbable though the idea of a mongoose afraid of snakes sounded. ‘Nonsense. They
