Armstrong kept his peace. Porrit would be another that he would have to keep an eye on, albeit a paternal one; as if there weren’t enough already.
‘One more thing. Who should be my coverman?’
Armstrong turned the question over in his mind for a moment. ‘Stent or Harkness.’
‘Not McCarthy?’
‘Not with that seat. Not yet. I’d go for Stent. Harkness is stronger with a sword, but Stent’s the better jockey. And he’s more of a thinking head.’
Hervey stood and brushed the dust from his overalls, put on his cap and made his excuses. ‘One way or another we’ll have something by morning. I’ll say whatever at first parade. Good night.’
Armstrong rose too. ‘Ay. And I’ll keep my peace, no matter. Though God help us if it ever comes to a fight.’ The imprecation was more than the soldier’s casual profanity. Armstrong had seen Hervey in his determination many a time before, but there was a distinctly new edge to the steel now — an edge he feared might cut both ways.
CHAPTER NINETEEN. FULLY TRAINED
‘Stand a-a-at … ease! Stand easy.’
Hervey’s command put the half-hundred on muster parade next morning into an attitude at once relaxed and yet full of anticipation. Muster was normally a prompt affair, little more than a count of heads — the serious business of inspections began later with ‘boot and saddle’ — so that the order for standing easy presaged an announcement. It might be good news or bad; it was the practice in the Sixth to announce defaulters’ punishments at muster; or there might be a court circular ‘to be read at the head of all troops’ (Hervey had been dreading the despatch which would give the report of their erstwhile colonel-in-chief’s trial, for the arraignment of Princess Caroline had been long spoken of with very decided views in the regiment). Or it might be that, as this morning, the officer commanding would have some instruction for them which could not be trusted to the written page of routine orders, being either too oppressive without fuller explanation, or else too portentous to be conveyed from the notice-board. There was a buzz of expectancy now, barely audible but a buzz nevertheless.
‘You will have heard talk about the lines these past weeks regarding the warlike antics of King Bagyidaw of Ava,’ began Hervey, glancing from right to left along the front rank and into the rear rank as best he could. All eyes were alert and turned to him. ‘The lieutenant-governor has therefore concluded that it shall be prudent to reinforce the regular patrols along the borders of the Company’s territory, and to obtain reinforcements for the security of Chittagong and the other principal settlements. Accordingly a brigade is being assembled at this moment in Calcutta to augment the garrison, and we have orders to proceed to the border this day.’
Hervey paused to let the announcement take its effect. The earlier buzz returned, even stronger. And it was the sound of approval. Hervey wondered what it might be if he were able to tell them the whole truth. But that would have to wait until they were gone from earshot of any who would retail the intelligence to the Burmans — however impossible the act might seem.
‘The remainder of the morning is to be spent in preparation for taking to the field, in accordance with standing instructions. The troop is to muster at two o’clock in campaign order, and in all respects ready to march. That is all for the present. Carry on, please, Serjeant-Major.’
‘Sir!’ snapped Armstrong, and with a relish that made some of the dragoons shudder. ‘E Troop!’ he barked.
The two ranks snapped back to the braced ‘at ease’.
‘Atte-e-en
Armstrong’s right hand shot to the peak of his shako as Hervey and his two officers turned away.
‘Don’t ask of me anything more at this time,’ said Hervey when he saw Seton Canning’s mouth open. ‘There’ll be fuller orders when we march. Just keep a close eye on things. They’ll need the
It was strange, thought Hervey, even as he said it, how in a matter only of months they had adopted so much of the Bengal army’s cant.
‘Do you want me to take boot and saddle?’ asked Seton Canning.
‘If you please,’ said Hervey, without a glance. ‘And go to it this morning on the assumption that we’ll see action before the week’s out.’
His lieutenant seemed surprised. ‘Do you really think so, Hervey?’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Harry. I’d not say so if I didn’t think it!’
Seton Canning was taken aback. It was the first time Hervey had spoken thus to him. ‘Shall you give us orders before we march?’
‘No,’ said Hervey, keeping up his pace. ‘I’m not trusting myself to say a word. You’ll learn why soon enough.’
The lieutenant could still feel the edge in his captain’s tone, and he decided to withdraw. ‘Anything more, sir?’
‘No,’ replied Hervey briskly, his mind now intent elsewhere. ‘I have to see Skinner’s Horse about something. Carry on.’
Hervey walked alone to the native horse lines. He had no clear idea how he would secure his intent, for he had no warrant from the lieutenant-governor, and, moreover, the Skinner’s commandant had yet to return from his long furlough. To Hervey, the other British officer, the adjutant, was a man of uncertain temperament. He was no gentleman, and therefore inclined to some resentment; but he was diligent, the commandant had said, and he had the respect of the native officers. He had dined with E Troop’s officers several times, but none had found him a boon companion, although the hospitality ought at least to make for civility now.
As Hervey approached the Skinner’s lines, the daffadar of the quarter-guard began shouting, and soon sowars in yellow kurtas and fur-edged lungis were doubling from the guardroom, snatching lances from the rack on the verandah and falling into line in front of the yellow-painted bound-stones. The daffadar called them to attention, and a dozen pennants fluttered then fell uniformly to the right side of each vertical lance. He marched up to Hervey, halted and saluted. Then he spoke in a high and melodious voice — Hindoostani, clear and measured, as if he were not a native speaker. So near was it to Urdu that Hervey grasped its purport: the daffadar had sent a runner to inform the orderly jemadar, and the daffadar would conduct him to regimental headquarters.
‘Is the adjutant at orderly room, daffadar?’ asked Hervey, the Urdu simple enough.
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Very well.’
The daffadar saluted again and turned to lead the captain-sahib to the headquarters. Hervey looked at each sowar as he walked past the guard. They were big men, full-bearded, from the country west of Bengal. He would wish them with him if it ever came to a fight. He had no doubt they would sooner come with him across the border than stay here, but that he could not risk.
At regimental headquarters, the white dressed stone was brilliant in the morning sun, the guttering, downpipes and fittings painted the same yellow as the kurtas and guardroom bound-stones. The hand of the commandant and the presence of the rissaldar-major were at once evident to the visitor — as indeed was the intention.
The adjutant appeared on the verandah, booted and wearing the kurta rather than the regulation King’s pattern short coat. Bareheaded, he pulled his arms to his side and bowed. ‘Good morning, Captain Hervey. Unheralded? Is there some alarm?’
The salutation was friendly, even if it suggested a chiding. Hervey touched the peak of his forage cap, and smiled. ‘Good morning, Captain Pollock. No, no alarm. I am sorry there was no
