would watch the little knots of men alone. And he could think of what he might be able to say to the Skinner’s men who had stood loyally but uncomprehendingly throughout.
It was cold that night. Even near a fire, and wrapped in his cloak, Hervey felt the earth giving up its warmth to the sky and taking with it his own, for they were bivouacked in a clearing. He had turned in at once after rounds at last light, the night noises just beginning — the men would have to bear them for themselves — and he had slept fitfully. He had not risen at all, leaving to his lieutenant instead the job of picket-officer, for he knew it was no advantage his having a man like Seton Canning if he didn’t use him. When he did wake, the silence surprised him, with only here and there a whicker from the horse lines or a grunt from a sleeping dragoon. Nothing sounded the passing of the early hours in the forest. In Spain there had always been something — the cockcrow, a tocsin, or a watchman’s call. He imagined that he had not slept this far from habitation in three years. He could look at his hunter if he wished, by the light of the dying fire, or the luminescent one which Daniel Coates had given him, but he had seen no point, instead lying still, keeping what warmth remained to himself.
An hour later, as Hervey dozed, Johnson shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘Tea, Cap’n ’Ervey. An’ a good mashin’ it is an’ all.’
Tea at this time and in these circumstances had always had but one important quality as far as Hervey was concerned — that it was hot. Whether or not it was strong or sweet, or had milk, was of no moment compared with this requirement. And it had been Johnson’s singular ability in this direction which for some years now had marked him out in Hervey’s mind as a special sort of man. Since coming to him in Spain, Johnson had never failed to bring him tea at reveille. Even on the morning of Waterloo, when the rain had poured all night, Johnson had brought ‘a good mashing’ before stand-to, so welcome a drink that Hervey truly believed he would choose to give up all other before he would give up tea.
‘It’s four o’clock, sir,’ added Johnson without having to be asked.
Hervey would record in his journal, later that day, that the dawn stand-to went passably well, except that the troop made too much noise. And he would be pleased with the day’s march, too. The going was easy, and they met with no setback in the forty miles they covered, most of it by midday. The camp that evening therefore had an altogether different air from that of the one before. The NCOs were agreeably surprised by the way the march had gone, and were now giving their orders with not quite so much of a snarl. Armstrong, especially, had been pleased to be able to march and ride for long periods without having to open his mouth. The private men, for the most part, were very tired, for to those unaccustomed to such a distance in one day, the bodily and moral exertion was prodigious. But a tired soldier was almost invariably a contented soldier, a maxim Hervey had learned from Joseph Edmonds when first he had joined, and which he had confirmed for himself in no time at all. And so it would be a propitious time for him to go about the troop in their bivouac as fires were beginning the work of making their supper — just to show himself, just to be there to let the private men share their contentment with him. It would make it so much the easier when he needed to go among them when things looked perilous.
Hervey walked the horse lines by himself, in the main content with what he saw. But the mosquitoes were back, and the men were occupied in rubbing a foul-smelling liquid about their horses’ faces and ears — and, indeed, their own — which the commissary in Chittagong had dispensed. Hervey had brought some citronella from Calcutta, which seemed to work just as well as the camphor or whatever was the other, but had the advantage of a pleasant scent, if the disadvantage of a hefty price.
At the end of the line he came across Private Mole sitting on the ground, who, when he saw Hervey approaching, began struggling to pull up his overalls to stand. He looked more doleful than usual, even taking account of his lip.
‘Are you quite well, Mole?’
‘He’s got a leech on his pennis, sor!’ said Corporal McCarthy, taking an ember from the fire, blowing it red- hot and handing it to Mole.
Hervey kept the shiver to himself. The surgeon had warned them all about the jungle leech’s habits and preferences, but this seemed uncommonly early proof of it. ‘Sit yourself down, then, Mole. Would it not be better to call Mr Ledley, Corporal McCarthy?’
‘Ah, there’s no need, sor. That ember’ll do it. I’ve done it meself many a time afore, though I must say never with the crown jewels.’
Hervey watched as Mole braced himself and applied the ember to the engorged worm. It curled up at once and in another second let go its grip, falling wriggling to the floor, where Mole’s angry boot finished the job.
‘Just as Mr Ledley told us, sor,’ said McCarthy, with a look of satisfaction. ‘An ember’s the thing. That or salt. I’ve seen ’em pulled off in a panic and the wound become very pussy afterwards.’
Mole looked unhappy still. Hervey thought it best to leave him to recover his humour as well as his modesty. He turned and walked back along the line contemplating his good fortune in having McCarthy. It was clear the man was possessed of something in his field habits which commanded the dragoons to imitate him. He had recognized McCarthy’s fighting spirit in an instant when first they had been hurled together in France, but he had for long months retained a suspicion that an NCO who had once lost his stripes might ever be doing so again. McCarthy was probably no more impulsive a pugilist than Armstrong, and probably no more enamoured of a drop or two than he, but Armstrong had never been reduced to the ranks; that was the difference. Was it, perhaps, that discipline was in some way administered differently in the infantry? He wished he had been able to enquire of the 104th what had been the circumstances. But there was no denying now that McCarthy was an exemplary corporal. Hervey didn’t even have to trust to his own judgement in that; Armstrong was certain of it.
It was not the same with Corporal Mossop, though. Mossop did not do anything wrong; he did it, indeed, to the best of his ability. And there lay the problem. Mossop tried, but nothing came easily or naturally. Mossop was awkward, even in conversation. He would have thrown himself into the flames for his captain, but Hervey would dodge the other side of a horse so as not to have to pass the time of day with him. And that, he knew full well, could not but convey itself to the man, and so he would make himself go through the motions of bantering, if only to display his confidence in him in front of the dragoons. But Mossop would never be a serjeant; that was certain. With McCarthy, on the other hand, there could be no such certainty.
When Hervey looked at Collins, though, he wondered how any other corporal might aspire to serjeant. How might they measure themselves against him — his celerity in action, his composure in routine? It was Collins’s misfortune, however, to be a serjeant at this time, for the wait would be long for the fourth piece of tape. He needed the toast to ‘a short war and a bloody one’, but India looked unlikely to oblige him, even with forays such as this. It was a sorry thing to wish for dead men’s boots, thought Hervey, but he hoped very dearly that Collins would not be spent before his time came for a troop of his own.
However, it was the little knot of Warminster pals that intrigued him most. They were three now, the original pals, but Rudd was messing with them this evening. His mother would have been appalled at the notion of her son’s associating with the roughs of Warminster Common — and in ordinary the son too would never have had occasion to speak with them — but the bond of a shared home place when so far distant from it was ever strong. Even Shepherd Stent, although an Imber man by birth, felt some kin with Rudd and Wainwright and Spreadbury and Needham. Indeed, he had been more welcome in the high street, at the sheep markets with his father, than ever the roughs of the Common had been. Hervey stood watching them for some time, unnoticed. Stent was the older by ten years, perhaps, and by experience and temper should have been the chosen man in their case. But he seemed always to want nothing of it, to want that nothing extra be required of him other than honest duty as a private soldier. Hervey still had his doubts about him as coverman. As for Rudd, he was a shiny dragoon — no doubt about it — but as yet there seemed no edge to him that would make him fit for command. It was Wainwright, not yet twenty, who held the pals’ esteem. Indeed, the more Hervey saw of him, and the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Wainwright had singular promise. What was beyond doubt was that yesterday both Jobie Wainwright and Shepherd Stent had shown instinctive and selfless courage. England bred her heroes rough, mused Hervey; but breed them she did.
They were late striking off next morning. Hervey had been expecting a rendezvous with the Chakma guides the evening before, but there had been no sign of them. By eight o’clock, the troop having breakfasted and done an hour’s making and mending, there was still no sign of them. Hervey spoke with Seton Canning and Armstrong. ‘I don’t like just sitting and waiting. The track we’re following is clear enough, and the Chittagong guides say they’re certain it leads to the border. The Chakma will have no difficulty finding us if they’re as good as they say. I intend pressing on and making up lost time.’
Armstrong made as if to turn, but Seton Canning looked mildly troubled. ‘Why might the Chakma not be here,
