welcome. Major Hervey!'
Hervey noted with appreciation how nimble must be the regiment's hircarrahs. He pushed aside the strings of beads and paid his compliments.
'I know very well who you are, Major Hervey. I have naturally heard all there is of the affair of the Chittagong river. I stand in admiration, sir,' said James Skinner, designated commandant of what was officially the 1st Local Horse. He held out his hand.
Hervey took it, and acknowledged the accolade with a bow of the head. 'But it is I who stand in admiration, Colonel Skinner.'
'Well, well, let not either of us stand long. Take a seat. You will have some whisky?'
It was a moment or so before Hervey could judge whether he was speaking to a British or a native officer. One half of Colonel Skinner was Scotch, his father's half. His voice was that of a British officer, perhaps a shade fastidious, but without all the music of the native voice, the hanji-banji as Somervile called it. But it was the Rajpoot half, his mother noble-born, that presented itself in appearance most. James Skinner was forty-seven years old, his hair was silvering, and his face, though benign, spoke of many years' campaigning, and for several masters (only in Lord Lake's day had he thrown in with the Company). He had raised and trained the corps himself. He had given it its creed, and thence its uniform, and had led it to victory after victory against any that would oppose those 'sworn to die'. His wealth from booty was said to be prodigious, he had three wives – one Mahomedan, one Hindoo, one Christian -yet he was no dissolute nabob. He was as much a scholar as Babur had been, speaking and writing flawless Persian, and knowledgeable in the history and art of all of Hindoostan. His men worshipped him. But why was he here, in the field, in person? Hervey wondered. He was three years older than the duke had been at Waterloo. He might easily have devolved command on an executive officer. The share in any booty, such that it might be in a campaign made in the territory of an ally, would anyway go to him as the colonel of the corps -even if London (Hervey understood) would not officially recognize his rank. Did Colonel Skinner, who could have taken his ease in Dehli or on his jagirs nearby, crave still the sword and the saddle for their own sake? There were such men, and Hervey saluted them. Indeed, he took more pleasure in Skinner's chair and his whisky at that moment than if they had been those of the duke himself.
'Jaswant Sing tells me you have a promising seat. He says you were quick to the Rajpoot way of riding.'
Hervey was gratified, and smiled obligingly, though puzzled that Skinner should know of it. 'But I fear I had the best of attention and horses. I could not imitate those airs when later I tried them on my own horses.'
Colonel Skinner nodded slowly as if he understood. 'Woordi-major, you may go to your ledgers or you may stay and drink whisky, as you please. Which is it to be?'
The woordi-major answered in English. 'Huzoor, I have many papers to return for the Lord Combermere.'
'Very well, my friend. There will be time for us to drink whisky when we have taken Bhurtpore.'
'Ji, huzoor,' and he continued in Urdu, though too quickly for Hervey to catch more than the odd word. Colonel Skinner took it up, but Hervey managed to catch even less. They seemed to be turning over an idea – about horses, he thought, but the idiom was beyond him.
When the woordi-major had gone, Colonel Skinner poured more whisky. 'Now, Major Hervey, what is it that His Excellency has in mind?'
Hervey was surprised at the connection Colonel Skinner made, but he judged it of no matter; it was just the way of things in India. 'I beg you would read this, Colonel,' he said, handing him the order.
Colonel Skinner took longer to read it than Hervey expected. At length, the commandant looked up and said, thoughtfully, 'The jheels?'
Hervey saw little point in protesting. 'May I ask how you knew, Colonel?'
'It is evident, from the size and composition of the party, that the object is detached from the fortress, for otherwise it would be futile. There can be but one such object if one has read the accounts of Lord Lake's endeavours.' 'Do you know the bund, Colonel?' 'Of course.'
'I am of the opinion that such a force as mine could hold them until relieved – within the twenty-four hours following. We should rely greatly on your galloper guns, of course.'
Colonel Skinner nodded. 'I am of this opinion, too. I cannot suppose the Jhauts will garrison the jheels until they perceive the army is moving on them. There is much industry in the Jhauts, but little imagination. They will work most fiercely to eject you once you have them, however. Who is to lead the relief?'
'General Sleigh, or perhaps even General Reynell, as I understand.'
'Good. Combermere sees its importance then.' The commandant drained his glass. 'You will stay and dine with us, Major Hervey?'
Hervey saw his duty done. 'I thank you, yes. My corporal…' 'He will be the guest of my daffadars.' When dinner was finished, more hours later than Hervey had thought possible, Colonel Skinner accompanied him to the picket to see him on his way. It was a fresh night, not cold, with a full moon. Torches blazed about the camp, and beyond in the city and the many other camps about it. As they came upon the picket, Corporal Wainwright led up Gilbert. Beside him, a naik led another horse, smaller but with twice the blood.
'Marwari, Major Hervey, of very choice breeding and schooled in our classical manner. I hope you will accept him.'
Hervey was all but dumbstruck. In hand was as fine a stallion as he had seen in Hindoostan – black, with a white face and massive neck. 'Sir, I…'
'He is called Chetak. Do you know the legend of Chetak, Major Hervey?' 'Indeed I do, Colonel. I know it was Chetak's leap that let the Maharana Pratap kill Man Singh's mahout.' 'And much more, Major Hervey.' 'Indeed, Colonel. Much more.'
'But the Maharana's Chetak was a grey, Major Hervey. And I would not have you ride two greys. So we make you a gift of one of our best bloods, and one, needless to say, who is well schooled in the Rajpoot airs.' Hervey was a long time in his leave-taking. He had met a man among men, and he had known the regal hospitality of the Rajpoots. These things were to be savoured and honoured, even at times like this. Especially at times like this. There was no place for a stallion in his troop, but what a saddle-horse he would make when they were returned to Calcutta. And what a sire, too.
That night, though very late, he wrote to Somervile: I am very glad of your letter (numbered 7), and especially its intelligence of Peto. How pleased he will be to slip anchor and be up the Irawadi at last! Let us hope, as you say the gossip has it, that a treaty is near.
What a camp this is! How I wish you could see it! Each fighting man with us has more than one follower, and a large bazaar accompanies the camp besides. We carry the men's tents on elephants, and each elephant has two men, four bhistis to each troop, a cook to every 16 men, every horse has a man to cut grass for him, the men have six camels and two men per troop to carry their beds. Then come the gram grinders, tailors, bakers, butchers, calasseys, or men for pitching tents, and many others. Each hospital has six men, and of these there are 40, making 240, and there are 50 dhoolies for a regiment. I should say that for 560 officers and men we must have 5,600 followers, this counting in the bazaar and officers' servants. I have in my own service 14 men, 5 camels, and a hackery, five horses and two ponies, and this for a mere captain of dragoons. Although this night I have received the gift of a magnificent Marwari stallion of Colonel Skinner of the Native Horse. It is tempting to ponder on the nature of the battle to come, and whether we shall see the single combat again that was the purpose of these great brutes. I trust not. I think there is a more glorious manner in which to take Bhurtpore, and it must be with art and powder in very large measure rather than with the breasts of brave men and horses… Hervey completed another page of observations, then laid down his pen. He knew full well that many a brave man's breast would be torn open, sepoy's and King's man's alike. And he trusted it would be sepoy and King's man in fair measure, since it did not do for the King's men to be preserved, like Bonaparte's Garde, while the legionary Company regiments were expended. But he knew, also, that the butcher's bill would be determined in large measure by his own aptness – and audacity – in executing the special order. The affair of the jheels would be decided by a few, but the price of failure paid by the many.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
