breach, worked oblivious to their surroundings, and to the enemy's guns which periodically sent hissing spheres of iron arching into the sky, then to throw up fountains of earth where they struck before bowling along the ground to knock down men and horses like skittles if they didn't look sharp.
Hervey had observed the same curious detachment in the Peninsula, the sappers working as calmly as if they were navigators at an English cut. It was a cool courage, theirs, not one fired by dash or steadied by the touch of cloth. He wondered if it could endure as the guns began to take their toll. Sapping to the foot of the walls would be hot work indeed.
'Do you think Durjan Sal doubts the outcome, seeing all this, Hervey?' asked the major suddenly. They had ridden for ten minutes and more in silence.
Hervey was unsure what he had heard. 'You mean will he ask for terms?'
'No. I mean, does he consider those walls impregnable? Does he believe we shall just go away? You could scarce call firing from those walls much of a counter-action.'
'I confess to being surprised,' replied Hervey, watching warily as another ball arched from a distant bastion towards them.
Joynson watched it too. It hit an outcrop of solid rock a hundred yards ahead of them, sending a shower of deadly shards in all directions.
'But he must think those walls solid enough. And, in truth, he might be right. I've not seen their like before, I think.'
'Do you know why it is the engineers can't tunnel?' Joynson supposed only that the ground was too hard.
'The distance, pure and simple, is my understanding. They can't get close enough to begin a gallery.'
'I can't say as I understand. If they can sap forward, why can't they then tunnel?'
'Because after two hundred yards there isn't air enough to breathe, or to make for a good explosion.'
They rode on a further half-mile in silence, or rather without a word, for Durjan Sal's guns were now speaking continually. Three of them fired at once from the long-necked bastion, the report so loud that both men looked its way. Hervey saw the homing shot first – low and straight, not plunging like the others. 'She comes our way,' he said warily.
Neither man moved a muscle more than had they been on parade. It was as unthinkable as it was pointless.
Eighteen pounds of iron grazed the rocky outcrop fifty yards to their right then ricocheted half a right angle, but chippings the size of musket balls shot their way, drawing blood from Hervey's hand and his mare's shoulder.
Joynson, on his nearside, but half a length in front, cursed as his shako was all but knocked from his head, the silver cross beneath the oilskin having stopped a stone bullet. He didn't see his mare's wound at first, looking about her legs and flanks for marks. 'Oh, God!' he cried suddenly, jumping from the saddle.
Blood spurted from her breast as if from a stirrup pump. Joynson took off his silk stock and pressed it to the wound – a neat slice like the sabre's work. 'An artery, Hervey, for sure,' he groaned.
If it were an artery there was nothing that they -or even David Sledge – could do. But Hervey got down and took the bandages from his valise.
Corporal Wainwright did likewise, and Joynson's coverman the same. But Joynson's sleeves were soaked through, and the pool of blood at the mare's feet was spreading rapidly.
'It's no good, Eustace.' But Hervey knew the major had bought the mare for his wife years ago. Conceding would be a doubly painful business. 'Give me a pistol!'
Hervey took one of the flintlocks from his saddle holster, already loaded, tamped. He held it out to him. 'Shall I do it while you steady her?'
'No, Hervey. It wouldn't do,' said Joynson simply, taking the pistol and letting go the silk stock.
Nevertheless, Hervey took out his second pistol and made ready. He had no idea if the major had ever shot a horse. It was the Devil's own job even without sentiment.
'Offsaddle her, will you, Hervey,' said Joynson resolutely.
When it was done, the major wiped his hands on his overalls, rubbed the little mare's nose, cocked the pistol and put the muzzle gently but firmly into the fossa above her left eye, angling it so as to aim at the bottom of her right ear.
He pulled the trigger. The mare's forelegs folded, and she fell to the ground without so much as a grunt.
Hervey was impressed – a businesslike despatch, as neat as any he'd seen. It had not been two minutes since the stone had done its worst. 'She was a fine animal,' he said, with real admiration.
Tears welled in Joynson's eyes, which he did nothing to hide. 'She was. And I should have left her with Frances.' And then, with an almost bitter note, 'except that I couldn't have trusted her to see to her rightly.' Hervey thought to say nothing.
Joynson knelt and cut off a lock of the mane. 'The last of Anne Joynson, then… save for Frances herself.'
Hervey still thought it best to stay silent. Indeed, he had begun wondering how they might decently dispose of the carcass.
Joynson's coverman was already resigned to walking back to the lines. 'I'd swear them guns was trying to do that, sir,' he said, making ready to hand the reins to the major.
'So would I, sir,' added Wainwright. 'Somebody in that fort knows how to shoot. That's for sure.'
Hervey frowned and shook his head. 'The way that shot ran level, the gun must be a giant. It couldn't be retrained quickly enough to aim. Anyway, I doubt they can even make us out from that distance. No, a lucky shot I'll warrant.' That evening, however, the camp was abuzz with rumour about the accuracy of the Jhaut guns. It was confidently asserted that the gunners were Frenchmen or Italians, as there had been in native service throughout the Maratha wars. And there were wilder stories, too – that the deserters from His Majesty's artillery were directing the fire. The direst retribution was sworn for any who had changed sides, nor was it clear where a Frenchman would stand in this reckoning. Hervey did his rounds that evening well pleased with the evidence of the Sixth's fighting spirit. Even the grocer – a name that Hervey found himself thinking of increasingly, if not actually uttering – seemed more animated at dinner. Joynson, certainly, had an edge not usually apparent. It had been a dozen years and more since he had been shot over. The sudden taste of gunfire that afternoon seemed to have been an exceptional tonic.
Hervey turned in just before midnight after walking the horse lines. They had been quiet, with nothing but an occasional whicker and grunt from the animals themselves, or an 'evenin', sir' from a sentry of the inlying picket. And although it was the picket-officer's job to check that the running lines were taut, he had inspected each of the troops' in turn. He had known enough times in Spain where a loose line had ended in runaways and broken legs. And he had checked, too, that the sentries knew the parole and how they were to be relieved. The men were alert, and it had given him much satisfaction to go to his tent knowing that the Sixth were as keen in their field discipline as they were in their fighting intent. He was afraid the former would be tested far longer than the latter, for what he had seen of the siege that day did not lead him to suppose there would be anything but cannonading and sapping for a month or more – save, perhaps, an obliging sortie by Durjan Sal's cavalry.
But now he was pleased for his campaign bed, and that it was the Sixteenth – Daniel Coates's old regiment – who stood sentinel. He could rest assured. Private Johnson had placed a bowl of hot water on one of the chests, but it was now only lukewarm. Hervey undressed, put on his nightshirt, washed his hands and set to work with sponge and tooth powder. Then he unmade his bed in the nightly routine of shaking out anything that might have crawled there during the time his groom had been gone, and, satisfied at last of his safety, lay down between white cotton sheets beneath two thick woollen blankets. He took care to double them and fold the edges under, for he knew he would need their warmth on so starry a night. The pillow was soft, and he had no desire to read or to contemplate anything. He turned down the lamp to the merest glow, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The early hours
F
