trials too.
Many would be the trials in this campaign, right enough. Hervey sheathed his sabre and took off his shako. 'You know, Corporal Wainwright, it is one thing to enter the roads of a seaport and bombard the town - many a captain's done that. But it's quite another to sail upstream for all of five hundred miles when the degree of resistance is uncertain.'
Corporal Wainwright had been a dragoon for nearly five years and had worn a chevron for two of them. Hervey held him in particular regard, not least because he was recruited from his own town, but more so because of his thoroughgoing decency and unwavering sense of duty. He reminded him of Serjeant Strange, yet without that fine NCO's somewhat chilly piety. Hervey had made him his covering corporal at the first opportunity.
'Well, it couldn't be less resistance than here, sir.'
It was true that the defenders of Rangoon had been scarcely worth the name so far, but was the town defensible against so powerful a cannonade as that which Peto's ships had delivered at point-blank range? Hervey sat down on the pagoda steps and loosened his collar. 'But what does the disappearance of every living soul, and all their chattels and livestock, bode?'
Corporal Wainwright had not been on campaign. He had tramped through the jungle three years before with Hervey's troop to fire the Burman war boats, but that was a mere raid, scarcely comparable in military organization with the scale of this expedition. This indeed was war. Nevertheless, he could make a fair estimate. 'One way or another, sir, we're going to be here longer than we thought.'
Hervey nodded. He knew from Peninsula days that General Campbell could make battle, but he had no idea if he could make war. What he had seen so far - not least the delays even in getting to Rangoon - was not auspicious. 'Well, Corporal Wainwright,' he said, taking a draw on his canteen. 'I think that it is a show of resistance and we might expect more. I think the battalions had better get this place into a state of defence quickly, lest the Burmans counter-attack. Our men-of-war wouldn't be able to support them. It may well be why the Burmans abandoned the town.'
As if in response to Hervey's assessment, redcoats of His Majesty's 38th Foot now came doubling past. Except that things weren't quite right.
Hervey sprang up. 'Come on, Corporal Wainwright. There's the glint of gold in those eyes.'
More men rushed by, without NCOs, almost knocking Wainwright to the ground.
'Or liquor, sir.'
'Either way it'll be trouble.'
They drew their sabres. Wainwright lashed out with the flat of his to check the barging of another gaggle, this time from the Thirteenth. 'Hold hard! Don't you see the officer?' he bawled.
They took off after the Thirty-eighth, Hervey cursing.
The narrow ways between the houses were soon choked with men, some without their muskets. Then it was impossible to go any further. Wainwright clambered onto the roof of one of the more solid-looking houses to try to see ahead. He was down again as quickly, bringing a shower of tiles with him and a foul string of abuse from the infantrymen below. 'Drink, sir. They're tossing bottles of it out of a warehouse. There must be two hundred men there, at least.'
'Well, we can't do anything of ourselves. Where are their NCOs?' Hervey turned and began pushing his way past men still homing on the irregular issue. 'Always the same,' he snarled, using his own sabre freely to force his way through. 'And these not even Irish!'
Down one of the side streets they found a picket of the Forty-first in good order. The corporal came to attention.
'Where is your officer?’ asked Hervey, raising his sword to acknowledge.
'The colonel is only just in there, sir,’ replied the man in a pronounced Welsh accent, indicating an official-looking building with a high-canted roof. 'The picket officer ‘as just been round, sir.’
Hervey nodded and sheathed his sword, then made for the battalion's headquarters.
The Forty-first's colours were hanging from a window, with a sentry close to. 'I am Captain Hervey, of General Campbell's staff. I should like to speak to your colonel.' Hervey touched his shako in reply to the private man's butt salute.
'Sir!' The sentry turned and went inside.
Hervey shook his head. Between the Forty-first and the Thirty-eighth, and for that matter the Thirteenth, there was nothing to choose as a rule. They were all steady on parade: he had seen it with his own eyes in Calcutta. But once the NCOs had lost their hold—
The adjutant came out, hatless. 'Captain Hervey!' He made a small, brisk bow. 'The colonel is with the brigade-major. May I assist you?'
'There's a riot towards the north gates,' began Hervey, indicating the general direction. 'The Thirteenth and the Thirty-eighth, two companies and more arriving, and no sign of their officers. They've found a drink store.'
The adjutant did not hesitate. 'Serjeant-major!'
Out came the shortest regimental serjeant-major Hervey had ever seen, shorter even than Private Johnson. 'Yessah!'
'There's a riot of the other two battalions. Summon the picket.'
'Sah!'
Til have the reserve company under arms at once, Captain Hervey. But the picket - a stitch in time.'
Hervey was not certain he understood. 'I don't think a picket will be—'
The RSM reappeared. His eyes blazed as he struck the palm of his hand with the silver knob of his cane. 'Right, sah!'
The picket - a dozen men - were already falling in.
The RSM was impatient for the off. Twenty years in a red coat told him that indiscipline was contagious, and he was not about to have his Welshmen tempted from military virtue by intemperate roughs from other regiments. 'Follow me, Corporal Jones. Double march!'
Hervey had no choice but to take the lead.
A curious sight they made, a captain and a lance-corporal of light dragoons doubling through the alleyways of Rangoon with a dozen red-coated infantrymen in file behind them, muskets at the high port and the diminutive RSM at their head. But the stitch was not in time enough to prevent the drink from doing its worst. When they reached the warehouse there was hardly a man on his feet, and those that were staggered hatless and without their muskets.
'Lord, deliver us,' said the RSM, holding up his cane to halt the picket. 'What in the name of God have they got inside them?' He seized a canteen from the hand of one of the capering privates and sniffed it. 'Brandy!' He poured what little remained to the ground.
The Thirteenth's private objected very foully. Corporal Jones stepped forward and felled him with a butt stroke to the chest.
'Stand up, you men!' bellowed the RSM, jabbing his cane here and there. 'Officer present!'
They were too far gone. They neither knew nor cared about their delinquence. 'Right!' growled the RSM. 'If that's the way it is to be. Picket, fix bayonets!'
Hervey had a moment's doubt, but there seemed no alternative. More men were appearing with every minute, all in search of their 'dues'.
The RSM began pushing through the mob of redcoats, shouting orders, cursing, lashing out with his cane, while to his left and right a single file of bayonets marched ready to do the worst if anyone should resist with more than abuse. Hervey, and Corporal Wainwright with his sabre drawn, followed as best they could.
They reached the source of the intoxication for the cost of a mere three further men succumbing to the musket's butt. The point of the bayonet had only been threatened, and the RSM had still not drawn his sword. Hervey marvelled at the man's self-possession and resolve. By his reckoning there were the best part of three hundred soldiers about the streets in abject disorder, yet the RSM seemed no more perturbed than if he were stepping between two brawlers in a barrack room. 'Right, Corporal Jones, two men on the doors, then get inside and clear them out!'
'Sir!' shouted the corporal, turning to look at the picket. 'Morgan and Jones-Seven-seven - on the doors. The rest of you, inside with me!'
