was an occasion when Adye's general injunction against counter-battery fire did not hold.
'I await orders on this keenly, too, said Joynson. 'Shall we take a ride to look at the ground?'
Hervey had never before ridden ground with the major, and he was eager to do so. He wanted to learn how good was his eye for country compared with that for administration, for in spite of the banter of the camp at Agra, he was certain that the cavalry must be more active in this siege than the textbooks allowed. He had studied the accounts of Lord Lake's failure. He was certain that if the cavalry became a mere arm of the commissary then the siege would go the same way as Lord Lake's.
They rode with only their covermen, Hervey marked by Corporal Wainwright, Joynson by the senior corporal. The major was not one for panoply, and in any case he scarcely expected trouble within the ring of scarlet around the fortress.
Everywhere was purposeful activity. Hervey could not remember scenes the like since San Sebastian, perhaps Badajoz, even. Columns of sepoys tramped to and from great breastworks thrown up in a matter of days like molehills on greensward. Guns and ammunition wagons lumbered forward continuously, and empty wagons passed them on their way back from dumping powder, shot and shell at the batteries in anticipation of the great pounding to come. And the engineers, the sappers and miners, who opened the way for the infantry, whether by bridge or 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,
