The Sabre's Edge

nevertheless. 'When I were prenticed at 'Untsman's—'

'Corporal Stray, I couldn't give a fart about Huntsman's. Just do as you're told. I want a wooden duct, six- inch-square, that can be extended as we dig. As simple as that.'

Stray scratched his head again. 'All right, Serjeant-Major.'

'It'd better be. And later on I'll want a burlap partition the size of the tunnel.'

'Where do I get t'wood, sir?'

Armstrong checked himself. It was, looked at from one angle, a reasonable enough question. 'Corporal Stray, the engineers' entire field park is at your disposal. Just go to the artificer over there and give him your requirements.'

'Right, Serjeant-Major.'

'But Mick, ask him nicely.'

Armstrong shook his head as Corporal Stray shuffled off.

Hervey smiled. Time and place were all the same to Corporal Stray. 'How long will it take to dig?'

'If we don't hit any rock, it shouldn't take us more than five days round the clock.'

Hervey looked again at the ground. Three hundred yards they proposed to dig. 'Geordie, seven or eight feet every hour? How are you going to keep that up? How are you going to bring out all the spoil?'

Armstrong looked assured. 'That's them engineers' worry. It'd be the same if they were sapping rather than mining. A good gang of colliers'd clear that in a ten-hour shift.'

'What is it exactly that you'll do?'

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. 'There's no need of me at all, sir. It's just that some of the officers don't believe it'll work, and Brigadier Anburey wants me to make certain it does.' He gestured to where, covered from view by half a dozen tamarisk trees, the sappers were beginning the drift down to the level at which they would drive the tunnel to the bastion's foundations. 'See, they know what they're about right enough.'

Hervey thought they looked as though they did. 'The major's asked that I keep an eye on things, but there's no use my being here, not to begin with anyway. I'll come each morning and evening. Where will you sleep - here?'

'Ay, sir. Stray's going to need a hand too. I'd like Harkness an' all if I can. He were a cooper, if I remember right. He'll be handy with hammer and nails. And a couple of others in a day or so.'

It was a growing bill, but better, thought Hervey, than the endless fatigues and working parties. He told Armstrong he could have Harkness, and any other he thought had a particular skill. It seemed the least he could do when the regiment were otherwise so cosily set up, and safely, in their distant lines. Then he set off back through the workings to find Gilbert, and quickly, for he had arranged with Johnson for his bath to be drawn by seven. He had to watch his step, though: the paraphernalia of the sappers' siege park - and the activity, so different from that of cavalry lines, could be hazardous for an outsider.

He slept little and fitfully that night. Both sides had kept up a harassing artillery fire well into the early hours, and soon after midnight there had been an alarm which saw them stood to their horses until two o'clock. It was the routine of the siege he had first come to know a dozen years before, first standing on the defensive at Torres Vedras, and then, the boot on the other foot, at Ciudad Rodrigo. Long days of boredom, occasional danger, with little opportunity for action - only the tumultuous climax, the breaching of the walls and the rushing-in of brave men bent on promotion, the 'forlorn hope', more often than not aptly named, and then the fight through the streets until the heart of the fortress struck and its flag was hauled down. It was the business of the artillery, the engineers and the infantry, the cavalry at best onlookers, at worst an appendage of the wagon train. It was true that volunteers were called for throughout the army for the forlorn hopes

- and if Combermere did indeed want to dismount the cavalry they might all be in red coats soon -but as a rule a dragoon might as well be astride a screw as a blood. They had been luckier this time for sure, with the dash for the Motee Jheel and the skirmishes with Durjan Sal's cavalry, but it had been momentary and, in the greater scheme of the siege, would be quickly forgotten. Only the brigadier's ruse de guerre offered them sport, the chance of fighting en masse from the saddle in the old way.

After stand-down, Hervey shaved in plentiful hot water and then breakfasted on eggs and bacon, and very good toast. The coffee, too, was quite excellent, hot and without bitterness. There were even newspapers. They were out of range of cannon fire and it was as if they were at camp for the winter manoeuvres. It was the sole advantage of the siege over a campaign of movement, he considered. The only vexing aspect of these otherwise most congenial arrangements was the presence of Cornet Green. Hervey could barely bring himself to speak civilly to him, if at all. Besides his constant maladroitness with the dragoons, and - present to Hervey's mind still

- the abominable affair of the night battle, the cornet's bearing in the mess was chafing him more and more. Green seemed unable to enter the marquee with any ease, usually bumping into something or stammering to a khitmagar. And his table manners . . . Once he had picked up his knife and fork he seemed unable to lay them down again until his plate was empty. It was perhaps of no great hazard to good order and military discipline (Green was hardly likely to be seated next to the Governor-General, ever), but for some reason this morning it gave Hervey increasing distress.

'Mr Green!' he said suddenly, making the unfortunate cornet cough up a part of his breakfast. 'I shall want you to do duty with the sar'nt-major today.'

'Yes, Hervey,' replied Green, his face the colour of a beetroot, though whether by way of the coughing or because of his troop-leader's attention was uncertain.

Strickland lowered his copy of the Calcutta Journal and looked Hervey in the eye. The transaction of any sort of business in the mess was distasteful, most certainly at the breakfast table. But that was not entirely the purpose of the gesture.

Hervey cleared his throat. 'Is there anything of interest in the Journal?' he asked, as matter-of-fact as he could manage.

Strickland took a sip of his coffee. 'The bishop has given a party to the ladies left behind.'

'That is very good of him,' said Hervey, in a mildly ironic tone.

'He writes very fine hymns, Hervey. Even I would concede that.'

Hervey merely frowned.

By now, Cornet Green had finished his breakfast - or rather, had finished his attempt at it and had quit the mess, leaving just the two of them.

'Something must be done about Green,' said Strickland, folding his paper and laying it down. 'I feel half sorry for him.'

'I'm afraid I find not a single redeeming feature,' said Hervey decidedly.

'Can he not be persuaded to exchange? He's not short of money, and he can hardly be happy.'

'I imagine the subalterns have tried. I can't think for the life of me why he chose to come here.'

'Perhaps that is his single redeeming feature, then?'

Hervey raised his eyebrows. 'Strickland, I'm sorry to say but I think he's gun-shy.' He related once more the night affair.

'So you want him shot over in the trenches with Armstrong?'

'That's the idea.'

'Then you had better have a care yourself. I gather the brigadier has something in mind for us.'

Hervey looked at him keenly, but he had no intention of quizzing him on where he had got his intelligence. It seemed next to impossible to keep secret even an idea.

When Hervey got to the tunnel workings, about eleven, he found Armstrong begrimed and resting, with an empty bottle of pale ale by his side. The lines that now permanently grooved his forehead seemed to have been conduits for the sweat which, even on so cold a day, had evidently run freely, so that from brow to the faintly receding line of his black hair was like veined marble - and the eyes, closed, like chips in the surface exposing the creamy unpolished stone beneath. His jaw looked squarer, even if the chin were a little fuller than in years past. His shoulders, broad yet compact like a bull terrier's, their strength outlined in the sodden shirt which clung to them as he lay, looked more powerful than ever. Once, the morning of Waterloo indeed, Hervey had told Armstrong that he believed him to be indestructible. And he half believed it still. He certainly prayed it was, for Armstrong's loss would be intolerable, and not only to Caithlin.

'He has not stopped for more than ten minutes since you left yesterday,' said the engineer major. 'Even my