Rumours Of War

‘True, my lord, he reels from the tilt often.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Major Strickland punched his fellow squadron leader playfully on the shoulder, and his gelding tried to bite the neck of Hervey’s little mare.

‘It was an uncommonly good evening, was it not?’

‘It was, Hervey. A very noble play. I am sorry I never saw it before.’

Hervey smiled as he recalled his original encounter. ‘It was in Lisbon I first saw it. Soon after we had got there. The duchess was Italian and spoke her lines very indistinct.’

‘Italian was she? I count myself poor, still, for not having seen that country,’ said Strickland, shaking his head. ‘And did you see Malfi when you were there?’

‘The play?’

‘The place.’

‘No. I went as far south only as Naples.’

They rode on a little without speaking.

‘You should join us more often at the theatre, Hervey. We shan’t be at Hounslow for ever.’

‘I know it. But I’ve been much distracted by affairs. I know the road to Wiltshire as well as I know it to London.’

Strickland’s gelding tried to take another bite at the mare’s neck. ‘For heaven’s sake! What possesses you?’

‘He knows the manger beckons.’

‘No doubt.’

Strickland’s charger was not alone in its ill temper. Down the long column of squadrons returning from exercise on the heath there were any number of displays – mares being marish, and geldings being coltish, for all their deficiency. Nappy troopers were just a part of a cavalry regiment on parade, especially one that knew it was returning to barracks.

‘You are much occupied by your ladies, Hervey,’ said Strickland kindly.

‘I confess I am. I have neglected them sorely.’

‘Then we shall see them at Hounslow soon?’

‘My sister, I think, would not stay long if she came. Our parents are not young. And there is no governess.’

‘And?’

‘What?’ Hervey thought he had misheard. The jingling of bits, the clanking of scabbards, and iron striking the road – even at the walk – did not make conversation easy.

‘Your lady in town.’

‘Strickland!’

‘Have a care for your soul, Hervey.’

‘Strickland, old friends though we are, you sometimes presume too much. I am perfectly careful of my soul, I assure you.’

‘You will remain in my prayers nevertheless.’

‘And you in mine!’

The gates of the cavalry barracks were now welcoming them. The commanding officer’s trumpeter sounded the approach, and the quarter-guard came doubling from the guardroom to present arms. Hervey touched his peak before dropping back to the head of Third Squadron as the regiment sat up to attention to ride in, then wheeling and forming on the square for the dismissal. He took post in front of E Troop as the commanding officer, adjutant and serjeant-major turned about to watch the evolutions.

At length, Lieutenant-Colonel Eustace Joynson, lately confirmed in both his substantive rank and his long acting command of the regiment, rode forward a dozen paces. ‘Light Dragoons, I was exceptionally well pleased with exercise this morning. There could be no handier regiment of cavalry than ours.’

Hervey smiled to himself: good old ‘Daddy’ Joynson – any other colonel would have said ‘mine’ rather than ‘ours’.

‘I must tell you, however, that I have – with regret – come to the decision that I must quit the command.’

There were sounds of surprise, and regret too, from the ranks. Not full-throated, but distinct enough.

‘That is all. Troop-leaders may carry on.’

There followed the usual five minutes’ hubbub as command of each troop and section was successively devolved and the dragoons returned to their stable lines. Hervey half sprang from the saddle rather than dismounting in the prescribed fashion. His mare was green, and he did not want her bearing more weight in the stirrup. He handed the reins to his groom, touched his peak to acknowledge the salute, and watched him lead her off (there was no need of words with Private Johnson after all these years). He nodded to his lieutenant and cornet, dismissed his trumpeter, returned his serjeant-major’s salute in the same fashion as with his groom, then turned for the officers’ mess. There was even less need of words with Serjeant-Major Armstrong, for their years together one way and another had been greater even than with Johnson.

He met Strickland again as he came round the corner from the lines.

‘Soho, Hervey! Joynson to sell out?’

‘I can’t say as I’m surprised. He’ll get a fair penny for it.’

‘Well, I’d wager fifteen thousand at least,’ said Strickland, unfastening the bib front of his tunic as they walked. ‘The Ninth went for sixteen; I heard it from the agents only last week.’

Hervey sighed to himself. Fifteen thousand pounds for the lieutenant-colonelcy of a cavalry regiment of the Line – two and a half times over the regulation price! How might he ever afford it when the time came? How, indeed, might he afford the majority when that came? Six months ago, when Sir Ivo Lankester had died in the storming of the fortress of Bhurtpore, Eustace Joynson had advanced free – by ‘death- vacancy’ – and Strickland, as senior captain by a few months, had advanced free to major in his place.

Hervey could not be resentful beyond a moment though, for Strickland had been at duty with the Sixth for almost as long as had he – longer, indeed, counting his own ten months’ sojourn as a civilian after Henrietta’s death. Or rather, he could not be resentful of Strickland himself. Of the system he could have great cause to be. True, he had received a brevet after Bhurtpore, and, yes, he had been made a most handsome offer to join the staff of the commander-in-chief in Calcutta, with perhaps a further, half-colonel’s, brevet. But these had been conditional – conditional on his turning a blind eye to so much of which he disapproved in the sharing of spoils from that battle, which he detested even.

So, he told himself, he had only himself to blame if he truly wanted advancement. He knew it full well. But it did not diminish his anger with the patronage, bartering and . . . profiteering which passed for a system of promotion in the army. For in the relative peace they had enjoyed in the decade since Waterloo, and with a greatly reduced army, when an officer sold out of his own volition he could all but name his price. Not officially; the sum of money changing hands through the regimental agents was now supposed to be strictly regulated (gone at least were the auctions of earlier times). But there were other ways: the sale of a horse or a sword at a grossly inflated sum to make up the difference. The means did not matter. The debt was one of honour, and no officer could afford to default on it even if he had the inclination to. Nor could any officer be too fastidious about a system in which he had such an obvious stake. Even Hervey – especially Hervey, for he had no private means to speak of, and were he to sell out, he might well find that his own captaincy had nicely increased its value.

‘It’s no good for any of us who want to go on,’ he replied as they came up to the door of the mess. ‘But I must say I’m pleased for Eustace if it brings him a little profit. He’ll at least be able to settle a fair amount on Frances. I fear he’ll need to to tempt a decent suitor.’

Strickland raised his eyebrows as he took off his shako and gave it to a mess servant. Hervey had said only what they all thought, but . . . ‘Ay. Well, I for one shall be sorry to see him go.’

It was the Sixth’s custom for the officers – save the picket-officer – to change out of their regimentals before lunch. Hervey and Strickland therefore retired to their quarters, to emerge half an hour later for the customary sherry, Strickland in a set of fustian in anticipation of a visit to the flighting ponds, and Hervey in a fine worsted in which he felt able to present himself later at White’s.

‘I can’t help thinking that Lord Sussex might have been able to prevail on him to stay a little while longer,’ said Hervey as he took his glass, the subject having remained in his mind for the entire time of his ablutions and