An Act Of Courage

‘Old General William’s younger son.’

‘Very well.’

‘The best by a good many lengths is Sir Edward Lankester. He has A. I had a mind he would transfer to half pay when we came back: he’s not long come into his estate, but he says he will stay until Bonaparte is in a cage.’

‘We may all say “Amen” to that. His brother is Ivo Lankester, I imagine?’

‘I can’t say I know, Colonel.’

‘Cornet in the Royals. No matter. Who else?’

Edmonds cleared his throat. ‘E Troop is Underwood, who is sound, in a plodding sort of way, and F is Moore, who intends exchanging with an Indiaman. And there is Joynson, who formed the depot troop when we sailed. Since we are to re-form eight-troops-strong, he will have the seventh, and one of the captains from the Unposted List will return. Who, I don’t know.’

‘Joynson, I imagine, is . . . at home in a depot?’

‘At his worst he’s an old woman. At his best there’s no officer with a better facility for administration. The depot will be found correct to the last penny and nail.’

‘A most useful facility,’ declared Lord George Irvine, with perhaps more a note of determination than conviction. ‘And the others?’

‘The veterinary surgeon is, I’d hazard, the best in the service: John Knight.’

‘Ah, indeed, Knight. We are fortunate to be sure. Lord Paget spoke of him for Woodbridge, as I recall. I should be loath to lose him, even to there.’

‘He was the difference of a dozen remounts a month in Spain.’

Rounding the corner of a half-empty Dutch barn, they came on A Troop’s hutted horse lines. Fresh whitewash did not entirely disguise their rackety condition.

‘How many shall we see here?’

‘A Troop is remounted, the only one complete – fifty-five. We contracted with a good man in Arundel as a matter of priority, but Lankester paid twice the price.’

Lord George nodded. ‘Fifty-five: not strong. You didn’t lose many in Spain, though? Until having to shoot them all, I mean.’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘And men?’

‘We lost thirty-one, dead or invalide. But we’ve lost that number since. Five were dead of fever by the time we landed at Plymouth, and twenty-odd coming on here. I’m surprised it wasn’t more – filthy weather, ill clad, no shelter, poor rations. A dozen are absent without leave. They might return; they weren’t bad hats.’

Lord George shook his head; the story was not confined to the Sixth. ‘What is the sabre strength, then?’

‘At muster, and with local sick, we are four hundred and forty-six today.’

Lord George raised his eyebrows. The establishment for eight troops was twice that number.

They opened the door and went inside. At this time of a morning, between watering and second feed, the stables were quiet, with one dragoon on duty. The only sound was of teeth grinding hay, the odd chain running through its ring, and the occasional shift of a foot. Lord George took a deep breath: an officer who knew his job could smell the condition of a stable.

‘We did not speak of him: there is a surgeon at duty?’

‘Yes, and fair he is too,’ replied Edmonds, eyeing the straw in the first stall for signs of parsimony or excess. ‘But the paymaster is a drunk, and I’ve begun proceedings against him.’

Lord George sighed. ‘There’s never a good moment to be deficient of a paymaster, but now of all times . . .’ He paused to look into each stall as they made their way to the other end.

‘Indeed not, but I’ve put one of the lieutenants to do duty meanwhile – Hirsch.’

Lord George frowned. ‘Hirsch? A very Jewey name.’

‘Yes. His father is one of Rothschild’s men. A deuced handy officer is young Hirsch, and uncommonly good on the flute.’

‘Well, there would have been scant specie in Flanders had it not been for Rothschild’s arrangements, that is certain, though doubtless he made a good rate on it. Let us pray that Mr Hirsch has his tribe’s facility with money.’ He stopped to study one of the troopers, a dun mare. ‘She looks a very good sort. My compliments to you and Lankester, though we wouldn’t have bought her twelve months ago, not that colour.’

Edmonds tilted his head. ‘I confess I gave the colour not a deal of thought, Colonel.’

Lord George smiled ruefully. ‘I fear there are many who still would, Edmonds. I don’t believe the scale of the enterprise is as yet understood by one half of the army.’

To Edmonds, who had thought of nothing but the calamity of Corunna, and its aftermath, the notion was astonishing. ‘Even going as we have, it will be six months before we can call ourselves ready.’

‘We don’t have that long,’ said Lord George, emphatically.

Edmonds said nothing. It would take as long as it took; and so far, six months was the best that anyone could imagine.

Lord George stood contemplating the dun mare a while before resuming the inspection. ‘What of the adjutant?’ he asked, giving the busy tail in the next stall a wide berth.

‘Tipping? In the daily administration of the regiment he is not at all bad, though I think he is deficient in true zeal. If we are to take to the field again I believe you might find him wanting.’

Lord George held up a hand. ‘I am by no means dismayed by that. I intend bringing a man from the Royals as soon as may be.’

Edmonds nodded. ‘Tipping may be glad to sell out. I presume he may exchange with your man?’

‘That might be arranged, yes. I would not hear of any turn-out, mind, but I should be obliged to have my own man.’

‘Of course, Colonel.’ Edmonds knew he would do the same. It was fortunate they did not have to shift a crack man.

The duty dragoon came out of the feed room, saw Edmonds, and the stranger, and drew his arms to his side. ‘Morning, Cap’n Edmonds, sir.’

‘Good morning, Johnson. All sound after exercise?’

‘One o’m’s got t’gripes – dry soort.’

Lord George looked puzzled. ‘What was that, Edmonds?’ he whispered as best he could.

‘One of the horses has dry colic, Colonel. This is Johnson, who was in my troop until last year. He comes from the infernal regions.’

‘Indeed?’

Johnson advanced, halted after a fashion, and stood awkwardly, feet together but the rest of the body at ease. His uniform was patched even more than Crampton’s and Hardy’s, and he was wearing a short smock.

Lord George was clearly intrigued. ‘What has been the treatment, Johnson?’

Before Johnson could answer, Edmonds thought to avoid any misunderstanding; he knew his man only too well. ‘Johnson, your commanding officer.’

Johnson shifted his weight slightly, which passed as a bracingup. ‘Mr Knight gev ’im a clyster, Colonel, an’ stuck ’is ’and up ’er an’ pulled out all t’mard ’e could. Like rock, it were.’

Lord George nodded, confident he had understood the import, if not every word. ‘Very well. And you, Private Johnson: what were you able to come away with from Corunna?’

‘Nowt at all, Colonel.’ Johnson sounded surprised. ‘We ’ad a few things we’d found on t’way – a bit o’ silver an’ that – but t’infantry’d got all t’best.’

Edmonds sighed. ‘Johnson, I believe the colonel meant what of your own equipment.’

‘Oh, nowt, Colonel. Just me sword an’ carbine, an’ what ah stood up in.’

‘And have you received any money?’

‘I’ve ’ad all me pay, Colonel. An’ ten pounds for us lost things – me razor an’ that. But they ’aven’t taken for me diffies yet.’

Lord George looked at Edmonds, who turned to Johnson again.

‘Johnson, I cannot believe you have not been told at least five times: there will be no stoppages for