‘Very well. What say you, Sir Edward?’
A Troop captain lowered his glass. ‘I have known Edwin Warde these dozen years and more, Colonel. Given time he will come to a right method.’
Lord George inclined his head.
‘If you press me to say more, Colonel, I would only add what I imagine is known to you already, that Daly and Quilley are a disgrace to the service no less than to the regiment.’
Lord George’s eyebrows rose. ‘It is insupportable that we should have to speak of such men. Two more reprobate officers it would be difficult to contemplate. They’ve not the slightest conception of duty – and nor, I might add, do I see any prospect of driving them to it. I shall order them in arrest at the next flagrant offence and take measures to cashier them.’
Even Edmonds was taken aback by the resolution. He was minded to rehearse some redeeming virtue, some mitigating circumstance (they were but cornets, after all); but in truth there was none – certainly not charm. ‘A turn-up before the off may be no bad thing. There’s none that dare swerve too much after such a warning.’
Sir Edward took another sip of his Madeira, as if disdaining mention of two men he would not have passed the time of day with had they not been gazetted to his regiment. ‘I hope we may reward the active sorts, Colonel, as well as punish the villains. I am of the opinion that more should have been made of the exemplars of their rank when we returned from Corunna. We had not a single merit promotion given us.’
Lord George nodded. ‘You’re right, of course, Sir Edward. And it must pain doubly when the mess sees so ill an outcome of influence as Mr Quilley. I’ll press the matter on Sir Stapleton Cotton when I see him next.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have no doubt that you are thinking of laurels ahead for A Troop?’
Sir Edward kept his countenance, for he was in perfect earnest. ‘I am, Colonel.’
On the morning two days following, First Squadron paraded as usual, but Sir Edward Lankester had confided to only three men, the evening before, to what purpose other than routine was the muster. He was obliged, naturally, to inform B Troop’s captain, Jesmond, what was afoot, and he had told his own lieutenant, Martyn, and Quartermaster Watten. Jesmond he had also authorized to inform
Sir Edward had received his orders in writing the afternoon previous. They bore the lieutenant-colonel’s signature, but he knew the words had been crafted in Sir Arthur Wellesley’s headquarters, and in that case very probably by the commander-in-chief himself. He did not know Sir Arthur except by reputation, but he read in those three succinct sentences what he imagined was the essence of the man – and
Sir Edward understood that he might at best have a week’s march on the rest of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s force, and a day or so only on the rest of Cotton’s brigade. The distance to the Douro was a hundred and fifty miles, over indifferent roads and with horses not yet fully up to service. He could risk no more than thirty miles in the day if he was to have a squadron even half capable at the end of it. But he could at least pick his best men and horses and take them in advance of the rest of the squadron to make the initial junction, for the Portuguese would already know a deal of what he was required to discover, and he could then simply direct his efforts towards confirming their information rather than discovering it anew. He therefore placed B Troop’s captain in command of the squadron, leaving Martyn in charge of A Troop, and left Belem as soon as muster was over with the remaining officers, a servant apiece, a serjeant, a dozen corporals and dragoons, and a farrier.
Hervey could scarcely contain his zeal as the chosen band set out. Jessye was in hale condition. The other officers may have scorned her to begin with, and they continued with the tease occasionally now, but in those weeks on the Sussex Downs, when Joseph Edmonds had had the officers out for ‘saddle-talk’, they had come to recognize a handy charger and march-horse combined. He had not the slightest doubt that he would win his wager: Fin would be cast before Jessye, and the first fine sabre would be the prize.
His second charger, Loyalist, was of an altogether different stamp, a starling gelding, a racer who had run head-up once too often. But he had got him for a good price and had re-bitted him. Laming had watched his early attempts with disbelief: ‘Hervey, there are three kinds of fool. There’s the fool, there’s the damned fool, and there’s him as hunts in a snaffle!’
But the merest contact of rein and martingale had by degrees brought Loyalist’s head down, and Hervey could only wonder at what thin bar that passed for a bit – as well as mutton fists – had hardened the animal’s mouth in the first place. Instead he had bought a round snaffle, jointed, and sewed a length of sheepskin to the noseband so that the gelding had to drop his head to see front. A few days’ schooling soon implanted the association of soft bit and forward vision in Loyalist’s head, but embarkation had interrupted their training, so that the regulation double bridle was as yet unknown to him. But Hervey had reckoned Loyalist would need the curb nothing like as much as his fellow cornet thought. ‘Laming, half the troop goes with just the snaffle, for they have the curb chain so loose!’
It would have taken a full three weeks more of riding school, however, before Hervey could count Loyalist a sound battlecharger, and this early march north was no occasion for schooling. The horse was a fine sight on parade at least, and promised to be finer still when his summer coat was through. Indeed, with Jessye and Loyalist, Hervey considered himself passably well provided for. He had a march-horse that would serve him true as a battlecharger, and one that had the makings, as well as being fleet enough even to do galloper duty. He needed a little better luck than he had had with Stella; that was all.
Luck seemed to favour him. When they went into billets on the third night, Hervey was more pleased with his
