headwaters of the Gwalana.
When he had come to the natural conclusion of the action, Emma, who had remained silent but very intent, shook her head. ‘I, too, am full of admiration for your Mr Fairbrother. Such resolution as well as skill!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Eyre, he must come to the castle as soon as may be.’
Somervile, who had been listening almost as intently, though he knew the affair from the pages of the report, smiled and nodded, as if conceding to his wife a personal favour. Hervey was touched by the evident orientation of the lieutenant-governor’s heart. He said nothing, allowing Emma and her husband their intimacy.
Emma turned back to him. ‘But Matthew, your corporal: again he dashed to your rescue – no, not rescue, defence. I—’
Hervey inclined his head. ‘I should happily admit to “rescue”. Had there been more men in that bush Fairbrother might have been shot from his horse, as might I.’
Emma shook her head. ‘I mean that yet again he was there with you. In Rangoon, and then again in Spain, and now here.’
‘That is his position: he
Her eyes widened with astonishment.
Hervey smiled. ‘I sport with you, Emma. He is the most admirable of NCOs. I am, you may imagine, inordinately attached to him – not least because of the circumstances of his joining. I listed him from the Warminster sink, and I have to say that – God be praised – he is not the only man of his kind in the Sixth. Nevertheless he is singular in what he has been obliged to do these past five years. I have today made him serjeant.’
Emma clapped her hands. ‘I am delighted for it! When shall I see him? For besides prodigious courage and a devotion to you, he has very agreeable manners. As does, too, your serjeant-major.’
‘The night affair, Hervey,’ Somervile interrupted. ‘The fleysome affair of the night!’
Hervey looked suitably chastened. ‘Ah, yes, the night affair. I should say, Emma, that after the ambuscade we retired north towards one of the frontier posts, taking the wounded man with us, making camp a little before sunset. It was impossible to know if the Xhosa had followed, and just before midnight Mr Fairbrother, of his own, went out of the camp to discover what was the cause of some rustling noise, and found three of them poised to the attack. He killed two at once and came into the camp with a third.’
Emma gripped her glass tight. ‘Was it
‘The whole country’s very trappy, with a great deal of thorn, and it was as black as Hades. How Fairbrother found them, let alone did what he did, astonishes me still. But then, he called for one of the fires we had laid to be lit, so that he could show any Xhosa who were waiting to attack that we had a prisoner.’
‘But would that not encourage them to his rescue?’
‘I omitted to say he held a knife at the man’s neck, and called out to them in Xhosa that he would slit his throat’ (he paused and cleared his own slightly) ‘and cut off his manhood if they attacked. We managed to get away, first on foot and then at a gallop, all the time with the Xhosa captive bound and with a pistol at his head, until we came on a patrol from Fort Willshire.’
Emma sat back in her chair. ‘Great heavens; I do not think I ever heard its like in all the time I was in India. This Mr Fairbrother: he sounds half savage!’
‘I told you of his lineage, my dear,’ explained her husband. ‘There’s the blood of the natives there somewhere.’
Hervey took another sip of his whiskey. ‘I have a notion that a half-bred fellow with the education of an Englishman – which is what Fairbrother would answer to – might be the beau ideal of a cavalryman in this place.’
‘Well, I am all eager to make his acquaintance,’ said Emma, very decided. ‘And he is a poet too, you say?’
Hervey raised his hands. ‘I confess he has read those I have never heard of.’
‘You never heard of Wordsworth?’ replied Emma, incredulous.
‘Of course he’s heard of Wordsworth,’ said Somervile helpfully. ‘Wordsworth the soldier of the Westmoreland Militia!’
Hervey would not rise to the fly. ‘I said I had never read the poem he had composed about the warrior.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Emma, contented.
‘But you will like him very much. He is a little thin-skinned in respect of his origins, but that is easily overcome.’
They passed a further quarter of an hour in pleasant conversation, though all of it with a purpose, until the khansamah announced Colonel Somerset.
A man of middle height and patrician good looks, and several years Hervey’s junior, entered the drawing room and bowed.
‘Colonel, you are most welcome,’ exclaimed Somervile in exaggerated greeting, intending to roust the prickly scion of the Somersets from habitual ill humour.
Hervey rose, as did Emma, who advanced on her guest with hand held out. ‘You are indeed, most welcome, Colonel.’
Colonel Somerset, though evidently a little surprised, took her hand nevertheless. ‘Lady Somervile,’ he said, bowing, then again to his fellow guest: ‘Colonel Hervey.’
‘Have you travelled far today, Colonel?’ asked Emma, before Somerset could make any conversation of his own – or even her husband (she was determined to have just a few of the civilities of the presidencies observed in this, by comparison, unrefined outpost of the realm).
Somerset, his head already half turned to the lieutenant-governor, and his lips parted to form the first of his enquiries, was obliged to return to his hostess. He looked a shade abashed (which Emma took satisfaction in). ‘Forgive me, ma’am … yes, it has been a long day. I was obliged to go to Simon’s-town early this morning on account of a frigate’s putting in.’
‘To advantage?’ asked Somervile.
‘Yes, she brought the Horse Guards’ approval for the estimates respecting the Cape Corps, as well as private mail. There is, I observe, a substantial bag for you and your dragoons, Colonel Hervey.’
Hervey was pleased to hear it: the mails were ever the soldier’s cheer, but he was especially hopeful that his bag contained the percussion cartridges he had ordered from Forsyth’s in Piccadilly. But beyond the information of the mails, Colonel Somerset was not especially communicative, and certainly not warm. Hervey knew that the business of the Cape Corps estimates was of some family concern to him: Eyre Somervile had told him that General Donkin had left a quarter of a million pounds to the credit of the colony, whereas Lord Charles Somerset had left a deficit of almost a million. General Bourke had therefore set about the economies necessary for the restoration of the budget, including taking down the signal towers communicating with the frontier, leaving only those to Simon’s Town from the castle, and the reorganization of the Cape Corps into something more akin to Mr Peel’s Irish constabulary.
‘Colonel Hervey has had a most interesting time of it at the frontier,’ said Somervile, in the pause during which Colonel Somerset took his glass from the khansamah. ‘Quite a sharp encounter with the Xhosa indeed.’
Hervey had no desire to conceal it, and certainly not to deny it, though he would have wished for it not to have arisen so soon.
But it was a vain hope on both counts. ‘So I heard,’ replied Somerset, not at all approvingly. ‘And with that planter’s bastard from the Africans.’
Somervile remained blithe. ‘Rather a useful planter’s bastard, though: he appears to have saved Hervey’s life here, and rendered rather valuable service in other directions too. He collared one of the Xhosa in the middle of the night, who turns out to be no less than one of Gaika’s own sons – and a favoured one at that.’
‘Ah,’ said Emma, suddenly returned to the conversation. ‘You did not tell me that, my dear. Was the man therefore held to ransom?’
Somervile looked at Hervey. ‘I think
Hervey tried not to appear reluctant. ‘It was Fairbrother’s enterprise, in truth. I confess I know of no one in the army who would have been able to crawl about in the black of that night and do what he did. Plenty, perhaps, with the courage, and some with the skill; but to dispose of two and then bring in a third prisoner –
