On His Majesty's Service

‘I think I must go and see General Wachten,’ he said at length, replacing his telescope in its holster.

‘To what purpose?’ asked Fairbrother, likewise giving up his surveillance of the distant hawk-eye.

‘To propose that we take a ride towards Aidos to see why the Turk does not come to evict us.’

Fairbrother was inclined to be wry. ‘I suppose the Russians have spare horses and no objection to lending them to impartial observers.’

‘I trust so.’

‘Or perhaps I should say “the Germans have spare horses”: shall we meet any Russian generals, do you think? Wachten, Roth, Diebitsch – does the Tsar trust only those with German names?’

Hervey smiled. ‘The Tsar himself had a German mother, and his wife is Prussian. That must count for something, though I can’t say what with any certainty.’

Corporal Acton asked leave to speak. ‘Sir, might I try and borrow a rifle and return the Turk’s fire, sir? Not to ’urt ’im – just to try an’ bustle ’im out. As an aid to observation, sir.’ His expression was made the more ironic by the accent of Bow.

Hervey thought for a moment. ‘Admirable idea, Corporal Acton – ordinarily. But in truth I’d rather not have our Russian friends here think the Turk’s our enemy. It wouldn’t do for them to think we considered him a friend either, mind, but there’s no cause for raising doubts.’

Acton looked disappointed. If there were no enemy, what use was a covering corporal? ‘Sir.’

* * *

General von Wachten was a compact, solid-looking artillery officer of about fifty years, friendly enough if not exactly warm, active but not energetic. Hervey and his party had travelled in his company by frigate from Bessarabia, where the greater part of the army had wintered after the campaign of the previous year. He spoke German with the accent of Silesia – in which he preferred to curse, seemingly, rather than in his workmanlike Russian – as well as passable French. Hervey supposed he had been appointed for solidity rather than dash: his mission was to hold Siseboli, no more. That much might be entrusted to an artillery officer.

Wachten was at his headquarters, the residence of the customs official, eating cheese and drinking coffee, as was his habit in the middle of the morning.

‘How is your Latin, Colonel Hervey?’ he asked, nodding to acknowledge the salute as Hervey was ushered in, and indicating two books on his otherwise empty desk.

Hervey supposed it to be an attempt at affability, and thought to chance a little in his reply. ‘It has been out to grass for some years, General.’

‘And Greek?’

‘Even longer. But if you have need of translation, the cornet accompanying me has ample of both.’

Wachten smiled ever so slightly. ‘The priest here brought me those. Pliny and Herodotus. They both write of these parts, he says, and he wanted to give me something in gratitude for the repairs my engineers have made to his church.’

Hervey nodded. As soon as the Russians had landed they had begun rebuilding the church of the Virgin. It had been ruined in the Ottoman depredations, they told him (though he thought it perhaps more in ignorance than with malign intent). They taught him a word even – two words: lukovichnaya glava, onion-dome. It had been broken in half. The engineers made it whole. And then they gilded it. Where the gold came from they would not say, but they were fiercely proud of what they did. He had remarked on the will with which they went about it, and Wachten had said that it was relief from the labour at the defence works, and good also for the spirit of his troops to see their religion restored (‘They will have many more to gild in Constantinople!’).

‘I can have Mr Agar read them, General, and apprise you of anything worthwhile.’

Wachten nodded. ‘This place was called Apollonia in ancient times, a colony of Miletus. Did you know that, Colonel Hervey?’

‘I did, General.’

‘There was a temple of Apollo, from which Lucullus carried off to Rome a statue of the god, whose height was thirty cubits, which he afterwards erected in the Capitol.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Well, perhaps your cornet would be so good as to read these books to see if there is anything to learn from General Lucullus. It would amuse me to find, say, that there was some secret passage that my engineers have not discovered. Or where the statue stood, in case Lucullus left behind any treasure.’

Wachten laughed, so that Hervey was unsure how serious were his expectations. He was obliged to humour him, however; he did, after all, rely on his good offices for both bread and horses. ‘Of course, General. But may I be permitted also to know your intention in reconnoitring – now that, it appears to me, the defences of the town have been placed on so sound a footing?’

The general looked suddenly grave. ‘Colonel Hervey, I have been remiss. Coffee – and cheese?’

‘The general is very kind. Coffee, please.’

The orderly standing at attention by the door evidently understood German well enough, and began pouring him a cup.

‘Be seated, Colonel,’ said Wachten, looking – to Hervey’s mind – just a little pleased with himself. ‘I am aware that you are a cavalryman, and therefore restless to be about the business of searching out the enemy. You will have wondered daily, no doubt, why I do not send out my Cossacks on such a mission.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. ‘I tell you a secret. There is a most excellent system of spies here in Roumelia, and I intend keeping my few and precious horsemen for some more definite purpose than riding all about the country.’ He sat back and pulled a disapproving face. ‘Besides, they would doubtless carry off more than they could pay for, and I have no wish to make enemies of the people hereabouts.’

Hervey nodded appreciatively: such an enlightened attitude was worthy of the Duke of Wellington himself. But reliance on spies? It had nearly been the duke’s undoing before Waterloo. How, though, might he make his point without giving offence? Indeed, was it right that he should do so – for he was not an adviser but an observer?

But before he could scruple too painfully, Wachten took him aback. ‘I have learned, for example, that this morning, at dawn, the Seraskier marched out of Aidos at the head of five thousand foot and cavalry. And I have ordered the Cossacks out at dawn tomorrow to make contact with them.’

Hervey tried to hide his surprise, anxious not to suggest he had doubted Wachten’s efficiency. ‘May I accompany them, General?’ he asked, in a tone of purposeful admiration.

‘I have ordered horses to be made ready for you and your party.’

Hervey made appreciative gestures, then rose to request leave to dismiss, adding inadvertently, ‘And if there is any service I can be …’

Wachten shook his head. ‘I have every confidence in the men under my command, thank you, Colonel. But if there is occasion for service to His Imperial Majesty, I trust I shall be able to call upon you.’

Hervey braced, a useful mechanism for covering mistakes (as well as being the customary courtesy). ‘I trust I shall know where my duty lies, General. Thank you, again, for your kindness.’

He put on his forage cap, gathered up his sword, saluted and took his leave.

Outside, a battalion of the Pavlovsk Grenadiers, the general’s quarter guard, was forming up for inspection. The garrison mustered at dawn each day for roll-call and stood down afterwards to breakfast before being detailed for the fatigues of the day, which for the Line battalions principally consisted in digging trenches and bringing up defence stores from the harbour. But the Pavlovsk Grenadiers, besides the guard duty and escorts, were at the provost-marshal’s call, and therefore did not take turns on the defence works.

He stopped to watch the parade. The Pavlovsk were an undoubted cut above the Line – five hundred chosen men in close order. Recruits to all the grenadier battalions, not just to the Pavlovsk, were handpicked from the Line regiments for their bearing, good conduct and courage. They wore the same close-fitting white linen trousers as those of the Line battalions, but the workaday dress of the Line was baggy overalls tied at the ankle, invariably filthy from fatigues. They wore much the same tunic too – green, long-tailed (with red facings in the Pavlovsk) – but they wore it better. It was the mitre cap, however, that truly set them off. At first it had looked to him strangely old- fashioned: grenadiers in English regiments had long since given it up (before he had joined, indeed). But its singular appearance worked its effect, for, claimed the Pavlovsk, it was a mark of their special bravery at Friedland. They