On His Majesty's Service

alone had been allowed to keep it.

He had not seen Russian troops since Paris, after Bonaparte’s final exile. These little moments of unlooked- for display were therefore instructive, for there was much that a seasoned soldier could tell from how a regiment mustered – how observant were the officers, how the NCOs cut about, the economy in the words of command, the sharpness of the drill. And by these measures he judged that the Pavlovsk would stand immovable during an attack, and would in their turn go to it with the bayonet in determined fashion. But then, from what he had seen of the Azov Regiment – a very legionary unit – at their fatigues, he did not doubt that they too would be obedient and stalwart. The Pavlovsk were the pick of the Line, but their grenadiers were conscripts too: both regiments were from the same peasant stock, hardened to adversity by the time they drew their first kopek. He found himself musing that if he were to command a regiment of infantry when he returned, he would wish it to be as well ordered as these grenadiers.

As he left them to the rest of the muster parade, he resolved to write his first despatch to the Horse Guards that evening. Though there was little to report by way of true intelligence, he would render in writing how and by what means he had come to the seat of war without His Britannic Majesty’s ambassador (for it was in the ambassador’s suite that he had been accredited). It did not matter to the mission on which he was engaged, he supposed, but if anything were to go wrong in the course of it, it were better that he did not first have to explain how he had come to be travelling other than in diplomatic company. If Lord Heytesbury chose to remain in St Petersburg with the Tsar, who had returned to his capital at the close of the former campaigning season, then what business could it be of the Horse Guards?

As he side-stepped yet another filthy pool, Hervey began forming in his mind the impressions of which he would write to Lord Hill. First, however, he must present his compliments to the Cossacks.

* * *

He watched with the others from the edge of the maidan on the old causeway which (said Cornet Agar) linked what had once been an island, where Apollo’s statue had stood, to the mainland, although it now had all the appearance of a natural peninsula. Siseboli was not without charm. Some of its houses were substantial, even elegant by provincial standards, and the rest were well found, although to the landward end of the peninsula they became rather meaner, and some were little more than shanties. The people, those that had stayed when the Russians landed – Bulgars, in the main – were swarthy but upright, and for the most part they looked to the sea for their fortunes rather than to the land. They had been ruled by Constantinople for so many years that they no longer thought of any other condition but servitude – or so Wachten had told him. They were not (yet) as the Greeks, clamouring for their liberty.

About the Cossacks’ exercise ground – ‘parade’ ground seemed wholly inappropriate for so irregular a band of troops – lounged the bearded horsemen on whose legendary exploits so much of the Tsar’s military reputation rested. No two of them were dressed the same, as far as Hervey could see. Most wore dark blue overalls with a broad red stripe, but some wore looser bags; many were bare-headed, some wore a sort of forage cap, but others had on a fleece shako pulled to one side alla Turca. Some were in the short, blue summer shell jacket, some wore the winter cherkesska smock still, with its rows of cartridge loops, while others had on just shirts, and of several different colours. There was but one common item of ‘uniform’: as it was the hour of repose after the midday dinner of mutton and the issue of kvas, every man had his pipe lit. When Hervey had first learned what was the strength of the garrison, he asked the esaul, the Cossacks’ captain, why there was only a squadron (sotnia) of them, two hundred lances, to which the reply had been that they were Chernomorski – Cossacks of the Black Sea Host – and that one Black Sea Cossack was equal to three from the Don.

Seeing now the approach of the Anglichanye, the esaul rose from his camp stool, and, with his sotnik (lieutenant), bid them welcome. He was a burly, dark-skinned man of indeterminate age (Hervey knew little of him other than that he had been at Borodino, and then Paris) who spoke the worst Russian, so Wachten’s chief of staff told him, of any officer in Siseboli. He certainly spoke no other language Hervey knew, though Cornet Agar, by a combination of Persian, Greek and bazaar Turkish, was able to communicate with his sotnik.

They had looked over the Cossack horses soon after landing, and Hervey had made admiring noises to the esaul, for they were hardy animals, fifteen hands or so, and evidently good-doers. They were bred (if Agar’s understanding was correct) out of Kabardin mares from the Caucasus, put-to by Turcomans and Arabs, so that they were equally at home on the wide steppe or tricky mountain paths.

While Hervey and the esaul saluted, embraced, shook hands, exchanged mutually incomprehensible greetings and generally made like officers of rank, Agar and the sotnik spoke in tongues.

‘The sotnik says that all the arrangements are made for us, sir,’ said Agar, after some explanatory gesturing. ‘They will bring our horses as soon as it is light.’

‘You are sure not before?’ asked Hervey. ‘The general said they were to leave before dawn. I don’t wish to find myself late on parade.’

There followed another exchange with the sotnik, who then spoke to the esaul, bringing broad smiles from both.

‘The esaul says he wants the whole place to see them march out.’

Hervey smiled too. He perfectly understood – not least that General Wachten’s command was not absolute when it came to Cossacks.

The esaul spoke again: Hervey heard the word ‘kvas’ and braced himself to the challenge. He would not be picking up his pen for an hour and more. And he wondered how prudent it would be to do so when he did.

IX

THE ESAUL

Next day

At a quarter past five the signal guns on the old walls called in the pickets for the morning stand-to-arms – three shots, five seconds between. Hervey was standing ready for parade outside the house where his party was billeted, taking in the pure air of the pre-dawn, looking forward keenly to his ride in the country, away from the rankness of the camp and its confining defences. Beyond the outworks it would be spring, whereas within there were only the few signs of it. Bugles began sounding reveille. In twenty minutes the sun would be rising, the pickets would be in and the guards stood to. In twenty more, the rest of the troops would muster by companies and battalions, and another day of garrison routine would begin. Now came the sound of hoofs – the sotnik and a dozen men bringing horses. His heart beat faster; he would soon be in his element again.

Pack-saddling the camp stores did not take long, thanks to Johnson’s practice of twenty years and the deft hands of the Cossacks (expecting to be on patrol but two days and nights they rode with only light scales). Just after full light the rest of the sotnia came up in noisy good spirits – horseshoes ringing on the cobbles, chaghanas jingle-jangling, and hearty Cossack babble. But for the forest of lances, they might have been a band of gypsies breaking camp. Hervey smiled to himself at the thought: these were the men whom Bonaparte’s veterans had feared.

He would stay his opinion, however. In appearance the Cossacks had much in common with the irregular cavalry he had fought alongside in India – Skinner’s regiment especially, which he counted second to none in ranging and raiding. With English troops it was generally the rule that good appearance was a sure indication of capability, but it was not invariably so with native troops – and not, he suspected, with Cossacks. He smiled to himself again, for the esaul was having his way: men from every regiment were turning out to watch them leave.

‘Very well, let us join our host,’ he said to his little party, with a look of amused curiosity. The sotnik had brought him a compact, almost jet-black mare. He checked the girth, gathered