On His Majesty's Service

‘Cossacks or bashi-bazouks?’ said Hervey, with no great concern.

‘As we have frequently observed, a bird is best identified by what it does,’ replied Fairbrother, no less composed. ‘If they give chase then we’d better work on the assumption that they’re the latter.’

‘If they’re Cossacks they may still give chase. We might look like Turks at this distance.’

They shortened reins and quickened pace.

The horsemen left the cover of the trees.

The three broke into a canter.

In turn the horsemen began to gallop.

Hervey let slip the reins. There was no prospect of being caught in a straight gallop with two furlongs’ lead. ‘Come on. Not Cossacks – no lances.’

It was easy. All three mounts had a turn of speed, and the bashi-bazouks had not yet made the road.

The pair of plane trees either side of the road which marked the half-way point lay just ahead. ‘A mile on and we’ll be at the outposts,’ called Hervey, almost enjoying the chase. He let his gelding lengthen stride a fraction more and edged ahead of Fairbrother’s again by a neck.

Neither of them saw the rope in time, or the men at each end, up from the ditches like jacksnipe, bracing the trip against the plane trees. Hervey’s gelding took it at the forearm and somersaulted, throwing him twenty feet, snapping its neck in the fall and kicking wildly in the road. Fairbrother’s caught it a fraction lower, stumbling sideways and throwing him into the ditch. Agar’s mare ran straight into Fairbrother’s and came down on top of her rider.

Hervey fought the blackness overwhelming him. He wanted to call his friend’s name, but couldn’t. He lay stunned, prone. He tried to move his hands and feet – anything rather than nothing.

Twenty yards away, in the ditch, Fairbrother did the same. His arm was broken – he knew it – but not his sword arm. He forced himself to move, to get to his knees, to begin scaling the mountainous side of the ditch. He found more breath: ‘Hervey!’

No answer.

He heard hoofs behind them, pounding.

So did Hervey – or felt them. He used all his strength to roll onto his back. Where was Fairbrother – and Agar?

Fairbrother dug his fingers in the earth to haul himself another inch up the bank.

Seven wild-looking horsemen who took lives, honour and gold without a thought reined up hard. One only sprang down, for one only would be enough.

Hervey could barely see as his executioner loomed over him and drew back his knife to savour the cut.

Hervey’s right hand moved across his chest.

The bazouk saw the pathetic gesture – pleading. He smiled, mockingly, tilting the blade this way and that to show what awaited his vitals.

Hervey’s hand reached inside his tunic, to the Deringer pistol, primed and wadded. But he needed strength. ‘Dear God …’

There was a great roaring in his head – like the Murom as they charged with the bayonet – and he pulled out the pistol, cocked the trigger and turned it on the looming bazouk.

The flame, the noise, the smoke – like the powder waggons at Kulewtscha.

The bazouk fell back, dazed, the ball lodged in the silvered belt at his chest. He sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

Then, gathering his strength, he began crawling to finish the job.

Another shot – louder. The bazouk fell dead.

‘Hervey!’

Fairbrother limped towards him, dropping the pistol he couldn’t re-load.

The others watched, laughing, biding their time.

‘Hervey!’ He sank to his knees beside him.

The moment had come; this time they couldn’t cheat it. Still Hervey couldn’t speak.

He heard the shots, and Fairbrother slumped across his chest.

He felt the strength given to him again – to lift his arms and pull his friend close. But still without breath to speak.

‘Oh …’

Hervey grasped him tight. Not like this, he prayed. Not both unable to say farewells.

‘Hervey … I’m done.’ It was barely a whisper.

‘No … hold hard, my friend.’ But did he speak the words? He prayed for all he was worth.

‘Hervey … the dark …’

‘Fight … fight, my dearest friend.’ Hervey’s voice came in gasps.

And he could not hear the pounding hoofs of the bashi-bazouks – and of the Cossacks.

XX

BLEAK MIDWINTER

London, 19 January 1830

The heavy frost which preserved December’s snow and kept men by their fires made Kent a dismal place through which to travel, like some vast house dust-sheeted and abandoned in death. It had been a melancholy drive without the company of passengers of stage or mail. A private chaise, a relay of horses and post-boys – a great expense for not very much greater speed, and hardly more comfort; he was intent only on the Horse Guards; all other intercourse and diversion meant nothing.

London Bridge was without its crowds – he had half expected to see it pulled down, gone – and ice languished in the hibernating Thames. Just beyond the Temple Bar one of the new policemen was keeping the peace in a dispute between pie-sellers; half-way along the Strand a piper had gathered a crowd, and at the bottom, by Charing Cross, the frosted scaffolding loomed like a giant spider’s web, the men aloft like caught flies. In all its ordinariness, the familiar scene was strangely consoling.

As the chaise pulled up outside the United Service Club, he breathed (perhaps even audibly) the greatest sigh of relief. It was, so to speak, a journey of a full circle, a year almost to the day, but a homecoming without the joy of the departure. The long return – three months, almost – by way of Constantinople, steam frigate and the roads of France, had not eased much the oppressive sense of waste, of loss (and, in truth, of guilt). He had written long, condoling letters, but for all he knew they were still to arrive – and even the news itself. The committal to the earth of Ancient Thrace had been swift – too swift, but that was the only way in heat and war. He had found an obliging surgeon, though, and in the seraglio a little ivory casket, which a metal-smith had then lined with lead, and another who engraved a plate: ‘Nothing of him that doth fade/But doth suffer a sea-change/Into something rich and strange.’ Cor Cordium – it had not left his guard these six months.

The United Service at last – haven. Here he could make another beginning, though what and where he did not know. Nor would he know until he had been to the Horse Guards; and even then the answer might not come at once. The letters at Adrianople – the only ones he had received in all of the year – had contained no word. He sighed heavily. Agar’s fateful ride had been needless, utterly needless.

The hall porter, an old serjeant of the Line, turned from the blazing coal fire with poker still in hand, which he brought upright to a salute and greeted him with seasonal good cheer. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you back, Colonel Hervey, sir. And you, Captain Fairbrother!’

The two went straight to the fire, holding out hands which felt suddenly cold.

‘Will you be wanting to stay, sir?’

Hervey nodded. ‘Are there rooms? I would have sent an express but thought it would not precede us by much.’

‘All of ’em’s free bar one, sir. No one is back from the country yet. They say as this ’ard weather’s giving