He pulled the trigger. The mare's forelegs folded, and she fell to the ground without so much as a grunt.
Hervey was impressed - a businesslike despatch, as neat as any he'd seen. It had not been two minutes since the stone had done its worst. 'She was a fine animal,' he said, with real admiration.
Tears welled in Joynson's eyes, which he did nothing to hide. 'She was. And I should have left her with Frances.' And then, with an almost bitter note, 'except that I couldn't have trusted her to see to her rightly.'
Hervey thought to say nothing.
Joynson knelt and cut off a lock of the mane. 'The last of Anne Joynson, then . . . save for Frances herself.'
Hervey still thought it best to stay silent. Indeed, he had begun wondering how they might decently dispose of the carcass.
Joynson's coverman was already resigned to walking back to the lines. ‘I’d swear them guns was trying to do that, sir,' he said, making ready to hand the reins to the major.
‘So would I, sir,' added Wainwright. 'Somebody in that fort knows how to shoot. That's for sure.'
Hervey frowned and shook his head. 'The way that shot ran level, the gun must be a giant. It couldn't be retrained quickly enough to aim. Anyway, I doubt they can even make us out from that distance. No, a lucky shot I'll warrant.'
That evening, however, the camp was abuzz with rumour about the accuracy of the Jhaut guns. It was confidently asserted that the gunners were Frenchmen or Italians, as there had been in native service throughout the Maratha wars. And there were wilder stories, too - that the deserters from His Majesty's artillery were directing the fire. The direst retribution was sworn for any who had changed sides, nor was it clear where a Frenchman would stand in this reckoning. Hervey did his rounds that evening well pleased with the evidence of the Sixth's fighting spirit. Even the grocer - a name that Hervey found himself thinking of increasingly, if not actually uttering - seemed more animated at dinner. Joynson, certainly, had an edge not usually apparent. It had been a dozen years and more since he had been shot over. The sudden taste of gunfire that afternoon seemed to have been an exceptional tonic.
Hervey turned in just before midnight after walking the horse lines. They had been quiet, with nothing but an occasional whicker and grunt from the animals themselves, or an 'evenin', sir' from a sentry of the inlying picket. And although it was the picket-officer's job to check that the running lines were taut, he had inspected each of the troops' in turn. He had known enough times in Spain where a loose line had ended in runaways and broken legs. And he had checked, too, that the sentries knew the parole and how they were to be relieved. The men were alert, and it had given him much satisfaction to go to his tent knowing that the Sixth were as keen in their field discipline as they were in their fighting intent. He was afraid the former would be tested far longer than the latter, for what he had seen of the siege that day did not lead him to suppose there would be anything but cannonading and sapping for a month or more - save, perhaps, an obliging sortie by Durjan Sal's cavalry.
But now he was pleased for his campaign bed, and that it was the Sixteenth - Daniel Coates's old regiment - who stood sentinel. He could rest assured. Private Johnson had placed a bowl of hot water on one of the chests, but it was now only lukewarm. Hervey undressed, put on his nightshirt, washed his hands and set to work with sponge and tooth powder. Then he unmade his bed in the nightly routine of shaking out anything that might have crawled there during the time his groom had been gone, and, satisfied at last of his safety, lay down between white cotton sheets beneath two thick woollen blankets. He took care to double them and fold the edges under, for he knew he would need their warmth on so starry a night. The pillow was soft, and he had no desire to read or to contemplate anything. He turned down the lamp to the merest glow, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RUMOURS OF WAR
The early hours
From the depths of sleep, Hervey was called rudely to arms. To awake to the 'alarm' -the bugle's repeated C and E, unmistakable, and easy enough for the most frightened trumpeter to blow - had been a thrill in his cornet days, but now it meant only anxiety in the knowledge that there had been some failure. Perhaps his own? There was firing, too, distant but near enough to take account of. He turned up the lamp and began hauling on his overalls as Private Johnson, breathless, pulled back the tent flap. 'Major 'Ervey, sir!'
Hervey had no idea why his groom was already abroad and dressed.
'They 'ad me up cos thi mare's got a bit o' colic. All 'ell's broke loose over where t' Six-teenth are.'
'Very well. You'd better saddle up Gilbert if you will.' He began wondering who had given the order to sound the alarm.
'Bring 'im 'ere, sir?'
'No. Just where we stand to.’ This was no time to be making things complicated.
Johnson picked up Hervey’s boots and shook them.
'Thank you, Johnson. Now away.’
It took him but a minute more to finish dressing, fastening on the swordbelt last and picking up his pistols from beside the bed. He put on his shako as he ducked out of his tent, straining his eyes in the darkness, which fires and torches made all the darker in the unlit places. Men were hastening all about him, but with order and purpose. All they did, indeed, was the same as for stand-to before first light every day, except that it was at the double and in the expectation of action rather than merely the possibility. When he reached E Troop's line, the chargers to the right, he found Johnson with Gilbert under saddle, fastening up the bridle. He put both pistols into the holsters then made to tighten the girth and surcingle.
'Right, sir,’ said Johnson, taking away the head collar rather than spending any more time looping the straps.
Hervey was not yet ready to mount, though. 'Mr Perry! Mr Green!’ he called. There was a good deal of calling all around, and he was not about to enter into a competition with the corporals; but he wanted to know his officers were at their posts.
Serjeant-Major Armstrong came up with a lantern. 'Mr Perry's reporting to the adjutant, sir.’
Of course he was. Hervey had forgotten for the moment that Perry was next for picket-officer. 'And Mr Green?'
'Haven't seen him, sir. Both sections'll be ready in not many minutes more. They were quick out of their pits, I'll say that for 'em. Mind you, Collins was on picket.'
Corporal Wainwright now came up, leading his trooper. 'Sir.'
'Where is Mr Green?'
'I don't know, sir. I'll find 'is groom.'
'No. Let it be, for the moment. Come with me to the major.'
'Ay, sir. He's by the picket tent.'
'Very well. Johnson!'
'Sir?'
'Get someone to find where Mr Green is.' He turned to Armstrong. 'Carry on, then. Not to mount without the order, though.'
'Right, sir.'
Hervey strode off with Corporal Wainwright down the flanks of the horse lines, noting the state of each troop as he passed - so far as the darkness allowed him. Only A Troop looked unready. He found Joynson and the adjutant at the picket tent, the RSM standing with his notebook poised, the picket-officer just taking his leave. There was still firing from the Sixteenth's lines, but no sign of a galloper from brigade.
'Well, Hervey?' said Joynson, a touch wearily.
'Have we sent anyone to make contact?'
'No. And I'm not inclined to risk it,' replied
Joynson firmly. 'Finding what's happening would be the very devil of a job. If there's a real reverse we shall hear of it soon enough.'