Warrior

'Not so much a campaign as an expedition,' replied Hervey, wondering if Brereton's tone revealed disquiet. And the honour 'Colonel' discomfited him, too. It was correct enough, in that he held the rank of acting lieutenant-colonel, but the rank came with his appointment to command of the Mounted Rifles, and thereafter the substantive rank would be with the infantry; he would not now, rightly, hear the honour on the lips of a dragoon.

But what was all this compared with the calamity that was about to befall Armstrong? From the corner of his eye he could see him, watching like a hawk as the dragoons dismissed to their watering duties. Armstrong was master of his world; and in a few minutes that world would be no more. He could hardly bear the thought of what he must do – like going to an old horse with a peck of corn in one hand and a pistol in the other.

'Brereton, I would speak quietly on a matter with the sar'ntmajor, and then perhaps you would be good enough to join me in the officers' house?'

'Of course.'

Hervey left them and made his way to where Armstrong stood eyeing the farrier's struggle with one of the stallions, which needed twitching to take the tooth rasp.

'He's got his work cut out has Blackie Patch, sir.'

'Evidently so. A new entry?'

'Ay, sir. Bought from Eerste River not long after you went back. Not what I would have fetched, but . . .'

'Mm. Sarn't-major, can we walk? There is something I would tell you.'

'Of course, sir. The mission in Zulu-land?'

Evidently the sar'nt-major was more comfortable with the notion than was Brereton, but that was neither here nor there. 'That, yes, and . . .'

They walked via the huttings towards the parade ground.

'By the way, sir, we saw the notice in The Times. We're all very glad for you and Mrs Hervey.' He said it in a tone at once respectful and brotherly.

Hervey had to swallow hard. 'Thank you, Sar'nt-Major. It is most thoughtful.'

'And did you see my bonny lass at Hounslow, sir?'

He could hardly speak the words. 'I did.'

'Ay, well, just another few months . . .'

Hervey stopped, and turned to him. 'Geordie, there's . . .'

'Sir?'

He took a breath as though he would dive deep in a pool. 'Caithlin . . . Caithlin is dead.'

Armstrong started like a man struck by a ball.

Hervey steadied him with a hand to the shoulder. 'Come, I'll tell you all.'

'Them bairns . . . them poor bairns.'

'Don't distress yourself on that count, Geordie. Quartermaster and Mrs Lincoln have them fine.'

'Ay, sir, but . . .'

Hervey knew the 'but' well enough.

They sat on a bench at the edge of the parade ground, and Hervey told him all that he knew. Caithlin had fallen – the merest thing, but a poisoning of the blood had resulted. There had been the seemliest of funerals – with all the proper Catholic rites, and a bishop, no less, and the whole regiment willingly on parade. And the children wanted for nothing – well, nothing that could be provided for them; some of the dragoons had even been fashioning toys and the like.

But instead of reassurance, with each word Armstrong appeared diminished, like a doll whose stuffing was picked from it bit by bit. In twenty years (for it was two decades since the greenhorn cornet had first encountered this pocket Atlas from the Tyne), Hervey had never seen Armstrong thus.

'Them bairns,' he repeated, shaking his head. 'An' my lass.'

Hervey stole a glance: a tear dropped from Armstrong's right eye, and then another began running down his left cheek. The serjeantmajor was a man defeated; and Hervey felt suddenly as helpless.

They sat in silence a good while.

At length Armstrong made to rise. 'I'd better gan a yon stables,' he said, with a resignation that sounded neither convinced nor convincing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. 'Feed off, an' all.'

'There's no need of that,' said Hervey, putting a hand to Armstrong's forearm to stay him. He cleared his throat for the next part, which he knew would be every bit as painful to his comrade as it might be welcome. 'Geordie, there's a ship leaving for Falmouth tomorrow, and I've arranged passage for you. Indefinite leave of absence.'

There was only silence.

Hervey tried again in a minute or so. 'The troop'll be returning to Hounslow in the new year. Just routine. Even Battle could arrange things.'

Armstrong continued to gaze into the distance. 'And what about this affair with the Zulu?'

Hervey took another deep breath. 'Geordie, I've brought Jack Collins back with me.'

The informality – familiarity, indeed – of the absence of rank would have surprised many (dismayed them, perhaps); but these were circumstances wholly without the ordinary. For the circumstances were a suspension of natural justice. A man who placed his life at the service of the nation might well make a widow, but for a much younger wife to die of a fall, and five children to be made half-orphans (and to Armstrong's mind, orphaned of the better half) – that was not how it ought to be.

'Jack Collins taking my troop. . .' He sighed, shaking his head.

'Only until we return to Hounslow. I would not have done it were there not this expedition to the Zulu.'

Armstrong rose, slowly but resolutely. 'Well, I suppose I'd better go and tell 'im what's what.'

Hervey rose, too, and replaced his forage cap. 'I'd like you to come and stay at the castle tonight. Easier for the ship tomorrow.'

Armstrong thought for a moment, and then shook his head. 'No, sir; that's not the way. I'll have my work cut out handing things over to Collins. And I'll take my leave prop'ly – at muster tomorrow.'

The lump in Hervey's throat grew so large that his reply was inaudible.

VIII

AMOUR EN GUERRELater

At five o'clock, Hervey went wearily to his quarters in the castle. He could have – ought perhaps to have – dined with the troop officers and stayed in the lines, but his need of retreat took precedence. And there was, after all, the business of the Zulu to discuss.

In driving back he had passed the house which he had engaged as his married quarters, a pleasant place with its window boxes in spring bloom. Tomorrow he would have to go and find the owner, and surrender the lease – and he had cursed at the need to do so, and wondered if he ought to have done more to persuade Kezia; or, indeed, brought Georgiana by herself, and a governess. But the days before his leaving London had been full of affairs, with little time for thinking. Even when he thought he might have half a morning or a part of an afternoon to spare, he had invariably found himself detained at Hounslow on regimental business, or in seeing to Caithlin Armstrong and her children. Kat he saw but once more after that Hammersmith evening, at a drawing room. He had even had to send word to Sister Maria, deferring another meeting until his return from the Cape, so that her counsel had been left, so to speak, in the air. The turning of the paddle wheels at Gravesend had been a welcome thing.