A Close Run Thing (7 page)

Praise had been one thing, but Hervey was taken wholly aback by the offer of seniority. He had been superseded so many times by others with greater means that he had reconciled himself to a long wait. By his rapid reckoning he could own to six hundred pounds – just – but he would need twelve hundred for the lieutenancy, and his cornetcy would bring, say, eight hundred and fifty. It would be tight, especially with new regimentals to buy, but if he could purchase lieutenant’s rank it would mean that in twelve months he would be eligible for a captaincy, and a troop, though how he would be able then to find the additional two thousand pounds when his father was a mere country parson, with no other patron but the diocese to the living, and a modest enough living at that, was quite beyond him for the present.

‘Well, then, Mr Hervey? How say you? Is it “yes” or are we to put up the lieutenancy for auction in Craig’s Court?’

Hervey accepted with alacrity, and left the orderly room in higher spirits than he had known in many a month. But as he did so a voice hailed him from across the courtyard, a voice which only another from the Black Country could find appealing, and which, for a
cornet
, invariably portended something bothersome. Lieutenant and Adjutant Ezra Barrow’s eighteen years in the ranks of the 1st Dragoons had made him long on soldierly wisdom but short on ceremony – the ‘inelegant extract’ as he was known by the dandier officers.

‘Mr Hervey, you look sound to me; you can be picket officer. Stables now, if you please.’

In God’s name, Hervey recoiled, how those Birmingham vowels grated! He wondered how anyone could deride Johnson’s when Barrow’s sounded so witless.

‘Oh, and congratulations on the lieutenancy. I reckon your troop’ll pass the plate round if yer father can’t pass his: they’re all sitting high in the stirrups – there’s a deal of Vitoria gold in them ’aversacks!’

Hervey smiled thinly. That Barrow of all people should taunt him for his lack of means irritated beyond measure. It was bad enough with the likes of Rawlings sneering, good-natured though it might have been. He had a perfectly adequate allowance – adequate, that is, for campaign service: he did not suppose it would amount to much in Brighton or Dublin. Perhaps Barrow did not think much of the clergy or their younger sons? Queer fellow – efficient, certainly, but no boon companion. He supposed Lord George Irvine must have known what he was doing when he brought Barrow in from the Royals, though Hervey could hardly believe that there were not others as congenial as they were capable.

‘Thank you, Barrow. Decent of you to say so,’ he replied with as much courtesy as he could summon: he would have preferred the company of his mess, and its table, to this sudden imposition of picket duty.

As he entered the cloisters, where standing stalls for the three hundred or so troop horses had been improvised, just within the letter of Wellington’s ordinance that churches should not be taken for stabling, there was an audible groan. Every dragoon knew that Hervey on picket meant twice as long an inspection, but if the respect were grudging it was real none the less. ‘This hay is poor, Sarn’t-Major,’ he began, though he might have said the same at any stables parade since the summer before.

‘As bad as I’ve seen, sir. We’re damping it down but I hope the quartermasters come back with better soon or they’ll all be coughing on it.’

It was ‘C’ Troop’s man on duty, a long-limbed Salopian whose father had been the Wynnstay’s huntsman for twenty years, and with the best hands in the serjeants’ mess.

‘And what is the ration of hard feed today?’

‘A half-stone of corn, sir; and good crushed barley it is, too. They had two pounds with chop first thing, then the same again at midday.’

‘Better than it has been but still not enough.’

‘About half what they need. We would not be hunting on this at home now.’

Hervey’s eye was next drawn to a sorrowful-looking
chestnut
tied up in a dark corner, away from the others, with its head down almost to the floor.

‘What is wrong with him?’ he asked the farrier close by.

‘Moon blindness, sir. I’m to shoot ’im as soon as I’ve taken ’is shoes off.’

‘Moon blindness?’ he replied.

‘Sir; it’s a disease of—’

‘Well, I know what it’s a disease of, Corporal, but there has not been a single case since I have been in the regiment.’

‘Tell the truth, sir, I ’aven’t seen a case, either.’

‘And nor have I,’ added the troop serjeant-major, whose fourteen years as a dragoon settled the question of its incidence.

‘This is the veterinary officer’s judgement?’ asked Hervey, though it was unlikely that it could have been any other’s.

‘Ay, sir,’ replied the farrier. ‘He saw ’im after first parade and then again after watering this afternoon.’

Hervey stepped closer and reached out slowly to the gelding’s head, but the horse made no move. He crouched down and saw that the left eye was closed, with swelling around it and a heavy discharge.

‘Careful, sir,’ called the farrier, ‘he’s terrible shy about the head.’

‘How does his eye look?’ Hervey asked.

‘Tell the truth again, sir, I ’aven’t seen it. It’s been closed all day. I’ll fetch his trooper.’

Private Clamp was a young man, eighteen or so,
recently
joined from the depot squadron. He wore his stable-clothes with the mark of the recruit and he looked unhappy.

‘Clamp, have any of your troop officers seen this horse?’

‘No, sir, not today. They’re all on outpicket.’

‘How long have you had him?’

‘Since I came, sir, just after Christmas,’ he answered, sounding even more unhappy.

‘Clamp, there is no need to look quite so troubled: I am not about to have you arrested.’

Clamp’s eyes began to go misty.

‘God help us,’ sighed the serjeant-major.

‘It’s not that, sir,’ continued the trooper, his soft Devon voice in a quaver, ‘I ’ave two ’orses to do, an’ they’re both chestnuts, an’ the other one were bad like this when I got ’ere, and if he goes like this one, too … well …’

‘That’s enough, Clamp, and stand properly to attention there!’ snapped the serjeant-major, though with just enough sympathy in his voice to stay the boy’s rambling without precipitating tears.

Hervey’s brow furrowed at the thought that there might be a second case. ‘I don’t understand it at all, Sarn’t-Major. Moon blindness – Specific Ophthalmia – it’s so rare that none of us has seen it before, and now there sounds as if there might be two horses in the same troop! Clamp, the other chestnut – he has been well enough since Christmas?’

‘Sir!’

‘And did anything cause that sickness that you know of?’

‘He’d had a bang on the ’ead from something, but I can’t remember what.’

‘Had he indeed! And this one, number …’ Hervey stooped to find the regimental number on the off-fore hoof (the Sixth had lately adopted this practice instead of the approved method of cutting the number into the coat). ‘J77 – did he have any knocks about the head?’

‘He ’ad a thorn in ’is eye a week ago, sir.’

Hervey made a thoughtful
umm
sound. ‘Fetch a candle, Clamp!’

‘What are you thinking, Mr Hervey?’ asked the serjeant-major.

‘I’m thinking that I should like to see the eye for myself. Would you hold up his head for me?’

‘His eye will be way back in its socket by the time you prise it open.’

‘That’s why I’m not going to force it. Hold the candle up close, Clamp!’ He placed his hand carefully on the gelding’s brow and gently extended his thumb so that it rested on the margin of the upper lid.

‘What exactly are you doing, then?’

‘There’s a muscle just above the eyelid, the retractor muscle,’ he replied. ‘If you press gently but firmly on it, it ceases to act with any strength and the lid can be lifted quite easily.’

Hervey pressed for almost a minute and then drew up the lid slowly, using his other hand to pull down the lower lid. The gelding stood quite calm and still.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ muttered the serjeant-major.

‘An old trooper taught me that: Daniel Coates – he was with the Sixteenth in America. He taught me to ride, use a sword and a pistol, and everything about handling a troop – and all before I was twelve! I should think there is very little that Daniel Coates does not know,’ said Hervey absently.

‘Do you see anything?’ the serjeant-major pressed, even more intrigued.

‘Take a look at the pupil for yourself, Sarn’t-Major. What do
you
see?’

‘The middle’s very blue.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing that I can tell, sir. It’s very watery of course.’

‘The pupil – is it diminished?’

‘No, I would not say it was.’

‘Just so, Sarn’t-Major!’ And with that Hervey let the eye close. ‘We must summon the veterinary officer.’

‘I’m afraid he’s been bedded down, sir – fever again.’

‘The poor devil’s riddled with it. He ought to give up. Well, Sarn’t-Major, this horse is not to be shot. He needs some damp muslin over his eyes and then turning out in a day or so. He has Common Ophthalmia, not Specific. The symptoms are all but identical, except that with moon blindness the pupil is invariably diminished. Clamp, what is the other chestnut’s number?’

‘J78, sir. Him and 77 was bought as a pair in England.’

‘Umm,’ went Hervey again. ‘Order feeding-off, then, Sarn’t-Major.’

And now at last he could go and see his own chargers, stabled in a tithe barn on clean straw, the first they had seen in months. Inevitably they were chewing it.

‘It’s all right, sir,’ chirped Johnson, ‘it’s wheat straw.’

Hervey’s little mare whickered in recognition while continuing to chew her bed, but she looked badly run up.

‘Is there no hay anywhere?’ he asked, pulling her ears.

‘Not yet, sir, nothing decent; quartermasters are still out progging.’

Jessye was by common consent the handiest charger in the Sixth, although when Hervey had first joined for duty she had been derided as a covert-hack, fit only to take a blade to a meet but not to follow hounds. Barely an inch over fifteen hands, yet she had the sturdiness and intelligence of her dam, a Welsh cob which for twenty years had carried his father round his parish, and the speed and endurance of her sire, a thoroughbred whose bloodlines went directly back to the Godolphin Arab. She had struggled out of the womb on Hervey’s fourteenth birthday, the day he left the vicarage for Shrewsbury School, a birthday present of such apt timing that his understanding of natural history was unusual for some years to come. He alone had schooled her, though she had taught him almost as much as he had imparted to her, and he always
counted
it an act of providence that an outbreak of farcy prior to sailing had kept her behind in England during the first campaign: the thought that he would have had to shoot her on the beach at Corunna with all the others filled him still with a peculiar dread.

‘“An horse is a vain thing for safety; neither shall he deliver any by his great strength.”’

‘Eh?’ challenged his groom.

‘Not my words, Johnson – the Psalmist’s.’

‘Well he must have been fuzzed!’

‘I mean that it is written in the Psalms,’ Hervey explained with a smile of mild dismay. ‘Thirty-three, I think’ – as if Johnson might somehow wish to look up the reference for himself.

‘They don’t say owt about ’orses that makes much sense.’

Hervey gave up. ‘Her coat stares, Johnson. We must find her some blankets and make a mash – she’ll have colic before midnight, I’ll be bound. Wheat straw or not, tie her up for the time being.’

A shrewd observer would next have noted a subtle change in Hervey’s manner. With Jessye he was easy and familiar; with his second charger he was perceptibly distant, respectful rather than affectionate.

‘Nero looks fine enough,’ he said.

‘Oh ay, sir, ’e’s all right; that cut’s nothin’.’

Nero had been bred to look fine. A full hand and a half higher than Jessye, he had come to Hervey from the king’s stallion depot outside Hanover via an ensign in the Footguards. Lieutenant d’Arcey Jessope had
been
officer of the guard one day when His Majesty, in one of his periodic derangements, and conceiving himself to be in the Herrenhausen rather than at Windsor, had become convinced that Jessope, in his scarlet, was one of his Hanoverians. The king had taken him at once to the royal stables and presented him with the first animal that His Majesty considered appropriate for an officer of his
Leibgarde
. Jessope had thereby become the owner of a mount which, though magnificent, he subsequently found unmanageable. He would always ascribe this to late gelding, not wholly convincingly, whenever the subject arose, and he had been relieved to pass him on to Hervey for a song after the battle at Salamanca, a generous token of gratitude for his rescue half-dead from the mêlée. As Jessope himself had remarked laconically from his hospital bed, with an arm almost severed by a sabre slash he had little hope of being able to manage a ‘rig’.

Jessope
. Hervey smiled at the thought of him, and wondered what recovery he was making since his return to England, and when indeed he might see him again. Doubtless he was being fêted at this very instant by the ladies of St James’s. He smiled again as he recalled Jessope’s description of Nero: ‘unmanageable’. Yet in one sense it was exact enough, for in the hands of any but those which had been trained in the classical method he was wholly unresponsive, positively wilful. In
Hochschule
hands his manners were impeccable. He could cover ground better even than Corporal Collins’s gelding and had jumped four foot six, though he lacked
Jessye’s
endurance. There had been times as a boy, in the riding-hall at Wilton House, when Hervey would gladly have quit his lessons with the Austrian
Reitlehrer
and gone back to his simple hunting seat, but he had frequently thanked God that the option of doing so had never been his. No riding master had been able since to disabuse him of his conviction that to be master of both a classical and an English seat was a peerless asset.