Free Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) by Allan Mallinson Page A

Armstrong or a Collins would have found some cheery retort from his stock of regimental banter – as indeed would have Lincoln in his pomp. But it was early days, perhaps – a new commanding officer. Hervey contented himself with a respectful ‘Indeed, Sar’nt-Major’, and took the reins of his temporary charger from the orderly dragoon. Perhaps Rennie’s formality was anyway for the best, recalling that at the end of the march to Corunna the lieutenant-colonel had blown his brains out.
    It could be a perilous business, mounting, at the best of times – perilous to the pride, at least – even with stirrup leathers long. On snow running to ice, with an untried horse, the odds on involuntarily dismounting (as the saying went) were reduced further. Nevertheless, Hervey waved away the mounting block – a barrel got from the Berkeley’s cellarman – not trusting its capacity to remain upright, shortened the offside rein so that the charger, if it had a mind to, could only swing its quarters towards him, placed his left foot in the stirrup and sprang into the saddle with the speed of a seasoned tumbler.
    ‘Very well, Mr Malet.’
    The adjutant, who had managed to mount with no less agility but without the attention of the assembled party, gave the nod to the point-men, and the cavalcade set off. As they left the yard they were joined by Fairbrother, to Hervey’s considerable surprise, atop one of the Berkeley’s best hirelings. His green cloak, with its black lambswool collar, and the hat he had taken from a Cossack in exchange for a bottle of his father’s rum, gave him a most alien look, needing only a couple of chickens hanging from the saddle and a lance on his shoulder to complete the impression of a freebooter from the Steppes. Hervey merely remarked that he was glad to see him.
    Only as they were clear of the little crowd of onlookers gathered at the front of the Berkeley did he venture any conversation with the swaddled supernumerary. ‘It is excessively obliging of you to accompany us. I fear you will see nothing to divert you, however.’
    Fairbrother made some muffled reply indicating resolution rather than contentment, so that Hervey was altogether mystified as to why his friend should wish to leave the comfort of the Berkeley Arms for a perfectly humdrum visit to a troop in billets, especially having protested unceasingly at the cold since their arrival back in England – though he himself had to admit it: it was damnably chill (and there were upwards of thirty dragoons bedded down with ague brought on by the icy air). The evening before, Fairbrother had merely said that he thought he ought to – somewhat unconvincingly, for Hervey had not heard ‘ought’ from his friend in all the time they had been acquainted – and later that he probably wouldn’t. And then the quite decided ‘I shall remain here.’
    But lying thoughtful in the early hours, Fairbrother had in fact resolved to be
useful
. Useful in the sense that Sir Thomas Graham had been to Sir John Moore (he trusted that he did not flatter himself too highly), and that – yes, like Boswell to Dr Johnson – he might also in due season be able to give account of his friend’s tenure as lieutenant-colonel of this regiment of light dragoons, whose company he had so come to enjoy. For besides the conviction that it would be a tenure of distinction, and therefore worthy of memorializing, he believed he owed to his friend the discovery of purpose in his life. Before their meeting three years ago at the Cape that life had been a worthless affair, an indolent existence, determined in part by a sort of indifferent resentment that, like Shakespeare’s tawny Moor, whatever his merits he would first be misliked for his complexion. He was an able soldier – his service with the Jamaica Militia and then the Royal Africans had been enough to assure him of that – but it was not until Hervey had rousted him from his torpor among the palms (though a