A Call To Arms (45 page)

Hervey smiled to himself: Armstrong the world-weary NCO, resigned to whatever his officer had embroiled him in! ‘The Avan side, Sar’nt-Major – just as we’d always intended.’

‘No more wet feet, then?’

‘I can’t promise that, but there is a bridge.’

Armstrong was not inclined to dispute it further. ‘And so how shall we go at them?’

Hervey had yet to finish writing his orders. ‘The whole assembly area is open grass and planting, nothing that I could see above four feet high, and firm going. It’s not rice planting or the like.’ He cleared the ground of leaves in front of where they sat, and took up a stick to make a sketch in the earth, drawing two lines like the letter X. ‘Here’s the river,’ he began, pointing to the line which ran right to left. ‘It’s not much more than a chain across, two dozen yards at most, and no deeper than an elephant’s ears.’

Armstrong raised an eyebrow. ‘Are there many of them?’

‘I’m coming to that. But no, half a dozen. And I should say the water’s no less sluggish than where we crossed.’ He now pointed
to the other line in the earth. ‘
This
, I surmise, is the white elephant’s road. It’s certainly running in the right direction.
There
is north,’ he added, bisecting the right quadrant’s angle. ‘We are
here
.’ He pointed to where the line representing the river would project, explaining that it turned south-west not far below the assembly area. ‘And
here
,’ he pointed to where the lines intersected, ‘there’s a bridge of sorts. I couldn’t get a good look, but all I saw on it were men on their feet, so I’ve no idea if it will take the weight of a horse, let alone a bullock cart – or a galloper gun.’ Armstrong nodded silently.

Hervey then made marks either side of the line representing the river, below the intersection. ‘This is where the barges are, pulled up on the banks either side, and most of them on logs so they can be launched the more easily. The elephants seem to be used for hauling them out of the water, but their work looked done for the most part.’

‘A pity they’re on both sides,’ said Armstrong.

‘Just so. We can’t avoid a crossing. Now, the Burman fighting men are all in tented lines
here
,’ added Hervey, pointing to the northern quadrant. ‘So they’re all on our side of the river.
They
must be our immediate objective, for if they get under arms there’ll be the very devil of a fight.’

‘We should attack in darkness, then,’ said Armstrong without hesitation.

‘You’re right. But how might we ever keep the troop in hand? We both have the memory of that beach at Brighton.’

Indeed they did. Yet Armstrong would still have reckoned it the only course … except for one thing. ‘We have the guns, of course, this time.’

‘Exactly so,’ said Hervey, with a faint smile. ‘A whiff of grape: I don’t see why it shouldn’t work for
us
. And I shall want you to have command of those guns. I shall want you to have them play wherever there’s need of them without my even having to think of it.’

Armstrong had not a moment’s doubt.

‘All the Burmans who surrender are to be driven across the bridge and held there by Corporal Ashbolt, like Horatius.’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Cornet Vanneck will take half a dozen men
to picket the road where it debouches from the forest, and the rest of us will set about destroying the barges. Also the bridge, and then we’ll withdraw the way we came.’

‘Sounds easy enough.’

Hervey smiled wryly. ‘It
is
easy. Until the first shot.’

Armstrong raised his eyebrows. ‘Ay, always: first shot and bets are off. How much kindling did you see, by the way?’

They had brought four gallons of lamp oil with them, enough for a pint to each barge, but each would need packing with combustibles to guarantee a good blaze. ‘There’s a fair amount of tentage, and a good stack of hay,’ replied Hervey confidently. ‘And the oars.’ He had already decided to fire the barges off the water rather than risk having them recovered if they sank only partially burned.

Private Johnson came up and, ever wary of Armstrong, saluted. ‘Leave to speak, sir. There’s some snap ready when tha’s a mind.’

‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Hervey, throwing aside the stick and wiping his hands on his overalls. ‘Five minutes more.’

Armstrong resumed his questions, taking out his notebook. ‘What time do you want reveille then?’

‘Four o’clock. That will give us two hours of darkness to get close. We should move off sharp at five.’

‘And—’

There was a terrible squealing from the middle of the tethering line, made worse by the surrounding silence. Hervey sprang up. ‘Christ! They’ll hear that a mile off,’ he rasped, reaching for his carbine.

Armstrong was already on his feet. They hurried to the noise.

‘Broken like a dry stick,’ said Corporal Ashbolt, crouching by the trooper’s foreleg.

‘Yours?’

‘No, sir. Stent’s.’

The horse, one of the Marwaris, stood silent now, sweating heavily, her cannon bone hanging limply. The kicker had already been slipped from the tether line and taken away.

‘That other were being proper riggish,’ cursed Stent, just come up. ‘I should have kept mine apart.’

Hervey thought it pointless to agree or otherwise. ‘Where’s the farrier?’

‘Here, sir,’ came the reply from an equally sweating Farrier Brennan. ‘I was at the back, tightenin’ them Skinner’s shoes.’

‘This one to despatch, then, I’m afraid,’ said Hervey, shaking his head.

‘Not with the pistol though, sir?’

‘Good God, no! Silent work, if you please, Brennan.’

A dragoon was sent to fetch the farrier’s axe. Meanwhile, they unslipped the horses either side of the doomed trooper to make space, not an easy job at the best of times. Hervey did not know whether Brennan had despatched an animal in this way before, but he did not think it the time to ask. Instead, without a word, but with a great deal of care, they pulled the little mare onto her side. She kept her head up, though, and Stent put his knee on her withers to discourage her from trying to rise. ‘Bring her a couple of pecks of oats please, Corporal,’ he said, stroking the mare’s neck.

The axe was brought a minute or two later. By then, Farrier Brennan had cut away the mane just behind the poll to expose the occipital depression, where the axe’s spear-point could most easily penetrate and sever the cervical cord. Shepherd Stent gave his mare a handful of oats, and pulled one of her ears fondly.

‘Hold ’er ’ead steady,’ said Brennan, raising the axe.

Stent crouched with his knees either side of her muzzle as she ground the oats in her mouth. Brennan swung the axe down – powerful, confident. The mare squealed then grunted, lashing out with her legs, though the shepherd held on. Brennan put his foot to her neck to get enough purchase to pull out the axe. There was remarkably little blood.

‘Again?’ said Hervey, anxious.

The mare’s eyes were wide and her legs were still kicking.

‘No, sir,’ replied Brennan.

Stent would not let her go. ‘Mick?’

‘No,’ said Brennan simply.

And in a few seconds more she was motionless.

Stent closed the mare’s eyes and got up. ‘Thanks, Mick.’

Hervey saw the look, too – the first sign of emotion he had detected in the shepherd.

‘I’ve butchered a good many sheep, Mick, but I couldn’t have done that.’

Brennan looked satisfied rather than pleased with his skill. ‘I’ve not had to do that since Corunna. But you didn’t flinch when I swung the axe, mind, Shep.’

‘Well done, Farrier,’ said Hervey. ‘We could not have afforded the noise otherwise. Right, Private Stent, take one of the led horses.’

‘And look sharp, bonny lad,’ added Armstrong, with just enough of a bark to put an end to the condoling. ‘I’ve stood-to the front section, sir,’ he added.

Hervey nodded. ‘We’ll just have to wait, then. Perhaps one more beast calling in the jungle won’t raise the alarm. But a gun at the point would be prudent. I think I’ll go forward to the pickets to see how strong it carried to them.’

‘I’ll do that, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘You have something to eat and then give them orders out.’

‘Yes, Geordie, you’re right. Thank you.’

After stand-down, when it was dark, Hervey went round the troop and spoke to every man, the sowars too. Not of things of any moment, just a few words – whatever seemed appropriate, if only whether they knew the password. Sometimes it was a thought about home, sometimes about India. It did not matter, just as long as he spoke to each man and thereby assured them of his own peace of mind about the morning; as Seton Canning put it to Cornet Vanneck, ‘a little touch of Hervey in the night’. Every man knew that their captain had found the Burmans without the aid of the Chakma guides, and most of them knew in their hearts that they themselves would have given up long before. They liked their captain’s determination; it made it so much the harder to do anything but follow him.

When he was done, Hervey found his way to the place where his groom had laid his blanket, and sat down tired yet content.

‘I’ve kept thi snap warm, Cap’n ’Ervey, sir, but it’ll be nowt like it were.’

‘Johnson, I could eat …’ He almost said ‘a horse’, but it was not the thing. ‘I could eat that wretched bird I saw Spreadbury plucking last night!’

Johnson sensed rather than saw Hervey’s frown. ‘They didn’t eat it in the end. They chucked it away.’

‘It tasted so bad?’

‘They found a length o’ snake in its gizzard.’

Hervey could have retched. ‘I’ve just discovered I’m not hungry.’

‘Tha’ll be all right, sir. It’s ’taties and beef. But it’s a bit of a squash. I’ll make a fresh mashin’ o’ tea.’

That was what Hervey would prize above all, now. More so even than the whisky in his spare canteen.

He slept well. Checking the picket he left to Seton Canning and the serjeant-major. That was their job. His now was to rest, to find the sleep that had eluded him these past three days.

Just before four o’clock Johnson’s hand shook his shoulder, as it had more times than had Henrietta’s. But as Hervey took the enamelled cup – he could see the steam rising even in the darkness – he thought of her. And it was the first time since Chittagong that the thought had been more than momentary. What made him hold it now he did not know, but he puzzled over her absence from his mind for so many days. And he did not know whether to be discouraged or the very opposite.

‘I’ll be glad to be gone from
this
place right enough,’ grumbled Johnson. ‘I were bitten alive by mesquitoes last night.’

Now that Johnson mentioned it, Hervey too found himself scratching at bites about his hands and face. ‘Because we’re nearer the river, I imagine.’

‘Bastard things, they is. I wonder ’ow French’s gooin’ on wi’ them bee stings?’

‘Say your prayers that we see him later today,’ replied Hervey in a supplicatory tone.

At five o’clock the troop stepped off, Hervey with the pointmen, and no scouts (he knew what lay ahead). The men had put rotting leaves from the forest floor in the backs of their shakos, the curious phosphorescence, as on the hands of his watch, a useful beacon in the pitch dark of the jungle pre-dawn. Stand-to and breaking camp had been a model. How quickly these men had mastered the game, he mused. Would older dogs have been so quick to learn new tricks? Perhaps. After all, the NCOs had done the teaching as well as the jungle. And this morning they had all eaten hot – a rare achievement indeed in a bivouac.

By six they were close enough to the forest’s edge to see fires
burning in the Burman camp. Hervey felt the thrill that at last their progress was over. From now on it was battle, and the fortunes of battle, and the price of battle. He did not doubt the outcome, for he did not think of it. ‘Pass the word: ball cartridge, load. Guns make ready.’

He heard the ramming-home of charges in carbines behind him, but no louder than it need have been, and he peered towards the east for the signs of lightening in the sky. The dawn came quickly on them in these parts, and five minutes made a difference. He wanted a sign before they broke cover. He took out his watch. How practical a contribution to killing the King’s enemies had Daniel Coates’s presents been! The old soldier would revel in its telling when he received Hervey’s letter after this was all over. It was so accurate a watch, too. It told him there were but ten minutes to the first rays of the sun, and thereafter he knew he would have six more before there was sufficient light to see a white horse at a furlong. ‘Pass the word: mount!’

He heard the jingle of bits, the creaking of leather, the whickering of horses keen for the off. The thrill of it never palled.

‘Draw swords!’

The chilling chafing of steel on steel – it sent a shiver down his spine as if he had touched rubbed amber.

‘Troop will advance!’

Out they came, at the walk so as to make no more noise than they need. He could feel their eagerness somehow, though, and wanted as much as they to lower his sword and gallop at once on the Burman lines.