Hervey 10 - Warrior (22 page)

He watched her calmly grinding the hay. 'I've a hack from the castle, but I shall take him back tonight, and then tomorrow I'll take her out,' he said, reaching forward to pat her quarters.

'She'd like that, sir.'

Hervey nodded again. Would she like it? Would she know it was he riding her? Eli would; and Jessye would have, certainly . . . Would he take Molly with him to Canada? And Eli? Would he take Toyne with him? It could be arranged, no doubt. Johnson would most definitely come with him, although he had not really told him yet. That is, they had not discussed it. Johnson had so much reckonable service that he could have his free discharge at any time, and he could easily re-enlist in the Eighty-first if there were any administrative objection to his transfer. He would promote him corporal, too. Johnson had always refused promotion on the grounds that it brought 'responsibility' (by which he really meant the scrutiny of the RSM) without any benefit save a few shillings a week. But without rank, in the Eighty-first he would not have the standing.

As he left the charger stables, Hervey began wondering again who else he might be allowed to claim for his new command.Would he be able to tempt an officer or two? There again, what would it profit them? The only ones he knew well enough to be sure of – sure in his estimation that they would be better than those with whom they might exchange – were two or three of the captains, and why would they exchange a troop for a company, the spur for the gaiter? For they were all of sufficient means to be comfortable in Hounslow. It was not as if there was the prospect of any action in Canada.

Somervile was not returned from office when Hervey called at the residence. Jaswant showed him to Emma's sitting room.

'Matthew, what a pleasing surprise. Shall you join us for dinner?' she asked as they kissed.

'No, forgive me, Emma; I must dine with my officers. I came but briefly to speak with Somervile about the arrangements for Natal.'

'I expect him in an hour. He sent word that he was receiving someone from the frontier. Will you have some wine?'

'Thank you, yes.'

Emma nodded to the khansamah.

'I much enjoyed the table last night,' Hervey said, taking a chair at Emma's bidding. 'The ship's fare was a little unvarying. And I was most engaged by Colonel Smith and his wife.'

'Oh, indeed yes; they are a most welcome adornment to the Cape. I quite wish we were to stay longer.'

Hervey had almost forgotten the Somerviles were to leave the colony in not many months. Or rather, he had failed to imagine all the consequences of it. 'I did not ask: Eyre will return to the court of directors?' Somervile was principally a servant of the Honourable East India Company. The two of them had first met in Madras, ten years before, and renewed their friendship in Calcutta when the Sixth had been posted to the Bengal presidency; and they had continued it on return to London.

Emma looked surprised. 'He did not say? We are to go to Canada.'

Hervey brightened, like a child given a present. 'Canada!'

Emma looked at him a little strangely. 'Ye-es. Eyre is to be lieutenant-governor, minister, or whatever it is called there, in Fort York.'

Hervey smiled broadly. 'My dear Emma, you will forgive me if I ask you to keep this to yourself – I mean, I will tell Somervile of course – but I too am to go to York. I am to have command of the Eighty-first there.'

Emma positively beamed. 'That is wonderful news, Matthew! Wonderful! I know now that I shall have agreeable company. You and Kezia . . . the
most
agreeable thing!'

Hervey was tempted to tell Emma that to this date Kezia had set her mind against Canada, but . . . it would not help him, nor would it please her. And there was every chance that Kezia would have a change of mind in the matter.

But they had known each other too long, and his face betrayed something of his unease. 'What is it, Matthew?'

He cleared his throat. There was no point in pretence. 'Kezia is not yet persuaded to go . . . But I have every hope she will change her mind in the normal course of things, and especially once she knows that you will be there.'

Emma looked dismayed. 'You mean that you will otherwise go alone?'

Hervey shifted in his chair. Jaswant returned with wine (for which he was now especially grateful). 'I . . . That is . . . She has not said that she will
not
accompany me to Canada, merely that, when I spoke with her about the offer of the Eighty-first, she did not wish me to accept command.'

Emma's brow was now deeply furrowed. 'But you have said yes to command – have you not?'

'I have. These things are always somewhat provisional, of course.'

She shook her head, uncomprehending.

'I had but little time before returning here.'

'Not the time to speak with your wife?'

He shifted again. 'No.'

Emma studied him carefully. 'Matthew?'

He looked away, and raised an eyebrow the merest fraction.

It was enough, however. Emma rose.

'Matthew, I must go to the children; it is the nursery hour. Perhaps you would come tomorrow morning, when you have spoken to Eyre?'

That night, after an unusually abstemious dinner in the officers' house (he had felt an unaccountable reluctance to give way to the pleasures of the cellar), he retired to the little room that was permanently made up for him, and seeing there was pen and paper as well as brandy and water on the table (in proper regimental fashion), he sat down to write a few lines to Kezia. He knew he ought to have done so a day or two out from the Cape so that Armstrong could carry them back – as he had with letters to his family (and, if truth be known, to Kat) – but somehow the words had evaded him. He had, after all, written not many days out from England, and then again off the Azores, and the letters had been transferred to passing merchantmen, so he was not wholly to be thought inattentive in the matter. It was just that . . .

He picked up the pen.

My dear wife,
he began. And then he put the pen down again.

Such an inadequate salutation, that. He could not quite recall why he had used the form in his first letter. Was it, somehow, that he was reminding himself of his status; reminding Kezia, too? After all, they had hardly begun things in the best of ways. So unlike the month – months only – that he and Henrietta had enjoyed. In truth, the marriage was barely consummated.

But to change the form of salutation . . . what might he write?
My Dearest
? It seemed too contrived.

He must, however, tell her of his decision to take command of the Eighty-first, and butting no further delay, for it was bound to be out soon. How much more agreeable it would have been had she been Kat – he meant had she been
like
Kat – who seemed to delight in his progress always.

He picked up the pen again and wrote his news, fast.

When he had finished, he read it over. He felt a twinge of unease as he did so, for he had couched the news as if he had only now made the decision, and after a great deal of thought. Kezia might believe that he had had to make his decision at once, without being able to discuss it with her. She might perceive there were other matters which she herself could not know. She might accept that he had decided with reluctance but in good faith, and that since he was unable to communicate with her in coming to the decision he must – as paterfamilias – act as he saw best. She might. But it was not the truth. He had made the decision almost defiantly, before leaving England, and he had not told her because. . . Well, he knew there would be the strongest objections, and if he waited there might come a more propitious time to break it to her. And so, in all honesty, he ought to tear up this half truth before him and begin afresh. But he was tired, and there were other matters pressing on him, matters of considerable moment, and if he waited for an opportunity tomorrow he would miss the Indiaman which was due to sail at midday . . .

He laid aside the sheets for the ink to dry. He would rise early and write another letter in its place.

XI
THE CONSEQUENCES OF INACTION

Next morning

Hervey had slept soundly. He rarely slept ill, but the second night in a bed instead of a hanging cot was perfect repose. A Malay bearer woke him with tea.

He lay listening to the morning: a native voice here and there, collared doves calling peaceably, the labouring of the water carrier. He turned and looked at his half-hunter on the bedside table, and cursed. He rose at once, but it was later than he intended.

The bearer came back with hot water.

And then a knock at the door announced the picket commander. 'Sir?'

'Is the camp under attack, Corporal Hardy?' asked Hervey, with a mock frown.

'Sir, sorry, sir, but this message just came from the castle, and the hircarrah said as it was urgent, so I brought it myself rather than give it the picket officer. Sir.'

Hervey smiled. In that briefest of explanations Corporal Hardy had revealed so much of what he esteemed in the Sixth. Would the picket commander of the Eighty-first have acted upon such initiative? Likely as not he would have waited until the serjeant had come, and then the serjeant would have sought out the picket officer . . . Perhaps he was being unfair.

'Is the hircarrah waiting on a reply?' he asked, as he opened the despatch from the lieutenant-governor's office (hircarrah, like
backshee,
was another word the regiment had brought back from India).

'No, sir.'

Hervey read the hand he knew well from many years' acquaintance:
Would you be so good as to come hither post haste, and with you Captain Fairbrother. There is ripe intelligence from Natal . . .

'Corporal Hardy, have Toyne bring Molly, if you please, and my compliments to Captain Brereton but I shall not be able to attend first parade.'

He shaved, dressed, and set out without breakfasting for the castle, but via Fairbrother's house by the Company's gardens.

An old Hottentot was watering the window boxes there; another was sweeping the
stoep.
For a moment, Hervey imagined how Georgiana would have loved it.

The door was open.

Inside, Fairbrother's housekeeper greeted him warmly as an established friend of the quarters.

'Is he awake, M'ma Anke?'

'He was after I'd waked him, Colonel.'

'I perceive that you believe him not to be awake now. Perhaps you would bring coffee for me to take in to him?'

'I will, Colonel,' she sighed. 'He did ask for me to wake him early, but this morning he said as he wished he hadn't because he had stayed late at his desk.'

Hervey smiled.

'Not as I sees any sign of what kept him there,' she added, with a pronounced roll of her eyes.

Hervey sat down to await the coffee. On Fairbrother's writing table was a vase of flowers, blue and yellow. They were fresh, placed there this morning. What sort, he did not know, only that it was a woman's touch, delightful – the estimable M'ma Anke. A most agreeable fusing of native and colonist was she. But in what combination or sequence, Fairbrother said, not even she knew. Hervey wished he might find another of her capability, for his own establishment – saving Johnson's protests, of course (and, perhaps, Kezia's).

He stood up as she returned with a small basin of steaming black arabica. 'We must leave for the castle as soon as he's dressed, M'ma Anke. I know he's indifferent to breakfast.'

'Not so much indifferent as contrary, Colonel.'

Hervey smiled. She most certainly had the measure of 'the master'.

The house was on one floor only, Fairbrother's room on the east side. Hervey opened the door without knocking, and was surprised to find the curtains drawn back, the window full open and his friend sitting up in bed reading the
Jamaica Courant and Public Advertiser.

'Good morning,' said Fairbrother without taking his eyes from the newspaper.

'My dear fellow, I believe I shall drink this coffee myself, for you evidently have no need of it. Come; we are bidden to the castle.'

'In good time,' he replied, intent on his news.

Hervey knew that hurrying him was fruitless. He put down the coffee and found himself a chair. 'What detains you there?'

Fairbrother lowered the
Courant
a moment or two later. He appeared lost in thought. 'News of my father.'

'Not ill news, I trust?' Besides comradely concern, Hervey had formed a high opinion of his friend's father, evidently a plantation owner of enlightened views and kindly disposition: to have raised a bastard son as his own must have been no small thing in that confined society. He hoped one day they might meet.

'Not of him, no. Quite the opposite, if one is to take the humane view.' He pulled back the bedclothes and made to get up.