Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service (17 page)

His friend was observing with naked eye. ‘At least. Deuced fine shooting.’

‘I wish
I’d
a rifle!’ snarled Johnson as he struggled out of his soiled tunic below the wall. ‘I’d knock ’
im
over all right!’

Hervey kept the glass to his eye as he addressed the aspirations of his long-time companion: ‘To begin with, Johnson, His Majesty would not approve of your firing on our friend the Turk. Recollect that he
is
our friend, every bit as much as the Russian is. Or rather, the Turk is no more our enemy than is the Russian. Our situation here is as strict neutrals. And, even more to the point, yon fellow must be using double the charge. Your shoulder would be bruised a good deal more than it is now were you to try the same.’

Johnson chose to ignore the challenge of a double-charged rifle, offended even more by the notion of being fired on by a friend. ‘’Is Majesty ought to ’ave a word wi’is friend t’Sultan. I thought we was just supposed to be ’ere watching?’

‘Observing. Observing the conduct of the belligerents with complete impartiality.’

‘Well, either way it’s not right to shoot an’ us not meant to shoot back!’

‘I dare say so. But at this range, ethics are anyway otiose.’ He knew pretty well how to silence Johnson in his canteen-advocate’s hat.

Another loud report, more smoke, then the fluttering ball – and this time the breaking of tile.

‘Forty seconds, sir,’ declared Agar.

‘Mm. Indeterminate. Certainly it might be the same rifle. Do you think he sees us, or having first seen us does he fire speculatively? What’s his game, eh, Fairbrother?’

‘One of
us
, if we’re not careful,’ replied his friend ruefully, unable to resist the pun. ‘Wily devils, I fancy. If there’s a pair of them, the other will be waiting his chance.’

Wily for sure, but this was indeed a very … sedentary way of making war. He could not get the measure of it. The Russians had landed at this place almost two whole months ago, a full dozen leagues south of the Balkan, the mountains beyond which no Russian general had marched for a thousand years, and still the Turk made no substantial move against them. Just this
franc tireur
. Perhaps he – they – were not even Turk? Tatar, maybe, for that people were hunters, and might have facility with such a weapon; or else one of the Albanians who fled the place without much of a fight when the Russians landed.

The Seraskier (commander-in-chief), so the spies said, was at Aidos, only three days’ march north-west, with ten thousand men. Why did he tarry when every day the Russian fleet brought more men – three thousand, now – and stores enough for the whole army? Perhaps he thought it not worth the trouble, that the stores would never see the mouths or the guns they were meant to feed. It would be a brilliant thing indeed for the Russians to bring off: the army marching south from the Danube, gaining the passes of the Balkan, debouching on the plains of Thrace – and at once their lines of communication shortened to a fifth by this bold seizing of Siseboli. He was full of admiration for this new Russian general-in-chief’s art (though it was one thing to make a plan, and quite another to execute it).

Yet he would concede that the Russians had wasted no time here at Siseboli. It was an ancient place, with ancient walls that might once have withstood a powderless siege, and now the garrison had dug entrenchments, thrown up breastworks, hauled forward guns and made it into a decent fort. But they scattered their waste around as bad as anything he’d seen in India. The place stank; the air was foul with incipient disease (and the sun was not yet half its summer strength). Admire this
coup de main
as he did, he could not wait for their passage out – north to Varna, the Russians’ principal base, or, better still, to join General Diebitsch himself before Silistria. If this new man was to lead the army over the Danube and then the Balkan, he wanted to witness it.

‘I think I must go and see General Wachten,’ he said at length, replacing his telescope in its holster.

‘To what purpose?’ asked Fairbrother, likewise giving up his surveillance of the distant hawk-eye.

‘To propose that we take a ride towards Aidos to see why the Turk does not come to evict us.’

Fairbrother was inclined to be wry. ‘I suppose the Russians have spare horses and no objection to lending them to impartial observers.’

‘I trust so.’

‘Or perhaps I should say “the Germans have spare horses”: shall we meet
any
Russian generals, do you think? Wachten, Roth, Diebitsch – does the Tsar trust only those with German names?’

Hervey smiled. ‘The Tsar himself had a German mother, and his wife is Prussian. That must count for something, though I can’t say what with any certainty.’

Corporal Acton asked leave to speak. ‘Sir, might I try and borrow a rifle and return the Turk’s fire, sir? Not to ’urt ’im – just to try an’ bustle ’im out. As an aid to observation, sir.’ His expression was made the more ironic by the accent of Bow.

Hervey thought for a moment. ‘Admirable idea, Corporal Acton – ordinarily. But in truth I’d rather not have our Russian friends here think the Turk’s our enemy. It wouldn’t do for them to think we considered him a friend either, mind, but there’s no cause for raising doubts.’

Acton looked disappointed. If there were no enemy, what use was a covering corporal? ‘Sir.’

*

General von Wachten was a compact, solid-looking artillery officer of about fifty years, friendly enough if not exactly warm, active but not energetic. Hervey and his party had travelled in his company by frigate from Bessarabia, where the greater part of the army had wintered after the campaign of the previous year. He spoke German with the accent of Silesia – in which he preferred to curse, seemingly, rather than in his workmanlike Russian – as well as passable French. Hervey supposed he had been appointed for solidity rather than dash: his mission was to
hold
Siseboli, no more. That much might be entrusted to an artillery officer.

Wachten was at his headquarters, the residence of the customs official, eating cheese and drinking coffee, as was his habit in the middle of the morning.

‘How is your Latin, Colonel Hervey?’ he asked, nodding to acknowledge the salute as Hervey was ushered in, and indicating two books on his otherwise empty desk.

Hervey supposed it to be an attempt at affability, and thought to chance a little in his reply. ‘It has been out to grass for some years, General.’

‘And Greek?’

‘Even longer. But if you have need of translation, the cornet accompanying me has ample of both.’

Wachten smiled ever so slightly. ‘The priest here brought me those. Pliny and Herodotus. They both write of these parts, he says, and he wanted to give me something in gratitude for the repairs my engineers have made to his church.’

Hervey nodded. As soon as the Russians had landed they had begun rebuilding the church of the Virgin. It had been ruined in the Ottoman depredations, they told him (though he thought it perhaps more in ignorance than with malign intent). They taught him a word even –
two
words:
lúkovichnaya glava
, onion-dome. It had been broken in half. The engineers made it whole. And then they gilded it. Where the gold came from they would not say, but they were fiercely proud of what they did. He had remarked on the will with which they went about it, and Wachten had said that it was relief from the labour at the defence works, and good also for the spirit of his troops to see their religion restored (‘They will have many more to gild in Constantinople!’).

‘I can have Mr Agar read them, General, and apprise you of anything worthwhile.’

Wachten nodded. ‘This place was called Apollonia in ancient times, a colony of Miletus. Did you know that, Colonel Hervey?’

‘I did, General.’

‘There was a temple of Apollo, from which Lucullus carried off to Rome a statue of the god, whose height was thirty cubits, which he afterwards erected in the Capitol.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Well, perhaps your cornet would be so good as to read these books to see if there is anything to learn from General Lucullus. It would amuse me to find, say, that there was some secret passage that my engineers have not discovered. Or where the statue stood, in case Lucullus left behind any treasure.’

Wachten laughed, so that Hervey was unsure how serious were his expectations. He was obliged to humour him, however; he did, after all, rely on his good offices for both bread and horses. ‘Of course, General. But may I be permitted also to know your intention in reconnoitring – now that, it appears to me, the defences of the town have been placed on so sound a footing?’

The general looked suddenly grave. ‘Colonel Hervey, I have been remiss. Coffee – and cheese?’

‘The general is very kind. Coffee, please.’

The orderly standing at attention by the door evidently understood German well enough, and began pouring him a cup.

‘Be seated, Colonel,’ said Wachten, looking – to Hervey’s mind – just a little pleased with himself. ‘I am aware that you are a cavalryman, and therefore restless to be about the business of searching out the enemy. You will have wondered daily, no doubt, why I do not send out my Cossacks on such a mission.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. ‘I tell you a secret. There is a most excellent system of spies here in Roumelia, and I intend keeping my few and precious horsemen for some more definite purpose than riding all about the country.’ He sat back and pulled a disapproving face. ‘Besides, they would doubtless carry off more than they could pay for, and I have no wish to make enemies of the people hereabouts.’

Hervey nodded appreciatively: such an enlightened attitude was worthy of the Duke of Wellington himself. But reliance on spies? It had nearly been the duke’s undoing before Waterloo. How, though, might he make his point without giving offence? Indeed, was it right that he should do so – for he was not an adviser but an observer?

But before he could scruple too painfully, Wachten took him aback. ‘I have learned, for example, that this morning, at dawn, the Seraskier marched out of Aidos at the head of five thousand foot and cavalry. And I have ordered the Cossacks out at dawn tomorrow to make contact with them.’

Hervey tried to hide his surprise, anxious not to suggest he had doubted Wachten’s efficiency. ‘May I accompany them, General?’ he asked, in a tone of purposeful admiration.

‘I have ordered horses to be made ready for you and your party.’

Hervey made appreciative gestures, then rose to request leave to dismiss, adding inadvertently, ‘And if there is any service I can be …’

Wachten shook his head. ‘I have every confidence in the men under my command, thank you, Colonel. But if there is occasion for service to His Imperial Majesty, I trust I shall be able to call upon you.’

Hervey braced, a useful mechanism for covering mistakes (as well as being the customary courtesy). ‘I trust I shall know where my duty lies, General. Thank you, again, for your kindness.’

He put on his forage cap, gathered up his sword, saluted and took his leave.

Outside, a battalion of the Pavlovsk Grenadiers, the general’s quarter guard, was forming up for inspection. The garrison mustered at dawn each day for roll-call and stood down afterwards to breakfast before being detailed for the fatigues of the day, which for the Line battalions principally consisted in digging trenches and bringing up defence stores from the harbour. But the Pavlovsk Grenadiers, besides the guard duty and escorts, were at the provost-marshal’s call, and therefore did not take turns on the defence works.

He stopped to watch the parade. The Pavlovsk were an undoubted cut above the Line – five hundred chosen men in close order. Recruits to all the grenadier battalions, not just to the Pavlovsk, were handpicked from the Line regiments for their bearing, good conduct and courage. They wore the same close-fitting white linen trousers as those of the Line battalions, but the workaday dress of the Line was baggy overalls tied at the ankle, invariably filthy from fatigues. They wore much the same tunic too – green, long-tailed (with red facings in the Pavlovsk) – but they wore it better. It was the mitre cap, however, that truly set them off. At first it had looked to him strangely old-fashioned: grenadiers in English regiments had long since given it up (before he had joined, indeed). But its singular appearance worked its effect, for, claimed the Pavlovsk, it was a mark of their special bravery at Friedland. They alone had been allowed to keep it.

He had not seen Russian troops since Paris, after Bonaparte’s final exile. These little moments of unlooked-for display were therefore instructive, for there was much that a seasoned soldier could tell from how a regiment mustered – how observant were the officers, how the NCOs cut about, the economy in the words of command, the sharpness of the drill. And by these measures he judged that the Pavlovsk would stand immovable during an attack, and would in their turn go to it with the bayonet in determined fashion. But then, from what he had seen of the Azov Regiment – a very legionary unit – at their fatigues, he did not doubt that they too would be obedient and stalwart. The Pavlovsk were the pick of the Line, but their grenadiers were conscripts too: both regiments were from the same peasant stock, hardened to adversity by the time they drew their first
kopek
. He found himself musing that if he were to command a regiment of infantry when he returned, he would wish it to be as well ordered as these grenadiers.