Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (19 page)

There was a formula to an inspection of stables, one that Hervey was well acquainted with from many years of inspecting and being inspected – though never before had he entered the stables of a troop other than his own to that end. It was something of a stately dance, indeed, for its purpose was not so much to discover the state of affairs in the horse lines – that much would largely be known by the daily returns and the appearance of the horses on parade – but to assist in the maintaining of that state of affairs by exhibiting to the dragoons the standards that were required; and in the case of the commanding officer inspecting a troop, to hold its captain to those standards, which in turn assisted him in his own scrutiny. (And, indeed, the same principle was applied in the annual inspection of a regiment by the general officer.) There must therefore be occasion to praise, to encourage and to warn, but not, in the case of a commanding officer’s inspection (or indeed a general’s), of finding material fault, for that was to reflect ill on the routine within the troop as a whole – on the non-commissioned officers, the farriers, and the troop officers, and in the case of a general’s inspection of the regiment, on the commanding officer and his staff. And so in this game of questing acknowledgement of efficiency, it was usual that the NCOs’ horses were placed at the nearest and furthest ends of the stable, making the best impression on the inspecting officer as he entered and left. New straw would be laid immediately before he arrived, and the smell of Stockholum tar would pleasantly fill his nostrils instead of ammonia. But it was also necessary for there to be opportunity for the display of displeasure that might ensue from the discovery of actual, though trivial, neglect (however theoretically impossible that neglect might be). A lantern, or some such, a part of which had escaped ferocious burnishing, usually served.

The purpose of Hervey’s inspection was different, however. He was not intent on playing the admirable game of show so much as making a covert inquiry into the business of casting. He had no idea what he was looking for, only a sense that if there were truly something amiss with the practice and procedure of the regiment it would be manifest in the stable. Tyrwhitt’s troop could have no idea of this purpose, of course, and they had therefore made all the customary preparations. The lieutenant, Mordaunt, on whom command had devolved these past two months, was a capable man, exchanged from the Thirteenth in India when the climate there had begun to make depredations on his constitution, but whose taciturnity had not so far allowed him to become endeared to the mess. The serjeant-major, Prickett, was newly made up, but a sound enough NCO who had risen by the principle of seniority tempered by rejection. Hervey had never served in the same troop as he, but had always known of his solid reputation. The three cornets were the not unusual mixture of idleness, variable competence and unlimited charm.

At two minutes to ten by the barracks clock, Hervey, the adjutant and the regimental serjeant-major stepped from the orderly room. Waiting outside were the veterinary surgeon and farrier-major, and two orderly corporals. They marched off briskly, past (this being a Friday) the assembled trumpeters on the parade ground, who sounded the ‘Flourish of trumpets’ when the clock struck ten, just as the inspecting party reached the doors of D Troop stables.

‘Att-e-en-
shun
!’

The stamp of boots and the ringing of spurs echoed impressively in the confined space of the stables, accompanied by whinnying and grunting from those troop horses not yet accustomed to the disturbance of formal inspections.

Hervey returned the lieutenant’s salute. ‘Good morning, Mr Mordaunt.’

‘Good morning, Colonel. Four officers, fifty-two dragoons and forty-seven horses on parade. Fourteen dragoons and horses on detachment.’

One of the orderly corporals made note.

‘Thank you,’ said Hervey, taking the whip from under his arm into his right hand, and acknowledging the troop serjeant-major’s salute in turn. ‘At ease, please.’

Serjeant-Major Prickett barked the words of command, to a repeat of the whinnying and grunting.

Hervey took a pleasing breath of Stockholum tar as he entered, the NCO closest to the doors coming to attention again as he approached.

‘Good morning, Corp’l Farmar.’

‘Good morning, Colonel.’

With his own troop Hervey would have been able to exchange some pleasantry – or, if he were feeling grave, ask some appropriate question – but with another, even though he knew of Corporal Farmar as one of the best rough-riders in the regiment, he was not yet able to do so. He had yet to establish his ‘proprietary position’ rather than mere authority. Besides, on such a mission as today’s he did not wish to be distracted by banter.

He studied Farmar’s horse, a sleek chestnut mare, from beside the stall-end. Somehow Lord Holderness, doubtless by the expenditure of a good deal of his own money, had been able to maintain the old custom of troop colours – to revive it, even, for in India it had been impossible. So that A Troop was once more wholly bay, B was entirely black, as was C; D had light chestnuts, E was meant to be brown (though E, his former troop, returning now from the Cape, had left their troopers behind), and F – when it began to muster – would have blacks too. And, disdaining the regulations still, all the trumpeters’ mounts were grey.

‘How long has she been yours, Corp’l Farmar?’

‘A year just gone, Colonel.’

‘And gone well?’

‘Very well, Colonel.’

‘“Four white feet, go well without her”?’ (He relaxed his guard – he knew – but it was good to be back in the world of the troop:
One white foot, buy him; Two white feet, try him; Three white feet, look well about him; Four white feet, go well without him
.)

‘Me, I wouldn’t go without ’er, Colonel; never a day lame,’ replied Farmar, smiling.

Hervey bent to pick up the off-hind.

‘Why is it oiled? Since when is a hoof oiled for inspection?’

The disposition of the stable changed in an instant.

Farmar could answer only awkwardly, ‘Orders, Colonel.’

Hervey turned to Lieutenant Mordaunt.

‘I … understood …’

‘With permission, Colonel,’ said the veterinary surgeon.

Hervey looked at him, but said nothing.

‘In this fierce weather, Colonel, I have advised it is best to protect the foot with an application of oil to the enamel, and of Stockholum tar to the horn.’

Even the horses were silent.

Hervey angered, yet to disparage his veterinarian – whose authority with the farriers was always precarious (and with the officers even more so) – in front of such an assemblage as this would be to the detriment …

‘I do not question that advice, Mr Gaskoin,’ (though in truth he would) ‘but it has ever been the practice in the regiment that for inspection the foot should be perfectly clean. How else is it to be examined?’

‘I beg your pardon, Colonel,’ replied Gaskoin, judging it prudent to offer no other answer.

Lieutenant Mordaunt added his voice: ‘I must beg pardon also, Colonel. I failed to draw a proper distinction.’

There was nothing more disarming than a man who freely admitted his error, and Hervey now had to acknowledge it for the sake of Mordaunt’s own standing – not least because the man who should have been answering for his troop was in arrest in Dublin.

‘Mr Malet, please be good enough to make the practice clear once more.’

‘Colonel,’ replied Malet simply, already having shot Mordaunt a look that required him to attend on orderly room when the inspection was over (Mr Rennie had summoned the troop serjeant-major in like manner).

Hervey moved several stalls on, without a word, ignoring the remaining NCOs and their exemplary mounts, till he caught the eye of a young-looking dragoon. ‘What is this man’s name, Mr Mordaunt?’

‘Parr, Colonel,’ replied the lieutenant, as the dragoon came to attention.

Hervey nodded, pleased (relieved) that Mordaunt at least knew his troop. ‘How long have you been enlisted, Parr?’

‘One year and one half, sir.’

‘One year and one half,
Colonel
!’ barked the troop serjeant-major, dismayed that in spite of a whole hour’s extra drill and instruction there was still a dragoon who had failed to heed, and already feeling the pain of the interview with Rennie that was to follow.

‘Sir,’ replied the dragoon, shaking.

‘
Colonel!
’ barked the serjeant-major even louder, and approaching despair (‘Sir’ was ordinarily correct in addressing the serjeant-major, but the commanding officer was on parade, and so any voice was deemed to be his, no matter who the speaker).

‘Colonel,’ stammered the dragoon.

Hervey began to wonder if this were not a performance for his own benefit (such things were not unknown), but Parr’s ashen face looked real enough, and he felt a sudden urge to say ‘It matters not’ – though he very determinedly resisted it.

‘When were you assigned this horse?’

The dragoon hesitated, and then said, ‘When I passed riding school, Colonel. Last May, Colonel.’

Hervey nodded. ‘When was he shod?’

‘On Monday, Colonel.’

Hervey turned to the lieutenant. ‘Mr Mordaunt, have the hoofs cleaned so that I might examine them.’

Private Parr’s stall was at once all industry.

Hervey, meanwhile, turned about to speak to the dragoon opposite. ‘What is your name?’

‘Twentyman, Colonel.’

‘How long have you been enlisted, Twentyman?’

‘Five years, Colonel.’

‘You were in India, then?’

‘No, Colonel; I joined from Maidstone when the regiment returned. Colonel.’

‘When was your horse shod?’

‘Three weeks ago, Colonel.’

The gelding stood obligingly without trying to turn its head as Hervey stepped into the stall and ran his fingers along its back. There was no sign of saddle galls. He lifted the tail; there was no nick. ‘How old is he?’

‘Five, Colonel.’

Twentyman was probably the first to be assigned the horse since it was brought in as a rough; and he kept it well – inasmuch as he could tell without looking at the feet.

He returned to Private Parr’s horse, its hoofs now divested of oil and tar, and picked up the near- and then the off-fore, looking at each for a matter of seconds only – it took no longer to see the work of the rasp – before rounding on the veterinarian. ‘Attend to this, if you please, Mr Gaskoin,’ he said, with as much asperity as he could manage without raising his voice.

The farrier-major and the troop farrier braced for what they knew was to follow.

Hervey turned to Mordaunt. ‘There is no purpose in my continuing the inspection with every foot caked in grease and the first that is not bearing the evidence of poor shoeing. I had thought never to find such a thing in D Troop – or in any troop, for that matter. Be so good as to have them ready for reinspection tomorrow morning.’

And with that he turned on his heel and stalked out of the stables – behind him a crescendo of recrimination.

It did not serve for the commanding officer to be discomposed on any matter. A cloud of unease settled over a regiment, which somehow dimmed the light in the otherwise brightest of corners – places free of any taint or blemish, paragons of good order, perfect discipline and attentiveness to the King’s Regulations. All alike awaited the next visitation of displeasure.

And – as Heaven knew – it was by no wish of Hervey’s that the cloud of displeased colonelcy sat over the cavalry barracks. His intention had been to leave the stables, unbeknown to any, in possession of some clear indication as to what he must do in regard to the question of unwarranted casting (if, indeed, there were unwarranted casting). But all he had succeeded in doing was discovering that D Troop’s farriery was deficient (he discounted the possibility that he had exposed but a single, exceptional, example), and, perhaps, that efforts had been made to conceal the fact by ordering hoofs to be oiled.

Yet that itself was no small matter; and so began his mental commination. Evidently Mordaunt was not
au fait
with all that occurred in his stables. Worse, in a way, neither was the troop serjeant-major – or, worse still, he connived at its concealment. Evidently, too, the farrier-major had no command of his farriers, and the veterinarian no notion what evils they concealed by their oleaginous tricks. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he sought to conceal his own incapability with the spurious justification of science – ‘In this fierce weather … best to protect the foot with an application of oil to the enamel, and of Stockholum tar to the horn’. Who knew what thick layers of filth were rotting the horn of every foot in the Sixth? And what about the RM? Did he not observe anything amiss? Nor, for that matter, the adjutant …

He sat at his desk, hands clasped, brooding on the parlous state of the regiment he had aspired to command these twenty years.

Malet came in with coffee, unbidden. ‘Colonel?’

‘Take a seat,’ said Hervey, peacefully.

He did so, and for once without his order book.