looking up, for there were three more letters to write (the month had taken an unusually high toll) and his cornet’s troubles were trifling by comparison.
Hervey supposed well enough what the reason for Edmonds’s summons must be. But, God willing, he would endure no more than a rebuke. Even that, however, would be disagreeable in the extreme: some of the NCOs might take refuge in the knowledge of Edmonds’s soft heart, but his tongue could scourge an officer as surely as the lash scourged a defaulter. Hervey’s release from arrest had also been irregular – of that he was only too aware – and Edmonds’s imprecation ‘God preserve us, boy!’ rang in his ears still. A mere rebuke seemed improbable.
Hervey’s grip on the sword-scabbard had become clammy, even inside his glove, and his right hand was clenched so tight that his fingernails dug into the palm. The crucifix and the guidon had blurred as one, his eyes stinging with the effort of not blinking. Edmonds had addressed him with pronounced formality: ‘It is a very singular thing indeed, Mr Hervey, for a cornet to be placed in arrest upon the field of battle.’ He had asked for an explanation of the circumstances, ‘precisely and dispassionately’, and Hervey had in some measure done his bidding. He had at least given as wholly indifferent an account as anyone might. It was, perhaps, a more exact report than Edmonds had required, but Hervey had been at pains to elaborate on Serjeant Armstrong’s conduct in the affair with the battery, which he had deemed to be of the highest order. As he finished, he glanced down for the first time, as if to reinforce his closing cadence. He saw at once, and he had not done so before, perhaps not surprisingly in view of his trepidation, that Edmonds’s face was no longer swollen. So trivial was the observation in the circumstances that it discomfited him still further. The fact was not without its significance, however, for the tooth-operator had cleanly drawn the abscessed molar that morning, and the pain had at last given way to a soreness which the laudanum, in prodigious quantities since, was able to ease. The opiate was undeniably an element in the unexpected warmth with which the major now addressed him.
‘My dear boy,’ he began, rising from his chair and indicating another to him. Major Joseph Edmonds always took inordinate trouble to guard against any sign of favour towards Hervey, though heaven only knew how difficult he found that. Sometimes he concealed his regard so well that he appeared abrupt and unsympathetic, and it would have been the profoundest wonder to Hervey to discover in what affection, admiration even, the major held him. Lankester may have been the regimental paragon, and Edmonds would have been loudest in his praise, but something in the captain’s Corinthian accomplishment put Edmonds not wholly at ease in his company. In Hervey he saw something of himself as a young cornet, but – and this was the distinction – he saw in him, too, a quality, not easily defined, which might with care and good fortune secure his advancement beyond mere field rank. ‘My dear boy,’ he repeated, ‘everything you have told me accords perfectly with all that I have heard from several different quarters. The matter is entirely closed.’
Hervey’s relief was palpable. That relief in itself was sufficient balm in his troubled circumstances, but Edmonds’s next pronouncement was in the nature of a miracle-cure.
‘I have, no less, a letter of appreciation from the commander-in-chief,’ the major continued, his words now betraying just the faintest trace of the opium’s solvent. ‘The field marshal seems to be making a particular effort to praise his cavalry for a change, doubtless because there has been no riot since Vitoria. But then again, everyone will ascribe this new and godly discipline to an increase in flogging,’ he declared sardonically, for he himself loathed the practice intensely, and
Hervey supposed well enough what the reason for Edmonds’s summons must be. But, God willing, he would endure no more than a rebuke. Even that, however, would be disagreeable in the extreme: some of the NCOs might take refuge in the knowledge of Edmonds’s soft heart, but his tongue could scourge an officer as surely as the lash scourged a defaulter. Hervey’s release from arrest had also been irregular – of that he was only too aware – and Edmonds’s imprecation ‘God preserve us, boy!’ rang in his ears still. A mere rebuke seemed improbable.
Hervey’s grip on the sword-scabbard had become clammy, even inside his glove, and his right hand was clenched so tight that his fingernails dug into the palm. The crucifix and the guidon had blurred as one, his eyes stinging with the effort of not blinking. Edmonds had addressed him with pronounced formality: ‘It is a very singular thing indeed, Mr Hervey, for a cornet to be placed in arrest upon the field of battle.’ He had asked for an explanation of the circumstances, ‘precisely and dispassionately’, and Hervey had in some measure done his bidding. He had at least given as wholly indifferent an account as anyone might. It was, perhaps, a more exact report than Edmonds had required, but Hervey had been at pains to elaborate on Serjeant Armstrong’s conduct in the affair with the battery, which he had deemed to be of the highest order. As he finished, he glanced down for the first time, as if to reinforce his closing cadence. He saw at once, and he had not done so before, perhaps not surprisingly in view of his trepidation, that Edmonds’s face was no longer swollen. So trivial was the observation in the circumstances that it discomfited him still further. The fact was not without its significance, however, for the tooth-operator had cleanly drawn the abscessed molar that morning, and the pain had at last given way to a soreness which the laudanum, in prodigious quantities since, was able to ease. The opiate was undeniably an element in the unexpected warmth with which the major now addressed him.
‘My dear boy,’ he began, rising from his chair and indicating another to him. Major Joseph Edmonds always took inordinate trouble to guard against any sign of favour towards Hervey, though heaven only knew how difficult he found that. Sometimes he concealed his regard so well that he appeared abrupt and unsympathetic, and it would have been the profoundest wonder to Hervey to discover in what affection, admiration even, the major held him. Lankester may have been the regimental paragon, and Edmonds would have been loudest in his praise, but something in the captain’s Corinthian accomplishment put Edmonds not wholly at ease in his company. In Hervey he saw something of himself as a young cornet, but – and this was the distinction – he saw in him, too, a quality, not easily defined, which might with care and good fortune secure his advancement beyond mere field rank. ‘My dear boy,’ he repeated, ‘everything you have told me accords perfectly with all that I have heard from several different quarters. The matter is entirely closed.’
Hervey’s relief was palpable. That relief in itself was sufficient balm in his troubled circumstances, but Edmonds’s next pronouncement was in the nature of a miracle-cure.
‘I have, no less, a letter of appreciation from the commander-in-chief,’ the major continued, his words now betraying just the faintest trace of the opium’s solvent. ‘The field marshal seems to be making a particular effort to praise his cavalry for a change, doubtless because there has been no riot since Vitoria. But then again, everyone will ascribe this new and godly discipline to an increase in flogging,’ he declared sardonically, for he himself loathed the practice intensely, and
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