had a mind he would transfer to half pay when we came back: he’s not long come into his estate, but he says he will stay until Bonaparte is in a cage.’
‘We may all say “Amen” to that. His brother is Ivo Lankester, I imagine?’
‘I can’t say I know, Colonel.’
‘Cornet in the Royals. No matter. Who else?’
Edmonds cleared his throat. ‘E Troop is Underwood, who is sound, in a plodding sort of way, and F is Moore, who intends exchanging with an Indiaman. And there is Joynson, who formed the depot troop when we sailed. Since we are to re-form eight-troops-strong, he will have the seventh, and one of the captains from the Unposted List will return. Who, I don’t know.’
‘Joynson, I imagine, is . . . at home in a depot?’
‘At his worst he’s an old woman. At his best there’s no officer with a better facility for administration. The depot will be found correct to the last penny and nail.’
‘A most useful facility,’ declared Lord George Irvine, with perhaps more a note of determination than conviction. ‘And the others?’
‘The veterinary surgeon is, I’d hazard, the best in the service: John Knight.’
‘Ah, indeed, Knight . We are fortunate to be sure. Lord Paget spoke of him for Woodbridge, as I recall. I should be loath to lose him, even to there.’
‘He was the difference of a dozen remounts a month in Spain.’
Rounding the corner of a half-empty Dutch barn, they came on A Troop’s hutted horse lines. Fresh whitewash did not entirely disguise their rackety condition.
‘How many shall we see here?’
‘A Troop is remounted, the only one complete – fifty-five. We contracted with a good man in Arundel as a matter of priority, but Lankester paid twice the price.’
Lord George nodded. ‘ Fifty-five : not strong. You didn’t lose many in Spain, though? Until having to shoot them all, I mean.’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘And men?’
‘We lost thirty-one, dead or invalide. But we’ve lost that number since. Five were dead of fever by the time we landed at Plymouth, and twenty-odd coming on here. I’m surprised it wasn’t more – filthy weather, ill clad, no shelter, poor rations. A dozen are absent without leave. They might return; they weren’t bad hats.’
Lord George shook his head; the story was not confined to the Sixth. ‘What is the sabre strength, then?’
‘At muster, and with local sick, we are four hundred and forty-six today.’
Lord George raised his eyebrows. The establishment for eight troops was twice that number.
They opened the door and went inside. At this time of a morning, between watering and second feed, the stables were quiet, with one dragoon on duty. The only sound was of teeth grinding hay, the odd chain running through its ring, and the occasional shift of a foot. Lord George took a deep breath: an officer who knew his job could smell the condition of a stable.
‘We did not speak of him: there is a surgeon at duty?’
‘Yes, and fair he is too,’ replied Edmonds, eyeing the straw in the first stall for signs of parsimony or excess. ‘But the paymaster is a drunk, and I’ve begun proceedings against him.’
Lord George sighed. ‘There’s never a good moment to be deficient of a paymaster, but now of all times . . .’ He paused to look into each stall as they made their way to the other end.
‘Indeed not, but I’ve put one of the lieutenants to do duty meanwhile – Hirsch.’
Lord George frowned. ‘Hirsch? A very Jewey name.’
‘Yes. His father is one of Rothschild’s men. A deuced handy officer is young Hirsch, and uncommonly good on the flute.’
‘Well, there would have been scant specie in Flanders had it not been for Rothschild’s arrangements, that is certain, though doubtless he made a good rate on it. Let us pray that Mr Hirsch has his tribe’s facility with money.’ He stopped to study one of the troopers, a dun mare. ‘She looks a very good sort. My compliments to you and Lankester, though we
‘We may all say “Amen” to that. His brother is Ivo Lankester, I imagine?’
‘I can’t say I know, Colonel.’
‘Cornet in the Royals. No matter. Who else?’
Edmonds cleared his throat. ‘E Troop is Underwood, who is sound, in a plodding sort of way, and F is Moore, who intends exchanging with an Indiaman. And there is Joynson, who formed the depot troop when we sailed. Since we are to re-form eight-troops-strong, he will have the seventh, and one of the captains from the Unposted List will return. Who, I don’t know.’
‘Joynson, I imagine, is . . . at home in a depot?’
‘At his worst he’s an old woman. At his best there’s no officer with a better facility for administration. The depot will be found correct to the last penny and nail.’
‘A most useful facility,’ declared Lord George Irvine, with perhaps more a note of determination than conviction. ‘And the others?’
‘The veterinary surgeon is, I’d hazard, the best in the service: John Knight.’
‘Ah, indeed, Knight . We are fortunate to be sure. Lord Paget spoke of him for Woodbridge, as I recall. I should be loath to lose him, even to there.’
‘He was the difference of a dozen remounts a month in Spain.’
Rounding the corner of a half-empty Dutch barn, they came on A Troop’s hutted horse lines. Fresh whitewash did not entirely disguise their rackety condition.
‘How many shall we see here?’
‘A Troop is remounted, the only one complete – fifty-five. We contracted with a good man in Arundel as a matter of priority, but Lankester paid twice the price.’
Lord George nodded. ‘ Fifty-five : not strong. You didn’t lose many in Spain, though? Until having to shoot them all, I mean.’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘And men?’
‘We lost thirty-one, dead or invalide. But we’ve lost that number since. Five were dead of fever by the time we landed at Plymouth, and twenty-odd coming on here. I’m surprised it wasn’t more – filthy weather, ill clad, no shelter, poor rations. A dozen are absent without leave. They might return; they weren’t bad hats.’
Lord George shook his head; the story was not confined to the Sixth. ‘What is the sabre strength, then?’
‘At muster, and with local sick, we are four hundred and forty-six today.’
Lord George raised his eyebrows. The establishment for eight troops was twice that number.
They opened the door and went inside. At this time of a morning, between watering and second feed, the stables were quiet, with one dragoon on duty. The only sound was of teeth grinding hay, the odd chain running through its ring, and the occasional shift of a foot. Lord George took a deep breath: an officer who knew his job could smell the condition of a stable.
‘We did not speak of him: there is a surgeon at duty?’
‘Yes, and fair he is too,’ replied Edmonds, eyeing the straw in the first stall for signs of parsimony or excess. ‘But the paymaster is a drunk, and I’ve begun proceedings against him.’
Lord George sighed. ‘There’s never a good moment to be deficient of a paymaster, but now of all times . . .’ He paused to look into each stall as they made their way to the other end.
‘Indeed not, but I’ve put one of the lieutenants to do duty meanwhile – Hirsch.’
Lord George frowned. ‘Hirsch? A very Jewey name.’
‘Yes. His father is one of Rothschild’s men. A deuced handy officer is young Hirsch, and uncommonly good on the flute.’
‘Well, there would have been scant specie in Flanders had it not been for Rothschild’s arrangements, that is certain, though doubtless he made a good rate on it. Let us pray that Mr Hirsch has his tribe’s facility with money.’ He stopped to study one of the troopers, a dun mare. ‘She looks a very good sort. My compliments to you and Lankester, though we
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