Company Of Spears

Hervey went to the Somerviles that evening a happier man. There was nothing he could do about the ‘epidemic disorder’, as Sam Kirwan was officially describing it: the horses were in the best of hands, and Serjeant-major Armstrong could be relied on to enforce the quarantine. There was evidently a supply of remounts – though he doubted fifty would be to hand at once – and if other duties detained him, he could certainly rely on Lieutenant Fearnley to make sound purchases. As to the money – the War Office must be only too aware of the contingencies of campaigning. There had been no negligence, no neglect, and but for the inevitable and perfectly proper enquiries by some clerk in Downing Street he need have no disquiet in that direction. Above all, the business at the frontier had been both exhilarating and gainful: he had, by his own reckoning and Eyre Somervile’s preliminary reading of his report (a brief interview in the late afternoon had been all that could be managed in the lieutenant-governor’s day of inspections), accomplished what he had been sent there to do. Moreover, he had helped instigate certain measures to ease the immediate Xhosa nuisance. All this he could take the greatest satisfaction in, the more so for its standing in sharp contrast with events of the year before (Portugal, he trusted, would ever be his lowest ebb). He felt in large measure restored. And the gains had not all been His Majesty’s. The country, the Xhosa and above all Edward Fairbrother had taught him a great deal more about the soldier’s art. He had never once thought that he possessed all the art there was to have, but long years in the Peninsula and the tumultuous days of Waterloo, and then the extraordinary campaigns in the East, had given him a certainty in his own proficiency which, in truth, the late unhappy business in Portugal had not diminished. The affair with the Xhosa had been but a scrape, albeit a deadly one; he had observed how it must be done here – and above all how it must not be.

He arrived at the lieutenant-governor’s residence as the sun was rapidly disappearing. He paused a moment outside to watch its descent, still a sight of wonder in these latitudes for all his six weeks in the colony:The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,And the gilded car of day,His glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream

He nodded contentedly. This was a beautiful country, for all its frontier savagery – and its horse sickness. He thought he might be reluctant to leave it when the time came. But thinking of Milton made him think also of Joseph Edmonds: he owed that officer so much – his example, his encouragement; above all the forbearance and unswerving support whenever he overstepped the mark in rash cornet-judgement. Or was it merely cornet-judgement? Was he not so disposed still? Yes, he knew it; and that much was good, for he could not guard against what he did not recognize. And with Edmonds long gone, and now Daniel Coates, he was without such counsel:And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sowre Severity,With their grave Saws in slumber ly.We that are of purer fire Imitate the Starry Quire…

Hervey nodded. He moved in the military firmament, periodically, but he did not – could not – imitate its ‘Starry Quire’. Except, perhaps, that Kat had begun to show him how he might.

He felt a sudden twinge of guilt. He had treated Kat abominably, by any reckoning; and she had only returned his ill news with kindness and painful understanding – painful both for him and for her. He wondered what she would do now: perhaps return to Alderney, if she could think of Alderney as home to return to, and be reconciled in every way with her husband? No, in truth what he had seen of Sir Peregrine Greville made the notion fanciful. And so there would be other lovers. How could there not be, for Kat was a beautiful woman? Why should there not be? Only that he hated the idea.

He shivered suddenly. Such thoughts were now wholly improper (if they had ever indeed been even partially proper). He turned from the sun as it touched the horizon, and took the steps to the door of the residence. So much had ‘sacred Milton’ kept his thoughts from ‘Riot, and ill manag’d Merriment’. He could not understand himself: the exhilaration of but two months in this place!