by a great many.’ He was about to add a word or so about his dying well, but thought better of it. It was not his to explain these things: he had done so in a letter to the Horse Guards, commending his conduct, and it was for the commander-in-chief to determine if any recognition should be given, at which point the entire army would be made privy to the despatch.
He turned back to Worsley. It was close to noon. ‘What arrangements are there for the rest of the day?’
‘Rations and then pivot drill, Colonel.’
‘Then I’ll take a turn of the park and afterwards watch a little more.’
He said it with, he hoped, more enthusiasm than in truth he could muster, for the day that the regiment – every regiment – was able to manoeuvre freely, without a pivot, would indeed truly be a red-letter day. So much time was wasted turning a line on a fixed point that it astonished him that no better system had been found – or rather, approved. It was all the fault of old ‘Pivot’ Dundas – dead these past ten years, pensioned a good dozen before then, and yet his
Principles of Military Movements
still held as great a sway with the Horse Guards as those of Frederick the Great, whom he had sought to emulate, still held in Prussia. General Sir David Dundas, a crabbed old Scot, had done fine things in his day, not least two years as commander-in-chief during the Duke of York’s penitential absence after the scandal of his mistress’s selling commissions, but the ‘tide in the affairs of men’ had left his pivot drill high and dry – or ought to have. Someone in the Sixth, many years ago, had composed a rhyme in mock-heroic, aping
The Iliad
(‘Come Heavenly Muse, Great David’s wrath disclose …’), and with it appropriate illustrations in the mess’s lines book, which had afforded much amusement to the more subversive officers in the regiment – which in the case of Dundas was practically everyone:
This is the Scotch commander of men
,
Who in spite of his years three score and ten,
Delights every morn to get up with the lark
To pester His Majesty’s troops in the Park …
(and so on for a dozen verses).
But that was all an age ago, and Hervey was thankful of it (and trusted that he himself did not pester B Troop in
this
park). The present commander-in-chief, Lord Hill, he held of course in the highest regard – most affectionate regard; but ‘Daddy’ Hill’s days were spent in the business of retrenchment, so he understood, doing battle every bit as bitter with the Treasury as that he had done with the French. What the army – what Lord Hill – needed now therefore, reckoned Hervey, was a quartermaster-general with the wisdom of Sir John Moore, and one whose opinion counted. Then the cavalry would see a change – and (who knew?) even the red-coated Line, for there were enough men in green to show them how …
‘Have you seen the great plinth that is built for the statue of His late Majesty, atop Snow Hill?’ asked Worsley.
‘I have not,’ replied Hervey, recollecting himself. ‘What statue is this? I have not heard of it.’
‘Oh, a very fine one – an equestrian statue, all of copper. I’ve seen the clay model it’s to be cast from – Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline.’
‘Indeed? I’d have thought His late Majesty more likely to prefer the image of a ploughman.’
There was the polite laughter customary for a superior officer’s jest, but in truth the notion of the poor old King – ‘Farmer George’ – mounted in triumph as a Roman emperor seemed incongruous to say the least. Yes, he had gained a few spice islands and the Cape of Good Hope in the war with France, but he had lost the American colonies twenty years before, and to the mind of many that was all there was to be said.
‘But we’ll take a look at Windsor’s new Capitoline, by all means. Carry on, then, please, Captain Worsley – but ride with us if you will.’
The officer commanding B Troop saluted and turned
He turned back to Worsley. It was close to noon. ‘What arrangements are there for the rest of the day?’
‘Rations and then pivot drill, Colonel.’
‘Then I’ll take a turn of the park and afterwards watch a little more.’
He said it with, he hoped, more enthusiasm than in truth he could muster, for the day that the regiment – every regiment – was able to manoeuvre freely, without a pivot, would indeed truly be a red-letter day. So much time was wasted turning a line on a fixed point that it astonished him that no better system had been found – or rather, approved. It was all the fault of old ‘Pivot’ Dundas – dead these past ten years, pensioned a good dozen before then, and yet his
Principles of Military Movements
still held as great a sway with the Horse Guards as those of Frederick the Great, whom he had sought to emulate, still held in Prussia. General Sir David Dundas, a crabbed old Scot, had done fine things in his day, not least two years as commander-in-chief during the Duke of York’s penitential absence after the scandal of his mistress’s selling commissions, but the ‘tide in the affairs of men’ had left his pivot drill high and dry – or ought to have. Someone in the Sixth, many years ago, had composed a rhyme in mock-heroic, aping
The Iliad
(‘Come Heavenly Muse, Great David’s wrath disclose …’), and with it appropriate illustrations in the mess’s lines book, which had afforded much amusement to the more subversive officers in the regiment – which in the case of Dundas was practically everyone:
This is the Scotch commander of men
,
Who in spite of his years three score and ten,
Delights every morn to get up with the lark
To pester His Majesty’s troops in the Park …
(and so on for a dozen verses).
But that was all an age ago, and Hervey was thankful of it (and trusted that he himself did not pester B Troop in
this
park). The present commander-in-chief, Lord Hill, he held of course in the highest regard – most affectionate regard; but ‘Daddy’ Hill’s days were spent in the business of retrenchment, so he understood, doing battle every bit as bitter with the Treasury as that he had done with the French. What the army – what Lord Hill – needed now therefore, reckoned Hervey, was a quartermaster-general with the wisdom of Sir John Moore, and one whose opinion counted. Then the cavalry would see a change – and (who knew?) even the red-coated Line, for there were enough men in green to show them how …
‘Have you seen the great plinth that is built for the statue of His late Majesty, atop Snow Hill?’ asked Worsley.
‘I have not,’ replied Hervey, recollecting himself. ‘What statue is this? I have not heard of it.’
‘Oh, a very fine one – an equestrian statue, all of copper. I’ve seen the clay model it’s to be cast from – Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline.’
‘Indeed? I’d have thought His late Majesty more likely to prefer the image of a ploughman.’
There was the polite laughter customary for a superior officer’s jest, but in truth the notion of the poor old King – ‘Farmer George’ – mounted in triumph as a Roman emperor seemed incongruous to say the least. Yes, he had gained a few spice islands and the Cape of Good Hope in the war with France, but he had lost the American colonies twenty years before, and to the mind of many that was all there was to be said.
‘But we’ll take a look at Windsor’s new Capitoline, by all means. Carry on, then, please, Captain Worsley – but ride with us if you will.’
The officer commanding B Troop saluted and turned
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