Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) by Allan Mallinson Page B
Authors: Allan Mallinson
Ads: Link
shall we pay a call on the orderlies at the castle? We might at least find a cup of something hot.’
Windsor Castle was the furthest of the War Office party’s stations, with an NCO and two dragoons. There was not the least necessity of inspecting them, their being under such constant supervision as obtained at the Crown’s principal residence, but Malet agreed it would be diverting, especially on so cold a day.
‘Capital idea, Colonel.’ He turned to the serjeant-major. ‘D Troop furnishes the War Office party: who will be the NCO there at the present, Mr Rennie? Would you know?’
‘I believe it will be Corporal Fagan, sir.’
It was not the business of the RSM to know every last detail of a troop’s duty roster. Rennie’s recall was impressive, and Hervey’s nod said as much. ‘Then let us go and see him.’
As they turned north to descend to the Long Walk, Hervey thought it apt to draw in his friend again, who was so evidently weary of mock battle. ‘The straightest two and a half miles, I’d venture, this side of the Appian Way. Is it not a fair prospect, the castle?’
‘It is,’ replied Fairbrother. He had been contemplating it for some minutes.
‘Charles the Second began it, and then William of Orange planted the elms, and the Georges added to it. The late King had a good many stones brought from Leptis Magna, though I don’t recall—’
He pulled up suddenly, as if someone had plucked at his coat. He looked again towards the ever-darkening column of smoke. ‘Damn it, it can’t be a hapless thing. Not on such a day … Come, Malet!’ he snapped, reining sharp about and spurring his charger awake: ‘Let’s pay B Troop a second visit.’
The little party sprang to life like the field after a bolting fox, swinging as one west down the hill in pursuit, though the RSM kept a stricter hold on his followers than any field master. They steadied at the bottom to a canter across the parkland towards the Battle Bourne ponds, and then a straight line through the South Forest, putting deer to flight in all directions before bursting onto the Windsor road, narrowly missing the Ascot stage bowling south, then scrambling across the ditches alongside, and back into a gallop due west across the parkland of Cranbourne Court.
Hervey was relishing it – like a fast run with the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds on a good scenting day. He’d been so much abroad of late that he’d forgotten the pleasure of an English chase. ‘I’ve rarely hunted a cleaner line,’ he called to Fairbrother, checking just an instant to cross the Hatchett lane at the far end of the park, his gelding responding admirably to the merest flexing of the reins – and tiring almost not at all. They’d galloped true on the smoke even through the forest (though ‘forest’ did always seem to him overwrought) and strayed not fifty yards either side of dead straight. The park itself was not unlike the country of the Zulu, but without the thorn – except he was sure no Zulu ever saw the snow. What a life was this: India, the Cape, the western Levant, and all in the space of four years – only the time it took (decently) to back a foal. Would that it could be ever thus!
Ten minutes, and only a few furlongs to run – yet no sign of B Troop. How could they be so far behind Worsley’s men?
Back now into a hand-gallop across empty pasture, skirting the frozen fishponds, taking the hedges apace – and with not a faller – on up a steady rise, across the Winkfield road … and then, atop, with just a furlong more, a clear view at last of the blaze.
‘Is that B Troop?’ he called to Malet. He could scarce believe they’d got there before him without his crossing their line.
‘I think it must be, Colonel. There are no other.’
They galloped on.
Down the slope, uneven old plough, one more hedge and a half-hidden ditch, across some empty pasture – and they were at the fiery barn.
Worsley saw them and cantered over. ‘A dozen
Windsor Castle was the furthest of the War Office party’s stations, with an NCO and two dragoons. There was not the least necessity of inspecting them, their being under such constant supervision as obtained at the Crown’s principal residence, but Malet agreed it would be diverting, especially on so cold a day.
‘Capital idea, Colonel.’ He turned to the serjeant-major. ‘D Troop furnishes the War Office party: who will be the NCO there at the present, Mr Rennie? Would you know?’
‘I believe it will be Corporal Fagan, sir.’
It was not the business of the RSM to know every last detail of a troop’s duty roster. Rennie’s recall was impressive, and Hervey’s nod said as much. ‘Then let us go and see him.’
As they turned north to descend to the Long Walk, Hervey thought it apt to draw in his friend again, who was so evidently weary of mock battle. ‘The straightest two and a half miles, I’d venture, this side of the Appian Way. Is it not a fair prospect, the castle?’
‘It is,’ replied Fairbrother. He had been contemplating it for some minutes.
‘Charles the Second began it, and then William of Orange planted the elms, and the Georges added to it. The late King had a good many stones brought from Leptis Magna, though I don’t recall—’
He pulled up suddenly, as if someone had plucked at his coat. He looked again towards the ever-darkening column of smoke. ‘Damn it, it can’t be a hapless thing. Not on such a day … Come, Malet!’ he snapped, reining sharp about and spurring his charger awake: ‘Let’s pay B Troop a second visit.’
The little party sprang to life like the field after a bolting fox, swinging as one west down the hill in pursuit, though the RSM kept a stricter hold on his followers than any field master. They steadied at the bottom to a canter across the parkland towards the Battle Bourne ponds, and then a straight line through the South Forest, putting deer to flight in all directions before bursting onto the Windsor road, narrowly missing the Ascot stage bowling south, then scrambling across the ditches alongside, and back into a gallop due west across the parkland of Cranbourne Court.
Hervey was relishing it – like a fast run with the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds on a good scenting day. He’d been so much abroad of late that he’d forgotten the pleasure of an English chase. ‘I’ve rarely hunted a cleaner line,’ he called to Fairbrother, checking just an instant to cross the Hatchett lane at the far end of the park, his gelding responding admirably to the merest flexing of the reins – and tiring almost not at all. They’d galloped true on the smoke even through the forest (though ‘forest’ did always seem to him overwrought) and strayed not fifty yards either side of dead straight. The park itself was not unlike the country of the Zulu, but without the thorn – except he was sure no Zulu ever saw the snow. What a life was this: India, the Cape, the western Levant, and all in the space of four years – only the time it took (decently) to back a foal. Would that it could be ever thus!
Ten minutes, and only a few furlongs to run – yet no sign of B Troop. How could they be so far behind Worsley’s men?
Back now into a hand-gallop across empty pasture, skirting the frozen fishponds, taking the hedges apace – and with not a faller – on up a steady rise, across the Winkfield road … and then, atop, with just a furlong more, a clear view at last of the blaze.
‘Is that B Troop?’ he called to Malet. He could scarce believe they’d got there before him without his crossing their line.
‘I think it must be, Colonel. There are no other.’
They galloped on.
Down the slope, uneven old plough, one more hedge and a half-hidden ditch, across some empty pasture – and they were at the fiery barn.
Worsley saw them and cantered over. ‘A dozen
Similar Books
