Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service (41 page)

‘In consequence, Colonel, I lost seniority,’ he was careful to make clear. ‘I became second lieutenant once more and did not proceed to the Kriegsakademie until I was twenty-three, where I followed the three years of instruction, and passed out of there almost four years ago.’

Notwithstanding this loss of seniority, Moltke was evidently held in high regard; Hervey supposed he had been marked out at the Kriegsakademie, a thing that did not occur in England, for there was no academy of that form or distinction, but which he understood to be customary practice in Prussia. ‘It is unusual, I would imagine, for an officer to be sent on detached duty so soon after commissioning,’ he said, in German.

Moltke registered no surprise at Hervey’s fluency (it was inappropriate that a lieutenant should compliment a superior officer), but took it as an invitation to speak in his own language. ‘I think it is so. But I have for three years worked on the military survey in Silesia and Posen.’

Their respective service was so unalike, and in armies whose organization and method was so different, that Hervey could not begin to think what Moltke might achieve in any appraisal of the Turks (and from what he might suppose, the Porte was not in need of expertise in survey). And yet there was in this lieutenant a seriousness of manner – even for a German – that marked him as singular. It seemed to him unthinkable that Moltke could have been sent to Constantinople except for some equally singular purpose. Yet although the late reforms were far from happily settled, no Turk
ferik
(general), who had come to his rank through long years of the sword, could view with equanimity the advice of a man half his age who had never heard a shot fired in anger. Was his mission therefore one of gathering topographical intelligence under the guise of some other assignment? It would seem apt for one who had spent three years at military survey. But what possible interest could the kingdom of Prussia have in Roumelia?

Even after an hour’s agreeable conversation, Hervey was none the wiser, although he did form a very favourable impression of Moltke as both an officer and a man. He found himself thinking that he would like to know him better, and hoped they would meet again soon – and not merely for the purposes of pleasing Princess Lieven. As soon as General Müffling was restored, and he and Moltke came to Adrianople, said Hervey, he would introduce him to his two fellow officers. ‘You and they would have much to talk about.’

He made then to leave, and as he did so Moltke went to his travelling desk and took from it a book. ‘
Herr Oberst
, would you honour me by accepting this? It is a work I wrote whilst at the Kriegsakademie.’

Hervey was mystified: the work of a cadet, printed and bound … ‘With the greatest pleasure,
Herr Leutnant
.’

He opened it at the title page, and was at once even more puzzled (as well as dispirited, as ever, on seeing the Gothic script, which he still found both a labour and strangely hostile). ‘
Die beiden Freunde. Eine Erzählung
. How intriguing.’

Eine Erzählung
– a fiction, a novel. Not at all what he’d expected. But a charming gesture nevertheless. He slipped the book inside his tunic and put on his cap.

‘I shall read it with close attention. Thank you,
Herr Leutnant
.’

‘I look forward keenly to our next meeting,
Herr Oberst
,’ said Moltke, bracing. And then he seemed to remember himself: ‘If you are agreeable, sir?’

‘I look forward to it, also, at which time I trust that General Müffling will be restored to health, and that we may discuss the campaign.’

They shook hands, and then with the accompanying click of the heels, Moltke bid his visitor
Abschied
.

‘He gave me a book he’d written,’ said Hervey when he had found Fairbrother and they were making their way back to General Budberg’s command post. ‘A novel:
Die beiden Freunde
– “The Two Friends”.’

‘A soldier with the sensibility to write a novel; that is
very
queer.’

‘Perhaps not in Prussia. Who knows; they’re a restless folk.’

‘And the novel is about …?’

Hervey reached into his pocket and took out the book, opening it at the first page: ‘“It was in the year 1762 on a fine summer’s evening whose peace so often—”’

‘Ah, the year Catherine became empress.’

‘I believe it was.’

‘Was Prussia at war then?’

‘Prussia has always been at war. It is an army with a country attached to it. Let me read on: “Two young warriors were in lively discussion sitting by the pleasant Elbe—”’

‘Would you count yourself a young warrior still?’

Hervey eyed his friend seriously. ‘I believe … in my mind, yes. I don’t think of the time when I was a cornet as of another world entirely.’

He took a few more thoughtful paces, and closed the book. ‘And how was
your
novel? Did you finish it?’

‘I did indeed. And it’s given me an idea. Let me read something to
you
.’ Fairbrother opened the Scott at the last page. ‘Guy Mannering’s returned from India a colonel, and he’s resolved to give up his house and build anew: “See, here’s the plan of my bungalow, with all convenience for being separate and sulky when I please”.’

‘It does not have the ring of great literature, so I imagine you have another purpose in reading it.’

Fairbrother smiled, grateful that his design was already half explained. ‘Well, I am minded to give up my house at the Cape and build the same, a bungalow, close to your quarters at Hounslow – close enough to stroll by of an evening, yet far enough to be “separate and sulky” when I please. What say you?’

Hervey smiled broadly, and shook his head. ‘I think it a capital idea. Except that you forget that I shall not be taking quarters at Hounslow. How well would your plan of building succeed in Gibraltar – or even, I might say, St Petersburg?’

General Budberg received them with the news that Müffling was now awake and that his temperature was a little lower, but that he was in no condition to see anyone. ‘He begs pardon.’

Hervey was entirely at his ease. He would return to Adrianople, he said, and present himself again when the general was fit to receive him. ‘I was most courteously entertained by Herr Moltke, whose mission appears to be independent of General Müffling’s.’

‘I was not aware of that,’ said Budberg, curious.

Hervey explained what little he was able, though not his speculation.

‘Why do you not stay here until the morning, Colonel? There are ample comforts thanks to the Turk.’

‘I thank you, but General Diebitsch expects me to dine this evening.’

‘As you will; only have a care. My Cossacks had a brush with
bashi-bazouks
before you arrived – though not on the high road. If you can wait for an hour or so, until I have finished my despatches, you may go back with my aide-de-camp and his escort.’

Bashi-bazouks
had not troubled the army much. Irregulars – ‘bandits’ was the word the Russians preferred – were ever a nuisance to a campaign, but the Cossacks had dealt them short shrift early on, and the word had spread. ‘Again, General, I’m obliged to you, but I must return without delay. We’ll ride direct by the high road. We have good horses.’

But when he had taken leave of Budberg, he was astonished to find Cornet Agar waiting outside the headquarters.

‘Sir, letters have arrived for you from England. I brought them at once.’

Hervey looked at him irritably. ‘What in heaven’s name possessed you to do such a thing? You knew I was returning before dark. Who rode with you?’

Agar looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘No one, sir. I’d given Corporal Acton and the others leave to visit the baths. And then the letters came – they were brought with the despatches from Bourgas, and—’

‘Mr Agar, that was foolhardy in the extreme. But I haven’t the time to speak of it now.’

He strode off to where they had stalled the horses, leaving Fairbrother to raise his eyebrows and shake his head in dismay. ‘You’re a damned fool,’ he said. ‘There are
bashi-bazouks
abroad, and they wouldn’t have been interested in your telling them their history.’ He put a hand to Agar’s shoulder consolingly. ‘Come on; we’re going back. Put the letters in your sabretache.’

They took the first mile at a walk, Hervey and Fairbrother speculating on what might be Müffling’s mission to the Porte, and Moltke’s, while Agar rode disconsolately behind. For that piece of intelligence alone – that Müffling and Diebitsch had served together in Paris – it had been worth the ride to Iskender, said Hervey. And why did Müffling come now to see him? Prussia was no ally of Russia’s in these parts: it could hardly be to prescribe the old medicine ‘’
ran wie Blücher
’ – ‘on like Blücher’ (old ‘Marshal Vorwärts’ never calculated much; ‘forward’ was the only way). Perhaps that was how Constantinople would be taken, though – not by prodigious numbers and scientific siege, but by just going forward; the ‘slope on which it was not possible to stand still’.

‘I do believe that if Constantinople falls it will fall thus. Moltke gave away nothing about the Turk, but neither did he say they would hold the walls come what may.’

Fairbrother was inclined to think that the Sultan would call back every man from the marches of the empire to defend the Topkapi.

But in truth Hervey had had enough of Prussians and the walls of Constantinople. He looked at his friend, quizzically. ‘You’re quite determined on building your “bungalow”, aren’t you?’ It was not really a question, rather an observation. And he was just a little ashamed that he had not recognized sufficiently the strengthening wish to build, almost literally, upon their friendship.

‘Depend upon it,
Herr Oberst
.’

But Hervey could not quite see its outcome.

So they trotted for the next mile in silence, a steady pace, in-hand, but enough to leave behind the flies that had begun to oppress the geldings. They passed a shepherd and his lop-eared flock, and an old man sitting beneath a walnut tree who raised his hand but not his head, so that they supposed he was blind. But otherwise the country was as empty as before.

They slowed to a walk in the third mile, though the horses had no need of rest, and then pressed to the trot again after ten minutes of longer rein.

Not long after, they saw the cluster of horsemen – a quarter of a mile to the right, perhaps less, by a clump of olive trees in the middle of rough grazing.

‘Cossacks or
bashi-bazouks
?’ said Hervey, with no great concern.

‘As we have frequently observed, a bird is best identified by what it does,’ replied Fairbrother, no less composed. ‘If they give chase then we’d better work on the assumption that they’re the latter.’

‘If they’re Cossacks they may still give chase. We might look like Turks at this distance.’

They shortened reins and quickened pace.

The horsemen left the cover of the trees.

The three broke into a canter.

In turn the horsemen began to gallop.

Hervey let slip the reins. There was no prospect of being caught in a straight gallop with two furlongs’ lead. ‘Come on. Not Cossacks – no lances.’

It was easy. All three mounts had a turn of speed, and the
bashi-bazouks
had not yet made the road.

The pair of plane trees either side of the road which marked the half-way point lay just ahead. ‘A mile on and we’ll be at the outposts,’ called Hervey, almost enjoying the chase. He let his gelding lengthen stride a fraction more and edged ahead of Fairbrother’s again by a neck.

Neither of them saw the rope in time, or the men at each end, up from the ditches like jacksnipe, bracing the trip against the plane trees. Hervey’s gelding took it at the forearm and somersaulted, throwing him twenty feet, snapping its neck in the fall and kicking wildly in the road. Fairbrother’s caught it a fraction lower, stumbling sideways and throwing him into the ditch. Agar’s mare ran straight into Fairbrother’s and came down on top of her rider.

Hervey fought the blackness overwhelming him. He wanted to call his friend’s name, but couldn’t. He lay stunned, prone. He tried to move his hands and feet –
anything
rather than nothing.

Twenty yards away, in the ditch, Fairbrother did the same. His arm was broken – he knew it – but not his sword arm. He forced himself to move, to get to his knees, to begin scaling the mountainous side of the ditch. He found more breath: ‘Hervey!’

No answer.

He heard hoofs behind them, pounding.

So did Hervey – or felt them. He used all his strength to roll onto his back. Where was Fairbrother – and Agar?

Fairbrother dug his fingers in the earth to haul himself another inch up the bank.