Man Of War

‘My lord, I know a way to get them across – a few at least. By towing. It was a means we used in Jamaica when the bridges were swept away. A rope is tied to a tree, or something equally firm, on the far side, and the end, in a loop, goes round the horse’s neck. The current takes it to midstream and then the horse is able to swim the rest of the way, like a pendulum.’

Lord Holderness looked obliged, though without the least condescension pointed out the obvious flaw in the method. ‘But how, sir, is the rope to be got across the river in the first place?’

‘If there are no boats to be had, my lord, then there is no alternative but to swim.’

Lord Holderness now looked incredulous. ‘But if we do not believe the horses are able to swim . . .’

‘I should gladly volunteer, my lord.’

Lord Holderness looked pained. Before him was evidently a solution, but it turned on the willingness, and capability, of a man he scarcely knew. ‘Major Hervey?’

Hervey hesitated. ‘I do believe it our best chance, Colonel. If we begin as soon as it is dark – otherwise we risk discovery – there will be time to try another tactic if it fails.’

The commanding officer folded his arms as he turned over the proposition in his mind. The advantages were manifest, the danger equally so. Could he take such a risk for the sake of the regiment’s – and his – reputation? Could he not take it? At length he put his hands on his hips, and arched his back. ‘I note you say “we risk discovery”, Major Hervey, from which I infer you are content to join us in the enterprise?’

Hervey smiled. ‘An honour, Colonel.’

‘Very well,’ said Lord Holderness, decided. ‘I am obliged to you both, gentlemen. But I shall be the first to cross when Fairbrother has the rope secured.’

It was no coincidence that the moon was full. The general officer commanding the London District had appointed the time for the manoeuvres so that the inspecting officers might see a good deal of any movement by night. That there was no cloud this evening was another matter: luck, as ever, was a factor in war, even mock war.

Hervey had for many years counted himself a lucky officer: ill fortune may have placed him in more than his share of dire circumstances, but better fortune had always been his timely aid, whether in the form of stratagem or device . . . or a saviour (he shivered at the sudden recollection that he must count on Kat – again – in that role).

Now, however, in the lucky light of the moon, he surveyed the obstacle before them, the bend of the Thames north-east of Frogmore, and wondered how much longer he would be favoured, for although fortune might indeed favour the bold, there was a mere hair’s breadth between boldness and recklessness (and that difference only determined by fortune). How did a man judge his course bold or reckless therefore? And it was, to no little degree, his, Hervey’s, course; he had proposed it – urged it – and his friend had suggested the means by which it might be accomplished. Lord Holderness staked his own standing on the plan, it was true, but Hervey now found himself as keenly committed to the manoeuvres as he would have been were he back on the regiment’s strength.

‘Truly, I cannot imagine how a man might swim across,’ he said, shaking his head. He considered himself to be a strong swimmer by the usual measure, but he did not see how he could challenge such a spate.

‘I assure you it is possible,’ replied Fairbrother, dismounting and beginning to divest himself of his uniform. ‘With a little help.’

Serjeant-Major Collins dismounted alongside him, and took a coiled rope from his saddle. Collins had for many years been one of Hervey’s trusted men – from his time in Spain as a young corporal – and now as F Troop serjeant-major he had been assigned by Captain Christopher Worsley, with a dozen men, for the crossing of the Thames.

‘Your excellent serjeant-major here understands perfectly what is to be done,’ said Fairbrother.

Hervey did not doubt it. Collins and Fairbrother had been in conclave, with the farrier-major, half the afternoon.

The farrier-major made his way forward. ‘Here, Colly,’ he announced grimly but with a touch of pride, handing Collins the grappling hook that he had spent the past two hours fashioning.

Hervey frowned doubtfully. The best athlete at Shrewsbury School – Henry Locke, later officer of marines, who had been his saviour at the affair of the Chintal forts – had been able to throw a cricket ball clean across the river, but the Severn at Shrewsbury was not the Thames here; and a grappling iron and rope was certainly not a cricket ball.

Serjeant-Major Collins now took his carbine from the leather sleeve on the saddle. Hervey watched with increasing dismay: he had risked his own reputation, the colonel’s, and certainly that of his regiment, on a stratagem that looked as if it might tumble at the first fence. ‘What the deuce will you do with that?’