A Regimental Affair (6 page)

Collier’s benign expression returned. He looked pleased by the acclamation. ‘I think I may safely wager, sir, that every round may be accounted for in that target. Do you wish to inspect it closely?’

‘No, I do not think there is need for the present,’ replied Hervey, eyeing the weapon keenly. ‘I have read about such guns, Mr Collier – they are hardly new – but the cylinders or barrels were always turned manually, and they were prone to jamming. Yours, very evidently, has some mechanical means of rotation. And a reliable one at that.’

‘Indeed, sir – just so! That is its ingenuity. You may readily suppose of its handiness to mounted men in particular.’

Hervey was ready to acknowledge it, not least in the thought of how it might have served in Serjeant Strange’s hands that day with the French lancers. Strange’s sacrifice still visited him, and all too often. No one had managed to persuade him that his actions that day could not have been other than they had been. Perhaps it was simply that he had galloped away from the lancers, and Strange had stayed. That he had had to gallop away, he could not reasonably doubt. That Strange had had to stay, to delay the lancers, he could not doubt either. But still there was something that gnawed at him. ‘And impressive for its being a
flintlock
,’ he said finally, gathering up his thoughts again as if loose reins.

Collier eyed him curiously, and Hervey wished at once he had said nothing. But was there any reason why this American should have known of the percussion-lock which had saved his life at Waterloo?

‘May I explain that mechanism, sir?’ Collier continued.

Hervey was now all attention.

‘You have noted, of course, sir, the cylinder arm of seven chambers. It is driven to rotate by a coiled spring which is first put into tension by rotating the cylinder anticlockwise – the opposite direction from which it turns in firing.’

Hervey was not so overawed by the earlier spectacle as to be at a loss with such mechanical principles, and he frowned a trifle impatiently.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Collier hastily, ‘I did not wish to impute—’

‘No matter,’ said Hervey. ‘It has been a long day. Please go on.’

‘The very essence of this action – as you will appreciate, sir – is to have absolute alignment of chamber and barrel-breech after each rotation. It is this which has defeated all gunmakers until now.’

Hervey nodded again. There were a number of other things too, but he was content now to acknowledge that the alignment was the most crucial.

‘A cone – shall we call it a “male” – is formed at the breech and “mated”, as it were, successively with a “female” countersink cut in the mouth of each chamber, locking the chamber and barrel into alignment.’

‘But how is the chamber held fast against the barrel-breech, since you have just shown me that you pull back the cylinder in order to rotate into tension?’

Collier smiled. ‘Yes, yes indeed, sir! A rare grasp of mechanical detail if I may say so.’ He pulled back the cylinder again. ‘Two means there are. First a helical spring – not the same as for the rotation, mind – and second is this’ – he indicated a small sliding bolt – ‘which is sent forward by the fall of the cock to butt against the rear of the cylinder. It locks it quite sound, and acts, too, as a safety device, since it prevents the cock from falling fully unless the barrel and cylinder are correctly engaged.’

‘That is, I declare, ingenious,’ nodded Hervey, trying it for himself. ‘And the rotation: how does the cocking advance the cylinder?’

‘See this hook, sir, linked to the hammer?’ said Collier, handing the arm to him. ‘It is engaged with a skirt on the rear of the cylinder – see? When the cock is drawn back the hook pulls back the cylinder from the breech and the spring does its work. As soon as the next chamber comes into line the hook finds a notch in the skirt and is disengaged – and the helical spring forces the cylinder forward again.’

Hervey smiled. It was very ingenious indeed, so ingenious that he almost forgot about the actual initiation of the charges. ‘Now that much I am assured of, Mr Collier. But how are the chambers fired?’

‘Let me demonstrate, sir,’ said the American, taking back the arm. ‘It is, if I may say so myself, a particularly tidy method. Each time the pan-cover is shut down for discharge, this ratchet and pawl here puts successive deposits of priming powder into the flash pan by turning a feed plug – you can’t quite see it with the arm assembled, sir – at the bottom of the steel.’

Hervey shook his head and smiled in admiration again. ‘May I fire it myself?’

‘Why of course, Captain Hervey. Let my assistant load the chambers first and fill the priming magazine, and then you shall put the spring under tension and fire at will.’

Collier’s assistant handed Hervey the loaded arm and asked if he wished the roundel to be replaced. Hervey replied that this should not be necessary since they were sure that there were seven hits there already.

‘Shall I fit the butt to it, sir, so that you may fire it as carbine?’ asked Collier, holding up the extension.

‘No thank you. I should like to feel its balance as a pistol, for the barrel is uncommonly long. Do I presume it is rifled?’

‘Indeed it is. With nine lands. That is what gives it its accuracy. I wager I could have placed five marks on that roundel at twice the distance.’

Hervey was surprised by the ease with which he could hold the aim, for the barrel was in excess of two feet. He squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped back in his hand more than would the service pistol, but it was not excessive. He cocked again.

‘Close the pan, sir,’ prompted Collier.

Hervey fired again. There was not as much smoke as he
expected, and he saw at once that the second round had struck the target too, on the outer ring again. He adjusted his aim and repeated the action – and then a fourth and a fifth time. It was extraordinarily handy. He could scarce believe it. The sixth and seventh rounds he fired with equal address. How perfect the weapon would be were it percussion-fired, as his own special carbine was. What odds then might a dragoon accept!

‘You are much impressed with it, yes, Captain Hervey?’ asked Collier.

‘Yes, yes indeed. But I must admit to one doubt, however, and that is the hardiness of the mechanism as a whole. For campaign service, I mean. I have doubts that it would stand up to a dragoon’s rough handling. And might it not be susceptible to dirt causing the rotation to jam?’

Collier’s response was eager. ‘When clean, and with a little oil on the working parts, there is no reason for it to do so, though I concur that to allow a great ingress of dirt would be to risk such an outcome. I have fired forty-two rounds in rapid succession, pausing only to reload the cylinder, without interruption.’

Hervey was to some extent reassured, but there was no doubting the danger in having a weapon which might fail in the exigencies of campaign service. Damp powder was a bad enough risk already with the service flintlocks.

‘But you must not accept my word alone for it, sir. I would be most honoured if you would take the arm for a month’s trial, and at the end of that period I would beg the favour of your recommending it – if you were to feel inclined, as I’m sure you shall – to the Duke of Wellington.’

So here, at last, was Collier’s purpose revealed. But no matter, thought Hervey. If the weapon were to prove as capable as it now seemed then he would have every wish to recommend it. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I should be most happy indeed. Though I must tell you that I am no longer on the duke’s staff; neither might my opinion be of any moment with him.’

‘I am content with that, sir. I would send it myself to the Ordnance, but I believe it would be the better for having an advocate.’

Hervey was enjoying his celebrity. ‘Very well, Mr Collier. We shall see how it fares on Salisbury Plain.’

Next day Hervey woke early. Though the curtains were full-closed he could see it was not yet light, although there was already a noise of carting in the street. He thought to light a candle to see the time, but with a sick feeling he recalled that he no longer had a watch. He had ordered tea and shaving water to be brought at a quarter to seven, and a bath at a quarter past, so there seemed no great need for him to do anything but enjoy the remaining repose – such as might be with the noise of the carting traffic and the chorus of birdsong growing by the minute, dominated as the latter was by the far from melodious starlings.

He lay musing at how queer it was that so unbecoming a bird should have so pretty an egg. What had happened to his collection of them, he wondered? He had amassed so many in Horningsham before going to Shrewsbury. There were only two more days to the Ides, now. Such a time it would be in Wiltshire for natural history. The woodpigeons would have begun their soaring and their clapping and diving. There would be redwings and fieldfares getting ready to go north again after winter. And very soon – perhaps already – they would be replaced by sand martins come from Africa. These would be feeding high still, above the Wylye and the lake at Longleat, before returning to the crags to dig out last year’s nest holes. Might he get home in time to see the first swallows? The beginning of April was their habitual season. How dull might seem the village plumage after India, though.

Those garden birds would even now be courting a mate – and threatening their rivals – for tomorrow was a full month after St Valentine’s day. It was the better part of two years since his own affiancing, and he had not been able to make even one Valentine gift to Henrietta. Since his arriving in Paris, on the second of the month, where the duke had given him leave to proceed home, he had sent three expresses to Horningsham (or rather one to Horningsham and three to Longleat), the most recent only this last evening. But he had had none by return. There again, he had perforce changed his quarters so frequently and without notice that none could have found him. And in this latest express he had been able to say only that he fervently hoped to be in Wiltshire soon, and depending only on the Earl of Sussex’s pleasure (not that he truly expected a significant delay). Beyond that, what could he do
but trust in Henrietta’s patience and say his prayers? And think of her, over and over again. Think of when they had enjoyed the woods and meadows of Longleat, first in childish innocence and then in faltering courtship. She had teased him when a child and tormented him when full-grown. Horningsham was Henrietta as much as it was his family.

Meanwhile the morning was fast advancing. His bath had not been as warm as he had hoped, and the fire – for which he had tipped one of the club’s servants handsomely to have banked up – was more smoke than flame, and certainly very little heat. Perhaps it was not really so chill, but his blood was still accustomed to the warmth of Madras, and a fresh March morning in London was not to be underestimated. He had shivered more than once. But a breakfast of kidneys and eggs and toasted bread (and coffee exemplary hot) had set him to rights, and he left for Albany feeling comfortable enough without a surtout.

The Earl of Sussex received him promptly. ‘My dear Captain Hervey, I am very glad we are met at last,’ he said, holding out his hand and, despite his years and a leg which a musket ball at the Helder had rendered half useless, closing briskly with him. ‘Sit you down, sir; sit you down!’

A footman placed a chair adjacent to the earl’s, and Hervey did as he was bid.

‘I generally have sherbet at this time. My digestion is not what it was. But yours, I should imagine, is plenty robustious. Would you care for Madeira?’

Hervey most certainly did. It was a taste to which he had become happily accustomed in Captain Peto’s company to and from the Indies.

‘I am very glad you are come this morning. You will not have heard of Huntingdon’s son. Killed in the streets yesterday with the regiment, trying to quell a riot. It has saddened me more than I can say.’

‘I did know, Colonel. Indeed, I saw the riot.’ He thought it of no purpose to add that he had gone to Guy’s Hospital that evening, too.

‘Shall you stay to luncheon and tell me of it?’ said the earl, with evident sadness. ‘Young Wymondham was my godson.’

Hervey accepted readily. It was a handsome invitation, even with so sorrowful a purpose.

‘Let us postpone talk of it until then, and stay instead with pleasanter thoughts,’ the earl suggested. ‘We have not met before, and I much regret it. But it is not, perhaps, so curious – these last tumultuous years and all. I do, though, make it a rule to receive my officers on gazetting. In fact
before
they are gazetted, preferably.’