XXIII

The General’s Art

Next morning

Dennie’s despatch had come just after midnight. And great relief it was. Hervey had made two plans for the morning: if Dennie’s answer were ‘nay’, he’d recall them and bring the Madras Native Infantry from the northern road, together with most of the artillery, and begin the butcher-business of overcoming the defences at the river. ‘Mere pounding’, he’d said to himself disconsolately. If Dennie’s answer were ‘yea’, however, he’d at once send the Nizam’s contingent to reinforce him, then brigade the 13th and the 6th Light Dragoons under Colonel Maclean (but keeping Worsley’s troop under his own command) and have them follow as soon as the infantry brigadiers were content to have them go. The dragoons would shock the Chintalees at the river and the stockade when they assailed them from the rear. Indeed, likely as not they’d scarce need to fire a shot.

His gallopers performed prodigiously in those early hours. He knew they would – picked men – but even so it was a relief to find Gordon’s Nizams on the march so soon after sunrise. ‘Into the hornets’ nest’, perhaps, real and figurative. The Prussian hornet was bad enough: seven stings to kill a horse, as they used to say, and vier für ein Mann, und zwei für ein Kind – but the Indian, real or figurative, was the very devil. Well, so be it. The jungle took no sides, though he meant to make it an ally.

As soon as it was light he wrote a despatch for Somervile, supposing his old friend would soon be back at Sthambadree, but promising no rapid success. Somervile’s humour was not always that of the soldier, even though – like the old Prince Regent – he fancied himself the leader of men on occasions. Certainly, Hervey had no wish now to give him any pretext to join them. In a few days more – a week at most, he trusted – he’d be able to send word that the Governor of Madras was welcome in the capital of Her Highness the Ranee, but it wouldn’t do to misjudge the matter now.

Judging anything, though, in this green fog of war would test a man. The art of the general, said the Prussian, consisted ‘entirely and completely’ in his Überblick – a tricky word, ‘overview’ literally, ‘grasp of matters’ – without which he was overpowered by events rather than dominating them. But here he fought blind, reliant wholly on what was brought to him by others. Indeed, he might as well sit in front of a chessboard as ride about the forest, for here there was no profit in the cavalryman’s coup d’oeil. And yet he must judge what was brought him; and how might he do that without some sense at least of whence it came? He’d therefore spent the rest of the day before with the Dorsetshires at the river, and then gone to see the Westmorelands as they pressed the stockades. Both seemed to have mastered the game of ‘demonstration’, harassing the defenders without losing men (or rather, too many men), but he didn’t suppose the Chintalees could be deceived for long, and he’d therefore warned the brigadiers to be ready to stand on the defensive in case of counter-attack. Afterwards he chided himself a little, but a general must be forgiven for occasionally making sure his subordinates knew their job, even if he himself were more acquainted with sabre and spur than boot and bayonet. He mustn’t meddle, though: brigadiers fight the enemy; the general fights the battle.