Hervey joined them just before moonset.

‘Tea, Colonel.’

Johnson’s hand to his shoulder again. It was enough somehow to wake him always from the deepest sleep, and the tea likewise to fortify his most doubtful spirits.

‘Thank you,’ he said, sitting up and letting the cloak fall from his shoulders.

‘I meant “General”, Colonel.’

‘I know you did.’

Once it had been just ‘sir’ – Mister Hervey. They’d travelled a good many miles since then, and yet it was always the same (or so it seemed): a bed of turf, and soon the saddle, and then …

‘Stay with the bat horses today, Corp’l Johnson. No need to muster.’

‘Colonel?’

‘There’s no purpose.’

Johnson was puzzled. There was never ‘purpose’; yet still he mustered. If Hervey – Cornet, Captain, Colonel – mustered, then so did he. He’d lead his second charger, or be additional coverman, or just be ready to take the reins if he dismounted. They had a bearer and a syce with them; why on earth did the bat horses need him suddenly?

‘But …’

Then he thought better of it. There’d be opportunity enough to get him to change his mind. He’d always been able to about this and that, little things. (If there were going to be a fight, he’d be damned if he were going to miss it.)

Hervey rose, shook his cloak and said he’d shave – the business of a quarter-hour only (he wasn’t dressing for a ball); and in that time Johnson could have Minnie fed, and then saddled as soon as the Somersets were ready to march. The razor was worth four hours’ sleep. Besides, a general ought to look as if he were in possession of time, rather than pressed by it. It would, though, be another meagre breakfast for them, though at least with the visible prospect of fresh rations. The storehouses of Chintalpore would soon be theirs; and when the Thirteenth gave the Chintalees their shock, the commissary waggons would bring plenty of salt beef.

In these latitudes the sun rose without hesitating, and but for the shadow at the forest edge, the stage was now at last revealed. There, to the north and west, a league or so, was the city, with the fortress-palace prominent on the hill. Both looked at peace. The forest was its usual morning dissonance, all manner of birds, monkeys and heaven-knew-what-else waking to the new day and calling out in joy, or else in fear and warning. There’d been few shots during the night – none that Hervey had heard, certainly – and there were none now either. The brigadiers before the two Chintalee positions – Lindesay and Craigie – knew the plan: confuse and unnerve the defenders with silence at first light, and then as soon as the dragoons made their show, press the attack.

The Somersets, having stood-to-arms while it was still dark, now made short work of breakfast and breaking camp, and began mustering in column of company. Hervey knew he was asking much of them. Biscuit was no real good to fight on, or even just to march (Charles Stuart’s men had learned that hard before Culloden, while the admirable Cumberland had fed his men on beef), and he thanked God he’d a man like Colonel Dennie in command. Dennie had led them every inch of the way; and Hervey was certain he’d drive them if necessary when the time came.