‘Quite,’ said Worsley. ‘An easy enough job, too.’

The sound was now of considerable cannonry, and growing.

‘Well, Lindesay and Craigie know their business, and Maclean.’

Johnson brought coffee. Hervey took his knowing that in doing so he turned a blind eye to the disobedience. (Johnson always managed to interpret to advantage all but a direct order.)

A few minutes later, Parry pointed them to rear. ‘The Nizams approach, General.’

Hervey turned. They were an imposing sight at the best of times: so many horsemen. His design for battle was now complete: he had his reserve at hand, and the way was clear. A risk, though, using them.

‘They come most carefully upon their hour, too. I believe we’re now as well set as may be.’

Parry beckoned the orderlies to take the word to Dennie and Maclean.

They cut about like lurchers on a hare.

In ten minutes the Somersets struck off to the bugle in column of company: Advance! – repeated semi-quavers, Gs and Cs.

The Sixth, with two guns of the flying troop – flank guards and screening – began their advance with a sabre signal.

Worsley finished his second cup of coffee. ‘Orders, General?’

‘Where and when will your squadron rally if they don’t make touch with the Pindarees?’

‘On the Somersets when they reach the palace.’

‘Very well; till then, ride with me.’

Hervey wished he’d a decent artist with him: dragoons, flying guns, red-coated infantry, Nizam’s horse – a field day, even, was nothing to the eye to compare with this; and all making their steady way across the green plain towards the castle on the hill, warmed but not oppressed by the steadily rising sun, with no noise but that of distant battle in the forest, the creaking of leather, jingling of bits and snorting of horses. This was the best of the soldier’s art, before it became the work of the butcher. The eggs weren’t yet in the pudding, but there was much to savour: A general who declines to attack the enemy in a defensive position, advancing instead by another line in pursuit of his object, will (if he can pass-by with impunity) immediately force the enemy to abandon the position.

Fortunes could turn in a moment, though. A plan rarely unfolded as desired. Yet a general must impart confidence to his command: ‘I charm thy life / From the weapons of strife, / From stone and from wood, / From fire and from flood, / From the serpent’s tooth, / And the beast of blood.’

‘General?’

‘Mr Southey, gentlemen: The Curse of Kehama. It’s been my companion these past months.’

‘An Indian story?’ asked Parry.

‘Indeed so, though whether it’s a true representation of the Hindoo’s religion I can’t say, but it compels.’

‘Our “beast of blood”, I take it, is the dewan?’

Hervey nodded. ‘Probably, yes. The other elements are plain enough.’

‘Or else the “Tigress”?’

He certainly trusted not. He’d thrown in all with the Ranee. It wouldn’t be the first time an Englishman had been tricked by a prince here in India, but for him it would be the end. ‘An unhappy prospect.’