He was resolved that the Sixth would raise a tablet of equal elegance for Major Garratt, In Memoriam, ‘In tribute to his worth’, and to the others of the regiment who’d died in the territory of Her Highness the Ranee of Chintal. But for the time being, at least, the service that morning was their tribute, a church parade that for once few dragoons resented, for besides honouring their former comrades it was a promise that they in their turn would not be forgotten.

They’d sung heartily too, and the band had never sounded better – two dozen bandsmen, now, and the finest of instruments, the new bandmaster come from England with the best that money could buy: cornets by Köhler of Covent Garden, clarionets by Triébert of Paris; even an ophicleide – and all the bounty of Major Garratt’s clever dealing in bills of exchange (and, indeed, his ‘fines’ on merchants who’d served the regiment ill). The band alone would be a fitting memorial, as well as a daily rebuke that he, Hervey, had doubted his second in command and then condoned (there was no other word for it) the ‘crime’ by arranging a convenient posting. ‘Prudential judgement’, he’d called it. But doubtless he’d reconcile himself to the condonation (and sooner than he ought).

‘Thank you, Mr Coote. Admirable sermon.’

‘Thank you, Colonel.’

In truth, he’d heard better. To begin with, the text (Samuel), excited too many passions: Then Nahash the Ammonite came up, and encamped against Jabesh Gilead: and all the men of Jabesh said unto Nahash, Make a covenant with us, and we will serve thee … For there could be no ‘covenants’ in a regiment. Officers must lead, and men must follow. That was an end to it.

Coote had made favourable comparison with the regiment’s conduct at Chintalpore, though. They’d dealt benevolently with their captives; in the main, certainly. But it was done for no gain. Perhaps his mind had wandered. Doubtless the chaplain had thought it instructive and rousing; and he had, after all, detained them for really very little time. The lessons were well read, at least. Troop Serjeant-Major Wainwright had as good a voice for the chapel as for the parade. (If Armstrong had been laid low at Chintalpore for any longer than he had, he’d have made Wainwright his man.) And Cornet Kynaston’s carried with the same clarity he must have sung with as a chorister at Westminster.

They were a fine sight too, his dragoons, as they fell in now for the march back to the lines. They had the look of men proud to be of their corps. It was true that on the whole the cavalry could count on a better class of recruit than the infantry, but even so, it was remarkable what riding school and skill-at-arms did for men of scarcely higher station or learning. There’d be English beer and best Madras pasties when they were back in the lines, but no speeches, just a toast: ‘Absent Friends.’ And all ranks would mingle, secure in the principle that in an association where one member was the subordinate of another, the superior would never think of it, and the subordinate would never forget it – assisted, of course, by the all-seeing eye of the serjeant-major.