There’d once been eight children – three by her late husband, Serjeant Ellis, and Armstrong’s by Caithlin, his late wife, but the Reaper had not been kind. The older ones minded the younger, as was the custom, though now at least a little army of servants was also at hand. Edie Armstrong was no Caithlin, who’d had book learning and had run the regimental school, but there was no better seamstress in Madras, and she could manage both men and women. She’d never known material comforts such as those now, and was all too aware they might vanish in an instant.

And she cared fiercely for her husband, too; for, she reckoned, he cared not enough about himself. ‘I’ll want you back, Geordie Armstrong. Don’t you be going for the hero.’

Armstrong laughed. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing for me now, bonnie lass. Serjeant-major? I’m nowt but a clerk.’

She frowned. She knew he was no such. She’d heard how he’d charged at Coorg with the colonel – which they’d no right doing, except there was no choice, so they said – and how he’d sabred two. And it’d be the same again this time no doubt, and although there was no one handier in a fight than he (Serjeant Ellis used to say so, and every NCO), the time would come when a lucky shot or an unguarded cut would …

But there was no point trying to talk him out of being at Colonel Hervey’s side. She might as well try to teach their old pug new tricks.

But she might just get him to think beyond, a little. ‘I don’t want to say it, Geordie, for you’re every inch a man and more, but even I can’t sew as nimbly as once I could.’

Now Armstrong frowned. It was true; he’d been mightily long in the saddle, already a corporal when Hervey had joined. He’d own to forty-five years on this earth – but no more. And no one could prove otherwise. His attestation papers had long been lost – an old dodge – though the paymaster kept careful note of his reckonable service. (He’d be able to take his pension at any time.) These days, however, no one bothered about a few grey hairs, any more than they did about a man trying to enlist before he shaved. As long as he looked the part and was useful.

‘I’ll be right. Depend on it.’

‘They say Colonel Hervey won’t be long before he’s going. They say he’ll be a general and away before a year’s out.’

That was different, and he knew it. They hadn’t spoken of it before, though. Not that he hadn’t wondered what his own position might then be. Who knew who’d then take command? Even if it were someone from the regiment it wouldn’t mean they’d want him as serjeant-major for long. And what then? Collins was set for life in the quartermaster’s chair, and besides, it wasn’t a job for him. Yes, he could do it, he reckoned – he supposed he could, with a decent quartermaster-serjeant – but he knew he’d not be a patch on Collins. RM? He wouldn’t mind, not if it were that or nothing; but ‘babby-minding’, as he called it, wasn’t his idea of soldiery. Besides, Kewley wasn’t going to give up any time soon. What could he do? Now that the Sixth had gentlemen for adjutant, whereas before they’d been commissioned from the ranks, there was no prospect of anything. No, he supposed he’d a couple more years at most, and then it would be the end. He’d tried it once, and been heartily glad when Hervey had brought him back to the colours – and made him serjeant-major, which he’d never for one moment thought he’d be.