Two weeks later Mr Lincoln further added to regimental lore when the major asked if he would like to be wed as a quartermaster rather than as serjeant-major. He had replied, with absolute decorum went the story, that he would prefer to take the biggest fence first.
The wedding day had been postponed a fortnight on account of Barrow's death. A fortnight's mourning in India was a long time by all but the most fastidious standards, for death was so commonplace and sudden that it was neither especially appropriate nor practical to observe the passing of one man, or woman, many days after the committal of their mortal remains. The bereaved or the orphaned went home to England, or else the former began life anew, and as often as not remarried in a short time with someone in their own circumstances. Alternatively a widow might accept a proposal from one of the many all-too-eager bachelor-writers, while a widower might make one to 'a new-arrived angel' from England – a member of what later wags would know as 'the fishing fleet'.
The arrangements for the RSM's wedding were overseen by Mr Lincoln himself. There were to be upwards of four hundred guests – all the officers and non-commissioned officers of the regiment, together with a good number of the latter from the other regiments of the garrison, and a surprising number of civilians. And the commander-in-chief, for such was Lincoln's reputation in Calcutta.
The marriage service would take place in the garrison church, which, with its double galleries, had just enough space for all of the guests and the regimental band. Its decoration was the only arrangement that Lincoln left entirely in others' hands, for the future Mrs Lincoln was a staunch member of the congregation. On the day itself, she and other members of her Dorcas circle came early, before watering parade, with great boughs of greenery and bunches of vivid orchids in the regiment's colours.
Meanwhile, the regimental quartermaster-serjeant and his working parties were labouring in the garrison gymnasium to work a similar, if secular, transformation – to prepare for what the future Mrs Lincoln delicately referred to as the wedding breakfast, but which all in the Sixth called the tamasha. The RSM came at midday to inspect the work, said not a word as he walked the 'assembly room', as it had become, then astonished the quartermaster-serjeant by saying simply, 'Thank you, Harold' – the first time he had ever addressed him by his Christian name (indeed, the quartermaster-serjeant was astonished to discover that Lincoln even knew it).
At four o'clock, the worst of the heat being past, the first arrivals at the church heard the band strike up its programme of music. The RSM confessed to having an untutored ear, but he had nevertheless scrutinized the programme, striking out the overture to The Marriage of Figaro (being uncertain of its propriety) and 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind' (being certain of its ambiguity), and approving more Haydn and Piccini instead.
At twenty past the hour exactly, Mr Lincoln marched up the aisle, eyes front, spurs ringing, as if on parade. He wore review order, shako under his right arm, sword scabbard grasped in his left, leather and metal shining as no one had quite seen either element shine before. Beside him (in truth, half a pace to the rear, for the man could not bring himself to draw level even on such an occasion), was his supporter, Deedes, the senior troop serjeant-major and next RSM. On his left, the same half-pace behind, was his long-serving orderly, who now took from him his shako and gloves and handed him the service sheet. Lincoln made a sharp bow of the head to Sir Edward Paget, the commander-in-chief, and to Joynson sitting in the row behind, and took his place at the end of the front pew. The band then struck up 'Treue Husar'. Herr Hamper had not included it in his submission, for Lincoln would never have approved, but it was a favourite of the Sixth's, and the best part of the congregation believed it exactly apt. The murmur of approval at the end caused the bandmaster to repeat it.
At two minutes to half-past the hour, Herr Hamper and the band embarked on the final 'overture' – Alceste, which seemed to compose the congregation perfectly, as indeed the RSM had intended when he chose the piece 'for its dignity and bearing'. The bandmaster particularly approved of the choice because it could be repeated without an obvious break in case of the customary delay in the arrival of the bride.
The future Mrs Lincoln was, however, a soldier's daughter and a soldier's widow, and she had no intention of being, as she put it, 'late on parade'. At exactly the half-hour, Herr Hamper was startled by the signal to curtail the Handel and launch at once into 'Sweet lass of Richmond Hill', to which the bride would process to the chancel. It had been an express choice, for the future Mrs Lincoln hailed from Putney, where her father had been a waterman before enlisting in the artillery train, but Putney was close enough to Richmond to make the choice of music fitting. And in any case, though few knew it, her mother had kept the cows in Richmond Park – together, indeed, with Beau Brummell's mother, as she was proud to relate. She walked up the aisle on the arm of the light infantry's commanding officer, in a blue dress trimmed with yellow and white, which at once won the approval of all in the bridegroom's camp.
'Dearly beloved,' began the chaplain, managing somehow to overcome the inappropriateness of the salutation, and commanding a respectful silence. 'We are gathered together in the sight of Almighty God…'
And so the old, familiar words began to come, like a warm breeze bringing the scent of happy memories. Hervey let them drift over him, savouring a phrase here and there, and with no regrets.
When it came to the homily, seeing the commander-in-chief sitting attentively not more than a few feet before him, the chaplain's nerve almost failed him. But in glancing at the RSM he was suddenly more afraid of his opinion than the general's, and he managed somehow to fill his lungs with sufficient air. In truth, he need have had no worry, for he had composed what all would agree was a very proper address, by no means too long, at once respectful yet sound in its teaching, combining as it did appropriate adulation for the RSM and all his works, the recognition that in Mrs Lincoln the regiment had gained, in his words (or rather those borrowed from Scripture), 'a pearl of rare price', and last but by no means least God's rightful due in this blessed state of affairs. None of the parties, on earth or in heaven, could have been in the least disappointed. There followed more singing – Toplady served the mood of temporary exile extraordinarily well – and the signing of the register, on only the second page.
And then, as it were, came the command stand at ease (if not quite stand easy) as Mr and Mrs Lincoln began their march down the aisle to the band's lusty rendition of 'Young May moon', the regimental quick march. Here and there a brave Serjeant clapped a hand on Lincoln's shoulder, wishing him well and 'God bless, sir!'
The troop serjeant-majors had already slipped out of the church to form the guard of honour, sabres in salute at the carry, smiles broad and eyes twinkling. Mr Lincoln took it all in – not least the shine on the leather and the buttons, judging with special satisfaction that Armstrong was better turned out even than Hairsine. Lincoln had never shown a moment's emotion in living memory, and he was not about to do so now, but he could never have imagined such a day, his last as RSM, and he would miss not a detail of it.
Bride and groom left for the gymnasium in a caleche which one of the nabobs had put at their disposal, a gesture that said as much for the RSM's personal standing in Calcutta as the regiment's, and which those from outside the Sixth could not fail to note. The carriage was bedecked with ribbons – blue, yellow and white – with two dragoons posted behind, and driven by the rough-rider Serjeant high on the box. It was a turnout fit for Lord Amherst himself, yet none was inclined to think it in the merest degree inflated for Mr Lincoln.
Especially not the private men, who, unknown to the RSM, had lined the road from church to gymnasium in their watering order, having come straight from stables. The cheering could be heard all about the garrison. It broke the rules, of course. Cheering superiors was not approved of. The Duke of Wellington himself had forbidden it – 'for if once you permit them to cheer they may do the opposite when circumstances are not so favourable'. But it was the RSM's last day, and no regulation could adequately apply to that.
In the gymnasium, where the sutler's little army of khitmagars were turned out in their best white, Mr and Mrs Lincoln took post to welcome their guests. On the platform at the other end of the hall, which served usually as a boxing booth, bandsmen were taking their places. The band-serjeant would direct them this time, and the music would be altogether merrier, with the regimental glee club joining them later with glees written for the occasion. The huge punkahs hanging the length of the gymnasium's high ceiling, and strung specially, now began to swing, the punkah-wallahs in the gallery heaving for all they were worth, like ringers first pulling up the bells of a Sunday morning.
The sight which would command greatest admiration, however, was that evidence of the sutler's craft (and the RSM's generosity) which lay on trestles the entire length of one wall. Here was a collation worthy of St James's – sides of beef, mutton, fowls of all kind, fish lying on ice, lentils, rice, pickles and sauces. And on tables down the middle of the hall was the means to quench the thirst of the four hundred: six whole hogsheads of Allsop's pale ale, decanters of Madeira for the officers and their ladies and any others who preferred it, and for those whose taste was neither for beer nor strong wine, punchbowls of lol shrob.
When the speeches came they were brisk and brief, the RSM's especially. Mr Lincoln was ever a man of few words. From the band platform he made his thanks to all, paying handsome respects to his wife and her maids, and called for three cheers for the regiment. Serjeant-Major Deedes spoke next. It was considered the form to make some jesting remarks about the bridegroom, revealing past indiscretions perhaps, or some embarrassing aspect of his life off parade. Both Deedes's research and nerve had failed him, however, and he contented himself – and, he hoped, all who heard -with a harmless story of how once, in the middle of a battle in Spain, Lincoln had ridden up to a British and a French officer locked in furious combat and ordered them to stop at once: 'for it is very unseemly, gentlemen!'
There was great laughter and cheering all about the hall, but in truth, any words delivered with a smile would have served this day.
'Ay, it's a fact I did,' declared Lincoln, permitting himself to be a heckler just for once. 'But I made the French officer give up his sword to me there and then!' There was even greater cheering.
And then Deedes braced himself for the final jest. 'Mrs Lincoln, ma'am. I'm sure I am permitted to say that you are most welcome in the regiment. And doubly so, for tonight you retire with a serjeant-major and tomorrow you awake with an officer beside you instead!' There was now rumbustious, earthy cheering.
'That will touch a raw nerve or two,' said David Sledge to Hervey as they stood together by one of the hogsheads. 'The Broad-minded, you mean?'
Sledge grimaced in mock disapproval. 'I reckon Rose has had a very close shave. A funeral and a wedding to distract attention – I call it very lucky indeed.'
'Well, I for one would not welcome being Paget's quill-driver.'
'Maybe not, Hervey. But then you would not have bedded another man's wife in the first place.'
Hervey blanched. 'David, you take it a little too personally. And there's something in Scripture, is there not, about casting the first stone?'
Sledge was a son of the manse, however, and knew his Scripture rather better than Hervey recalled his. 'That was speaking of punishment, not judgement. Anyway, it's not the same, is it, if the lady's not a lady – not a real officer's wife?' He took a long draw on his pot of ale.
'Oh, David, that's unfair. Joynson has the very devil of a job at present.'
'Ay, well, that's as maybe. But a horse that's once kicked over the traces is best shot from the team.'
Hervey was saved by the commander-in-chief. Just when it seemed the speeches and toasts were done, the general ascended the platform.
There were murmurs of surprise, and then silence.
'You tell 'im, sir!' came a voice from the back of the hall, followed by more laughter, and a certain anxiety on Joynson's part that the hogsheads might be emptying too quickly for comfort.
'Mr and Mrs Lincoln, it is an honour to be here,' began Sir Edward Paget in a voice at once commanding and warm. 'Mrs Lincoln would not know that I first met her husband more than fifteen years ago, in Spain. Indeed, it was on a very dark night and it was at a place called Corunna.'
The proverbial pin could now have been dropped. Corunna was a distant memory to just a very few of the bluecoats, but it was second only to Waterloo in the consciousness of the Sixth.
'I, a general officer, was in command of the reserve during that battle, and I and my staff had become lost. I will say no more, but had it not been for the address of a certain serjeant-major the French would have had me in their bag that night.'
There was much approval about the hall, if muted still. This was news indeed.
'As it was' – Sir Edward broke into a broad smile – 'they had me but two years later, I'm sorry to say, else it might have been me and not my brother with you at Waterloo!'
'Yer wouldn't be standing as steady then, sir!' came the voice of another wit from the back of the hall.
And there was cautious laughter about the room from those who understood the reference to Lord Uxbridge's missing leg (while Paget had lost an arm).
'It sounds as though you're not standing all that steady either!' returned Sir Edward.
There were hoots of laughter now. There was nothing more entertaining than the heckled putting down the heckler.
'But let me not suspend the celebrations any longer. Except to wish the bride and groom the best of good fortune, and to say that I half think I could send the Sixth east and be finished with the Burmans at once!'
There was now loud and sustained cheering from all quarters. Sir Edward played to the gallery, but he did so perfectly.
Eyre Somervile shook his head. 'A most curious animal, the soldier.'
Emma smiled. They stood apart from the regimentals, and she was enjoying this intimacy. 'In what way, my dear?'
'He is happier to be thought of as a number in a line, just so long as the line is his own, and with others who belong to it. You saw. There cannot be more than a few dozen who were at Corunna, and yet they all think of it as their honour, as though they had all been there, indeed.'
Emma nodded. 'A very proper pride, the sort that comes not before a fall.'
'And in men who might otherwise be outside all society.'
'Oh, indeed. They sang well in church, but I have no illusions.'
Her husband took another glass of Madeira. 'And I have observed how they are with their officers, some of whom are as stupid as half those in parliament, yet the little that is good in them is somehow magnified by the connection. And these men' – he nodded to the dozens of chevrons about the place – 'would no doubt be hurling bricks at magistrates were they not in regimentals. Yet here they all are, as if the same family. And those we saw on the road here without chevrons just biding their time until they're allowed a bit further under the blanket. I tell you, it's a system that defies reckoning. I've mocked its little absurdities often enough, but I half believe the Company could go anywhere with men like this.'
Emma sighed. 'I hope, therefore, that the Company will remain in ignorance of its treasure.'
Somervile touched her arm, for him a public gesture of unusual warmth.
'Good afternoon Mr Somervile, sir. Good afternoon, ma'am.' Armstrong's greeting recalled the two of them.
'Good afternoon, Serjeant-Major – and Mrs Armstrong,' replied Somervile, with a look of genuine pleasure.
Emma smiled as wide. 'Oh, please, don't on my account,' she said to Caithlin as she curtsied. Emma's Indian maids might bow gracefully, but they never curtsied, and, in any case, she could never think of Caithlin Armstrong as of inferior status. 'Especially, my dear, not in your condition.'
Caithlin and her husband glanced with customary pride at the swelling beneath her dress.
'I should say in our condition,' added Emma, with the same look of pride.
'Oh, Mrs Somervile,' exclaimed Caithlin, her melodious Cork never stronger. 'How happy I am for you! Is that why Miss Joynson is to be your companion, then, ma'am?'
No fact remained in the possession of but two people in Calcutta for more than a day. 'It is,' said Emma, agreeably. She could not very well add 'ostensibly', although indeed she might. Hervey's suggestion of taking in Frances Joynson for a while had come at a propitious time, though Emma certainly felt in no need of a companion.
Somervile himself was looking rather embarrassed, especially since Armstrong was smiling in a manly, confidential sort of way. There were affairs, indeed, that transcended all barriers. That did not trouble him in the slightest – Somervile was more impatient of the confines of rank than most men – but 'country matters', as he was still wont to call them, he was not at home with.
'What is the news from the east, sir?' asked Armstrong, thinking to save further talk of domestic affairs.
Somervile shook his head. 'Not good, I'm afraid, Serjeant-Major. The business is taking longer than was imagined.' He did not say by whom imagined, nor that there were some who never imagined it otherwise – the commander-in-chief, for one. 'And I fear that our embarrassment there will encourage others to…' (he noticed both wives listening intently) 'to… become rather impudent.'
Armstrong nodded. 'Well, sir, I for one shall be making in the opposite direction tomorrow with Captain Hervey. And pleased of it, too. I've no partiality for fighting with trees everywhere you turn. That Burma is no place for cavalry.'
The band had struck up a lively jig, and the commander-in-chief had rejoined the major. 'A capital display, Joynson; capital. My compliments to you. But I fear I must return to my desk. The despatches from Rangoon this morning were not at all felicitous.'
'But you still do not think the Sixth will be needed, Sir Edward?'
'No, I think not. If Campbell can break himself out of Rangoon then all should be well, even if takes some weeks more – months, even. And break out he's bound to do at some stage. But the country isn't suitable to develop cavalry operations. I've sent him reinforcements, and if need be, for escorts and the like, I'll send one of the Madras light horse.'
Paget began taking his leave, shaking hands with Mr and Mrs Lincoln, and several others besides, his smile in contrast with the earnestness of his manner with Joynson. As they reached the door he turned again to Joynson, and his former look returned. 'Things are by no means settled among the country powers hereabouts, and our difficulties in the east will only encourage them. I want a handy force here in Bengal if trouble ensues. I have to be able to count on King's cavalry. You'll have the Sixth in best condition, Eustace?' 'I'm sure we understand that, General.'
Sir Edward nodded. 'Hervey will soon be at Dehli, I should imagine?'
'The troop left on Tuesday. Hervey goes tomorrow.'
Sir Edward nodded again. 'A good choice, Hervey. Ochterlony will like him.'
Joynson raised an eyebrow. 'And what's equally to the point, General, Hervey will like Ochterlony!'
Sir Edward smiled. 'Oh, yes, indeed. That is equally important!'