‘By whose hand?’
‘Daly’s; the cautery was still in his hand, and he later admitted he had used it.’
‘Had you earlier spoken with Cornet Daly on the subject?’
‘I had, earlier in the day. The colt was suffering from lampas. Daly wanted me to burn it out. I refused. I disapprove of the practice.’
‘If you had approved, would you have instructed a farrier or would you yourself have done it?’
‘I most certainly would not have instructed a farrier. The procedure would require a very particular skill.’
‘Thank you, Mr Knight. I have no further questions.’
The adjutant turned again to the president, and bowed.
‘Mr Beale-Browne, do you have any questions of this witness?’ asked the president doubtfully.
Beale-Browne was still in an agitated, whispering exchange with Daly.
‘Well, sir?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have but one question. Mr Knight, is the universal opinion of your profession against firing of lampas?’
‘By no means.’
Beale-Browne cleared his throat apologetically again. ‘Might I press you to more?’
‘It was in my time a procedure taught at the London Veterinary College, but progressive opinion is against it.’
‘Then you would not dismiss Mr Daly’s opinion as being without foundation?’
‘No, but I would dismiss his skill as a veterinary practitioner as without foundation, and that is the material point.’
Beale-Browne had seen it coming. He had seen it coming before he rose, but Daly had insisted. He wondered, now, how to make a retreat without looking too bruised. It did not help that he was uncertain of the law, but he had one more line of enquiry. ‘Mr Knight, there is nothing in law, so far as I am aware, that prevents a farrier from attempting such a procedure. He regularly attends to the horse’s teeth, for instance?’
‘That is my understanding.’
Beale-Browne cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Knight, besides the many learnèd books by veterinary surgeons, you will know the work of Mr Francis Clater, in particular Everyman his own Farrier?’
‘Of course. In the main an admirable book.’
‘And in that book, in the part addressing the lampas, it says that the cure is generally performed by burning it out with a hot iron.’
‘Indeed it does. But it goes on to say that it requires care and a man of judgement to perform operations of that kind, and that in general farriers are too apt to take more out than is necessary.’
There was a murmur of appreciation in the ‘public seats’ for the evident depth of John Knight’s professional opinion.
‘But the law nevertheless does not prevent it?’
‘As I have said, Mr Beale-Browne, it is my understanding that the law does not, but that is not an end to it: by regimental standing order, no farrier is allowed to make any surgical intervention without the express approval of the veterinary officer.’
Beale-Browne was crestfallen, and becoming desperate. He fired one last round, even sounding hopeless. ‘And burning out the lampas is a surgical intervention?’
John Knight huffed. ‘If it ain’t medical then it’s surgical, and I’m damned if I can see how anyone could administer medicine with a cautery!’
The president cleared his throat very pointedly. Knight had overstepped the mark, but with provocation. ‘I think we have reached the end of this line of questioning, Mr Beale-Browne?’
Beale-Browne made a determined effort to hide his mortification. ‘Yes, sir.’
But he conceded too soon. The judge martial had a question. ‘Would that standing order be known to every officer?’
John Knight half shrugged his shoulders. ‘I cannot say. My business is the horses and the farriers.’
The judge martial turned to the man most likely to be able to answer.
‘No, Your Honour,’ said the adjutant. ‘There are general standing orders, which every officer and non-commissioned officer is required to be conversant with, and standing orders particular to certain duties or appointments. The order which the veterinary surgeon refers to would be a particular.’
‘Thank you, Mr Barrow,’ said the judge martial, in a manner suggesting that he ought not to have been the one to ask the question. He glanced at the president, and then back to Barrow again. ‘If Mr Beale-Browne has now finished, you may proceed.’
Barrow bowed. ‘Thank you, Mr Knight. Be pleased to dismiss.’
The court orderly brought the veterinary surgeon’s bicorn. Knight gathered up his sword, noisily, bowed rather than replacing the hat and saluting, and then left the court with the same single spur ringing with every other step.
The president raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. ‘And now, Mr Barrow?’
‘Mr President, at this time I would call Cornet Daly to give evidence.’
Hervey heard the urgent conferring again, but it went on longer, and sounded even more insistent.
‘Mr Beale-Browne!’ snapped the president.
Beale-Browne rose, hesitantly. ‘Mr President, sir, I . . . Mr Daly requests that he not be sworn.’
‘What?’ The president’s brow was deeply furrowed.
The judge martial looked up from his ledger. ‘Mr Beale-Browne, I have already explained: it has ever been the practice for evidence to be given upon oath in general courts martial.’
‘Yes, Your Honour, but Mr Daly maintains that it is unbecoming for an officer’s word to be doubted.’
The judge martial sighed, but with apparent sympathy. ‘Mr Beale-Browne, there are many who share that opinion, but the law is what it is, and it is that an officer give evidence upon oath.’
Beale-Browne leaned across the table to confer once more with Daly. Hervey was the only man in the court unable to see Daly’s head shaking furiously.
The president thumped the table with his fist. But it was Barrow who spoke. ‘Mr President, the prosecution is content not to call Cornet Daly, if the defending officer is of like mind.’
Lieutenant Beale-Browne looked like a drowning man who had been thrown a lifeline. ‘I should be content, sir.’
Barrow almost smiled. ‘Very well. Mr President and gentlemen, the prosecution’s case is concluded.’
The president looked bemused. ‘No further witnesses, Mr Barrow? No closing address?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very well. Mr Beale-Browne, you are free to conclude.’
Beale-Browne rose again, wearily. ‘Mr President and gentlemen, er . . . Cornet Daly would wish to state that he believed he had every right and skill to attempt the burning out of the lampas, and that the death of his charger was the unfortunate but not uncommon outcome of any surgical intervention. He would state that he did not abuse Serjeant Treve, rather did he speak generally in the direct language of the horse lines, and that he had no intention of assaulting the serjeant at the time that he was struck by Cornet Hervey.’
The silence that followed was so pronounced that the judge martial looked up, curious, and then at the president. ‘Is that it, Mr Beale-Browne?’
‘I do believe it is, Your Honour.’
The judge martial laid down his pen. ‘Well, upon my word, I never came across anything so contrary. Mr President, I beg an adjournment in order to consult with myself on the matter before us.’
The president looked relieved. ‘Very well. The court stands adjourned. All shall remain within the environs.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LONG SHADOWS
Badajoz, 29 December 1826
It was so cold that a hoar-frost whitened the hangings of Hervey’s bedchamber. He lay still, listening for a sound that might tell him someone was come with news, welcome or otherwise. Since wine with Dr Sanchez the day before, hourly he had expected him to return with either a letter from Elvas telling him that his release was arranged, or else a summons to attend the tribunal. He had slept little, partly on account of the cold, but in larger part because his mind had wandered, back and forward, over a decade and more, from one misjudgement to another, every excess and indiscretion. They oppressed him, and yet none of them, in his imagining, compared with what was to come. How could it be that he had not learned his lesson until now, and that it should come to so low a point? He had learned the easy things well enough – the business of his profession, the drills and such like – but all else, when he contemplated it from the perspective of his present condition, appeared as nothing so much as failure.