The verdict presented Joynson with several problems, the most pressing of which was Barrow's funeral and interment. The chaplain, who had turned a blind eye to the rubrics when Private Sisken had hanged himself aboard ship during the regiment's passage east, found himself in some difficulty on this occasion, for the circumstances were known to the entire city, and episcopal supervision was very much closer at hand. However, when it had become known in the canteens that Barrow could not be buried in the consecrated ground that was the regiment's corner of the cantonment cemetery, a deputation had come to the RSM - NCOs and sweats mainly, but not exclusively, from Barrow's troop - to request in no uncertain terms that the captain be laid to rest 'alongside the other poor souls who've succumbed to this place'. Accordingly, and on the recommendation of the RSM, Joynson had summoned the chaplain, adding materially to his troubles by insisting it be done.
The chaplain was tolerated, respected even, to an unusual degree in the Sixth. It was well remembered that he had stood up to Lord Towcester in the matter of Private Hopwood's flogging, so far as he had been able, which was in truth not very far. And there had been Private Sisken's committal at sea, when all who heard his address had been much moved. Indeed, there had been many occasions since when the chaplain's funerary eloquence had been displayed - altogether too many occasions for so small a regiment. But in Barrow's case, the chaplain's solution was, the officers all agreed, worthy of a Jesuit. An hour before the funeral he conducted a ceremony of deconsecration, limited to the ground that had been prepared to receive the coffin, and had then read over Barrow's mortal remains, in the usual way, 'in the sure and certain hope' and all the other ringing phrases that somehow gave succour to usually godless men who stood in ranks fearful that the next time might be theirs.
There was no carouse afterwards, though. The canteen was a dull place that evening, and few officers were at mess. Hervey himself did not dine, an omission that made him feel uncomfortable, for he had berated poor Green for not having the pluck to return to the mess the night he had parted with the contents of his stomach. No one had so much as suggested it was unfortunate that he had called on Barrow that evening, for there was a supposition that the outcome was preordained. And, indeed, Barrow's act had spared the major and those about him the shame of an investigation. Above all, it had spared the regiment the dread board of officers from outside. Barrow's guilt was presumed by the very fact of his noble action, yet Hervey felt his own hand in the business, and he did not rest easy.
Joynson had asked him to be president of the board of adjustment, which would make an inventory of Barrow's possessions so that those of a personal nature might be sent to his next of kin - when that detail was discovered - and all else sold at regimental auction, as was customary. This Hervey had now done, by himself, and at the expense of dinner in the mess, for it had occupied the entire evening after stables. But that was no matter: it afforded him an alibi.
It had been a thoroughly melancholy job. So much more than he had imagined. Whatever his pleasures on the Chitpore road. Barrow's habits had been sober and moderate, his practice soldierly and prudent. His possessions were few and utilitarian; nothing out of the ordinary, and if he had gained pecuniary advantage in his dealings with Nirmal Sen there was no evidence of its enjoyment here. Barrow's papers were no more elaborate than his other possessions, but there was one letter that indicated to where Joynson might write his condolences - and, indeed, the trouble he would have composing them. The superscription, in a spidery hand, read 'The Almshouses, Yardley', and the signature 'Your ever proud father'.
When he had finished, close to midnight, Hervey bade the bearer secure the bungalow, and left trusting him to the job. What opportunity of thieving could there be, indeed, if he had a list of everything? Anyway, Ranga looked sad, and it could not have been for his own situation, for he had already been offered another. It pleased Hervey to think there was other than a father who had some attachment to Barrow, for although he himself had slowly come to respect the man's capability as a soldier, he had never been able to count him a boon companion.
He walked slowly to his own bungalow. It was a cold night for all that it was not long since the monsoon. The stars were as bright as in the Peninsula - those long, bitter-chill nights when he had learned so much about the heavens. And the air was sweet, perhaps with incense or spices;
he could not tell. A barn owl hooted. It seemed strange to think that Ezra Barrow was no longer on this earth when all else remained the same. But things had changed. Tonight would be the last time he enjoyed the companionship of his bibi here. Tomorrow he would set her up in a little haveli outside the cantonments, like so many others. And it really would not be the same.
Next day, the Sixth busied themselves more than usual. Things had to be brought back to good order, and quickly, and nothing helped so much as activity, especially when it was compelled by an RSM of Mr Lincoln's mettle. There were inspections all morning and drill all afternoon. And at colonel's rounds of evening stables, the major, though it was never his bent, made a very passable attempt at what the regiment knew as jaldi. At any rate, he managed to roust about the more timid.
At midday, the adjutant had conducted the auction of Barrow's effects. Usually, when a widow was known to the officers, or else the family, it was an occasion for generous over-bidding to provide a gratuity that a grateful government could not find itself able to disburse. In Barrow's case there had always been mixed feelings, although in the end there was a grim admiration for his ultimate gesture of honour. The major, it was agreed, excelled himself, opening the auction by telling the assembled bidders to where the money would be sent, declaring that 'a man is more than his worst error' and that Captain Ezra Barrow had served his king for over thirty years and the Sixth for more than fifteen. At the end of the proceedings, the adjutant announced that the sum of £8’7 would be sent to Mr Joshua Barrow of the Almshouses, Yardley, near Birmingham. It was a handsome figure, and, in the curious way of these things, it did something to restore the pride of those assembled, for in the last resort they had not let down their erstwhile comrade; and loyalty was nothing if it was easy. Barrow had certainly paid a heavy price himself: a pennyworth of powder had blown away three thousand pounds, at the very least, for on death the value of his commission reverted to the Crown.
That evening Hervey dined with the Somerviles. He was especially glad to do so, for as well as having the ugly circumstances of the past days to put behind him, he had not seen his friends in more than a week. He arrived a little late, however, having gone by way of the horse lines to reassure himself of the progress of his mare. Within a day of the veterinarian's surgery, the little Marwari had begun to eat - at first warm mashes, and now hard feed. The wounds had remained clean, the inflammation was gone, and so was the fever. In so short a time, Hervey thought it a veritable miracle, and he was extolling David Sledge's skill for a full quarter of an hour after arriving at No. 3, Fort William.
'And what so particularly commends him’ he concluded, now well into his second glass of champagne, 'is his devotion to his own greater understanding. His rooms are piled with treatises and papers.'
Somervile was happy to indulge him, and for practical reasons. At the onset of the unhealthy season, confidence in any practitioner, even veterinary, was reassuring. 'Calcutta is as full of quacks as anywhere - fuller, probably. I shall ask him to dine with us,' he said. 'Would it be entirely proper to ask him to look at my stable?'