Lieutenant Mordaunt added his voice: ‘I must beg pardon also, Colonel. I failed to draw a proper distinction.’
There was nothing more disarming than a man who freely admitted his error, and Hervey now had to acknowledge it for the sake of Mordaunt’s own standing – not least because the man who should have been answering for his troop was in arrest in Dublin.
‘Mr Malet, please be good enough to make the practice clear once more.’
‘Colonel,’ replied Malet simply, already having shot Mordaunt a look that required him to attend on orderly room when the inspection was over (Mr Rennie had summoned the troop serjeant-major in like manner).
Hervey moved several stalls on, without a word, ignoring the remaining NCOs and their exemplary mounts, till he caught the eye of a young-looking dragoon. ‘What is this man’s name, Mr Mordaunt?’
‘Parr, Colonel,’ replied the lieutenant, as the dragoon came to attention.
Hervey nodded, pleased (relieved) that Mordaunt at least knew his troop. ‘How long have you been enlisted, Parr?’
‘One year and one half, sir.’
‘One year and one half, Colonel!’ barked the troop serjeant-major, dismayed that in spite of a whole hour’s extra drill and instruction there was still a dragoon who had failed to heed, and already feeling the pain of the interview with Rennie that was to follow.
‘Sir,’ replied the dragoon, shaking.
‘Colonel!’ barked the serjeant-major even louder, and approaching despair (‘Sir’ was ordinarily correct in addressing the serjeant-major, but the commanding officer was on parade, and so any voice was deemed to be his, no matter who the speaker).
‘Colonel,’ stammered the dragoon.
Hervey began to wonder if this were not a performance for his own benefit (such things were not unknown), but Parr’s ashen face looked real enough, and he felt a sudden urge to say ‘It matters not’ – though he very determinedly resisted it.
‘When were you assigned this horse?’
The dragoon hesitated, and then said, ‘When I passed riding school, Colonel. Last May, Colonel.’
Hervey nodded. ‘When was he shod?’
‘On Monday, Colonel.’
Hervey turned to the lieutenant. ‘Mr Mordaunt, have the hoofs cleaned so that I might examine them.’
Private Parr’s stall was at once all industry.
Hervey, meanwhile, turned about to speak to the dragoon opposite. ‘What is your name?’
‘Twentyman, Colonel.’
‘How long have you been enlisted, Twentyman?’
‘Five years, Colonel.’
‘You were in India, then?’
‘No, Colonel; I joined from Maidstone when the regiment returned. Colonel.’
‘When was your horse shod?’
‘Three weeks ago, Colonel.’
The gelding stood obligingly without trying to turn its head as Hervey stepped into the stall and ran his fingers along its back. There was no sign of saddle galls. He lifted the tail; there was no nick. ‘How old is he?’
‘Five, Colonel.’
Twentyman was probably the first to be assigned the horse since it was brought in as a rough; and he kept it well – inasmuch as he could tell without looking at the feet.
He returned to Private Parr’s horse, its hoofs now divested of oil and tar, and picked up the near- and then the off-fore, looking at each for a matter of seconds only – it took no longer to see the work of the rasp – before rounding on the veterinarian. ‘Attend to this, if you please, Mr Gaskoin,’ he said, with as much asperity as he could manage without raising his voice.
The farrier-major and the troop farrier braced for what they knew was to follow.
Hervey turned to Mordaunt. ‘There is no purpose in my continuing the inspection with every foot caked in grease and the first that is not bearing the evidence of poor shoeing. I had thought never to find such a thing in D Troop – or in any troop, for that matter. Be so good as to have them ready for reinspection tomorrow morning.’
And with that he turned on his heel and stalked out of the stables – behind him a crescendo of recrimination.
It did not serve for the commanding officer to be discomposed on any matter. A cloud of unease settled over a regiment, which somehow dimmed the light in the otherwise brightest of corners – places free of any taint or blemish, paragons of good order, perfect discipline and attentiveness to the King’s Regulations. All alike awaited the next visitation of displeasure.
And – as Heaven knew – it was by no wish of Hervey’s that the cloud of displeased colonelcy sat over the cavalry barracks. His intention had been to leave the stables, unbeknown to any, in possession of some clear indication as to what he must do in regard to the question of unwarranted casting (if, indeed, there were unwarranted casting). But all he had succeeded in doing was discovering that D Troop’s farriery was deficient (he discounted the possibility that he had exposed but a single, exceptional, example), and, perhaps, that efforts had been made to conceal the fact by ordering hoofs to be oiled.
Yet that itself was no small matter; and so began his mental commination. Evidently Mordaunt was not au fait with all that occurred in his stables. Worse, in a way, neither was the troop serjeant-major – or, worse still, he connived at its concealment. Evidently, too, the farrier-major had no command of his farriers, and the veterinarian no notion what evils they concealed by their oleaginous tricks. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he sought to conceal his own incapability with the spurious justification of science – ‘In this fierce weather … best to protect the foot with an application of oil to the enamel, and of Stockholum tar to the horn’. Who knew what thick layers of filth were rotting the horn of every foot in the Sixth? And what about the RM? Did he not observe anything amiss? Nor, for that matter, the adjutant …
He sat at his desk, hands clasped, brooding on the parlous state of the regiment he had aspired to command these twenty years.
Malet came in with coffee, unbidden. ‘Colonel?’
‘Take a seat,’ said Hervey, peacefully.
He did so, and for once without his order book.
‘Not a good beginning,’ continued Hervey, after taking a sip from the regimental Spode.
‘No, indeed.’
‘Was it not Lord Hol’ness’s practice to inspect a troop periodically?’
‘It was, and I never knew it to be the case that feet were oiled. Though I have to say that it has been many months since there was such an inspection, with all the distraction of the King’s visit, and Lord Hol’ness’s absence on leave, and then his new appointment.’
‘And there being no major.’
‘Quite.’
‘You are thinking that Gaskoin’s advice to oil and tar in this weather might be justified, and that the dumped foot might be but an aberration?’
Malet looked surprised. ‘Not at all, Colonel. But I’d wager that an inspection of Worsley’s troop, or Vanneck’s, or any other for that matter, would not have gone thus.’
Hervey looked at him intently. ‘But D Troop otherwise.’
‘Mordaunt ought to’ve known better, even though he’s not long been lieutenant, and an extract. But he had two months’ furlough before Christmas to attend to the affairs of his late father, and that while Tyrwhitt was absent. If any troop was in want of its officers it was his. In truth, though, I’m disheartened by Prickett’s dereliction.’
‘We may take consolation in knowing that Mr Rennie is at this very moment making him aware of the extent of it. Think if it had been Lincoln!’
But in saying that, Hervey raised in his mind once again the question he had just been pondering: would it have happened if Lincoln had still been the sar’nt-major? Yet the question was ultimately to no end, for Rennie was soon to depart – though it did once more raise the question he was almost hourly mindful of: who was to replace him?
Malet spoke softly. ‘Gaskoin, I believe, has the confidence of the captains, though not to the same degree as
his predecessor.’
Hervey nodded. ‘You think I was too hard on him?’
‘No, but it wouldn’t serve, I think, to be so now.’
Hervey said nothing for the moment, looking towards the window instead; and then, ‘In this fierce weather …’ (it was snowing again).
Malet shook his head. ‘Weather or no, he can’t have supposed it to be right … But we shall see tomorrow.’
‘Indeed. A little more coffee, if you will …’
Malet obliged, and refilled his own cup. ‘Ten o’clock again?’
Hervey inclined his head. ‘What otherwise was to be the routine?’
‘Sar’nt-major’s parade. Mr Rennie will have to begin it later.’
‘It is hard on the others just because D Troop is in default, but it can’t be helped. Tell Mr Rennie he has a free hand. And Sunday?’
‘No parades, Colonel.’
‘No chaplain, no parades. In truth I’m glad of it, though it cannot persist. Men like to see the parson who’ll read the burial service over them, if nothing else. When did you say the new one comes?’
‘June.’
‘Well, doubtless there’s an impecunious curate hereabout who’ll take a service for a shilling or two meanwhile.’
‘I’ll attend to it.’
‘Make haste slowly, though,’ said Hervey, with the first suggestion of a smile that morning.
Malet rose, his mission complete. ‘Will you be at office this afternoon, Colonel?’
Hervey at last closed his mind to the business of D Troop’s stables. ‘No, I must go to London. Will you have the chaise come in an hour?’
The snow was not troublesome. Indeed, it was welcome, for the regimental chariot bowled along at a brisk trot without the jarring when wheels ran on bare-metalled turnpike. And so silently: Hervey and Fairbrother could talk freely without effort (had the driver held the reins from the box instead of postilion they would even have had to lower their voices). By the time they were nearing the Hammersmith bar, Hervey was all but restored in spirits. Malet had applied a balm – how well he had dealt with him after stables – but Fairbrother administered proper medicine: a true draught of equability.
And so now he could attend to the business that brought him from Hounslow, and without agitation (nor scrupling that he did so, for in the aftermath of the ‘untoward affair of D Troop stables’ his absence from barracks was a distinct advantage). Or rather, he could attend to it with no more agitation than the business itself occasioned, for its execution would be faintly distasteful and its results likely even more so.
Before the clocks in Whitehall had struck two, the chariot was pulling up at the United Service Club. ‘I trust you’ll not find your charge of two nights past a corpse,’ said Hervey as he got down.
Fairbrother grimaced. ‘I must depend on it, or else the coroner’s court’ll put me under oath.’
‘No doubt I’ll hear a thing or two inside. Let us meet at seven for dinner. Let Corporal Wakefield be away sharp from the hospital to rest the horses across the way,’ said Hervey, nodding towards the Horse Guards, and then to Wakefield to drive on.
Fairbrother acknowledged and bid him adieu.
Inside the United Service he learned the latest soon enough. ‘Good afternoon, Colonel Hervey,’ said the porter. ‘Dreadful news. Gen’ral Gifford was assaulted in the Strand two nights ago and they says he might not live.’
Hervey took off his hat and affected an unconnected air. ‘Dreadful indeed, Robert. What is known of his assailants?’
‘Oh, a murderous gang, new-come – Albanians, Moldavians, Bulgarians by all accounts.’
‘Indeed? Whence exactly – how – are they new-come?’
The porter looked puzzled. ‘I know not, sir. They’s gypsies, aren’t they?’
Hervey nodded. ‘Of course. Do you know why it was they tried to murder the general?’
The porter lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, looking about, ‘they says as ’e was on ’is way to a secret rendezvous connected with the war, and they cut ’im out.’
‘The war?’
‘Yes, sir – the war that yourself has lately come back from.’
‘Upon my word!’
‘And when we in the servants’ ’all ’eard, we reckoned as you must know something of it yourself, sir.’
‘Well, Robert,’ he began, trying to measure his words so as not to appear dismissive, while at the same time scotching the notion, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’
But the porter was a man long schooled in confidentiality – or rather in the judicious sharing of confidences. He nodded knowingly. ‘Of course, sir.’
Hervey gave his hat and travelling coat to the under-porter and went at once to the library. It was deserted, but a fire burned cheerily, for which he was grateful: reading a year’s worth of the London Gazette would be an affair of several hours. They were, at least, admirably ordered by date, and easily to hand, so that he was able to make a brisk beginning – after first ringing the bell and ordering coffee.
He had read three Gazettes by the time the waiter brought it.
‘Have you heard the news of Gen’ral Gifford, sir?’
As a rule the library was a place of silence, but these were pressing times, and Hervey was inclined to be tolerant despite the task before him.
‘I did, James. Dreadful business.’
‘And ’e was dining ’ere only the night afore.’
‘Was he, indeed.’
The reply was meant as an expression of acknowledgement, but the waiter took it as a genuine enquiry.
‘Oh, yes, sir. ’E dined with Gen’ral Greville.’
‘General Greville?’
‘Yes, sir – the one who’s guv’nor in the Channel.’
Hervey composed himself. ‘That is very … ingenious of you – to know who is General Greville.’
The waiter did his best to affect indifference, while patently the word ‘ingenious’ gave him much satisfaction. ‘Gen’ral Greville gave a big dinner when he joined the club last year, sir. We all remember it because Mr Peel came.’
This was disquieting news – General Greville a member.
‘Indeed? When was this?’
‘The beginning of December, sir. And the other night ’e gave a party before ’e left for the Channel again, the one that Gen’ral Gifford came to. Do you know Gen’ral Greville, sir?’
‘I am not acquainted with him … But he’s returned to the Channel Islands, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re sure of it?’
‘Yes, sir. We ’ad to load all ’is boxes into ’is carriage for Portsmouth.’
Hervey brightened; at a stroke he had discovered what he would otherwise have laboured at with the Gazettes – and the intelligence was much to his liking. ‘Thank you, James,’ he said, placing more coin on the tray than was customary.
And then after his coffee, with three – probably even four – hours now unexpectedly in hand, he began contemplating his next assignment. It had been his intention to go to the regimental agents, Messrs Greenwood, Cox and Hammersly in nearby Craig’s Court, and there arrange for a notary’s clerk to be summoned, who would undertake, with the greatest discretion, a search of the notices in The Times pertaining to Kat’s situation. However, discretion was a precarious commodity, he knew full well, and he had been troubled about the plan. Why should the commanding officer of His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons wish to know if Lady Katherine Greville, the wife of Lieutenant-General Sir Peregrine Greville, had given birth? What if the clerk, for all the profession’s legendary confidentiality, were to ask that question of another? And what if he in turn were to ask it of yet another – and so on until it reached the ears of a clerk in the office of Sir Peregrine’s agents, or even of his attorney? What then might two and two make? He cursed himself for having gone to the Levant without first discovering …
But now was opportunity to dispense with the perils of an inte
rmediary and go to the offices of that very newspaper to read the notices for himself.
He had tipped the cabman and asked him to make special haste, and the man had well earned his shilling, turning into Printing House Square – named not for its current printer but that for the King – after but half an hour. Pall Mall to Blackfriars – two miles; even had he known the way he could not have walked it in less.
The offices of The Times were smaller than he’d supposed, but more given to his inquiry than he’d expected. At the corner of the square was the ‘Advertising Office’, which he found most businesslike, and perfectly ready to make available to him there and then for a simple fee past copies of the newspaper – and, indeed, to assist his search.
‘Which dates are you desirous of examining, sir?’ asked the minor official of the newspaper of record, a very respectable-looking man.
‘The month of March last.’
‘The entire month, sir?’
‘Well, that would depend on my finding what I am looking for. And if not March, then April, or perhaps February.’
‘I see,’ replied the clerk, although his look said that he did not exactly. ‘An item of news, perhaps, or an editorial notice?’
Hervey was hesitant. ‘No, rather it would be a private notice.’
‘And, sir, you wish to read each edition of the newspaper to discover a particular notice?’ The clerk sounded faintly disbelieving.
‘Does that present a problem?’
‘No, sir, not at all; not, at least, for the newspaper. But, sir, there are a great many private notices, as you will know. Is there, perhaps, some detail that might better lead us to the page?’
Hervey remained measured. ‘That is uncommonly obliging, but I don’t know if there be such a detail.’
The clerk now looked solicitous. ‘May I, sir, suppose that it is the notice of a death you seek?’
Hervey smiled. ‘No, no – not a death. Quite the opposite … But if it were a death, how might you discover the page?’
‘The name would be entered in our account book, sir, with the date of publication of the notice.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. I hadn’t somehow … And it is the same for a birth?’
Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) Page 15
