Hervey said nothing for a moment or so, then called St Alban in. ‘It’s imperative we get every sabre we can into the city, and fast. We must get Brereton here, and the Third under arms again. Have their captain stand them to and come here for orders. I’m going to see for myself the state of things in Queen Square.’
Now it was St Alban’s turn to exercise a privilege. ‘Sar’nt-Major, might I speak alone with the colonel?’
‘Sir!’ Armstrong turned to Hervey; ‘I’ll go and get Acton, Colonel.’
The night porter came with coffee. St Alban waited for him to pour two cups and then closed the door after him. ‘Colonel, I understand perfectly that it’s imperative that order is restored, but afterwards there’ll be no thanks for it. Of course you must act on your own account, but I do urge, at the very least, that you make plain in writing your reasons for assuming command – at once to London.’
Hervey frowned. ‘I’ve said it before: an officer’s choice is whether to risk being shot by a court martial for his forbearances, or hanged for his over-zeal by a jury. But I know where the sympathy would lie if it came to a jury here.’
St Alban wasn’t so sure. He’d galloped to Salisbury to bring order to Bristol, but he didn’t intend letting his commanding officer risk his neck unnecessarily. ‘Colonel, the old order’s changed. The duke is no longer prime minister. The temper of the government, the country … Any comparison with Peterloo would be … well, to your certain disadvantage.’
St Alban was not that long commissioned, but in him Hervey recognized both capability and judgement beyond his years – political judgement indeed, for that way, he knew, lay his ambition – which was why he’d made him his adjutant. (In many a regiment the appointment was filled by an officer from the ranks, a man who knew every trick through long years of ‘undetected crime’.) Even so …
‘Every minute that we’re distracted from taking action will add at least a page to what I have to report. I’ll write as soon as I have opportunity.’
‘Colonel, with respect, we must get a letter away to Lord Melbourne immediately. I’ll warrant that as we speak there are letters from others bound by coach or express. Let me get the Third stood-to, and Colonel Brereton here, and then let me draft the letter.’
Hervey frowned again, incredulous. ‘To Melbourne himself? That would be to subvert the principles of military authority. It must go to the Horse Guards.’
‘If it goes to the Horse Guards it will have to wait on Lord Hill’s pleasure, which may not be prompt, for any number of reasons. Lord Melbourne will be apprised of the situation this day, if not already. You must so inform him that he sees you as the answer to the problem – as his man indeed – not later as one who must explain his action.’
There was something in the force with which his ‘Pitt the Younger’ of an adjutant made what was anyway a compelling argument that persuaded Hervey to take the straighter line. If in doing so it was ‘Ware hole!’ but too late – so be it. ‘I would see the letter first, of course, but – if I am detained then you may send it “per pro”. It should certainly go by the morning mail, if it’s running still – or express.’
St Alban looked relieved. The new home secretary had so far shown himself suspicious of the military. Despite the trouble of the past twelve months – the rick-burning, machine-breaking and assaults on landlords (what some were pleased to call the ‘Swing riots’, on account of threatening letters signed by the mysterious ‘Captain Swing’) – Melbourne had refused to oblige the magistrates’ alarmism, as he saw it. This affair in Bristol was of a wholly different order, but that wasn’t to say the government would treat it so – not when to begin with the rioters had cloaked themselves in the mantle of Reform. St Alban was no Tory – his head and heart lay with the new administration – but he was not blinded to faults on either side.
They took their coffee quickly. Armstrong knocked and Hervey called him in.
‘Sar’nt Acton’s come with horses, Colonel, an’ I’ve sent Spink for mine at the double.’
Hervey knew that by that he meant ‘wait till I come with you’, and if he said he wouldn’t wait, Armstrong would only have taken Acton’s horse; so he poured him a cup too, and then another for himself. ‘Rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last / For violent fires soon burn out themselves.’
‘Colonel?’
‘Shakespeare, though here I can’t believe he’s right. Nor, I think, did he live to see his theatre burn down. The devil of all this here is that a few dozen peelers could have nipped it in the bud.’
‘Oh, aye, Colonel. An’ we’ll get the blame – whichever way.’
‘What do you suppose will happen, then, when daylight comes?’
‘A good many of ’em’ll fall down exhausted, but there’ll be any number of low-life sorts coming in fresh, now that they’ve heard there’s drink to be had, and more.’ Armstrong spoke with the assurance of a man who’d weathered many a trial with both. ‘There’s all them prisoners let loose an’ all.’
Hervey drained his cup, and nodded. ‘That’s what I’d feared, which is why we need the yeomen to return soonest – to picket the roads in.’
Spink was not long in running back with Armstrong’s trooper. Out they went for the square.
‘The owner’s, Colonel,’ said Acton as Hervey mounted the unfamiliar bay. ‘It were the best by a mile. He says she’s apt to drop her shoulder if she’s held too tight on the bit, but nothing otherwise.’
There’d been no need to bring his own charger down from Hounslow, for there were no parades. As for dropping the shoulder, a horse without the odd vice was a horse without spirit.
‘Will you lead, please, Sar’nt-Major.’
Armstrong put his mare straight into a trot. Up and across College Green – where a few dozen roughs skulked warily; past the recruiting office and then north along the towpath to the bridge across the floating basin; then south again along the quays to the back of the assembly rooms. A party in the charge of an elderly but redoubtable French-woman trying to remove waxworks from her travelling exhibition – Le Cabinet de Figures de Cire de Madame Tussaud – evidently fearful of the mob and the heat of the encroaching fires, brought them up sharp.
‘Vous êtes de la police, monsieur?’ she called as they picked their way through.
‘Non, Madame,’ answered Armstrong as he side-stepped a portrait en cire of Marie Antoinette. ‘Nous sommes the army. Have no fear, but don’t expose yourself to those ruffians.’
‘Alors! I ’ad my own ’ead shaved for the guillotine. I am not frightened by these wretches!’
She reached under her skirts and produced a pair of pistols.
‘I wish the constabulary showed as much fight,’ said Hervey as he in turn tried to avoid collision with a mannequin – which looked remarkably like his mental image of Robespierre, and so apropos therefore that he shook his head. ‘Bonne chance, Madame!’ (He had to force himself not to say ‘Tirez les premiers’, though he supposed she hardly needed the advice).
A hundred yards on, where the street met the square, he saw for himself what they were up against. Hundreds of people – many hundreds – of all descriptions and states of sobriety: little groups of respectable-looking men and women, residents of the square, perhaps, staring on the scene in bewilderment; men and women that would have shamed a London rookery cavorting like fiends in a representation of Hell, and others carrying off all manner of plunder, some with handcarts. The noise was infernal: shouting, jeering, whistling, shrieking, howling, wailing, baying, roaring – legions of the lowest orders given leave to run riot. And above it somehow the sound of breaking glass – window panes, each followed by a full-throated cheer. And bottles, mirrors, table crystal – defenestrated without warning, hazard to fleeing quality, passing roughs and recumbent drunks alike; and all to a crackling, fiery continuo, as the whole of the west and north sides of the square were in various stages of flame, with here and there a sharp explosion – powder perhaps, or oil, even gas maybe; a
nd then the sudden growl and rumble of falling masonry – chimney stacks pulled down with hawsers; roofs, floors, entire walls. And many a rough meeting his Maker in the rubble and the flames.
Queen Square, once the height of respectability, now a scene that Hogarth would have struggled to contain – Gin Lane and Beer Street a hundred times over, the contents of fine houses, of businesses in neighbouring streets, strewn about for the taking, or with coin for the felons who claimed custody of the piles. The grand equestrian statue of William III in the middle of the square stood festooned with red, the colour of defiance, and all around, Armstrong’s ‘low-life sorts’ guzzled and chewed like Hogarth’s wretches, or sat on looted chairs at looted tables to enjoy their provisions even more – just remembering occasionally to shout ‘Reform and the King!’, as if this somehow gave them just cause.
If Hervey had had any doubts where his duty lay, they were at once dispelled. Here was the nightmare that had haunted the authorities for a decade and more and set the Duke of Wellington’s face against Reform; for if once conceded, there was no knowing the end of things. Or rather, there was: Revolution. All that was missing in this Hadean scene was that of which Madame Tussaud had spoken: the guillotine.
He set his jaw and turned about. ‘This, Sar’nt-Major, we will sweep clear at first light of day.’
IV
The Edge of the Sword
Reeves’s, later
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL THOMAS BRERETON was ten or so years Hervey’s senior, and in rank some five more, for Brereton had been promoted half-colonel in 1815 while Hervey had still been a cornet. But the brevet was the key: Hervey might wear the same lieutenant-colonel’s crown on his epaulettes, but there was an invisible garter star too.
Brereton himself presented an unhappy picture. Handsome though he remained, with his spare, even sharp, features, his years in the tropics – the fevered Indies and then the Guinea coast – had thinned his hair, whitened it a good deal, dulled his eyes and weathered his complexion to a yellow-brown. Although roused from his bed, he had evidently slept little in the past days. He did not stoop, however, for he was by no means a broken man. Yet his nerves were evidently much shaken. His was a face that Hervey had seen before, in men whose self-belief was shot – at times in Spain, and at Waterloo; once or twice in India. There was no knowing what might overwhelm some men, and with others be impulse to great deeds. Nor was it always simple fear: he’d seen the look in men who stood their ground bravely through some paralysis of mind, rather than prudently withdraw. A seasoned soldier and man of Christian charity was inclined to pity, rather than anger; but the exigencies of the moment sometimes required harshness, or at least provoked it. There would be a time to treat kindly with one who had given so much service, but it was not now.
Brereton accepted Hervey’s claim of authority at once, however, though at the same time began to defend his actions. ‘I have been left in the most unenviable position, Colonel Hervey – betwixt an overpowering, infuriated mob and a magistracy from whom no essential aid can be procured.’
Such a situation would always claim the sympathy of a fellow officer, as here; but the question was – or rather, would no doubt be put at a later date – whether prompt action in the first instance would have prevented the mob from becoming overpowering. That was by the bye, however. They must now take whatever action they could to restore the peace. Hervey tried to get him to sit and take some coffee, but Brereton insisted on his apologia: ‘Supposing we had shot a good many of them and dispersed them for the instant, they would have reassembled in considerably greater numbers – which I could not have prevented for I had not the force to occupy the many outlets of this city. Both men and horses would have been exhausted – were exhausted, indeed – and so exasperated were the mob previously that they determined to attack the houses for arms to destroy the dragoons in their quarters when they went to refresh. Would it have been right under such circumstances to hazard the troops being repulsed – for if they had been, the mob flushed with their victory would have had possession of the whole city and fired the shipping. Of this intent they made no secret, nor their plan to attack the banks – and then throw all the surrounding countryside into confusion.’
There was logic in these objections – where Brereton’s semi-punctuated flow allowed him to see it – but Hervey was growing impatient of the counsel of despair. Indeed he had to check himself, for his instinct was ‘Leave that consideration for the court martial’. (He would not humiliate such a man in front of those now pressing in the common rooms of Reeves’s hotel.) There was also a substantial flaw in Brereton’s logic: ‘But my good fellow, the mob have possession of the city at this very moment. That is the material point.’
Brereton could give no answer. His mouth was open, but his face was blank.
Nor would Hervey have entertained an answer. Instead he turned to the officer in command of the dragoon guards. ‘Captain Warrington, how many are you?’
‘Thirty-two, Colonel.’
‘And that is, as I requested, every one of your men?’
‘Yes, Colonel, save for those wounded.’
‘Very well, I desire that you form the troop in two divisions, and all to load with ball cartridge. I myself will address them presently.’
Warrington nodded warily. ‘Shall there be a magistrate to accompany us, Colonel?’
‘I cannot tell. Does that present you with any difficulty?’ He said it with some asperity, having already concluded that Warrington was ignorant of the provisions of King’s Regulations in respect of aid to the civil power.
‘I understand that only a magistrate can authorize the use of firearms, Colonel.’
‘Captain Warrington, I understand that Mr Surgeon Goldney delivered up to you a letter from the mayor for Colonel Brereton, and that he prevailed upon you to read it.’
Warrington looked awkward. ‘Yes, indeed, he did, Colonel. But how may we avoid doing harm to the innocent?’
‘My advice to innocent people when the Riot Act has been read is to get off the streets. Do you have any more questions?’
‘No, Colonel.’
‘To your duty, then.’
The mayor now arrived, with half a dozen others. Hervey was surprised to see a far younger man than he’d supposed. Charles Pinney was ten years his junior, perhaps – a good-looking man, with hair the colour of the Sixth’s light chestnuts. But if Mayor Pinney were unburdened by experience, therefore, neither could he be fortified by it. (Only later would he discover that Pinney had been sworn in but a month before, which at that moment was as well.)
‘Your worship, I am Colonel Hervey of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons.’ (There was, he knew from long practice, an advantage to be gained by punctiliousness in dealing with the civil power.) ‘As the senior officer, it is my intention to take command of all troops in the city and direct them to the rapid restoration of order. I have the letter you addressed to Colonel Brereton some hours ago instructing him to take vigorous and effective action.’
Having expected civic objection, he was agreeably surprised by the reaction: a look of the greatest relief came over the mayor. ‘You will send the troop of dragoons to Queen Square?’
Hervey frowned. ‘No, I shall myself lead them.’
Pinney was even more delighted.
Hervey now set his jaw very decidedly. ‘Regaining the square is but the first and most necessary thing – and I fear it can’t now be done without a deal of bloodshed. Temporizing would be a dangerous and even cruel policy. Indeed, I’m of the opinion that exemplary violence is now necessary, else the mob is encouraged to return armed and in greater strength.’
The mayor suddenly looked less sure; but Hervey was in no mood to relent.
‘Once the news is abroad that the square is held unassailably by the authorities, the heart should begin to go out of the riot. It’s imperative therefore we have the greatest number of constables ready to take to the streets.’
Pinney seemed to recover h
is resolution. ‘I signed the writ for the Posse Comitatus last evening. The sheriffs are posting bills as we speak. I regret it’s an unduly lengthy business, for the law requires it be done by precept in every ward; but there’ll be constables aplenty once they see the military means business. I intend going now to the Council House to assemble the magistrates.’
‘Where is the Council House?’
‘On Broad Street, at the junction with Corn Street – half a mile, no more.’
St Alban held up an old plan of the city he’d found in a frame in the smoking room.
Hervey nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll come there as soon as Queen Square is ours. You’ve sent for reinforcements, have you not – and regulars, I mean?’
‘I have – to Gloucester for another troop of the Fourteenth – two if may be – as well as for the yeomanry. Major Mackworth went to Keynsham just after midnight to recall the Fourteenth’s troop which Colonel Brereton sent away. And last night I sent word to Cardiff, for the infantry there.’
Hervey began to reckon. He might see the Keynsham troop at any minute, and those from Gloucester in an hour or so – the yeomanry much later, if at all. He was anyway uncertain of the yeomanry’s discipline. Last year, in Norfolk, he’d seen much that had reassured him, but elsewhere reports were contrary. There had lately been mutiny in the Salisbury Troop of the Wiltshire Yeomanry – or rather, near mutiny – when their captain, Lord Arundel, voted against the Reform Bill; though it did not help perhaps that he was also a Catholic. And yet they were now the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry, honoured this very year for their exertions in putting down the ‘Swing’ riots. There was just no telling.
The Passage to India Page 4
