The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

And he certainly didn’t intend displaying any doubt or hesitation now.

  ‘Yes.’

  The clamour told him the line of questioning would serve him no good – that and the speed with which the writers for the press quit the room.

  IX

  The Verdict

  Heston, Monday, 28 November

  ‘CAN THEY SAY that, Johnno?’ Annie put down her sewing box and the shirt – one of Hervey’s best lawn – which she’d taken from Corporal Johnson on account of his not repairing it with a neat enough stitch.

  ‘They can say whatever they likes,’ replied Johnson, smoothing the page of the Poor Man’s Guardian on the tabletop in the servants’ hall.

  ‘Even when it’s not true?’

  ‘Well, a bit of it’s true right enough. Colonel ’Ervey said ’e thought as Colonel Brereton ’adn’t done what ’e should’ve done. But ’e didn’t rightly say as it was ’im that stopped all t’rioting, though it were.’

  ‘And will Colonel Brereton be in trouble now?’

  Johnson took a noisy sip of his tea, which Annie had given him in a large cup, but which he’d decanted into the saucer. ‘Well, Annie m’lass, when somebody’s court-martialled, they’re in a lot o’ trouble, an’ that’s what t’inquiry said was to ’appen.’

  Annie looked uncomfortable. ‘It can’t be pleasing for Colonel Hervey to say something and it mean that Colonel Brereton is court-martialled. He sounds a good man, Colonel Brereton – as if he didn’t want to hurt anybody.’

  Johnson frowned. ‘Tha should’ve seen the place when we got there. It were like nowt I’d ever set eyes on. Colonel ’Ervey won’t give a fig about rank when it comes to court martials.’

  ‘But will Colonel Hervey be in trouble too? I mean, all this about him, saying he was cruel – the women and children, I mean?’

  ‘Nay, they dursn’t. Colonel ’Ervey’s a particular favourite o’ t’Duke o’ Wellington.’

  Annie was not entirely convinced. She’d never had opportunity to read newspapers much, only when they were left in the Berkeley Arms sometimes, or, now, The Times in Hervey’s study when he was out, but she knew they could make trouble. And this one – The Poor Man’s Guardian: A Weekly Newspaper for the People – well, it wasn’t very nice at all:

  PETERLOO REDUX

  It ought to be the gravest concern to all citizens that once again the Authorities have resorted to the employment of mounted soldiery on the streets of an English city for the purpose of suppressing protest against the opponents of Reform. We learn that at Bristol lately, although it is conceded that there were unruly elements of the sort that habitually attach themselves to any public gathering, a considerable force of cavalry, just as at St Peter’s Fields in Manchester of very present memory, was sent against the people, including many women and children, and this in spite of the urgent appeal by the officer in command, Colonel Brereton, that the troops withdraw from the streets, but that instead one Colonel Hervey of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons, by virtue of a brevet, did countermand the order and send the troopers very violently against the people, occasioning much loss to life and limb …

  ‘What does “Peterloo Redux” mean, Johnno?’

  ‘Well, Peterloo’s what they called the business at Manchester, on account of it sounding like “Waterloo”, but them were yeomanry that charged into the crowd, not proper soldiers. Most of ’em anyway.’

  ‘And what does “Redux” mean?’

  He shook his head.

  Annie took up her sewing again. ‘They were talking about it at the market this morning.’

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘Well, not all of them, but some of the people that sell things at the barracks. They said Colonel Hervey might have to go away.’

  Johnson decanted more tea. ‘No-o-o. I tell thee, Annie, lass, they’ll be making Colonel ’Ervey a general. Tha’ll see.’

  Annie was content to be reassured for the time being, whether or not she felt she had a right to be. But Corporal Johnson was an old soldier – well, not old, but a soldier who’d seen service, who knew about things, and who had the ear of people because he was the colonel’s man, and who in turn heard confidences. He seemed to know a lot about everything – a lot more even than Serjeant James. Whenever she asked Serjeant James about anything he would just say ‘None of our business, Annie.’

  Silence descended, Johnson intent on reading more of the Poor Man’s Guardian, which he’d found lying in the yard at the post-house (somebody’s lost pennyworth, but as there was no one about to take custody of it he’d thought to bring it back ‘for safekeeping’).

  ‘Johnno,’ said Annie at length, in a softer voice, not taking her eyes from the sewing this time; ‘what’s Mrs Hervey like?’

  Some of Johnson’s tea went down the wrong way. When he’d composed himself he answered matter of fact, ‘She were Colonel Lankester’s lady, but ’e were killed in India, and then Colonel ’Ervey married ’er.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annie, her eyes on the sewing still, ‘I knew that. I mean what sort of lady is she?’

  Johnson’s brow furrowed. Although he had very decided views, on this he would freely admit that he might not be an impartial observer – and found himself unable to answer. ‘I ’aven’t really seen enough of ’er to tell.’

  ‘But that’s what I mean, really; why does she live away?’

  He was now minded to say ‘None of our business, Annie,’ except that he thought better of her than that. Annie was like another dragoon, really; and she wasn’t at all a tattler; and Colonel Hervey thought the world of her, and that was all that was important. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  And it was true. Hervey had never spoken of the matter – though Fairbrother had hinted once or twice – and he’d hardly been under the same roof as Kezia but for a day or so. He didn’t think she liked him, though, but perhaps that was wrong; perhaps it was just her way – and everybody was different – and if she were here instead of away, perhaps she’d like him perfectly well. But it wasn’t something to talk about, not even with Annie.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  Now he felt on surer ground, though not ground he felt he should be venturing on. ‘Well, all officers’ wives are pretty, aren’t they? That’s why they’re officers’ wives.’

  Annie said nothing.

  ‘And ladies. They’ve got to be ladies as well.’

  Annie continued to sew. ‘Lord Nelson’s wife wasn’t a lady. Not born a lady, I mean. Her father was a blacksmith.’

  Johnson thought a while. ‘T’navy’s different. Anyway, that wasn’t Lord Nelson’s wife, it were Lady ’Amilton. She were ’is mistress. You don’t ’ave to be a lady to be a mistress. Just pretty.’

  Annie reddened but continued the stitch.

  Johnson, emboldened now to dispense more of his worldly wisdom, decanted the last of his tea and then drained the saucer. ‘The first Mrs ’Ervey – she were right pretty. And nice. She always called me Private Johnson, not just “Johnson”. It didn’t make no odds to me what she called me, really, but I al’a’s thought it were nice that … well, nice that she said it.’

  ‘And the new Mrs Hervey doesn’t?’

  Johnson suddenly thought he’d said too much. ‘She’s very pretty an’ all, Mrs ’Ervey, but diff’rent – pretty in a diff’rent way, I mean.’

  More silence.

  ‘What’s Colonel Hervey’s daughter like?’

  Johnson smiled warmly. ‘She’s like ’er mother – looks like ’er mother, I mean. And full of fun – like ’er mother was.’

  ‘And Mrs Hervey’s daughter?’

  ‘I’ve never really seen ’er. She’s nobbut three or four. It were a real shame Colonel Lankester never saw ’er either.’

  More silence.

  ‘Johnno, this thing Mrs Hervey’s going to be doing in London …’

  ‘The benefit?’

  ‘Yes. Would I be able to buy a ticket?’

  Johnson lo
oked at her, puzzled. ‘Why’d you want a ticket?’

  Annie had learned that when Johnson reverted to ‘you’ it was well to be wary. ‘I just thought it would be a fine thing to do, to go and see it. All the officers and serjeants will be going, I suppose. And it’s for the benefit of all those old men in Chelsea.’

  Johnson shook his head again. ‘T’tickets’ll cost a fortune. They’re for t’quality. Serjeants won’t be going.’

  She looked hurt, and he saw it. ‘Why don’t th’ask Colonel ’Ervey. ’E’d be able to get thee one.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’

  Johnson looked at her quizzically. But there was no point trying to fathom things, not now anyway. ‘Annie, m’lass, I think we’ll ’ave another mashin’ o’ tea.’

  The Light Horse stables in Whitehall were the sweetest smelling that Hervey had ever known – or indeed thought possible. A generous allowance by the Treasury for oil of citronella kept the place like a Spanish lemon grove – and all so that His Majesty and his Queen-Consort might at any time visit without notice, and bring with them any of a foreign court without fear of offence. Why the Light Horse stables – but a dozen standing stalls at the Horse Guards – should have this benefit, and not those of the detachment of Household Cavalry next door, was a mystery, except that the Sixth furnished the ‘War Office party’, the NCO-gallopers who speeded the despatches between Whitehall and the royal palaces, and their horses were Tattersall bloods. The party was always hand-picked by the regimental serjeant-major, and known inevitably therefore as ‘Armstrong’s men’; and as a courtesy, Lord Hill was allowed one of the two loose boxes for his charger, which added further lustre to the stables. Hervey was never in doubt that here stood the reputation of the regiment, and in consequence these were probably the most inspected quarters in the Home District.

  ‘In which stall did Owthwaite’s offence take place?’ he asked, almost wryly, as they were leaving.

  Armstrong frowned. The offence itself he was not much concerned with; its place of commission he was. ‘One of the boxes, Colonel.’

  ‘Do we know which, precisely? Don’t say it was the commander-in-chief’s.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘You mean it was Lord Hill’s?’

  ‘When he’d taken his charger to the park that afternoon.’

  Hervey tried hard to suppress a smile. ‘It must be the new red coat. What female heart could withstand it?’

  ‘I always thought no good’d come of red coats. Well, Owthwaite’s paying the price now.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But I’ll say this for him, Colonel: he hasn’t once let on who she is. An’ I don’t think it’s because of any inducement from the lady. He’s put in for India, just as we reckoned, an’ a man wouldn’t likely do that who’d been promised a small fortune.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’ Owthwaite the gentleman, protective of a lady’s honour: it was a fine notion (however improbable).

  A dragoon in a blue coat stepped out from the forage store and saluted.

  ‘Corporal Stray, is there something amiss? What brings you here?’

  Armstrong explained that in the absence of the convalescing Collins, Stray had come with the Quartermaster-Serjeant for the inspection.

  ‘Permission to speak, Colonel?’

  ‘Proceed, Corp’l Stray.’

  ‘Mrs Catchpole’s ’ere, Colonel, and I wondered if you’d care to see ’er, Colonel.’

  Armstrong took the whip from under his arm and began wagging it by his side. ‘Corporal Stray, we’re at the Horse Guards, not the Marquis o’ Granby!’

  But it was too late. Mrs Catchpole was already advancing on them – at the same time as the Field Officer in Brigade Waiting was coming out of the door in the arch that led to the parade ground (where a band was making a fair noise and several serjeants were exercising their lungs).

  The future Mrs Stray was a comely woman, a fraction taller than her husband-to-be, about forty, and wore a brown cloak with a capacious hood. Had she carried a basket she might have been a flower seller from Covent Garden. She curtseyed when her husband presented her – or rather, when Hervey himself took charge to expedite things and greeted her as cheerily as the time and place allowed (at least here was a woman brought openly, he said to himself, unlike Owthwaite’s evidently high-born paramour).

  ‘We’s to be wed a week on Saturday, Colonel,’ said Stray with some gravity. ‘By t’parson.’

  By which Hervey presumed he meant the chaplain that His Majesty had seen fit to provide. ‘Capital, Corp’l Stray.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ added Mrs Catchpole. ‘We were very particular in that regard.’

  Armstrong’s eyebrows rose, and then his eyes narrowed.

  Stray didn’t see, however, nodding solemnly. ‘And we’d deem it a great favour and honour, Colonel, if you were to attend.’

  Armstrong put his whip back under his arm – an emphatic signal that the interview was at an end.

  Hervey just managed to reply that he would – duties permitting.

  Armstrong cleared his throat noisily, and Hervey took his leave of the intending couple with all the gravity he could muster, which was not made easy by Mrs Catchpole’s curtseys and Corporal Stray’s unusually drill-book saluting.

  As he made away, he saw the Field Officer in Brigade Waiting observing from the arch.

  ‘Well, Hervey, quite a ceremony.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Calthorp. I trust we have not offended against Good Order and Military Discipline too grievously?’

  Lieutenant-Colonel Ralph Calthorp, commanding the Grenadier battalion at Windsor, and for the month of November the representative at Court of the general officer commanding the Home District, returned Hervey’s salute – or rather, the customary touch of the cap peak. They had known each other since the hunting down of the incendiarists at Winkfield two years before, and Hervey had come to like his strict insistence on ‘form’ – but yet his evident amusement in it.

  ‘I confess I find myself intrigued,’ said the colonel: ‘A corporal comes out of a stable and detains his commanding officer, whereupon a female joins them and quite overwhelms the sar’nt-major – Good afternoon to you, by the way, Mr Armstrong!’

  Armstrong, already standing uncommonly rigid, saluted with something close to the precision of a Grenadier. ‘Good afternoon, sir!’

  ‘Just one of my corporals, Calthorp, come to present his wife-to-be. You have corporals, d’you know?’

  Colonel Calthorp smiled warmly. ‘I don’t know how the discipline of the Light Horse works – I’m an old dog – but I do love its foibles.’

  ‘We exist to garner intelligence,’ replied Hervey, as archly as he could manage.

  Calthorp nodded, and with a smile that conceded the game, before his expression turned more serious. ‘You’re come about Bristol, no doubt. Dreadful business. Vile things being said in the papers, too. You’re not despondent, I trust?’

  There were indeed vile things said in the papers, and more than one member had eyed him warily when he’d gone to the United Service Club that morning. But he hadn’t imagined they’d claim the attention of the King’s man at the Horse Guards.

  ‘No, not despondent. Dismayed perhaps. The city was within an ace of self-immolation, which no one who saw it could have doubted – except, strangely, the man who was supposed to be in command.’

  ‘Deuced lucky you were there.’

  ‘I tell you frankly, it was – though lucky also that Mr Armstrong was there to send word for me in the first place.’

  Calthorp turned to him. ‘My compliments to you, Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘Sir!’

  He turned to Hervey again. ‘You’re come to see Lord Hill?’

  ‘No – a call only on Howard.’ He smiled ruefully; ‘As I said, we exist to garner intelligence.’

  ‘Quite. Well, I myself have just seen the general, and all I’ll say is that I’ve seen him in better humour.’

  ‘On accoun
t of?’

  ‘Lord Melbourne … the duke … the exigencies of the service.’

  Hervey began to wonder if reconnaissance wasn’t better deferred. But then, reconnaissance deferred was intelligence forgone – and did he not exist to garner intelligence?

  They exchanged a few more pleasantries – and mutual invitations to dine – and then parted, Calthorp for the palace, Hervey for Lord John Howard’s office.

  ‘Sar’nt-Major, I can’t suppose I’ll be very long. Shall you come in?’

  ‘I will, Colonel, yes. The chief clerk’s always got good coffee, and a good ear for this and that.’

  It was enough said. Hervey smiled to himself. He never ceased to wonder at his good fortune in having such a man as Armstrong at his side.

  ‘My dear fellow.’ Howard stood and held out his hand. ‘It’s good to see you. What a wretched business this inquiry evidently was.’

  ‘Wretched? Well, tedious certainly.’

  ‘That too, no doubt. Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, yes …’

  ‘Madeira?’

  Hervey shook his head as he took off his cloak and sat down.

  ‘A man might think the inquiry singular for reading of it in the newspapers.’

  ‘It would appear so. I own that I was tricked into giving my opinion.’

  ‘Tricked? How so?’

  But he could hardly say that he thought Sir Peregrine Greville had tried to lame him (after Kat had been induced to signal that their acquaintance was at an end). ‘I meant that … in the interminable tedium of listening to people saying nothing but what might acquit them of responsibility, I allowed myself to speak my mind.’

  Howard sighed. ‘Well, it is done, and the inquiry’s findings are unequivocal. Brereton’s to stand court martial. Lord Hill wrote last evening to General Jackson instructing him to tell Brereton that he was to consider himself in arrest.’

  Hervey nodded. There was no satisfaction in it, only pity – pity for an officer of Brereton’s seniority, but who never should have found himself in the position of command. Perhaps it would be like poor old Admiral Byng, shot pour encourager les autres.