The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  But the knot in his vitals tightened. He’d not seen Kezia in the best part of two years, and his chill dismissal from Walden Park (when he’d made his half-hearted attempt at rapprochement) he’d tried to put from his mind ever since. She was his wife, though. The priest in the church in this very square had pronounced it so. There was no escape: Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.

  He did not wish to escape, though – only from the condition he was in; and that, he had no idea how.

  There was applause with Kezia’s entrance. He turned his head to look; how could he not?

  Sight of her tightened the knot even more. He made to rise – then saw that he shouldn’t – and sank back into the plush like the rest, no more to her than were they. She wouldn’t even know he was there. Why should she?

  She was his wife. He should be by her side. Indeed, he wanted to be.

  As perhaps would any man, for this evening she was beautiful – perfectly beautiful. When last he’d seen her, she wore a woollen shawl (Walden was bitter cold) and fustian that would have shamed a governess. Now she was in silk – deep blue, pinched to extreme at the waist as few could be, the form he’d so admired. In truth, desired. Why should he not? It fair took his breath away, still.

  There was something to her beauty, though – remoteness, wanness even? – that belonged to a pedestal. He prayed she’d play more warmly, for her own sake – to win the applause her music deserved. Perhaps she practised to excess, to the exclusion of all else – he couldn’t know – but on such an evening as this, how could he hold it against her? He hoped the piece she’d chosen wasn’t too stern – not Beethoven-like. Who was this ‘Herz’? Who indeed was La Violette? ‘Variations brillantes avec introduction et finale alla militare’ said the programme notes, but nothing else. Alla militare: it was auspicious. He suddenly began to will her all success – that La Violette would please every man and woman in the hall; that her playing would bring the greatest ovation of the evening – greater even than for the duke; and that, yes, she might at the moment of acclamation see him there … and be glad.

  Kezia placed a hand to the piano and made a low curtsey, bowing her head also. Her smile was just sufficient. He wished it were as full as on occasion he’d seen, but her art was a serious business, and she must be utterly composed. Her look was anyway that of someone not entirely of the here and now. That, he knew – he supposed he knew – was indeed the composure of the artist. It was not unlike that he’d observed in men of war as they contemplated their task – had observed in the duke, indeed. Or was he fanciful? Did he take it to excess?

  Kezia took the piano stool.

  There was a long pause, as if for absolute silence, and then began La Violette. A threatening pair of chords made him start somewhat, then came a sombre arpeggio, repeated in what sounded like a different key, and then followed a descent of two octaves or so, and some tremulous progressions. He groaned inwardly: it was more Beethoven, but by another name.

  And now a pause, strangely long, as if something brillante was to follow. But no – the last few bars were repeated (oddly, to his ear), and then a pause again; and then …

  Nothing.

  This was worse than Beethoven. Just chords, and gravid pauses …

  But no, now he saw – as others had already: she was lost.

  His grasped the arms of his chair, willing – praying – for her to find her way.

  But she sat staring at the keys as if benumbed.

  The murmur in the hall became loud. In an instant he was beside her. ‘Kezia, are you unwell?’

  She turned her head, but neither recognized him nor appeared even to see him.

  St Alban was now at his side, and then the surgeon – and Worsley’s wife.

  ‘Help her up, Colonel,’ said Milne, a gentle but insistent voice leaving no room for question or appeal.

  Hervey took her forearms, which were still stretched out, and prayed she’d respond. Dorothea Worsley put an arm round her shoulders to reassure.

  Kezia rose, her expression fixed, as if dazed by news of great tragedy. Hervey took her waist, intent on seeing her down before she collapsed entirely, as he feared she would for there was now no colour to her face.

  There were helping hands as they reached the side of the platform, but unnecessary. Hervey was able to support her on his own, and she took his lead like one no longer able to see. Johnson cleared the way through the knot of musicians to the room where Kezia had dressed.

  ‘What is it, doctor? What is wrong?’ asked Hervey as they set her down.

  Dorothea Worsley took out smelling salts, but Milne shook his head, lifting Kezia’s arm to take her pulse.

  ‘Not strong,’ he said, laying it down again after a full minute. ‘Nervous exhaustion, perhaps, if an extreme case … Catalepsy, it might be; there’s no knowing until I observe more.’

  He pulled up a chair, took one of the candles from the dressing table (the light was not so good, even with the large mirror), and held up his hand in front of her face.

  ‘Mrs Hervey, I am a physician. Will you tell me how many fingers you see before you?’

  Nothing came. She evidently heard no question, saw no hand.

  Milne put his palm to her forehead. (He found no excessive heat.) ‘We must get her to bed. Rest is what she needs directly. Thereafter … Who’s her physician?’

  Hervey shook his head.

  ‘Where is her maid?’ asked Dorothea Worsley.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Hervey. The little crowd in the room was entirely regimental. ‘The Rumsey house is nearby. Perhaps she came unaccompanied.’

  It would have been strange, certainly, but so was her condition.

  ‘Then we should return with her there,’ said Milne.

  Hervey stiffened. ‘I think … That is … I can’t be sure there would be the necessary attention there.’

  Milne was perfectly sensible of the difficulty, but duty overrode any other consideration (a problem not unknown to the occupation of military surgeon). ‘We could but see. Or is there some alternative?’

  ‘She may come to us at Richmond,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘You are very good,’ said Hervey, knowing the Worsleys were about to leave for Yorkshire any day. ‘But Heston’s only a very little further.’

  Milne looked doubtful; but he had no medical objection. ‘I’d like to administer a sedative as soon as may be.’

  ‘I could try to find a dormeuse, Colonel,’ said St Alban.

  Hervey shook his head. ‘Too long. There are blankets in the chariot.’

  ‘Let me take her to Heston in ours,’ tried Dorothea. She didn’t add that there might be things better done by a woman.

  Hervey saw the sense in it, not least that he could drive ahead and rouse the household.

  Milne opened his bag. He’d already decided on morphia. ‘Corporal Johnson, be so good as to bring some lemonade.’

  St Alban made to leave. ‘I’ll have the chariots brought to the rear door, Colonel.’

  Hervey nodded. Nothing else mattered – not the dismay in the hall for sure; for here lay his wife, and he had vowed before God to ‘love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health’. He had vowed to do so ‘forsaking all other’, keeping himself ‘only unto her’. And he had not – not in his heart; and now it had come to this.

  XI

  The Balance of the Mind

  Heston, Saturday, 14 January 1832

  EXPRESS FROM BRISTOL

  THE TIMES-OFFICE, 2 o’Clock a.m.

  DEATH OF LIEUT-COLONEL BRERETON.

  Bristol, Jan. 13.

  The Labours of the court-martial on Lieut.-Colonel Brereton have been brought to a sudden and melancholy close. This morning the ill-fated soldier, doubtless actuated by feelings the weight of which the members of the military profession will readily conceive, put a period to his mortal anxieties by his own hand. He shot himself in his house at Redfield, near Bristol, about the hour of 3 o’clock.

/>   THE TIMES HAD come to Heston a little after midday, rather late. Hervey was not long returned from barracks (the exchange from one duty to another was an opportunity to speak with troop captains all together, though as a rule Saturday was the adjutant’s parade). He could scarce believe what he read:

  Though the rumour of the event was current at 9 o’clock, it seemed so likely to be a fabrication of the time, that we did not lend any serious attention to it, and proceeded to the Merchants’-hall, expecting to witness the progress of the investigation. The Court presented the same appearance as heretofore, the same arrangements for the members, and the same crowded assemblage of well-dressed persons, male and female. At a few minutes before 10, the Deputy Judge-Advocate entered the Hall, and began to arrange his documents. The President (Sir Harry Fane), Sir Charles Dalbiac, and the officers composing the tribunal, soon afterwards took their places. After the roll of the Court had been read over, The President rose and addressed the members – Gentlemen, you probably have heard the most distressing report that is abroad respecting the prisoner, Colonel Brereton – a report which I fear, from his non-appearance here at this hour, is too true. I have sent the District Surgeon, and the officer acting as Assistant Adjutant-General in Bristol, to ascertain the facts. If you please, gentlemen, we will await the report of these individuals. The President then directed an orderly serjeant to attend the arrival of these two gentlemen in the ante-chamber. In less than five minutes, Major Mackworth, the Acting Assistant Adjutant-General to the officer in command of the district, appeared to make his report.

  PRESIDENT – Have you, Major Mackworth, in conformity with my orders, been at the house of Colonel Brereton?

  Major Mackworth – Yes.

  PRESIDENT – Have you seen the Colonel?

  Major Mackworth – Yes.

  PRESIDENT – Alive or dead?

  Major Mackworth – Dead.

  PRESIDENT – Gentlemen, under the unfortunate circumstances which have been laid before the Court, it only remains for me to adjourn the sitting until I receive orders from His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief, to whom I shall forward a report.

  Major Digby Mackworth, sworn by the Deputy Judge-Advocate, deposed that he (Major Mackworth) was Acting Assistant Adjutant-General in the Bristol district; that he had seen the body of Colonel Brereton, and that the Colonel was dead.

  PRESIDENT – Sir Charles Dalbiac.

  Sir Charles Dalbiac rose and addressed the Court. President, and Members of this hon. Court, I rise by permission of the President to address a few words to you. If the tragical event that has just been communicated to the Court, be a source of pain to you, gentlemen, how much more deeply must it not affect the individual on whom has devolved the duty of conducting the prosecution? I assure you, that I rise with a degree of distress and embarrassment such as I never experienced in all my previous life. (Sir Charles paused for a moment to master his emotions.) But I have one consolation, – and a great one, – I declared in my opening address, that I did not entertain the slightest feeling, save that of impartiality, towards the prisoner; and I now repeat that declaration as solemnly as if I were in presence of my God. I did not know, nor did I see Colonel Brereton until the 17th of November, when I was ordered to investigate the circumstances of the Bristol riots. I may add, that I was sent thither at the suit – I might say the command – of my King. I have borne the arms of my Sovereign, I have had the honour of serving him, and if Colonel Brereton had been my brother officer and my friend, instead of being altogether a stranger to me, I could not have departed from my duty, but must have held the same course towards that friend which I have held to the unfortunate prisoner now no more.

  The PRESIDENT – I feel called upon to say for Sir Charles Dalbiac that no proceeding of the kind could have been conducted with less acrimony and more propriety than have been displayed by him.

  The President then directed the members of the Court not to leave their respective addresses until he should have received a communication from the Commander-in-Chief.

  The Court adjourned at 20 minutes past 10 o’clock. It is said that it will probably meet again on Monday. It is understood that a court-martial will be held upon Captain Warrington, of the 3rd Dragoon Guards, for alleged breach of duty during the riots.

  He put down the paper for a moment, his thoughts confused. At the board of inquiry Brereton had looked near the perilous point – though he’d conducted himself with manly bearing during his statement to the board – but at the court martial Hervey had observed no deterioration. Yes, he’d seen men bear themselves when drained of all resource, and then suddenly lose all self-possession. His own colonel, Reynell, had blown out his brains at Corunna. (And – though it could hardly compare – he had the evidence of Hanover Square too.) But in quarters at Bristol, rather than on the battlefield … It was incomprehensible. Only that a decent man, asked to do more than he was capable of, in consequence of which disaster followed, might well think it the honourable course. He wished that he’d gone straight to Bristol as the assizes assembled, rather than to Salisbury, for then he would have had charge of things from the beginning, and Brereton would still be alive. Was there family? He hoped profoundly there was not.

  He made himself read on:

  PARTICULARS OF THE SUICIDE OF LIEUT.-COLONEL BRERETON.

  The report of this tragical event, as we have already stated, reached Bristol about 9 o’clock this morning, and, as may be imagined, it created an indescribable sensation throughout the city. It took place at Redfield-lodge, Lawrence-hill, an exceedingly neat and pretty cottage, the residence of the unfortunate deceased, and situate about a mile and a half from Bristol, in the upper Bath-road. Colonel Brereton, it appears, returned home there last night about 11 o’clock, from Reeve’s Hotel, in this city, where he had been stopping during the progress of the court-martial. He came home in his gig, accompanied by his gardener. There was nothing unusual observed by the domestics in his manner or deportment on that occasion. He retired to his bed-chamber some time after 12 o’clock, but he must have remained up a considerable time in committing to writing the reasons which had induced him to perpetrate the fatal deed, for he left after him on the table a statement on the subject that occupied nearly half a quire of paper. His pistols had been as usual deposited on the table in his bed-room. He did not undress himself; but merely took off his coat and threw himself on the bed. About a quarter before 3 o’clock the housekeeper, hearing the report of a pistol in Colonel Brereton’s bed-room, gave the alarm, and the Colonel’s footman immediately proceeded thither. He there found his unfortunate master stretched on his bed, and life completely extinct. The ball had entered in the left side, directly in the region of the heart, which it must have penetrated, for instantaneous death was the result.

  The pistol was lying on the floor, which as well as the bed, was inundated with blood, in consequence of the profuse haemorrhage from the wound. It was observed yesterday that the unfortunate deceased appeared more than usually affected by the evidence which was given towards the conclusion of the court-martial. In the written statement which he is reported to have left behind him, he is said to have attributed to some particular quarter the immediate cause of his untimely end. He was a widower, and has left two daughters of very tender years to mourn the fate of a good and kind-hearted parent.

  Colonel Brereton was very respectably connected, and was about 52 years of age, 33 years of which had been spent in the army. Though never present in any remarkable engagement, he had acquired the reputation of being a trustworthy and meritorious officer. He served at the Cape of Good Hope during the government of Lord Charles Somerset. Appointed to the command of a regiment on the Caffre frontier (reported as being in a state of insubordination), he was intrusted by the Governor with the command of the whole frontier. The officers of his regiment (the 49th, we believe), presented him, through Sir Henry Torrens, with a sword, valued at 200 guineas. He was eight years Inspecting Field-officer of the Bristol district, whe
re he succeeded Colonel Daniell, by exchange.

  Two daughters of very tender years: he thought at once of Georgiana, and shuddered. There would be a subscription got up for them of course – and he himself would subscribe, as he did already to the Duke of York’s fund for widows and orphans – but …

  And that statement of Dalbiac’s – ‘I did not entertain the slightest feeling, save that of impartiality, towards the prisoner’: could he himself declare the same, ‘as solemnly as if I were in presence of my God’? He’d been exasperated by Brereton – dismayed, even – but it proceeded from professional observation, not any personal animus. That he knew, and could indeed declare as solemnly as if in the presence of his Maker. And if – God forbid – he had ever given Brereton cause to think otherwise (for sometimes men drew unwarranted conclusions), he begged forgiveness.

  In truth, he was now doubly – many more times doubly – gratified that he’d been released from the court martial after the first day, and without cross-examination (he’d applied for early leave to the president because of Kezia’s indisposition, and neither General Dalbiac, prosecuting, nor Colonel Brereton’s counsel had objected, and Sir Harry Fane had discharged him with condolences). For besides being able to get back to Heston before the roads were deep with snow, he was spared the necessity of giving the opinion which, after the board of inquiry, had occasioned adverse comment. Even The Times might have been inclined to remark on it, making connection with the untoward outcome. At least he was spared that; but, more, the awful thought that however impartially he had given his opinion, it had, so to speak, been the finger on the trigger. Two daughters of very tender years: it was weighing heavily with him.