The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘The United Service shall seem very provincial.’

  Somervile smiled. ‘That said, had I been of the committee, I might – indeed would – have urged an Indian palace rather than Italian.’

  ‘No doubt, but it’s a most handsome palazzo.’ (It was scaffolded still, but its imminent grandeur was apparent enough.) ‘I look forward to sampling the macaroni,’ added Hervey, with a smile.

  The Travellers’ wine butler came with a bottle of champagne, un-corking it as deftly as a dragoon drawing sabre, and filling their glasses as promptly as the bubbles allowed. Somervile raised his and proposed ‘To friendship.’

  ‘To friendship,’ replied Hervey.

  Somervile drained his glass and let the butler refill it as a waiter came with a tray of oysters. ‘Burnhams?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Eyre.’

  ‘Capital. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering our dinner, Hervey. There’s excellent turbot today, says the maître, and thirty-day beef.’

  Somervile was perhaps a little less stout than when he’d gone to Canada, but the battle with knife and fork was a never-ending one, in the course of which he’d learned many a martial art. Hervey was quite content to follow his lead when it came to the pleasures of the table.

  ‘Delightful.’

  ‘Wretched business, that – Brereton’s suicide.’

  Hervey shook his head.

  ‘I trust you don’t consider it should weigh on your conscience too oppressively.’

  Hervey put down his glass, and sighed. ‘No, the man was evidently placed in a position his temper was unsuited to, but not by me. What I regret is being asked – made – to give my opinion on his conduct, when that was the business of the board of inquiry. That damned old fool, Greville.’

  Somervile had his own views on Sir Peregrine Greville – that it was sometimes useful for an idle but aspiring man to disguise himself as a booby – but he would keep them to himself.

  ‘But that priest-fellow spoke well in your favour, I see. A most handsome testimony, his; and got up so full and well in The Times. I wonder when there’ll be an end to these inquiries, though.’

  ‘Just so. The civil trials continue, of course, which daily add to the population of what is pleased to be called “Australia” – those, that is, who escape the gibbet. But, yes, the priest’s was a happy testimony. A good sort of man, not one to evade his responsibilities, though he got no great support in trying to carry them out. I’ve sent him my thanks.’

  And then he told him what Lord Hill had said about promotion being deferred.

  Somervile knew it already, however, for he prided himself in never making a move without first acquiring all necessary intelligence – though he kept this to himself too. He shook his head. ‘It’s as if when they consider making a major-general they look at what Cromwell did with his major-generals and therefore appoint someone not in the least capable of government – and frankly, therefore, the poorer for it.’

  Hervey smiled thinly. ‘Greville would be the last to ban Christmas, that’s certain … But, now, what is this intelligence you have baited me to dinner with?’

  ‘Of course, but first – how is Kezia?’

  Hervey looked pained … and then quite content. They’d never spoken of matters, but the matters were now very public, and it was absurd he should think to deny anything before an old friend. ‘She is well – very well, I think. Thank you.’

  ‘Is she confined to her bed still?’

  ‘No, no indeed. We’ve taken several drives, as far as Windsor, even. I believe she will be well enough to return to Walden soon.’

  ‘And that is her intention?’

  ‘Well … I had supposed … We have not yet spoken.’

  ‘My dear fellow, you’ll forgive my intrusion and my directness, but might she not be waiting for you to ask her to stay?’

  Hervey suppressed (he hoped) both his surprise and a pitying smile. ‘You are ever loyal.’

  ‘I certainly trust so. Now, let’s make a beginning with these oysters.’

  ‘Is that, therefore, the interesting intelligence: you wished to know of Kezia’s circumstances?’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t, but it’s not unconnected – though that wasn’t the reason I asked. Nor that it will be the second thing that Emma asks me when I return – the first being “What did he say to the idea?”’

  ‘You will remember to tell me the idea, will you not?’

  ‘At once.’

  He beckoned the butler to refill their glasses, and took two more oysters.

  ‘Yesterday I spent at East India House reading the latest despatches from Madras. There’ll be trouble in Mysore – and there’s been trouble enough already. Or rather, to begin with, in Coorg—’

  Hervey inclined his head. ‘Coorg …’

  ‘To the south-west, touching on Malabar. Not very much bigger than your Wiltshire. Rather a charming place, a little like Scotland – well, the fairer parts of Scotland. Hilly. A fierce people, though, when roused – and their rajah capricious. Which, when you think of it, isn’t unlike the Scotch again.’

  Hervey’s first footing in India had been the Madras presidency, but on the Coromandel, not the Malabar, coast. These little princedoms – kingdoms even – were many and distant, and as long as they didn’t stand in the way of the Honourable East India Company’s trade (which was, after all, the business of the Company), their rajahs were left to do as they pleased. He couldn’t remember hearing of Coorg when first he was in Madras – and certainly not when, much later, he was in Bengal – but as he’d observed from his first entanglement in Chintal, the lesser the rajah, the greater seemed the way of disturbing the peace. He ascribed it to the heat, in the way that everything in India was far larger or more colourful, and as a rule more virulent, than anywhere else. The country had roused his passions more than once. It was not a place that admitted any sort of repose; certainly not for long.

  ‘A strange name, though, is it not – “Coorg”? I don’t think I’ve heard its like.’

  ‘Oh, the usual thing, no doubt – a writer in Madras transcribes what he thinks he’s heard. The native name’s Kodagu, which in all probability I would surmise is from the Kanarese – “steep”, “hilly”; that sort of thing.’

  Hervey smiled. Somervile’s delight in the native tongues – his facility indeed – was ever endearing. He himself had never even heard of Kanarese.

  ‘I see. And what is our interest in this steep and hilly country – except, no doubt, gold?’

  Somervile frowned. ‘Hervey, you know full well that the Company seeks only fair trade in India. Its purpose is not plunder.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mysore invaded Coorg thirty years ago – when Hyder Ali was on the throne, just before Tippoo – but we put the rajah back in his palace and he signed a treaty bringing it under the Company’s protection. So good an ally was he in fact, in the subsequent wars with Tippoo, the annual tribute was remitted. It had been considerable – 8,000 gold pagodas, as I recall. And since then it’s been a single tributary elephant. But our good rajah died a few years later, and the place has since descended into all kinds of evil. It would appear the present rajah thinks he’s Caligula. Coorg itself isn’t, I believe, worth our regrets, but as a protectorate – a dependent ally indeed – we have no choice but to act. The resident also fears the trouble will spread to Mysore, which would of course be a peril for Madras.’

  Hervey slurped another oyster. ‘Your time at Fort St George will evidently be an interesting one. But you would not have it otherwise.’

  Somervile managed two more oysters, and the rest of his glass. ‘Certainly not. In any case, no matter what the outcome at Coorg, Mysore could pop its cork at any moment. The Company’s hold over the place is by no means complete. Another regiment of cavalry’s needed for that contingency alone, and one of Foot to strengthen the garrison at Bangalore. The Court of Directors have decided therefore to ask for two additional King’s regiments.’
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br />   ‘This, I take it, is the profitable intelligence.’

  ‘The position is yours.’

  Hervey frowned, and swallowed the last oyster. ‘I rather think that that prerogative is at least that of the commander-in-chief. In all probability, the secretary at war’s.’

  Somervile nodded to the maître.

  ‘I know all that, of course,’ said his old friend, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as their plates were cleared, ‘but he who pays the piper makes him play as he pleases – and the Company will be paying. Besides, I have it on good authority that Lord Hill considers he’s in your debt and Parnell holds you in high regard.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘It would certainly be convenient for everyone if I were to be elsewhere but here.’

  The butler brought white burgundy.

  Somervile began eagerly on his glass. ‘There, you see. You told me yourself ’twould be two years before promotion. How many more drawing rooms do you want to attend? Come and do something worthy of a soldier.’

  The turbot arrived, a monstrous great fish. Somervile watched it being filleted, eagerly, while Hervey pondered.

  When the waiter was gone, Hervey spoke his mind. ‘Were the decision mine – I mean mine to make only for my own pleasure – I shouldn’t hesitate. The saving to the pocket alone would induce all but a Bingham. But it isn’t mine. The regiment’s been home barely five years. Lord George Irvine – the colonel – would certainly have strong views on the matter. Armstrong wouldn’t come; he has a family. Nor would Collins, for the same reason. Or St Alban, or Worsley – all my best officers; they’d all exchange. Even Johnson wouldn’t want to go back.’

  Somervile swallowed his first helping of turbot, and shook his head. ‘You yourself told me the regiment was losing its edge, that it was turning into a company of constables and postboys.’

  Hervey pondered again. ‘And for myself, there is Kezia.’

  Somervile narrowed his eyes. ‘And you yourself have just told me that she will soon return to Walden.’

  Hervey shook his head again. ‘It is altogether too much.’

  Somervile laid down his fork very deliberately, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Hervey, I never thought to see you defeated. What on earth has become of you?’

  XIII

  Who Goes There?

  Hounslow, a fortnight later

  AT A MINUTE before eleven by the guardroom clock, the trumpet-major marched his calls party – with all but two troops out of barracks, just four trumpeters this morning – to the middle of the square, halted and then advanced them left. There were three well-found buildings at right angles to each other adjoining the parade ground, the central one – forming the orderly room and the offices of the regimental staff – built of London stock and topped by a pediment. The other two were plainer, longer blocks housing stables and barrack-rooms, and by using the regimental headquarters as a reflector, the calls could be sounded farther. Taking cue from the trumpet-major, up went the silver clarins for the regimental fanfare – day in, day out, save Sunday, come wind or weather.

  Hervey, just come to office after morning exercise (his mare had taken some settling), turned from the window. The five made pleasing music, but there ought to have been twelve …

  ‘What business is there?’

  ‘Principally defaulters, Colonel,’ replied St Alban, handing him the daily states. ‘Rather a dispiriting number again, I’m afraid. And too many sick.’

  It was always ‘principally defaulters’ – and the sick.

  One of the ‘sable twins’ – Abdel, said his red turban feather – poured him coffee.

  The regiment was losing its edge …

  He would prefer that the first person he spoke of it to was Armstrong – twenty years was a singular time’s acquaintance – but it wouldn’t serve. If he didn’t speak first to his adjutant, there was no helping it. ‘I have news that will not be universally agreeable, though it is to me … The regiment is for India – Madras. In six months.’

  St Alban’s look of surprise was as he’d expected. But there was nothing to discuss, and so …

  ‘Have the clerks make copies of this for despatch to the outlying troops,’ (he handed him the Horse Guards Order) ‘but first have the sar’nt-major come; and assemble the captains and staff.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel … I …’

  ‘Had not expected it.’

  ‘No, no indeed.’ St Alban looked as if he wanted to seek some sort of clarification, but evidently judged it best that he didn’t. (News spread rapidly, and it was best that the news were as exact as he could make it.)

  Armstrong appeared at the door almost at once.

  ‘Come in, please, Sar’nt-Major, and close the door.’

  Armstrong opened his order book, ready.

  ‘The regiment’s for India in six months. It won’t be to your liking, I know, but it is to mine.’ He didn’t say ‘I shall be greatly sorry to say “Goodbye”’. They’d served together far too long.

  ‘Thank God for that, Colonel!’ said Armstrong, snapping shut his book.

  Hervey blinked. ‘You mean it is to your liking?’

  ‘Another twelve months here and there’d be no regiment worth the name.’

  ‘But you yourself – your family and all.’

  Armstrong looked as surprised as St Alban. ‘I’m the serjeant-major; I go where the regiment goes, like it or not. But as it so ’appens, I like it very much. And as for Mrs Armstrong and the bairns, they knows the drill; they follows the drum.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘And as she is the patroness of the dames who follow the drum, with reverence let her name be spoken!’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Something from a book the surgeon gave me – Paul Jones, quite a tale. You’d find it diverting.’ He was not used to recommending reading to Armstrong, but he was scarcely able to contain the pleasure at finding his opinion of the regiment’s morale confirmed. ‘I read those very words last night just before blowing out the candle – read them twice, indeed, for they struck me so very aptly.’

  ‘Well, Colonel, I’ll tell our lass that she ’as a new title – “patroness of the dames”. She’ll be fair kittled.’ He would not ask why the colonel’s lady was not to have that honour.

  ‘And she has a right to be. Now, we have the business of seeing how the rest of the regiment hears it.’

  Hervey drove to Heston in the afternoon with fewer cares than he’d expected. Armstrong’s adamant support would in any case have been enough to buoy his spirits, but the staff orderly room had been a business-like affair confined to the details of the posting: six troops, initially for five years, with the option then for The Governor and Company of Merchants of London trading into the East Indies to renew the contract.

  The only note of disappointment voiced was by the riding-master, sorry that he would not now have opportunity to go to Yorkshire to buy remounts. (One day, Hervey told himself, he would go to see this Yorkshire, where horses – and the likes of Johnson and Stray – were so famously well raised.) For the rest, it seemed, sufficient was it to go and contemplate their future; and that of their subordinates. Six months was a short time to send in papers or arrange an exchange, but Messrs Greenwood, Cox and Hammersley had been the regimental agents for many years, and doubtless kept a ready list of officers wishing to transfer to an India-bound regiment.

  Those officers would be a poor lot, of course – hardly impecunious, but clearly wishing to avail themselves of cheaper living – and therefore likely as not of humbler quality compared with joiners of late. That said, he (Hervey) himself had never had real means until lately through the legacy of a man who’d risen from humble beginnings to considerable wealth. Perhaps there’d be men of his mind exchanging, men bored with service as constables and postboys and in search of true military employment – or at least the sporting adventure – that India might promise. But he wagered they’d be a ‘peerless’ regiment that landed in Madras. St A
lban had his eyes on parliament, and Malet intended committing matrimony with an heiress … Some would be losers, too, and resentful of it. The value of a commission in the Sixth stood high as long as they were at Hounslow. As soon as the news was out, its stock would plummet. Those who wanted to sell would be best off to apply for leave, or even for the half-pay, while those preferring to exchange would have to hope there were men in equally favoured regiments who wanted to go to India. What a business it was. But that ultimately was what it was – a business; or rather, something on which a man of not unlimited means must calculate his true best interests very carefully. There were days when he thought it the most pernicious system in the world, but others when he reckoned a man’s loyalty was all the stronger for the investment. (And that, he knew, was the Duke of Wellington’s opinion too, although the duke’s concern was not so much with a man’s stake in his regiment as his stake in the country.) Winners and losers; but it couldn’t be helped, and he mustn’t concern himself. That, indeed, was what Lord George Irvine had told him.

  But ‘patroness of the dames who follow the drum’: he was pleased with that. Doubtless Armstrong was telling his wife this very moment. His loss had been a cruel one – his and five young children – but in Serjeant Ellis’s widow this treue Husar had found a willing mother for his ‘bairns’, and ‘the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other’. Jessie Ellis was no scholar, as Caithlin O’Mahoney had been – she would have been no more use in the regimental school than Corporal Johnson, except to instruct in common sense and hussifry – but she was a woman to go home to of an evening, and keenly. If she were to come to India as contentedly as her husband, then the battle was half won.

  Now he would tell Kezia – and with feelings more mixed than he would have supposed even a month ago. He had of late begun to enjoy her presence at Heston, and not just as a salve to his conscience (much balm though that needed). There had been a distinct softening. They had not yet dined together – not in the usual sense – for she tired each day as the sun set, and took a tray in the warmth of her bedroom. Two evenings ago, however, he had sat with her and read Maria Edgeworth aloud for half an hour, until her eyelids were heavy and she asked for her maid to come. When he had gone down for his own dinner, and more of Paul Jones (‘He stood on the deck of his frigate in the dress which he wore during the battle, his pistols black with powder, and his cutlass stained with blood’ – splendid stuff, which brought to mind that first passage to India, when Peto had spoken of the thrill of frigate actions), Annie told him how pleased Kezia had been when she learned that a piano was to be brought tomorrow, and how she herself looked forward to hearing music, ‘for it’s so very quiet when the men are at barracks’.