A Regimental Affair

by Mallinson, Allan

  ‘Then it was very wrong of the orderly room serjeant to speak of it.’

  ‘You’re right of course, Hervey. But only up to a point. Who can the orderly room serjeant turn to when he believes his loyalty to the RSM demands some action? You might say that he showed more courage in coming to me than in remaining silent – for he didn’t know what my answer was going to be.’

  Hervey conceded the point. ‘And what was your answer?’

  ‘I told him he’d discharged his duty to the RSM in telling me, and that he must now discharge his duty to the colonel by telling no one else.’

  Hervey hoped that he himself would have had the presence of mind to put it thus. ‘And so you are now telling me.’

  ‘Yes, and I shall consider my duty completed in that, too.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘But one more thing. Why didn’t you speak to the adjutant? He is your proper superior, and it’s his duty to advise the colonel.’

  ‘Hervey, you ought to know full well that it would have been to no avail whatever – a hollow gesture. I exercised my judgement. Isn’t that what an officer’s meant to do – use his judgement rather than just carry out orders? Even officers from the ranks.’

  Hervey thought it devilish unfair that an extract – and from the ranks, at that – should have to make such a judgement. ‘You didn’t consider approaching the major?’

  The RM frowned again. ‘You, Hervey, are the senior squadron leader. And you’ve a brevet.’

  Hervey remained silent for few moments. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Nothing, for sure, that would make things worse.’

  Hervey smiled despairingly. ‘I think almost anything would make things worse. And what you have quite forgotten is that as long as I’m in arrest my motive in doing anything will be questioned.’

  The RM did not reply at once, seeming to search for his words. ‘Hervey, if it comes to a court martial, you must defend yourself with every ounce of guile you can summon. You must not think of it as a game of cricket.’

  ‘My dear Broad, do you truly think that—’

  But the RM was in no mood for nicety. ‘And if things go against you, you must make appeal to Lord Sussex.’

  The very words ‘court martial’ chilled Hervey to the marrow. But the threat of it could play no part in his actions respecting Lord Towcester. The RM’s counsel was brave. Many in his position would have kept it to themselves, but in the end it gave Hervey no true line to take. He would just have to pray that he could determine what duty demanded – for he knew well enough where it lay.

  When Hervey returned to breakfast, he found Henrietta smiling, and with just a suggestion of triumph.

  ‘Do we have good news at last?’

  ‘I think it may be so,’ she said, smiling even wider. ‘You will not have seen The Times, I think?’

  She handed him the paper, folded open to reveal the leading piece.

  THREAT TO THE REGENT’S PAVILION

  Brighton

  We are most reliably informed that Tuesday’s affair with the Frenchmen bent on depriving His Majesty’s Revenue of their just receipts, and which occasioned the deaths of an officer of the Revenue and two private men of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons, as well as a number more very grievously wounded, was a most desperate contest between the dragoons and upwards of one hundred heavily armed smugglers who greatly outnumbered our brave fellows. The Dragoons, led by their noble and gallant lieutenant colonel, the Earl of Towcester, had ridden through the foulest of weather and the blackest of nights to answer the Revenue’s urgent request for assistance. And had it not been for the extraordinary address shown by His Lordship and his gallant officers and men, it is thought that the French might even have despoiled that part of the town of Brighton nearest their landing. We need scarcely add that His Royal Highness’s own pavilion residence is within but a short distance, and, though it shall not be our business to provide intelligence of His Royal Highness’s comings and goings so as to be of use to malefactors of any nationality, we may say with safety that it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that a most exalted personage might have been taken captive in such an expedition had it not been for the prompt action of the Regiment. We may further say, with the same assurance, that not even in their late campaigning in the Peninsula and at the Battle of Waterloo, have the Sixth Light Dragoons rendered His Majesty and the Nation greater Service, and that we expect confidently to report in due course the honours which must surely be bestowed on the regiment.

  ‘How in heaven’s name did such a piece come to be written?’ Hervey’s tone could not have been more incredulous. ‘I’ve never seen such a concoction of falsehoods! “Inaccuracies” would be too charitable a word. And such speculation!’

  ‘But it serves very well, does it not?’

  ‘It serves to make of Lord Towcester a hero, for sure.’

  ‘But does it not serve to absolve you, Matthew?’

  ‘It may be so, but that is an incidental which hardly makes the fiction worthy.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Henrietta, picking up a teapot as an excuse to look away. ‘But why do you say “incidental”?’ She turned back, and lifted her eyelids just enough to catch his gaze.

  He was stunned. Surely she could not have had anything to do with such a report?

  ‘Do you really not think it settles things, my darling?’ she pressed, looking away to the window again. ‘Lord Towcester is a hero. He could scarcely make one of his captains a case for court martial!’

  He smiled, wryly. ‘I think, very probably . . . yes. It does settle things!’

  She took back the newspaper, and kissed him.

  ‘You are naught, you are naught,’ he declared.

  She giggled in the wicked way he had provoked. ‘And you are very poetic. And you have no duties for a little while longer, I imagine . . .’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TO THE AID OF THE CIVIL POWERS

  Brighton, three days later

  Major Eustace Joynson had a sick headache. He had sick headaches often, and his doctors’ prescription was always the same. He emptied a small envelope of calomel into a glass of water, watched it dissolve and then drank it in one go. As a purgative it was admirable. As a counter to pain he could not tell, for although it had no immediate effect, the pain always passed, and so he could never be sure whether it was the white powder or simply time that was efficacious. He recoiled from taking laudanum, since that had rendered his wife to all intents and purposes an invalid – at least, she was no longer fit to be about society. One of his doctors said they might try the new morphium from Leipzig, but he was as yet wary of that. His sick headaches were invariably coincident with periods of demanding activity of the cerebral kind. Indeed, if the major were faced with a disagreeable decision, a sick headache could come on almost at once.

  The past three days had not required of him any decision, but it had required unprecedented cerebral activity. First there were the courts martial. Strickland’s was a relatively straightforward affair to arrange, for the evidence was before them all in the shape, or rather the absence of shape – and colour – of his troop’s best jackets. But in the case of Hervey’s court martial there was the report of the revenue commissioner to await, and so the arrangements could only be tentative. And then had come The Times’s resounding praise, and with it a sea change in the lieutenant colonel’s disposition, so that all the arrangements for the courts martial had had to be undone, and hastily. The invitation from the Prince Regent for Lord Towcester to attend on him at once at Carlton House, which had followed within a day of The Times’s report, had further lifted the lieutenant colonel’s spirits; but it also placed the major in a position of temporary command, and this was not conducive to freedom from headaches. So when, this very morning, orders arrived from the Horse Guards to proceed to the north within twenty-four hours, the cerebral consequences for Joynson were unhappy.

  ‘Hervey, I must go and rest – a darkened room. Ple
ase would you be so good as to see these orders are put in hand?’ He gave him a sheaf of foolscap.

  Hervey sat in the major’s chair once he was gone, and read over the orders quickly to gain a feel for their substance: general insurrection is feared in Nottinghamshire and south Yorkshire . . . seditious meetings . . . serious outbreak of violence against machines and property . . . threats made to magistrates and constables . . . informers suggest traitorous conspiracy . . . six troops to reinforce Northern District . . . under direct command of Major-General Sir Francis Evans.

  He could hardly be surprised, for there had been reports in the broadsheets for the past month, though heavily censored. And, as Daniel Coates had said in his last letter, with habeas corpus still suspended, not even the bountiful harvest they were enjoying was likely to quell the discontent. Six months ago, the Yeomanry had been issued with a general order to respond to calls for assistance from the civil authorities, and so Hervey supposed that the yeomen must be exhausted, for to order the ‘pavilion regiment’ north was no small thing.

  He turned to the sheet headed ‘Regimental Orders’. It was blank. What the major had meant when he said ‘See these orders are put in hand’ was ‘Write the orders and then put them in hand.’ He sighed. ‘Where is the adjutant, Serjeant Short?’

  The orderly room serjeant said he was in Lewes for the assize dinner.

  ‘Please bring me the standing orders for forced marching, then,’ said Hervey briskly, beginning to read over the papers again.

  ‘There are none, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘What about the orders that Major Edmonds wrote as we left for Belgium? They were printed and bound when we got to France, were they not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but his lordship ordered them all destroyed a month ago and said that there was to be a new edition.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In red morocco.’

  ‘Red morocco?’ Hervey was about to ask why the old orders should be destroyed before the new ones were ready, but then realized it was not the orderly room serjeant’s place to answer. ‘Very well, then, Serjeant Short – pen and ink please. And a large pot of coffee.’

  Hervey issued a preliminary order at once, but it took him the better part of two hours to complete those for the march itself. The rate of progress shall be fifty miles per diem (a fair compromise between speed and handiness on arriving, he reckoned, for they would have to cover a little short of a hundred and fifty miles). The first ten miles shall be at the walk, led, a full half-hour, then at a steady trot. There shall be a halt of 15 mins . . . Each horse shall be given water to wash the mouth only and wisp of hay . . . The next six miles shall be at a fast trot and afterwards a halt of half an hour . . . horses to be unsaddled and rubbed down, and one peck of corn given, and water . . . A second ten miles, first walk, led, then brisk trot . . . with halt as after first . . . After next six miles at fast trot shall be a rest of two hours . . . horses to be given hay and feed of corn (they carried this themselves, and Hervey knew he hardly need detail that the men should eat their haversack rations) . . . then ten miles and halt as the first, followed by last eight without halt . . . At night billets a warm mash, with beans if weather foul, before evening feed . . . allowance per diem fourteen pounds of hay and twelve of oats, barley or Indian corn . . . He made a separate schedule for the order of march, the times of departure, and the night stops – Uxbridge, Northampton, Nottingham itself. And then he made a start on the ‘Directions for Carrying Camp Equipment’ . . .

  At length, pleased with his improvisation, he gave the sheaf of papers to the orderly room serjeant for copying and went to find his groom. It was now close on midday and the stables were quiet, Harkaway and Gilbert contentedly grinding corn in their loose boxes; but there was no sign of Private Johnson. His troop lieutenant’s groom emerged from the hay loft. ‘Oh, good morning, Lingard,’ said Hervey, a little surprised, for he knew Seton Canning to be away to Lewes with the assizes still. ‘Have you seen Johnson?’

  Private Lingard looked puzzled. ‘He’s not here, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ scowled Hervey. ‘I can see that. Do you know where he is?’

  Lingard now looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t, rightly, sir.’

  Hervey sighed. ‘Lingard, what is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  This was evasion, by any measure. ‘Come, man! I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re not saying all.’

  Lingard had no option but to comply. ‘Sir, he’s at riding school.’

  ‘Riding school?’ Johnson had been dismissed riding school for many a year. ‘Would you explain, Lingard? This is becoming a little tedious.’

  Lingard seemed embarrassed. ‘Sir, he’s learning how to ride sidesaddle.’

  Hervey made a chortling noise.

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  Johnson’s devotion to Henrietta had plainly taken an unusual turn. ‘Very well, Lingard,’ sighed Hervey, struggling hard not to laugh. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to ask Private Johnson to come to my quarters after evening stables – if by then he is still of a mind for soldiery. There are things to do. You’ve heard we’re for the north?’

  ‘No I hadn’t, sir. I’m only just back from Lewes. You mean you are going north, sir?’

  ‘The whole regiment.’

  ‘We’re leaving Brighton, sir?’ Lingard sounded pleased.

  ‘For a while, yes.’ Hervey gave Harkaway another favour, and then Gilbert. ‘Isn’t Brighton to your liking?’

  ‘Too much spit and polishing, sir. The best of it was the other night against the French. I wish I’d been there.’

  It was a strange thing with dragoons, Hervey marvelled. They were like their horses: they spent their hours in the stable wishing to be out, and then once they were out they were only too keen to make straight back in. He only hoped the news would be greeted as well in the officers’ mess, though in truth he knew it would not. George ‘Beau’ Brummell may have been striking a pose when, the Tenth having been ordered to Manchester all those years ago, he protested that he had not enlisted for foreign service, but Brummell’s sentiments were prevalent in the cavalry still.

  Outside the stables he found Serjeant Armstrong in heated contest with the farrier-corporal, except that the corporal was now silent. ‘I don’t care which one of your men did this,’ came the raw Tyneside. ‘If ever I find a dumped foot in this troop again, I’ll charge you – with negligence.’

  Armstrong was evidently relishing his duty as serjeant-major during Kendall’s convalescence (Kendall’s dyspeptic ulcer was almost as troublesome as Joynson’s sick headaches). And why should he not, thought Hervey, for Armstrong had been fitted enough for it innumerable times in the Peninsula? ‘Do you know where Johnson is?’ he asked, when the farrier-corporal had gone.

  ‘He wasn’t at watering parade, so I thought he was with you, sir.’

  ‘No.’

  Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, suggesting a frown beneath his shako. ‘That’s rum. He’s never slipped his collar before now.’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ Hervey suddenly thought better of revealing Johnson’s change of seat, for the need to school Henrietta’s little mare was something whose announcement wanted careful judging. ‘What do you make of the orders?’

  ‘Glad of ’em. This place is getting stale. But I’m not much taken with police work, especially after the other night. I just hope we’re not going to be buggered about by a lot of fuzzled justices!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Hervey paused to return the orderly corporal’s salute, on his way to guard mounting. ‘How are things going?’

  ‘Fine. We’ll be ready all right. Just another half-dozen to shoe.’

  ‘Any news of the serjeant-major?’

  ‘Still on gruel. Not even light duties for another week.’ Armstrong sounded content enough.

  Hervey huffed, and looked embarrassed. ‘It’s an ill wind .
. .’

  ‘I didn’t join the Sixth for foreign service either, Hervey!’ Captain Rose blew cigar smoke ceilingwards. There were muttered ‘hear, hears’ all about the ante-room.

  ‘Leicestershire is adjoining country, Rose; look at it that way!’

  ‘The place is full of mine shafts isn’t it? And forest? Trappy country to follow hounds in, I’d say.’

  The slight inclination of F Troop leader’s eyebrows told Hervey that his objections were not entirely flippant. ‘It might make for interesting sport, though,’ he countered, warming to the imagery. ‘We should see hounds working, rather than just galloping with a big field.’

  Rose shook his head doubtfully. ‘But these northern foxes’ll bolt straight back to the woods, or wherever. You’ll lose hounds left, right and centre going in after ’em.’

  ‘I grant you we’ll not have anything like the runs we’d have in Leicestershire, but we’ll just have to go at our fox a different way.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Stop up the earths, for sure. And terriers for if they do manage to run to earth. Perhaps we’ll have to hunt as we do for cubs – drive Charles back onto hounds.’

  Rose smiled, still sceptical. ‘We’ll see, Hervey. But I still say I haven’t paid good money to hunt poor country!’

  During this somewhat recondite exchange, Hervey had begun to realize that his authority as the senior troop leader, although a matter only of days and pounds, was being accepted with some grace by the other officers. Hervey had already learned that no one expected the report from the revenue officer, when it came, to point a single finger of blame at his handling of events. In the passage of remarkably little time he had gone from dejection to . . . if hardly triumph, then certainly encouragement. The vexation was that the bubble reputation was not to be had in the cannon’s mouth any longer, but in the columns of The Times – and not by his own feats, but by the guile of his wife.