'I intended suggesting we repair to White's.'
Hervey half smiled. 'You are ever kind, Howard, but I can't detain you thus. Some coffee, perhaps?'
Lord John Howard rang the bell for a messenger. 'The Eightyfirst are a fine regiment, as the Line goes. And it generally goes well, does it not?'
Hervey nodded. 'I don't doubt it. I know it, indeed. I first saw them at Corunna.'
'And I know, too, that Sir James Kempt was pleased to approve the nomination.'
'Kempt is colonel?'
'He is.'
Lieutenant-General Sir James Kempt had commanded a brigade at the storming of Badajoz. Some of Hervey's dragoons had helped carry him to the field hospital. 'I am flattered.Where are they stationed?'
'Canada.'
Hervey had supposed them – for some reason – in Ireland. Canada had unhappy memories, and few opportunities now for an officer to distinguish himself. A look of further disappointment overcame him.
'Have you thought to speak with Irvine?' asked Howard solicitously. 'There may yet be time . . . before it is gazetted.'
Lieutenant-General Lord George Irvine, colonel of the 6th Light Dragoons, had recently been posted to the Unattached List, pending appointment in Ireland. It had long been his wish that Hervey have command of the regiment in which both had served together. But circumstances had contrived to confound him in this – and indeed his predecessor. Money had spoken, for all that the late commander-in-chief, the Duke of York, had tried to moderate the excesses of purchase.
'I have,' said Hervey, nodding firmly. 'But forming any question of him, decently, would not be easy. I can hardly ask how long he expects Hol'ness to remain in command.' Nor, indeed, would an indication of short tenure be necessarily to his advantage. Lord Holderness effectively owned the appointment freehold. In spite of the regulations, he could still name his price. And Hervey, for all that Daniel Coates's legacy provided for him to purchase command at regulation price, could not match some of the figures being bandied.
'You might simply ask what he advises?'
Hervey nodded again, but unconvinced.
The messenger brought coffee.
Howard took his cup and leaned back, as if to emphasize the decidedness with which he would speak. 'I believe I must tell you, truly, from all I see and hear in this place, that your prospects for purchase are lamentable – even if Hol'ness were to sell out, that is. You know, do you not, what price Bingham paid for the Seventeenth?'
The transaction had occurred not long before Hervey had first left for the Cape. 'Five thousand?'
He said it with an ironic smile. The regulation price was five thousand pounds. Payment in excess had been illegal for several years. The Grand Old Duke had, indeed, made overpayment an offence before the King's bench. An officer could be fined, or imprisoned, and the transaction cancelled. There had not been a single prosecution, however.
'Twenty-five.'
Hervey's mouth fell open.
'And do you know, by the way, what dear old Bacon has done?'
Anthony Bacon – an acquaintance of Hervey's from Peninsular days – had been the Seventeenth's senior major (just as Hervey was the Sixth's). He had confidently expected the command to come his way.
'No.'
'He's sold out, and thrown in with the King of Portugal. A mercenary!'
Hervey could scarce believe it. Anthony Bacon, whom Lord Uxbridge, commanding the cavalry at Corunna and Waterloo, reckoned to be the finest of his officers, and who had married Lady Charlotte Harley, whose father was very probably the King! What chance did he himself have if Bacon were dealt with thus? He shook his head. 'What manner of system do we have?'
He did not expect an answer of his friend, save perhaps, as the old saying went, that hard cases made bad law. The Duke of Wellington was the strongest supporter of purchase. Even Hervey was not so much opposed to the principle of purchase (he had seen its beneficent results), as to the abuses. Was it so very difficult to root these out?
He shifted awkwardly in his chair. 'Might . . . d'ye suppose . . . Lord Hill see me?'
Lord John Howard shifted in his own chair as awkwardly. 'My dear friend, you know that I am ever willing to advance your cause, but to arrange an interview with the commander-in-chief, I—'
Hervey stayed his embarrassment with a hand. The notion of an interview on such a matter was preposterous, for an officer could not recommend himself thus. 'I'm sorry.'
His friend sighed. 'See, it would be impossible that you call on him here. But he dines at the United Service this evening, with Lord Hardinge. Were you to encounter him in the hall . . .'
Hervey rose and made to leave. 'Thank you, Howard. You are ever good.'
They exchanged a little general news, before Howard seemed to remember something more pertinent.
'You do know, by the way, there's a new governor for the Cape? Lowry Cole.'
Hervey shook his head, though he knew that Somervile's appointment as lieutenant-governor was ipso facto of a temporary nature.
'He goes out in the autumn. Another friendly face for you.'
It was true. Sir Lowry Cole had a fine reputation from the Peninsula. He had commanded the 4th Division for much of it, and had almost certainly saved the day at Albuera. And he was a cavalryman. But with Somervile recalled . . . 'Well, no doubt there could be not a better man for the Cape, though I confess it will mean a good deal shorter rein for me.'
Lord John Howard smiled. 'The bit can still remain between your teeth, my friend. But see, I did not ask: how was Brighton?'
Hervey left the Horse Guards and turned right into Whitehall, thinking to make for the abbey, where he supposed there would be someone who knew where was the Roman bishop's house – or rather, as his father would have reminded him (since 'bishop', for a Catholic, could be but colloquial), the vicar apostolic. It was then it occurred to him that a hackney driver might know.
There were several cabs near the Houses of Parliament. He walked to the front of the rank, and enquired.
'I can't say I knows, sir,' replied the first. 'There not being the trade, so to speak. But I does know a Catholic shop, close on Grosvenor-square.'
Hervey was unsure what exactly the cabman meant by 'Catholic' shop – whether it was owned by a Catholic, or was like the shops in Rome which sold abominable articoli religiosi to the gullible pellegrini. Either way he would be making a first footing towards his objective. 'Very well, would you kindly convey me there?'
They drove by the pleasant way of parks – St James's, the Green and then Hyde Park. Ordinarily Hervey would have been much diverted by the sights and sounds, but the mission on which he was embarked was beginning to oppress him. At first he had thought it a fine thing: the Sixth would show everyone how they buried a 'daughter of the regiment'. Now, though, he could think only of Armstrong, and of the devastation the news would bring; and, indeed, the distress of the children. He himself had borne such a loss, of course, but Georgiana had known nothing of it. His serjeant-major's children, all but the very youngest, would know they had lost a mother. And he, Hervey, had had a loving family – still had – in which to contain his grief; Armstrong had none, his people long perished. How might he therefore enjoy such a drive as this, for all its sun and sylvan parks?
But even had he not been bent on his unhappy mission, the business of regimental command overcast the scene like a dark cloud. Was it really come to this: men from nowhere but the vast wealth of their estates, paying fortunes for the mere conceit of a smart uniform and having a regiment wheel about at their command? For the vanity of five hundred men saluting them, officers at their beck and call, the power to make and break any man? How could it come about that a man like Anthony Bacon was passed over for the likes of Lord Bingham, not yet thirty, never having heard a shot fired in anger? Why in God's name did the Duke of Wellington connive at it? And Lord Hill, for that matter?
What was he to do? What could he do?
They turned off Park Lane, rolled o
n through Grosvenor Square and into Duke Street, pulling up outside a bay-windowed shop bearing the sign Geo Keating, Printer of Religious Books. Hervey got down from the cab, bid the driver wait, and entered.
The interior was as any bookshop, save for several glass cases in which there were rosaries, crucifixes and other articoli, which were somehow less troubling than in Rome for their being rather more discreetly displayed.
The proprietor, an amiable man, received his questions with wellmannered evasion, until an explanation of the purpose in discovering the whereabouts of the 'bishop' set his mind at rest. Indeed, so animated was Mr Keating by (as he put it) the nobility of what Hervey undertook, that he at once volunteered to accompany him to the residence of the vicar apostolic. 'For without a sponsor, His Lordship might feel unable to receive you, and since my business is as printer to the London district I am confident of securing an audience.'
Hervey, amused by the coincidence of episcopal and military terms in 'London district', was pleased to accept the offer, which was not without a trysting feel, as in the dark days when recusants lived in fear of their liberty if not their lives.
They left the shop to the care of an assistant.
'To Holborn, please, driver,' said Mr Keating, as they got into the cab. 'Number four, Castle-street.'
Hervey nodded to him, obliged.
'We amuse ourselves by calling the residence "the Castle",' said his guide, at last allowing himself a little smile.
Hervey gave something of a smile by return, for Holborn was no place for a fashionable.
His guide soon lapsed into respectful silence, however. In truth, Hervey found it curiously difficult to bring himself to conversation. As a rule he found it easy enough to speak with all manner of men, but this surreptitious charge felt most strange.
It took half an hour to negotiate the road to Holborn, during which he began turning over in his mind again the appointment to the Eighty-first. He knew well enough that one day he would have to quit the Sixth (unless he were to become that sad figure, the superseded major, treated kindly but increasingly ignored), but he had not contemplated that it might be so soon. Yet what would happen otherwise, when his temporary command of the Corps of Cape Mounted Riflemen came to an end? Would he have a brevet, or would he have to relinquish altogether the rank of half-colonel? What would be Kezia's thoughts then? She had, after all, accepted him in the prospect of imminent command of the Sixth (he did not doubt that there was disappointment enough already on that count). She would be gratified, or at least relieved, would she not, at his command of the Eighty-first, and would find Canada an agreeable posting? Above all, there was the financial advantage: he would not have to part with a single penny for command, and this meant he would not lose a single penny when promotion to colonel came (as he trusted it would), for an officer forfeited his purchase money on promotion beyond regimental rank. Could he really afford, therefore, to be so fastidious in whether he wore a red or a blue coat in command?
They turned into Castle Street and pulled up outside a narrowfronted house of three storeys and small windows, shabby but quite evidently respectable. Hervey put away his thoughts of red coats, and got down to pay the cabman while his guide rang the doorbell.
They were admitted by a strange, duenna-looking woman, who explained that His Lordship was not at home, and that his coadjutor was engaged; nevertheless she would see if the vicargeneral would receive them. She showed them into the dining room, which served also as an ante-room.
The vicar-general came at once, a pleasant-faced man not much older than Hervey, with an easy manner and ready smile. After due introductions (in which it was explained that Hervey was 'not of our faith'), he declared he was entirely at his visitors' disposal, making much of seeing Mr Keating again so soon after arranging the printing of the recent apostolic letter. 'Mr Keating, as his father before him, is a publisher of most particular standards, Colonel Hervey.'
'You are very gracious, sir,' replied Keating, who turned to Hervey with a look of some pride. 'My father had the honour of printing the bishop's loyal address on the occasion of the victory at Trafalgar.'
'Indeed, sir?' replied Hervey respectfully, but with a note of mystification.
The vicar-general began rummaging in one of several cupboards, until he found what he was looking for. 'Here, sir. Here is a copy of the Trafalgar letter. Keep it, Colonel Hervey. You will find that it speaks eloquently of the loyalty of those of our faith.'
Hervey took it, somewhat abashed. 'Sir, I do not doubt – nor have had any occasion to doubt – the loyalty of His Majesty's subjects.'
The vicar-general smiled disarmingly. 'Well, Colonel Hervey, perhaps you will tell me how we may be of further service.'
They sat, and Hervey explained Lord Holderness's intention that the regiment should parade for the funeral.
The vicar-general nodded approvingly. 'Well, Colonel Hervey, may I first say how gratifying is the commanding officer's intention. I foresee no difficulty with the obsequies: solemn requiem in St Mary's church in Moorfields for the soul of the late departed, praesente cadavere, followed by interment in the churchyard of St Pancras, which is the new cemetery.'
Hervey noticed the appreciative raising of Mr Keating's eyebrows. Evidently this was a proposal of some distinction. 'And this might be arranged for . . .'
'I believe it could be arranged for Friday next, the fourth.'
'Thank you. May we fix now upon a time? At eleven, say?'
'That would be meet.'
Hervey rose and made to leave. 'Thank you, reverend sir. With whom should the adjutant communicate in respect of the . . .s details?'
The vicar-general rose. 'I beg he would communicate with me. In the circumstances, the bishop – if you will permit the word – would wish it so. Indeed, I believe His Lordship would wish to receive you now, before you take your leave. You have no objection?'
Hervey smiled. 'It was my intention in coming here. But I understood the bishop was not at home.'
'Of the London district, no. I meant his coadjutor, the Bishop of Lydda.'
'Lydda?'
'In partibus infidelium. You will understand he could have no English title.'
'Mission' . . . 'in the regions of the infidels' . . . words that set these men apart, the suspicion of allegiance elsewhere than to the Crown (for all the fine words, no doubt, of the Trafalgar address). But Hervey did not bridle, for he was convinced that he met here with sincerity (and, no doubt, Lydda was in Ottoman hands!). 'I am honoured, sir.'
The vicar-general conducted his visitors upstairs to an oldfashioned wainscoted room. On the walls, smoke-darkened, were oils of various English martyrs, and over the fireplace a portrait of Pope Leo, with a crucifix prominent at the centre of the inner wall. Hervey examined each as if he were admitted to an exhibition of curiosities.
The outlandishly beneficed bishop, a man of about fifty, and wearing black day clothes, came in soon afterwards. Hervey at once recognized him – the spare, fervent features, the eyes that pierced to the soul, though the face was even more gaunt than when he had seen it a decade ago.
'My Lord, this is Colonel Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons.'
His Lordship smiled. 'I believe we have met, Colonel Hervey, have we not? In Rome?'
'Your Lordship has a good memory,' replied Hervey, returning the smile. 'There must have been many visitors to the college.' He bowed.
The bishop, formerly rector of the English seminary in Rome, held out a hand.
Hervey saw the episcopal ring, and wondered if he were meant to kiss it (he had once observed the custom in Spain). But the hand was held at such an angle as to suggest a more English fashion of greeting.
'I recall that you had left the service at that time,' said the bishop, motioning him to resume his seat.
'I had indeed, but I rejoined immediately on returning from Rome. Are you yourself long returned, sir?'
'Only lately, Colonel Hervey. In point of fact I was ordained bishop b
ut a week ago.'
'And I myself was married but two weeks ago.'
The bishop nodded. 'We are each of us blessed in our respective sacraments.'
'I remember well your kindness that day, Father. I would not have explained, I am sure, that I had then only recently lost my wife.'
'Then you are doubly blessed in the sacrament,' the bishop pronounced gravely.
Hervey bowed again. 'I am.'
The bishop placed his hands together to indicate a change of direction. 'But now, the purpose of your visit . . . most admirable. If there are no objections, I myself will attend the obsequies.'
Hervey looked surprised. 'I am certain I may say, sir, that far from there being any objections, your presence would be an honour. The widower is my own serjeant-major, who is at this time at the Cape Colony. I believe it will be of great comfort to him when I inform him on my return.'
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