Hervey 10 - Warrior

by Allan Mallinson

  'That would only be necessary if you wished to be certain that I was here. But it is so very rare that I am not. Please, take a seat, Colonel. Oh, may I bring you water?'

  It intrigued him how much of her pleasant disposition was revealed in her general air, for the wimple exposed so little of her features. Perhaps the severe framing of the face drew attention more directly to the eyes, which were ice blue and had lost none of the ability to pierce. And the years since Toulouse had been kind to her (kinder than to him). There, he had thought she was his senior; now, he thought it the other way round.

  He shook his head. 'No, thank you, Sister. Or – forgive me – do I call you "Reverend Mother"?'

  She sat down. 'That is the more correct. I am prioress of my carmel.'

  'And you are here . . . temporarily?'

  'I am.'

  Since she did not volunteer any more information, and since it was no part of the reason he was here, Hervey curbed his curiosity. 'Colonel Holderness has written to you thanking you for your assistance with Mrs Armstrong's funeral. You may have received it already?'

  'I have, and I was most touched by it, for I did but a very little.'

  'I regret I did not see you that day; there was much to be about.'

  'Of course. I did, however, see you, with, I imagine, your wife. And I should most certainly have presented myself had I not been in attendance on the bishop.'

  Hervey nodded. 'The bishop's presence was a considerable honour. It ought to go well with Serjeant-Major Armstrong when I am able to tell him of it. Some little comfort, at least. You know that he is at the Cape of Good Hope, and that I return there shortly with the ill news.'

  'I understood that, yes.'

  He fell silent.

  'And so, Colonel, what is it further that I may do for you?'

  He shifted a little in his chair, clenched his fists and cleared his throat. 'Reverend Mother, I am troubled by a particular . . . event, and I seek your counsel.'

  Sister Maria smiled beatifically. 'Colonel 'Ervey, would that counsel not be better had from a priest?'

  'I cannot judge, Reverend Mother, but I recall your good counsel in Toulouse.'

  'I recall that I gave you a vade mecum, the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius.'

  'You did indeed. And they were of use.'

  'Are they of use still?'

  If he had followed the Spiritual Exercises still with any degree of faithfulness, there would be no cause for his coming to Hammersmith. But he could not frame his reply thus. 'I regret that it is some years . . .'

  'Well, you are here now.'

  He nodded, gratefully. 'I am.'

  'Then let me help you begin. Perhaps it would serve if you told me, as much or as little as pleases you, of your life since that day in Paris, after Waterloo, when last I knew anything of you?'

  Hervey was a little surprised at Sister Maria's wishing to reach so far back, when quite evidently the event to which he alluded must be recent. Nevertheless he was also curiously relieved, however daunting was the prospect of recounting his life thus. Had he been content with mere pardon, as a man who, in the words of the Prayer Book, 'cannot quiet his own conscience herein, but requireth further comfort or counsel', he might have gone instead to some chaplain, 'or to some other discreet and learned Minister of God's Word, and open his grief; that . . . he may receive the benefit of absolution, together with ghostly counsel and advice'. And but a hundred yards from the house of Kezia's aunt, at St George's church, he would have found a willing curate for 'the quieting of his conscience, and avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness'.

  That indeed would have been the way of his own church. But he feared that its ghostly counsel and advice would be more by formula than true understanding of his predicament. Not that he expected other than dismay in Sister Maria when he told her of his cause for unquietness. Yet in her counsel he felt certain there would be some understanding of his conscience, and that without such understanding the counsel might not be . . . complete. He expected no undue allowance, but he was sure he would be better able somehow to do what was commanded by Scripture if the counsel came from so particular a sister of Carmel.

  And so he told her everything. He told her of his marriage with Henrietta, and he spared not her blushes in describing their shortlived bliss (though she did not in the least blush on learning of it), and of Georgiana. He told her of his own part in his wife's death, his guilt, the subsequent resignation of his commission, his time in Rome, his reinstatement, his time in India, his feelings there for Vaneeta, how he and Kat had become lovers, his ill-starred sojourn in Portugal and his resolution to put right his life, not least his neglect of Georgiana and his trespassing on the infinite good nature of his sister (and, indeed, his unreasonable treatment of her of late), of his courtship and marriage with Kezia (which Sister Maria could not fail to recognize was couched in greatly less animated form than that for his first marriage), his indecision over command of another regiment, his return to the Cape alone . . .

  So long was his account that the bell began tolling for the afternoon office. Hervey looked at his watch – a quarter to three – and then at Sister Maria, anxiously: he had yet to say what was the urgent cause of his disquiet.

  She nodded encouragingly. 'God calls me to hear you, Colonel 'Ervey. Please continue.'

  He steeled himself. 'Reverend Mother, Lady Katherine Greville is with child, by me. And her husband believes that the child is his.'

  Having braced himself, he sank back into his chair – or so he felt, for the chair was entirely upright and to an observer he barely moved a muscle.

  But the look of horror in his confessor's face, in expectation of which he had so resolutely screwed his courage to the sticking post, was entirely absent. There remained the same aspect of benevolence, infinitely patient, wholly serene. For a moment he wondered if he had explained himself clearly enough.

  After some considerable measure of silence, Sister Maria spoke. 'Colonel 'Ervey, there is a great deal in what you have told me which calls for remark, not solely that which you suppose is the present cause of your troubled mind. But let us address that which you perceive is the greatest sin. I mean, of course, the adultery with Lady Katherine Greville.'

  Hervey shifted slightly, but continued to look his confidante in the eye, as if not to do so were somehow a sign of evasion.

  Sister Maria remained perfectly still, her hands clasped. 'Your sin is a matter for reconciliation with God. You are Protestant, and you are therefore minded to speak directly to Him. If you were Catholic you would know that in such circumstances the offices of a priest would be the most efficacious.'

  His father had never called himself Protestant, but this was not a thing to be debated now. Hervey nodded to acknowledge the point.

  'The teaching of the Church is plain in this regard, following as it does from the unequivocal commandment against adultery, and so you cannot have need of words from me. The question now is what is the right course in the matter of truth.'

  He nodded again. It was precisely the question, and that to which the examination of his life for the better part of an hour had been prelude.

  'Since you are not Catholic, Colonel 'Ervey, I am – ironically, as you say – at liberty to give what counsel I will.'

  Not for the first time in that hour, Hervey marvelled at Sister Maria's command of English. She had once told him that she had learned it from an English governess, but such precision (and indeed elegance) of phrase must have been perfected by much reading – the advantage, perhaps, of an eremitical life?

  'I am grateful, Sister.'

  'Colonel 'Ervey, in addressing the right course in the matter of truth we leave the realm of moral teaching and enter that of prudence. And since I know you to be a prud'homme, it will not be a realm unknown to you.'

  He nodded again, doubly grateful for the accolade.

  'Prudence, Colonel 'Ervey, is one of the cardinal virtues. It does not itself perform any actions, concerned as
it is solely with knowledge, yet all other virtues must be regulated by it. As a prud'homme, you will understand perfectly, for example, that to distinguish when an act is courageous, instead of merely reckless, or cowardly, is an act of prudence.'

  'Indeed.'

  'Prudence is to apply one's mind in affairs of this world to discern what is virtuous and what is not, and how to address the one and avoid the other. Its intention is to perfect not the will but the mind in its practical decisions, seeking where the essence of virtue lies.' She smiled, as if the search for virtue were pleasing in itself. 'But it is not enough simply to will the good which it discerns. Prudence bids us do three things: to take counsel to discover the means of securing the virtuous end, and then to judge soundly the fitness of those means; and, finally, to command their employment.' She laid emphasis on the word 'command', as if knowing it would strike a chord.

  He nodded again.

  She rose.

  Hervey rose too, but in some despair: his own prudence had led him to do its first bidding – to seek counsel – and he trusted he knew how to command; what he wanted now of Sister Maria was to know the means.

  She clasped her hands together, and looked grave. 'The end of all moral virtues, Colonel 'Ervey, is human good. I must first ponder on the matter, and pray, before giving such counsel. Are you able to return tomorrow, at this time?'

  'I am.'

  She smiled again, though with a suggestion of disquiet. 'And now I must say another thing, but briefly for the vespers bell cannot be long away. It distresses me to see such confusion of mind over your opportunity for promotion and command of this new regiment. It is not a matter of prudence in the sense that I have just spoken of, but I believe it to be of the first importance in the proper ordering of your affairs, which itself is at the heart of the virtuous life. You are a soldier, Colonel 'Ervey. I understood that perfectly at Toulouse.'

  He smiled by return. 'It is a matter to which I am giving the most particular attention, I assure you, Sister.'

  'Then I think that before you return to the Cape of Good Hope we might speak of these – and other matters – too.'

  It was a most generous invitation, and one which he had not supposed he might receive. 'I should be ever grateful, Sister.'

  She made to lead him from the room, when another thought occurred to her. 'I should like very much to meet your wife, Colonel 'Ervey. Do you think I might call on her?'

  He was surprised by the question, not so much alarmed, for they had spoken under what he knew as the seal of the confessional, but rather that Sister Maria imagined meeting with Kezia might in any degree inform their intercourse. 'You may call at your liberty, Sister.'

  'Then I will do so tomorrow morning.'

  He put on his hat.

  Sister Maria sighed, and looked at him in a sort of frowning perplexity. 'Colonel 'Ervey, I full well understand what are your travails, but I am truly saddened that there is no joy in you, as once I recall there was. The gift of a child, even if in unfortunate circumstances, is a matter for rejoicing. Sursum corda: lift up your heart!'

  He smiled, if not wholeheartedly, then thankfully. 'I will indeed, ma'am.'

  The vespers bell began chiming. It was nearing five o'clock. Holland Park was but a mile away: he could call on Kat, and begin to prepare the ground. And he could return thence to Hanover Square before the evening invited too much intimacy.

  He took his leave, and for all his earlier despair, he rode from Hammersmith with a heart that was indeed beginning to lift.

  PART TWO

  THE GATHERING STORM

  VII

  INDEFINITE LEAVE OF ABSENCE

  Cape Colony, early September

  The great paddle wheels began churning in the swell off Robben Island, whither the colony's worst miscreants were banished. The noise, like a giant blanket, smothered all conversation on deck.

  Hervey braced himself to the vibration of the engines, which took a minute or so after firing to reach their full speed. The Enterprise had not had much recourse to them during the passage. The wind had been favourable. The engines' purpose, explained her captain, was to get them in and out of port against contrary airs (they would have been waiting at Gravesend, still, so strong had been the south-westerlies). The captain was very decided in his opinion, and although a man of scientific bent, he was certain that the wind would ever be the motive power of the high seas, for it failed only rarely, it was health-giving (no one, not even Peto, who was convinced there was more to steam than they saw at present, would laud a sulphurous chimney stack) – and it was free.

  Hervey was gladdened by the sight of Table Mountain. It had been fifty-four days only – faster than he had first come out with Leviathan, but slower than his return home six months ago. The Enterprise would continue on to Calcutta in a day or so, another six weeks, perhaps, making the India passage in fourteen, a good month quicker than the rule, especially at this time of year before the south-west monsoon was come.

  For a moment he wondered how he would feel if he were going on too, back to Bengal, to take command of the Eighty-first – had they been there and not Canada. Did he wish that they were? He had spent the better part of seven years in India. They had been extraordinary years, impossible to explain to any who had not set foot in that land. But it had been, as it were, a parade which was marking time, waiting interminably for some part of it (which he could not see) to come into line, and only thereafter the order 'Forward!'

  And while they had been marking time in Bengal, the ranks had thinned. Some had fallen nobly, like the commanding officer, Sir Ivo Lankester (Kezia's husband), leading his men in battle. More – many more – had died of the cholera, or of any number of strange diseases which defied the surgeon's learning. Some had died by their own hand, to lie in everlasting dishonour in the suicides' corner of the cantonment cemetery. And yet, no matter how they met their end, they would all be but bones now – the ultimate comradeship of the regiment, of every one of the dragoons who had died with the colours in four continents:

  Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, And we shall be changed.

  And he wondered, as often he did, how, when the trumpet sounded, they would all be mustered.

  No, he did not wish the Eighty-first were in India, for all the country's easy pleasures and the thrill of its warfare. He was glad – at least for the time being – that the regiment slept in their beds at Fort York. Canada would be a painful return for him, of course, the place of Georgiana's birth. But then, when he had told her, she had been animated by the prospect. And if Georgiana was content in going to the place whence her mother had marched for that fatal reunion, then he must be too – for all that it might remind him of a bliss too great.

  For now, however, there were other things to disquiet him: Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Before long, he would see Serjeant-Major Armstrong. And an evil it most certainly would be. He had tried to imagine how he would tell him of Caithlin; but there was nothing he could with confidence settle on.

  The crew were shortening sail. The wind seemed to be a point or so east from south, but he always found it difficult to judge these things. And for all that Peto had attempted to instruct him in the science of sailing, in the setting and trimming of sails his old friend had merely shown him a mystery.

  Yes: he had a high regard for the naval profession, even when it was made easy by steam engines and paddle wheels.

  He cupped a hand to his mouth. 'Ngathi kuza kunetha,' nodding to the threatening cloud.

  Fairbrother screwed up his face and shook his head. The cloud was too high; it would not rain today – 'Akuzi kuna namhlanje!' He clasped a hand to Hervey's shoulder, and then looked down at the water. 'Siyacothoza.'

  Hervey had to think before he could compose a worthwhile reply: the ship was indeed running in slowly, bu
t . . .

  For six weeks his friend had instructed him daily in the language of the Xhosa. Hervey did not expect that he would stay long in the Colony (the troop had orders to return to England in the new year) but Somervile's letter had prompted him to acquire what in India they called a 'scouting tongue' – enough of the language to enquire the way ahead and what it held. In fact, Hervey had acquired rather more than the scout's portion: while he could hold no discursive conversation, his vocabulary was broader than the here and now. He had in fact found the language of the Xhosa, while not easy, surprisingly rich and subtle. He would have chosen to learn that of the Zulu instead, had there been the means; but the two were close enough, as he had discovered in the prelude to the affair at the Umtata River.

  In another quarter of an hour the crew had taken in all but the topgallants as the Enterprise turned to larboard and, with the wind abeam and the cold Benguela Current no longer directly opposing her, picked up speed.