Hervey 09 - Man Of War

by Allan Mallinson

  This morning, however, at St George’s church in Hanover Square, there was not a uniform to be seen, and the music was the organ’s, though a rather grand instrument on which Handel himself had played (the organist this morning played sober glees). Indeed, to Hervey’s taste, the whole church was rather too austere, singularly lacking in ornament except for the gilded names of rectors and churchwardens on the panels of the gallery, and a reredos-painting of the Last Supper, which he thought very dull compared with those he had seen in Rome. It was, however, not an unhappy interior: the late-morning sun streamed through the brilliant plain glass of the Venetian window above, and there were flowers, fashionable hats and silks.

  There was an equal number, a dozen or so, on either side of the nave, some standing, some sitting in the high box pews – Hervey’s immediate family and brother officers, including Lord Holderness, and some of Kezia’s family and friends, from both town and country. Georgiana wore dark blue, and yellow ribbons, the only touch of regimental colour among the congregation (Elizabeth had taken some pains with the millinery), for even Private Johnson wore plain clothes. And there was Kat, in a turban and a magnificent pelisse of green silk, a beauty to turn every head, male and female.

  If only Peto had been there – whole or in his invalid state, and Elizabeth at his side . . . Hervey, standing with Lord John Howard between the soaring Corinthian columns at the top of St George’s elegant steps, greeting the guests as they arrived, could not give up the idea of a reconciliation, even now. The thought of his friend’s lonely return to Norfolk, the inevitable if gradual rejection by society (for a man with such disfigurement, even with a Bath Star at his breast, could be no adornment to their pretty world) . . . this saddest of thoughts exercised him more each day. Indeed there were moments when he did not think he could return to the Cape, leaving his old friend thus.

  As the appointed hour approached, Hervey and Lord John Howard took their places at the front of the nave. And soon after eleven o’clock, Kezia, on the arm of her father, with her attendant, a married cousin, began her decorous procession towards the chancel, the organ accompanying them with something Hervey did not recognize, nor hardly even notice. They had spoken little of the arrangements, for he had understood the difficulty, perhaps, of the undertaking: his own wedding, notwithstanding its bitter-sweet memories, was some time past, whereas Kezia’s must yet be vivid in her mind’s eye, and that of her family (although it had lately occurred to him how similar were their circumstances, each having lost a marriage partner, violently and within a year of being wed, and each with a child made at once unknowledgeable of a parent). He turned to glimpse his bride.

  Kezia’s appearance was indeed arresting. She wore a dress of levantine, narrow coral stripes on cream, lowwaisted as was the fashion, the skirt spread full at the hem; and in her hair were flowers and ribbons above a lace cap. If he had been capable of admitting it, he would have owned that her appearance was in truth as pleasing to him as that of his first bride. And a curious triumphing sense overcame him, a strange notion that there advanced on him Lady Lankester, the widowed wife of a regimental hero, himself the brother of a fallen paragon, and that she would retire as Mrs Matthew Hervey . . . He could not explain it (or if he could he would not wish to), but it was as if he crossed a threshold, perhaps one that he had not before even recognized. It thrilled and invigorated him to a remarkable degree. And he wished devoutly – no, irreverently – for its consummation.

  As the bridal procession reached the east end of the nave, Kezia turned to acknowledge her husband-to-be. It was with a look more of composure than of joy, but, he was sure, it was a look of the surest beginnings.

  ‘Dearly beloved,’ began the rector, the Reverend Mr Hodgson, whose ministration Kezia had been at some pains to secure since his plurality of livings made his attendance variable and by no means consistent.

  Hervey now forced himself to listen with due attention to the solemn words. He had heard them many a time, and always with due regard, for as the Prayer Book said, they were gathered together in the sight of God.

  The Reverend Mr Hodgson read the words with compelling weight: they were come, he announced, ‘to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church . . . and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly’ (Hervey was sure in his own advice) ‘lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding’ (he was certain that, whatever instincts were awakened, he did not marry like a brute beast without understanding); ‘but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.’

  Hervey looked again at his bride, but she maintained her strictly forward gaze.

  The rector reminded his congregants of the purposes of the married state: ‘First, It was ordained for the procreation of children . . .’

  Hervey had not considered this in any particular, but in the natural consequence of events he imagined there would be issue.

  ‘Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency . . .’

  This he knew to be so, and was heartily resolved upon it.

  ‘Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.’

  This was indeed his design, the remedy he had resolved on in Badajoz, yet which he had never imagined was to be had so quickly or so favourably.

  And so the ceremony proceeded. Hervey’s thoughts flitted from past to present in a dizzy tableau of his life – its joys, reverses and errors, the people who had been kind to him and those who had not, the people on whom he depended and who in their turn depended on him. What did the sacred poet say?

  Freely we serve,

  Because we freely love, as in our will

  To love or not; in this we stand or fall.

  Yes, he had lost a paradise in the white wastes of America; now he would in the largest measure possible regain it: ‘I, Matthew Paulinus, take thee . . .’

  And with these words, Hervey plighted his troth.

  ‘I, Kezia Charlotte Marjoribanks, take thee . . .’

  And thereto Lady Lankester gave him her troth.

  At the wedding breakfast, at the house of Kezia’s aunt in Hanover Street, the families became acquainted in a more or less agreeable way, although Hervey’s mother – as she had feared – imagined herself addressed a deal too highly by the bride’s mother (and she some years Lady Rumsey’s senior, too), but the presence of so many of Hervey’s brother officers, and Lord Holderness, gave the happy event a more appropriate liveliness.

  Hervey had eyes not only for his bride, however, but for Georgiana – somewhat anxious eyes to begin with, until by degrees he assured himself that she was as happy with the day as was he.

  Even Kat appeared happy – and greatly to his joy (and no little relief). When he spoke to her in the garden she was all smiles and felicitations. ‘An adorable creature, Matthew. I perfectly see now your attachment. She will make you the finest colonel’s lady. I am certain of it!’

  Hervey smiled by return (he hoped not awkwardly).

  ‘I have sent you both a little present. I hope it will please you.’

  ‘Kat, I—’

  ‘And I have news – received this very morning, else of course I would have told you of it before. It will delight you, I’m sure.’

  Hervey looked suddenly doubtful.

  ‘After you told me of poor Captain Peto’s misfortune I wrote at once to my good friend George Cholmondeley at Houghton – do you know him?’

  Hervey shook his head.

  ‘He is Marquess,’ she explained. ‘But he succeeded only last year,’ she added, as if this somehow excused her former beau
his not knowing.

  ‘Kat, what can this possibly—’

  ‘He is the dearest boy – your age, I would think. He married very young, and lost his wife not long after.’

  ‘Kat, this is too—’

  ‘I told him of your old friend’s circumstances, and he replies that he will take it upon himself to receive Captain Peto at Houghton, to give him quarters there – I think it very near where you said he had taken the lease on a house, and near where he was born? – and indeed to attend to all his material and spiritual needs until such time as he is able to return to his own. Such is dear George’s patriotic admiration of his service. You need have no further anxiety on your friend’s behalf!’

  Hervey was for the moment quite speechless. He recovered only with the most conscious effort. ‘Kat, the marquess does this on your recommendation alone? He does not know him?’

  ‘Ye-es, Matthew,’ she replied, sounding perhaps surprised at Hervey’s own surprise.

  ‘Kat . . . Truly, I am all astonishment. It is the most perfect thing imaginable. And come at such a time, on this day: it makes me so very happy. How shall I ever thank you? I am ever in your debt.’ He kissed her hand, smiled with such gratitude as he never imagined to possess, and took his leave of her utterly content.

  At the Horse Guards, the windows full open to admit the music of the band of the Grenadiers on the parade ground, crescendo and decrescendo as they marched and counter-marched, Lord Hill was considering the military secretary’s memorandum of the bi-annual Board of General Officers. From the list marked ‘Majors certified willing and qualified to purchase’, the board had selected seventeen of the forty-three names, a process in the main derived from seniority, but some by recommendation of especial merit. The commander-in-chief nodded as he saw and approved each one, and the regiment of which they were to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy.

  Now came the happy strains of ‘Shrewsbury Lasses’, Lord Hill’s favourite (as the bandmaster knew full well). He rose and went to the window, his eyes becoming quite misty at the thought of his Shropshire childhood, of his fifteen siblings, five of whom had fought, as he, throughout the French wars. ‘Daddy’ Hill, as the army knew him (his paternal regard for the men under his command had been proverbial in the Peninsula), was now fifty-six years old, though by his round face and ungainly frame he might have been a country squire of seventy and more. But his mind was still active, young.

  He returned to his desk. ‘The Cape Mounted Rifles: that is the decided opinion, is it, that they be reconstituted as separate companies, and no regimental staff?’

  ‘It is, my lord: the express recommendation of the War Office. The lieutenant-governor at the Cape accepts it as a retrenchment measure, and that the penalty is bearable.’

  ‘And Hervey thereby relinquishes lieutenant-colonel’s rank.’

  ‘Just so. With effect from the first of January proximo. The appointment was always to be provisional, though I understand that Colonel Hervey was originally gazetted to the following December.’

  ‘And so the board recommends he has a brevet.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. The general officer commanding the London District has made a very particular recommendation, as too has the lieutenant-governor at the Cape.’

  Lord Hill frowned. ‘Why has the GOC made a recommendation?’

  ‘In part because he believes Hervey to have been ill used over the affair at Waltham Abbey, in which, after all, the regiment under his orders acted in the most trying circumstances, and to advantage. And also on account of a letter he received from Lord Holderness.’

  ‘How old is Hervey now?’ (Lord Hill searched for the detail.) ‘Thirty . . .’

  ‘Thirty-seven, my lord.’

  Lord Hill shook his head. ‘And the board recommends that he has a brevet and not substantive promotion.’

  The military secretary nodded.

  The commander-in-chief shook his head once more. ‘I was major general near five years when I was his age. It won’t serve, I tell you. I know Hervey from the Peninsula – he galloped for me at Talavera – and I differ from the board’s recommendation.’ Lord Hill recollected young Cornet Hervey’s service very well indeed, and with a warmth that his present frown utterly belied.

  The military secretary saw only a disapproving look, and heard only dissent at the recommendation of promotion. He made to speak, but then thought better of it. It was, after all, the commander-in-chief’s prerogative to countermand the board’s findings.

  Lord Hill continued studying the list for another minute or so, before laying it down and taking up a pen. He dipped it in the silver inkwell in the middle of his desk, and struck through the nomination to a brevet.

  ‘Sir, may I beg you to give a reason for disallowing Major Hervey’s brevet?’

  ‘You may. It is insufficient.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘He is to have command, Harry. And he is to advance without purchase.’

  THE END

  HISTORICAL AFTERWORD

  Le vieux colosse turc sur l’Orient retombe.

  La Grèce est libre et dans la tombe

  Byron applaudit Navarin.

  Victor Hugo

  Not everyone applauded the battle of Navarino. The Anglo-French-Russian statesmen who signed the Paris treaty had not envisaged a battle at all, believing that a strong show of force would somehow compel the Turks to give up their sovereignty of the Hellenes. Such a vain hope is not unknown to the military today, although at least at Navarino there was more than enough force to do the job once the politicians’ hopes had been confounded. The Tsar was pleased, certainly, for Russia’s great eastern rival was reduced (Nicholas I offered Codrington a ship to carry his flag while the Asia was being repaired); the French, too, were delighted with the news, for it was a most welcome restoration of la gloire. In England, however, although the victory was greeted with the usual popular acclaim which Britannia’s soldiers and sailors rightfully expect, the official reaction was far from joyous. The Duke of Clarence, Lord High Admiral and a naval enthusiast of almost childlike conviction, was, not surprisingly, delighted: without reference to his brother the King, he awarded Codrington the Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. But the King acquiesced only with reluctance: ‘I have sent him a ribband,’ he is reputed to have said, ‘but it ought to be a halter.’ Indeed, in his speech at the opening of parliament in January the following year, he declared: ‘Notwithstanding the valour displayed by the combined fleet, His Majesty laments the conflict should have occurred with the naval force of an ancient ally: but he still entertains a hope that this untoward event will not be followed by further hostilities . . .’ And so the recriminations began. They would not abate in the best part of ten years, and never to Codrington’s satisfaction, although he was reinstated to command, and promoted Admiral of the Red in 1837 (under a Whig, not a Tory, government).

  The casualty returns in Codrington’s despatch of 21 October 1827, published in The London Gazette Extraordinary of 10 November, were as follows:

  British: Killed 75, Wounded 197

  French:Killed 43, Wounded 144

  Russian: Returns had not been received at the time of the despatch, but were later given as Killed 59, Wounded 137. Of these, 24 and 67 respectively were from Count Heiden’s flagship Azov, 74 guns, which came valiantly to the aid of the Asia in her peril, and which might therefore have been the model for Prince Rupert.

  Turkish – Egyptian:Killed 2,400. Losses: three line-of-battle ships, nineteen frigates, twenty-six corvettes, twelve brigs, five fire-vessels

  In fact, Codrington’s later estimate put the Turkish–Egyptian figures at Killed 6,000 (swelled by the primitive or non-existent provisions for first-aid; indeed, some men were chained to their posts), Wounded 4,000. Among these were captured British and American sailors, as well as Slavs and Greeks. At least sixty Turkish–Egyptian ships were totally destroyed. Many that could have been repaired were blown up or fired during the night ‘in a spirit of wanton
fatalism’, says one historian of the battle. According to another, French, account, the only fighting ships still afloat the following day were one dismasted frigate, four corvettes, six brigs and four schooners.

  This scale of loss is not surprising considering the expenditure of ammunition: from Asia, 9,289 lb of powder and 40 tons of shot (1 ton = 2,240 lb); from Genoa 7,089 lb and 30 tons respectively; and from Albion a staggering 11,092 lb and 52 tons respectively. Readers of An Act of Courage will be interested in the comparable effect on land: the expenditure of Genoa alone was calculated to be enough to open a breach 65 feet wide in the ramparts of Badajoz at a range of 600–700 yards. Needless to say, the expenditure was considered excessive in the counting houses of Whitehall.

  The Allies lost not a single vessel, although many of the small ships suffered proportionately more casualties than those of the Line. The gallant little Hind, having no place assigned to her, deliberately took up position alongside Codrington’s flagship Asia, under the guns of the Egyptian Warrior, which tried in vain to sink or capture her. The action earned her the fleet’s accolade of ‘His Majesty’s Cutter of the Line’. She lost three killed and ten wounded out of a crew of thirty, though among the dead was not, I am pleased to say, her gallant commander, Lieutenant John Robb, else my younger daughter would not today be married to the man she is.

  THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S CAVALRY

  AN EXPLANATORY NOTE

  Here is a picture – a very incomplete one – of the cavalry in the Duke of Wellington’s day. The picture remained the same, with but minor changes, until after the Crimean War nearly half a century later.

  Like the infantry, the cavalry was organized in regiments. Each had a colonel as titular head, usually a very senior officer (in the case of the 10th Light Dragoons, for instance, it was the Prince of Wales; in the case of the fictional 6th Light Dragoons it was first the Earl of Sussex and then Lord George Irvine, both lieutenant generals) who kept a fatherly if distant eye on things, in particular the appointment of officers. The actual command of the regiment was exercised by a lieutenant-colonel. He had a major as his second in command (or ‘senior major’ as he was known in the Sixth and other regiments), an adjutant who was usually commissioned from the ranks, a regimental serjeant-major (RSM) and various other ‘specialist’ staff.