The second piece of intelligence surprised him, but bore him equal relief: there would be no immediate disbandments in the cavalry. ‘I had forgotten about the damned Irish, God bless ’em!’ he laughed, pouring Hervey and himself yet another glass of Madeira. ‘And the magistrates here, too, are terrified of rick-burners and machine-breakers. There are, it seems, formed bands intent on disturbing the peace. God bless ’em, too! Parliament seems to have come to its senses, though when they’ll ever see real sense and establish a proper constabulary I could not begin to suppose. So the returning heroes will have to keep order – which means we shall not be heroes for long! Still, it’s an ill wind …’
An ill wind indeed, thought Hervey, for he had no love for the idea of being a mounted constable, even in Ireland. He no longer, if he had truly ever, expected to be treated as a hero, but here was surely the quickest way to universal opprobrium. Yet there were felicities at that moment which displaced such concerns. Home thoughts again ran freely, for he had not seen the parsonage in Horningsham these past four years, and his last visit, in the wake of the evacuation from Corunna, had been fleeting. At first the thoughts were as a swirling flood, but then they began to order themselves, and soon, with perfect clarity, he perceived in what fashion this return must be. To his father he must give account of his means and intentions, and hope that these might be congruent with what the changed circumstances demanded. To his mother he must needs be all that a mother expects, and be wholly tolerant of her incomprehension. And his sister? He longed simply that he and she might be what they once were to each other.
Johnson was the first to feel the effects of Hervey’s wakefulness when at four-thirty he received a shake from the picket and an order to report to the Marine hotel. Here there followed a half-hour of instructions, and a good deal of what might have passed for discourse, before Hervey felt confident he could leave his horses for the first time in his groom’s care. Barrow would for sure have counted Johnson’s part in that dialogue as verging on the mutinous; but, then, Barrow would not have apprehended the reason for the groom’s disquiet – and nor did Hervey: ‘Look, Johnson, I grant you that there is every right to be discouraged that you, too, are not to go home, but how can I trust Jessye to anyone else after all this time?’
Johnson looked bemused. ‘Mr ’Ervey, there’s nowt for me in Sheffield – tha knows ’ave no fam’ly.’ Johnson always bore his workhouse origins with a perverse pride.
‘Then why are you so vexed with the notion of going to Cork?’ asked Hervey, with a look of equal astonishment.
‘Because without thee there I’ll get the poke, an’ be back in t’ranks quick as lightning!’
Hervey assured him that this need not be the case, that he would speak with the adjutant. ‘But you might try to help yourself by being less … less obstinate.’
‘Obstinate? Me?’ began his groom, but Hervey rapidly deflected the challenge.
‘You will at least be glad that we are not to disband.’
‘Bloody ’ell, ay, sir. It’d be t’pit or t’foundries fer me otherwise.’
And the coalpits or the steelworks, Hervey knew full well, would mean in all probability an earlier grave than would service with the Sixth now. ‘You might have found employment as a footman,’ he tried lightheartedly. ‘There are some fine houses thereabouts, are there not?’
Johnson looked genuinely affronted. ‘I’ll be thy doggy, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be a bloody fart-catcher!’
The Angel inn, where Cornet Hervey hoped to find a seat on a London-bound coach, was crowded and noisy. And he had to endure it for two days since every seat was reserved by government messengers and officials, many in-bound from the Continent. Those that were not were taken by men of commerce already returning from hurried transactions in France (for Europe had been closed to trade for over ten years by the Royal Navy’s blockade, and the merchants and financiers of the City of London were anxious to stake early claims to the dividends of this sudden peace). Cornet Hervey did not take to these officials and commercial people who bustled about the Angel. He neither expected nor wanted attention as an officer returning from the war, but the insouciance which many of the travellers displayed, not to say the insolence with which they treated the Angel’s servants, landlord and potboys alike, angered him.
‘Forgot’n already the likes o’ you made their trade poss’ble, sir,’ said the landlord after one particularly self-satisfied consol-dealer had outbid Hervey for a seat in a fly-coach.
He could not but agree. But, then, he told himself, perhaps he had forgotten, too, that it was England’s commerce that had financed her war, and her allies’, too, and that he could not sniff at it too much now. Nevertheless, it was not until the third morning that he managed to get a seat inside on the Dolphin stage, whence he was glad to see the back of these men of affairs.
The Dolphin was a big and painfully slow coach. Its team comprised four strong Suffolks, and their short legs, with so low a point of draught, gave immense pulling power. But the big chestnuts were ill-matched for trotting, so much of the journey was at a walking pace. It meant, however, that the gentle green countryside of Kent could soon begin to ease the frustration with which he had set out. Indeed, the country seemed to him prettier even than in his recollections, and full of labouring men and women who showed no sign of the starvation or terror which blighted those of Spain and France. It was not long before he was minded of the equal, perhaps even greater, tranquillity of Wiltshire, and of his corner of the Great Plain of Salisbury. There he had known nothing but peace and happiness, and his thoughts now meandered, like the gentle chalk stream in which he had cast many a boyhood line, from one pleasurable recollection to another: his first pony, his rides on the Plain with Daniel Coates, his sister’s nimble fingers at the keyboard, his mother’s fussing as they made ready for Shrewsbury each term, his father’s long yet absorbing sermons, his brother’s—
The sudden recollection was disturbing, painful even. For Hervey knew he would never again – not in this world, at least – feel the strength that came of John’s peace of mind.
And then, as it were, the stream’s sudden turbulence ended, and he saw a girl of about twelve, the same as he, in fine silks, with ribbons in her hair. She teased him and teased him, until he put his pony at an elm that lay uprooted in front of a large house, clearing it – just – but losing his hat, which the girl then ran with into the great house, beyond his reach.
He was jolted out of his reveries by a particularly large pothole into which both nearside wheels fell in succession. He looked about him, but none of his fellow passengers stirred, so he resumed his study of the tranquillity beyond the window. Here and there, however, even England’s garden bore the signs of the violence of which Edmonds had spoken. There were the charred remains of a barn which had fallen to the torches of the rick-burners. At a crossroads there was a lonely gallows with the stiffened corpse of a footpad hanging from its hoist, though here at least the body was without the marks of torture. At one halt near Faversham, an inn surrounded by hop fields, Hervey heard how a steam engine (he knew of steam engines but had never seen one) had recently been installed at the manor farm to drive the new threshing machines from Norfolk, and how, less than a month later, a band swearing allegiance to ‘General Ludd’ had destroyed both engine and machinery. The Maidstone Yeomanry had been called out but arrived long after the wreckers had gone. It was too frequently the case, said a fellow passenger, a Lancashire cotton man who feared for his own looms, declaring it quite beyond him why the magistrates were not able to keep order with so many yeomanry, militia and fencibles embodied or at call. Hervey had never held high in his estimation either yeomanry or magistrates: it seemed to him that their interests were too often more than decently entangled, and brutality too often a substitute for foresight and efficiency. But he had been away for some time, he reminded himself, and he did not wish to provoke this choleric weaver with views that would no doubt be taken as – at best –
feckless.
* * *
The Dolphin stopped overnight in both Canterbury and Chatham, and arrived at eleven on the third morning at the Swan tavern in Southwark. The Swan, which was the Dolphin’s terminus, was no different from the half-dozen other inns by which they had staged from Dover, set as it was in the leafy Kentish environs of the Thames. But a keen eye could detect in the quickened pace of its servants, and that of the people of the street, proximity to a great city. And for the first time Hervey was to see a great city; for, in his reckoning, Lisbon could not answer to that description. He could scarcely bear the wait while his lodgings were arranged and a chaise summoned to take him across the river.
He had not imagined how the greatness would be manifest, however. He caught his breath at the sight of the Thames at Blackfriars, its wide, sweeping curve more majestic than anything he had seen in the Peninsula or in France, and he gazed in awe at the noble dome of St Paul’s as they trotted up Ludgate Hill. But it was in the streets that his senses were all but overwhelmed, for the press of people and carriages, especially in the Strand, was immense. And, above the hubbub and noise of hoofs and wheels, vendors cried their wares, assisted by trumpet or bell, in a continual cacophony: ‘Buy my floun … ders!’ ‘Sixpence a pound fair cher … ries!’ ‘Crab, crab, any crab!’ ‘Buy a dish of great ee … ls!’ ‘Hot baked war … dens!’
His progress was slow, and twice he had his driver stop to buy cold ginger beer, and once to buy a muffin, so that it was almost four o’clock before he reached the premises of Mr Gieve in Piccadilly, the tailor who kept the sealed patterns for the uniforms of the 6th Light Dragoons. But he needed less than an hour there, for his letter had arrived ten days before and his new regimentals were ready for fitting. He was pleased at having been able to steal a march on the legions of officers whose own uniforms, too, had been worn to rags, and who would doubtless soon be descending on their tailors to amend their pulled-down appearance (as well as the many officers who had received brevets and field promotions who would be wanting to make the appropriate embellishments).
‘They look very fine, sir,’ said the little round cutter who attended him, adjusting his equally round spectacles as he made deft marks with a chalk on tunic and overalls. ‘We will only require a day or so to adjust them, sir. May we now fit the levee dress?’
Hervey noted with satisfaction how the pelisse hung from the left shoulder, examining its fall with particular attention between two standing looking-glasses. ‘Yes, they are fine. Let us to the levee dress, then.’
The Sixth’s levee dress consisted of a tunic of the same pattern as the other regimentals but of finer cloth – a dark blue coatee with gold epaulettes, a high collar and bib-front in buff, the regiment’s facing colour. With it were worn white cotton breeches rather than the heavier buckskin for review order, and tasselled patent-leather knee (or Hessian) boots.
‘You may of course wear court shoes instead of the boots, sir, when not a strictly military occasion,’ prompted the genial cutter.
Hervey added a pair to his order but made the economy of specifying pinchbeck for the buckles rather than anything grander: he had gold enough from the Peninsula but he did not care to see it on his feet.
‘Finally, sir, we must fit your court overalls.’
Hervey was generous in his praise of the stitching of the gold lace on these: ‘Upon my word, the stripes are most beautifully executed. And the court hat?’
The cocked hat with its white ostrich feathers, worn perfectly fore-and-aft in the Sixth, was to his mind an unnecessary extravagance since he could not conceive of any occasion for its use, unlike the overalls which were also worn as undress in the evening. Nevertheless, the hat was tried and it, too, was a sound fit.
‘You did not specify a pelisse coat in your instructions, sir. May I enquire if that is still your intention?’
Hervey swallowed awkwardly. His pelisse coat had been lost at Corunna, and the compensation paid for the loss of private property had not been sufficient to replace everything: he had chosen to forgo a coat, extravagantly frogged and braided, hoping that one might be acquired on campaign at a reduced price. But there had been no such opportunity. The pelisse coat was an indulgence, a conceit, for nothing in regulations prescribed it. However, now that they would be returning to the ways of peace he knew that without one he would be bound to take endless rib-bending from the dandies. Besides, it was a very handsome conceit. ‘How much would a coat be?’
‘Twelve guineas, sir.’ And a coat was added to the order. ‘To where do you wish these severally to be consigned, sir?’
Hervey had not considered this and, after a moment or two reviewing the options, he decided on Horningsham.
‘Very good, sir. And may I on behalf of Mr Gieve be so bold as to say how gratified we are to see the first of our officers home, and safely.’
Very prettily put, thought Hervey – and genuine enough, he reckoned. ‘I am very much obliged to you, Mr Rippingale, and I hope to have occasion to visit you oftener in future.’
His next appointment was with the regimental agents, Messrs Greenwood, Cox & Hammersly of Craig’s Court. Here his reception was courteous enough but stiff, without any of the warmth of his tailor’s, and he soon formed the impression that to them he was no more than an inventory item, and a not especially valued one at that. For, although he would have, as a lieutenant, a book-value of twelve hundred pounds, lieutenants, even of light cavalry, would soon be the proverbial ten-a-penny, and the extra profits from officers paying over price would all but disappear. He was dealt with throughout by a clerk (and not over-civilly), none of the partners emerging to take notice, though at least one, he was sure, had walked through the chambers.
‘“Every man thinks meanly of himself for never having been to sea nor having been a soldier.”’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said the clerk in some confusion.
‘Nothing; it is nothing,’ replied Hervey, sighing to himself how optimistic had been Dr Johnson’s view. First the officials and bond-dealers at Dover, and now a clerk in an army agent’s. Was England tiring already of her soldiers? ‘Damned quill-drivers!’ he muttered as he left.
The Earl of Sussex was not at home when Hervey called the following morning. In June he habitually left the Albany for his seat in Oxfordshire. The earl had been colonel of the Sixth since before Bonaparte had crowned himself emperor, and had always exercised a distant but proprietorial interest in his regiment. Unusually, Hervey had never been presented, for his gazetting to the regiment had been on the recommendation of the Marquess of Bath, which the earl could not but have found acceptable enough. His absence meant that Hervey would remain ignorant of the contents of Edmonds’s dispatch. He had hoped to discover something, at least, of the nature of the instructions which he was to await in Wiltshire. He now hoped, therefore, that Lord George Irvine might be able to throw some light on matters instead. However, Lord George was not at home, either, his butler announcing with great solemnity that his master was convalescing at Brighton.
The dispatches would have both gratified and appalled him had he but known their contents. Edmonds had been especially pleased to compose them. He had been able to report the momentous end of the war and the honourable part the Sixth had played in the final battle. He had written of the continuing difficulties with Slade. He had been able to commend many of the officers for their distinguished service. He had in particular made one quite explicit recommendation: that Cornet, soon to be Lieutenant, Matthew Hervey be appointed to the staff at the Horse Guards in order to prepare him for the high rank for which he was sure he was fitted. And two sides of manuscript urged the earl to use all his influence with the Duke of York to arrange it.
The third call that morning was more successful. In a large first-floor apartment in Queen Anne’s Gate, overlooking St James’s Park, he found Lieutenant d’Arcey Jessope in the brilliant scarlet of the 2nd Foot Guards. Jessope was ready for his caller; indeed, he had been awaiting
him keenly since the arrival of his note the evening before. Two servants in startling canary livery brought in coffee, tea and chocolate, together with sundry sweet delicacies which Jessope recommended effusively: ‘I know the most exquisite Neapolitan confectioner whom the late Sir William Hamilton brought home after his consulship there: he is an excellent fellow, a veritable genius with sugar and spices!’
Hervey smiled as he took, in addition to his coffee, the glass of Madeira proffered by a third footman. It was all so typical a Foot Guards display, he knew, but a generous one none the less.
‘My dear dear friend, tell me how you are!’ began Jessope as the footmen left the room. ‘I have so much to thank you for I could not begin to honour you properly.’
‘There is not the slightest need,’ replied Hervey, a little bemused. ‘And I am very well. What is more the point, Jessope, how are you?’
‘I am capitally well, and especially so for seeing you: I was becoming affeard that I never would!’
‘I swore that I would visit the moment I could,’ said Hervey, now distinctly puzzled.
‘I meant that I was not certain that I would see you again in this life!’
‘Why, Jessope! the worst of your injuries were over when I left you in Spain. Has there been some complication?’
‘No!’ he said with a look of dismay. ‘I meant that I was fearful for you! You seemed to have such utter disregard for the French that I felt sure it would end in disaster.’
‘On the contrary, I assure you!’ replied Hervey. ‘I had very careful regard of the French! No, the worst that happened to me was a spontoon thrust into my leg at Toulouse – though I confess it bled and hurt like the very Devil! So, you are now recovered and, it seems by your appearance, returned to the active list?’
‘Yes, indeed – recovered and at duty,’ Jessope replied emphatically. ‘And, of course, I owe that to you.’
A Close Run Thing Page 11
