A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘I do wish you would desist from that line. We shook hands in the field hospital at Salamanca, and that should be that. You must not keep making that I did anything exceptional.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Jessope smiled. ‘Anyone would have fought his way into that throng of frog cut-throats to rescue a man he’d never met!’

  ‘To what duty have you returned?’ asked Hervey, ignoring Jessope’s persistence.

  ‘I am aide-de-camp to the adjutant-general at the Horse Guards.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘And this brings promotion?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessope, ‘I am lieutenant and captain as of April.’

  Hervey smiled again. The Guards and their system of double rank!

  ‘And, you know, Hervey, I have not been idle,’ he continued. ‘I have arranged for you to exchange into the Second Guards here.’

  Hervey laughed, a good-humoured laugh. Rus in urbe, he mused. ‘My dear Jessope, I thank you for your kindness but I have not the slightest intention of leaving the Sixth, not for promotion or position!’

  And on this, to both Jessope’s surprise and very great disappointment, Hervey proved unshakeable. All the way through the park, as they walked to White’s Club in St James’s, Lieutenant and Captain d’Arcey Jessope extolled the virtues of service with the Guards, but Hervey was entirely unmoved. Only on the very steps of White’s did Jessope give up, whereupon he applied himself instead to the pleasure of luncheon with his saviour-friend, a celebration at which the wine-coolers were employed to capacity in chilling champagne for the dozen or so habitués keen to make the acquaintance of the ADC’s gallant companion.

  Hervey stayed three days at Queen Anne’s Gate. It had not been his original intention to remain in London so long, but it did at least allow him a final fitting for his new regimentals and to see something of the society which so enthralled Jessope and his fellow officers. He enjoyed it more than he expected. Jessope’s circle was gay, frivolous, but wholly restorative of the spirits. The two of them dined together at White’s on the evening before Hervey left for Wiltshire, and with the port Jessope produced a velvet-covered case which he passed across the table to him. Inside was a gold Westerman hunter with an inscription on the cover:

  M.H.

  from d’A.J.

  Salamanca

  ‘I wanted it to say so much more, but I could not find the words.’

  ‘My dear Jessope, it says everything,’ replied Hervey.

  V

  OLD SOLDIERS

  The City, 22 June

  THE SARACEN’S HEAD in Skinner Street, Snow Hill, incorporated the office of the Universal Coach and Wagon Company, and at three o’clock each morning the inn was all scurry and noise as mailbags and passengers arrived for their early departures to the West Country, and with them a cloud of hawkers with provisions for the journey. Here and there, preferring the shadows to the light of the oil lamps, lurked a shifty character on the lookout for pickings, honest or otherwise, and a doxy or two on the catch for one last customer before tripping home to sleep. And into this bustle came Hervey and Jessope, who, after White’s and Drury Lane, had suppered with two Italian actresses whose acquaintance Jessope had evidently made some time before. The balloon coach for Salisbury was due to leave on the half-hour and would wait for no one, however. The Universal, licensed to carry mail, prided itself on punctuality and speed, and at six miles per hour its coaches were some of the fastest in England, if not yet quite up to the speed of the Bristol Mails. The last of the bags, brought by gig from the General Letter Office in St Martin’s-le-Grand, were thrown into the boot by the postboys at twenty-eight minutes past three, urged on by the driver with watch in hand (for he would have to answer with his pay for any delay), and Hervey, bidding Jessope a final farewell, took the remaining place inside.

  As the carillon of St Paul’s struck the half-hour, the Swiftsure pulled out of the inn yard and up the sleeping street towards the great cathedral. By four the team was trotting over Southwark Bridge and Hervey was beginning to doze. He had paid two and a half guineas for an inside seat and the carriage of two chests, and he was now counting it worthwhile, for he did not expect to be able to get a coach on to Warminster until the following morning. At a quarter past eight they halted at the Talbot inn in Ripley, where bowls of hot water, towels and then a breakfast of kidneys and steak, rashers and poached eggs, buttered toast and muffins, coffee, tea and small beer revived the Swiftsure’s passengers. Hervey kept his own company at table awhile before leaving the fug of the Talbot’s low, dark, wainscoted room to watch the team being changed. Old and new were quality horses which looked as though they would serve equally well under the saddle, able to trot with rare velocity on the newly macadamized turnpike – horses to admire.

  ‘I’ll warrant ye didn’t see their like in Spain often, sir,’ said the guard.

  Hervey looked up quizzically, and the big, openfaced man smiled from his seat next to the driver’s. ‘No, indeed,’ replied Hervey. ‘And I am to presume, therefore, that you have knowledge of that country.’

  The second guard’s ‘yard of tin’ emitted a shrill recall to the other passengers, drowning the first guard’s reply, and Hervey would have asked him to repeat it had he not observed that one of the outside fares was an elderly woman, a farmer’s wife perhaps, for she had the stamp of the country. With difficulty at first – she thought he wished for some payment – he gave up his seat inside to her and climbed to the coach roof.

  ‘A gentleman indeed, sir,’ said the guard, offering his flask.

  ‘I thank you,’ said Hervey, taking a full draw on it. ‘This is uncommon smooth brandy. I fear I did not catch your last against the long horn, though.’

  ‘I said, sir, that a part of me remained yet in Spain.’

  ‘It holds that sway with many, I believe,’ agreed Hervey.

  ‘Bless you, sir,’ smiled the guard, ‘for it is my sally only.’ And he tapped his left shin with the butt of his fowling piece – wood on wood.

  Hervey did not return the smile, wide though it was. ‘Then I am sorry for you. Was this the French’s work?’

  ‘Ay, sir – Albura, a musket ball point-blank,’ the guard replied, still smiling.

  ‘Then the musket’s aim was most curious if you were anywhere but astride a horse!’

  ‘That is right sagacious, sir. I were astride one of the Third DG’s.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘And with three stripes up.’

  ‘Well, serjeant, I am glad at least to see you in employ.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And yourself – you are an admirer of horseflesh, a professional eye, one of General Cotton’s, too, perhaps? And captain, I would suppose!’

  ‘Cornet,’ replied Hervey as cheerily as he could. ‘That’s an arsenal worthy of a heavy,’ he added quickly, nodding to the collection of firearms about the guard.

  ‘The fowling piece and pistols are right enough for the close country, but when we get on the heath a long-range shot or two from a carbine will see off a pad,’ he explained.

  ‘And the sword?’ queried Hervey.

  He smiled. ‘I’ve ’ad it since I joined the Third.’

  ‘And that curious item by your feet – it has the look of the Paget, and yet …?’

  ‘It is that, sir. Haven’t you seen one with a folding butt before?’ replied the guard, passing it to him. ‘The Sixteenth had all theirs so in America. They were handier for foot work and they’re better balanced on the pouch-belt swivel. Can’t think why the rest of the cavalry never adopted it.’

  ‘Like as not because it bore General Tarleton’s stamp, I shouldn’t wonder,’ suggested Hervey (that is what Daniel Coates would have thought: with the fall of the general had gone many of the innovations of that ill-fated campaign). ‘You know, I should very much like to own one of these. An officer cannot carry a carbine in a saddle bucket – it would not do – but I reckon I could stow this in something little bigger than a pistol holster over the saddle arch.’<
br />
  ‘That’s easy enough, sir. For three pounds you may have a folding-butt Paget within the week, for as well as guard on this here coach I am serjeant-armourer with the Wiltshire Yeomanry, and carbines are simply enough purchased. The butt I shall adapt myself.’

  ‘Very well, then, Serjeant …?’

  ‘Smeaton, sir, William Smeaton.’

  ‘Very well, Serjeant Smeaton, it is agreed. Shall you have it sent to me in Horningsham? It is near Warminster.’

  ‘No, sir, I shall bring it myself, for I have dealings with the Warminster Troop this very week.’

  And then, business concluded, Hervey was content to listen to Serjeant Smeaton’s recollections of the war, to his commentary on the sights, greater and lesser, along the road, and to his general observations on the state of the country as would a returning regular find it. When they set down that evening at the Red Lion in Salisbury, in the shadow of the great cathedral, Armourer-Serjeant William Smeaton shook his hand as an old friend. ‘That Warminster Troop, mind,’ he warned, scratching his head and smiling still more, ‘they’re not as you and me, as reg’lars, would know things – not as things would be in the Third or the Sixth.’

  Hervey caught his meaning well enough: ‘I’m obliged, Armourer-Serjeant!’ And he smiled, too.

  No stage ran through the night to Warminster, and the hire of a coach of any sort would rob him (so he reckoned) of a preposterous sum. Instead, he took the early post the next morning to the old wool town twenty miles along the Bath road. Warminster’s rooftops looked comfortingly familiar when first he saw them as the post crested the final rise and ran along the turnpike under the south-western scarp of the great plain, its ancient hillforts standing silent picket. And the press of people at the sheep fair filling the high street was as he had always remembered it. Or perhaps not quite as he remembered it, for the driver of the gig which then took him on to Horningsham said that the fairs were double the size and twice as frequent as before the war. Everywhere, indeed, there was the look of prosperity.

  His letter had preceded him by two days, although at what time he would arrive, or even which day, it had not been possible to say. So when the gig pulled up to the vicarage his reception was as clamorous as if he had been wholly unexpected, the family all but tumbling from the door. His father’s only reserve (though little enough) was occasioned by advancing years; his mother showed none whatever; and his sister was almost as unrestrained. He had thought so long of this moment that in the event he found himself unaccountably composed, and made apology for being so. It was of no moment, his father insisted: it was but the manner of the soldier. His mother ascribed it to the long journey; but Elizabeth thought otherwise, fearful that she had, to all intents, lost a second brother (though she had forborne to say so in the weeks before his keenly anticipated homecoming).

  But Elizabeth seized her brother’s arm resolutely, none the less. ‘Come, Matthew; there are others who wish to see you.’ And she took him inside to the servants’ hall.

  Francis, their ancient footman, now bore a pronounced stoop, but cook was as large and merry as ever he remembered. ‘Master Matthew, do they not feed you in the Army any more? I’ve seen more meat on a tuppenny cony!’ she exclaimed, hugging and pinching him.

  ‘Mrs Pomeroy, a week of your puddings will right all, have no fear!’

  A kitchen maid giggled in the corner. ‘Not to be so silly, Hannah,’ said Mrs Pomeroy with some primness. ‘This is Hannah, Master Matthew, Abel Towle’s young’n.’

  Abel Towle, gardener-cum-groom, who could not speak one full sentence without cursing, albeit of the mildest sort within the family’s hearing, bade his welcome when Hervey and his sister went to the stable. Towle and Ruth, his elder daughter, completed the vicarage’s modest establishment.

  Next they took a turn about the garden, Elizabeth pointing out keenly the additions since his last brief visit home all of five years before. They embraced from time to time, but it was too soon for them to speak of anything of consequence. Hervey stopped by some of the new cold frames and looked at her sheepishly. ‘You will think me strange, Elizabeth, but is there still the big leaden tub? I have never looked forward to a soak in it as these past weeks!’

  ‘Indeed, there is the leaden bath! And Ruth and Hannah shall fill it at once. And while they do so you must go to the orchard and see the old chestnut tree of which you were so fond. You will still see Longleat from its branches, I’ll warrant!’

  So long was he in his bath that a giggling Hannah was sent to discover if he were awake. In truth, the anticipation of soaking in that big leaden tub had sustained him throughout the march north from Toulouse; and the happy memories were now too vivid to dismiss willingly, for he knew that once downstairs he must confront the grief for his brother that was being so bravely, and privately, borne by his family. At length he went down to his father’s study; and there, for the first time, they met as men of equal consequence, the accident of his brother’s death having removed, so to speak, the enfolding wall which his father and mother had long ago built. They talked of the pain, the waste, the memory. And, after tears, some smiles and even a little laughter, the vicar of Horningsham poured his son a large glass of sherry and fixed him with the same piercing gaze he had known as a child. ‘Matthew,’ he said firmly, ‘John’s death must be of no moment to you beyond that which is one brother to another. The obligations that are placed upon you are no greater than were his, and John was making his own way in the world.’

  ‘It is perhaps too early for me truly to know my feelings, Father,’ replied Hervey with an appreciative smile, ‘but I should not want to leave my profession if there were no necessity.’

  ‘I am glad of it, and glad, too, that you speak of the Army in such terms: I think it, indeed, an honourable profession. At least, that is, a profession in which honourable men may serve.’

  ‘Just so, Father, but it is difficult not to feel the shadow of John’s worthier calling.’

  ‘And in that you reveal still your simplesse,’ said the vicar of Horningsham, shaking his head. ‘John’s was not a higher calling but a different one.’

  There was a knock at the door, and Hervey’s mother entered with Elizabeth. And there followed a conversation of the utmost warmth and intimacy concerning John’s virtues as a son, brother and human being. Of his qualities as a priest, said his father at length, they knew a little, but more would be forthcoming that evening when they would receive a visitor who had known John in that calling.

  * * *

  Dinner was late – past two – and the fast before the next day’s patronal feast of St John the Baptist was prematurely, but formally, abandoned at the grace. Hereafter began Hervey’s own inquisition. Campaigning was what his mother expected to hear of, and she would allow no other conversation. But his was, necessarily, an incomplete account, and perhaps a somewhat sentimental one thereby, for without the carnage and bestiality it could only be thus, and any essay by him into those horrors would have been repugnant in that company. It was, however, pleasing to a mother swelled with pride, and a father wishing some consolation for another son’s death. But the Reverend Thomas Hervey’s spirit was stronger than the flesh: he stayed with the account until Salamanca and then succumbed to the comfortable feeling induced by the safe return of his remaining son and the celebratory claret, an Haut-Brion of pre-war vintage (the blockade’s having prevented, in any case, newer being obtained).

  Elizabeth stayed longer with the account but absented herself, regretfully, as Dover was reached in order to be about her weekly business in Warminster’s workhouse. Hervey walked with her to the stables where Towle had the ageing barouche ready.

  ‘Matthew, I have seen enough of distress these past five years in the town to know – well, perhaps to have a presentiment at least – of the miseries of war. You were all consideration itself at dinner but you must remain patient with us,’ she said, ‘and especially so this evening with Mr Keble, who was a dear friend of John’s at Oxfor
d. Mr Keble himself is a dear man and, by all accounts, an exceptional one – John was always speaking of him. He was a scholar at only fifteen, and a fellow of John’s college before he was twenty. He has fine degrees in divinity and mathematics, and has won prizes for poetry. He is to be made deacon next year and was to have joined John’s parish as second curate. Father already thinks of him as if he were our John, so like him is he. And, I confess, also do I.’

  Hervey smiled at once. ‘I am delighted to hear it,’ he replied, and with such emphatic stress on the participle that Elizabeth looked at him askance. There was no time, however (and it was perhaps as well), for her to enquire why his delight should be so pronounced, and she left him instead to his fancy that one day she and Edward Lankester would meet, and that she might thereby become wife to that noblest of soldiers. No man could hope more for his sister, and Elizabeth, he felt sure, would in the event share that opinion.

  ‘What of religious observance in the Army, Mr Hervey?’ John Keble asked as they began supper that evening, a collation which included the vicar of Horningsham’s favourite neat’s tongue in aspic, and Mrs Pomeroy’s revered frigize of chicken and rabbit.

  ‘Well,’ began Hervey, startled somewhat (he would rather, even, have faced questions about the commissary system, for, bad as that was, he considered the commissaries marginally more effective than the chaplains), ‘it is better than when I first joined,’ he suggested, hoping that this might be enough. It was a vain hope.

  ‘Indeed? How is it now, then?’ Keble continued.

  ‘In truth, Mr Keble, it is not at all good. It varies greatly from regiment to regiment depending on the colonel, but also on the chaplain – we now have one to each brigade. This is the Marquess – or the Duke, rather, as he has been elevated since Bonaparte’s defeat – this is the Duke of Wellington’s doing. Prior to this campaign we had no chaplains – well, very few. They are not on the whole of the quality you will see at Oxford, though.’