‘Captain Hervey, Sir Francis,’ said the DAAG, beckoning the clerk away. ‘Sixth Light Dragoons.’
Hervey stepped quickly to the general’s desk, halted and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Are you the adjutant? When does the regiment arrive?’ said Sir Francis gruffly.
‘I am not the adjutant, sir. I am the senior troop leader, and I am pleased to report the arrival of six troops: three hundred and eighty-one effectives.’
Sir Francis’s ear grew even redder. ‘Where in hell’s name is your colonel?’
Hervey was pleased to have been warned of Sir Francis’s choler, though the warning did not entirely ease its sting. ‘He was summoned by the Prince Regent, Sir Francis. I am given to understand that he will be making his way here at any time.’ He hoped this was not too blatant a distortion of his latest intelligence.
‘And where is the major, then?’
‘He is sick, sir. He will follow from Brighton in a very few days, I am sure.’
‘Mm. I see. This is not a very satisfactory beginning.’
‘The troops are all well-found and officered, sir.’ Hervey felt he was speaking up as much for the Sixth as for his colonel.
‘Yes, but that is all very well, Captain Hervey. I must have a field officer here in Nottingham. The troops themselves I intend disposing throughout the county at the immediate call of the bench.’
‘Very well, sir. I shall take the orders from your DAAG, and hold myself here until Lord Towcester arrives. I trust that he will not be long.’ He braced up for the dismissal. It did not come.
Sir Francis Evans seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Hervey . . . I have some recollection of that name.’
Hervey could not think how, for they had never, so far as he knew, seen the same campaign. ‘I have always been with the Sixth, sir, except last year in India.’
Sir Francis nodded. ‘I thought as much. You are brevet major, are you not?’
Hervey was as flattered by the recognition as he was astounded, and tried hard to hide both. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mm. Sit yourself down.’ He turned to his DAAG. ‘Bring us some coffee, Harry, there’s a good fellow.’ Sir Francis’s ear had regained its normal colour. He leaned back in his chair, studying his temporary commander of cavalry, his chin disappearing beneath the standing collar of his tunic. ‘The duke thinks highly of you, as I recall.’
Hervey was not sure if this was meant to be rhetorical, but the silence demanded some response. ‘Thank you, sir. I was in India on his bidding.’
There was just the suggestion of a smile on Sir Francis’s lips. ‘Then I fancy I might repose in you myself.’
Hervey was not going to presume to sport with the general, even with such an invitation. The arrival of coffee was opportune. ‘Sir.’
‘To begin with, Hervey – and let it be rightly understood – there is no glory for you or your dragoons in aid of the civil power. There’ll be no charging hither and thither, no flashy sword work.’
Hervey had little enough experience of the application of that duty, beyond the squalid business of West Cork, yet he knew enough to be in no doubt as to its nature. ‘Indeed, sir. And I know I may speak for the whole regiment in this. The dragoons are glad of the change from Hounslow and Brighton, but they have a great repugnance for riot duty. We lost an officer killed last March in London.’
Sir Francis nodded. ‘It is the most terrible thing to fire on one’s own countrymen, however grave the provocation.’
Hervey assented silently.
Sir Francis narrowed his eyes and looked keenly at him. ‘Yet there can be no shirking from duty, Captain Hervey. It will have to be done at all hazards.’
‘I know it, sir,’ replied Hervey, with a tone of both regret and resolve which together seemed to reassure the GOC.
Sir Francis now appeared to take his ease entirely. He poured himself and Hervey more coffee, offered him a cheroot, which Hervey declined, though he would ordinarily have enjoyed its taste with his araba, and lit one for himself. It seemed that Sir Francis rather liked this young cavalryman: perhaps because Hervey had shown no trepidation in facing him (he knew his own reputation well enough), and for his general air of assurance. It was not every captain, in his experience, who would look forward to his duties – overmatched as they were for his rank – and with such equanimity. Sir Francis now recalled the brevet committee better. He had opposed Hervey’s cause in the first instance, thinking him nothing more than another Waterloo hand. He recalled how Sir Horace Shawcross had pressed his case admirably, believing him to have special merit, and it was looking as though Sir Horace had been right. It was not the portion of a GOC to be able to talk confidingly with many men – sadly – and Sir Francis Evans did not intend letting an opportunity pass. ‘Let me tell you something of the genesis of all this, Hervey, and then you might be set more favourably to do the King’s business. What do you know of the secret parliamentary committees – the January committees?’
Hervey was perplexed. If they were secret, how should he know anything of them? ‘I was not in England in January, sir, and I have not heard of them since.’
‘Too many have,’ tutted Sir Francis. ‘And what they reported. You know, of course, that habeas corpus is suspended?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that special legislation has been enacted to prevent the holding of what are deemed seditious meetings?’
‘I did not know that, sir.’
‘The committees found there to be overwhelming evidence of a traitorous conspiracy to overthrow the government – a general insurrection, indeed. And these two measures are the fruits of that inquiry. Bitter fruits they are, too.’
Hervey intended making the most of the intimacy. ‘Do the magistrates exercise the powers aptly, sir?’ His memory of the Cork magistracy was still painful.
‘Depends whether they’re Whig or Tory, or, for that matter, town or county. The Tory bench is a violent one on the whole – uncompromising . . . and damned irritating. But I will say they are bold. The Whigs on the other hand are a sneaking, base lot – always quick to call for troops, yet trucking with the mob. The county magistrates are a miserable set generally. They insult the people and grow frightened at every alarm. Those of the towns have a little more pluck, but the county ones bully them, inoculate them with their own fears, and then they pour in calls for troops. You’ll have no very great love of them. But remember this: when you have gone back to Brighton, they must remain here, and with no protection but the parish constable and the shutters on their windows.’
‘No, of course, sir.’ Hervey had never envied the magistrates. He was just dismayed at their want of understanding and, it might be said, often enough their cold-heartedness.
‘Well now, understand that my object in all this is to tranquillize the situation as much as possible. It has been my habit to meet with the magistrates weekly in the most troubled areas to impress on them, more than anything, that they must not interfere with the basic rights of the crowds to assemble, for not every such assembly is by any means seditious. If, of course, the orator is preaching arson, murder or treason then he must be arrested as soon as the crowd is dispersed. But galling though it may be, I am very much afraid that it is better to let him finish his tirade than try to get to arrest him by pushing through the crowd, for that way spells only misadventure.’
Hervey nodded. The affair of Skinner Street had been a salutary lesson.
‘I am myself, as a rule, chary of using cavalry, for they cannot do much other than bully a crowd – though I’d rather have a crowd chopped a little than destroyed with firearms. The trouble is, in a town they’re too easily assailed from above, and with impunity. Slates, coping stones – they’ll hurl anything. You shall have to drill your dragoons to dismount as infantry, Hervey, else they’ll be no use in some of these places. They’ll have to be able to get aloft.’
Hervey said that he understood.
‘Now, billeting. It’s
the very devil of a business always. You must keep your troops together. These towns have big enough places of one sort or another. In one or two there are barracks, even, or else farms nearby.’
Hervey took careful note.
‘And the yeomanry: have a care. To my mind they’re overzealous for cutting and slashing. And they’re tired, too. They’ve been out the best part of the spring and summer. As for the militia, I pray God we never become so desperate as to have to call them out, for I could never count on them. They’d throw in their lot with the mob too easily. You won’t remember Devizes – it was hushed up right and proper.’
‘I am from those parts, sir. I heard of it.’
‘Well and good, then. The last thing we need is a battalion of militia mutinying.’
Hervey made a note in his pocketbook to learn the whereabouts of the militia armouries.
The DAAG came in. ‘Excuse me, Sir Francis, but you have your call on the lord lieutenant at eleven-thirty.’
The GOC looked at his watch and made to leave. ‘Very well, Captain Hervey, you have my general intention. My staff will give you the details. Be so good as to inform your colonel of it when he resumes command, and ask him to call on me at the first opportunity.’ He held out his hand. ‘I have enjoyed making your acquaintance, sir. Good-day to you.’
Hervey took his hand before replacing his forage cap and saluting. The general’s company had been an uncommon stimulant.
It was agreed that the regiment would rest for the day and that night in Nottingham before dispersing to their appointed towns. B Troop would march thence to Newark, fifteen miles to the northeast, C to Mansfield, about the same distance to the north, D to Worksop, ten miles further on, E to Retford, some eight miles to the east of Worksop, and F would be the reserve at Ollerton, centrally placed between the others. A would remain in Nottingham, so that Hervey might have its command as well as the regiment’s for the day or so before he expected Lord Towcester to arrive. This was not an easy decision. Hervey had no qualms about continuing to stand duty for the lieutenant colonel, and, indeed, without his lordship’s intemperance the regiment was very much the happier, but it meant that he would then remain in his closest proximity, and that could only bring greater distress. But Hervey had also to hope for Lord Towcester’s early return, for Sir Francis Evans’s notorious temper would be sorely provoked by the prolonged absence of the Sixth’s commanding officer. He called a meeting of the troop leaders at three o’clock in the White Hart Hotel, where the officers would mess for the night, and then went to see how were his chargers.
Gilbert had been warranted a good doer by the Trowbridge coper, and so he had proved to be in the weeks at Hounslow and Brighton. All the same, Hervey was surprised by how well he looked: better than many a horse he’d seen after a day’s hard hunting. The big grey turned from the hay rack as Hervey came into the White Hart’s stables, and began to stale. The urine’s colour was no different from usual, and Hervey’s nose smarted at the pungent smell, the same sal ammoniac as his old governess’s reviving salts. He could leave the gelding to himself in that big stall, where, no doubt, he would be stretched out on the fine straw bed before the hour was out.
Harkaway, however, had lost condition. He stood tucked up, ignoring the hay – a sorry sight, indeed. Perhaps he had not had enough time to become fit again after being turned away for so long, although he had had slow, progressive work of late, and had seemed as fit as any trooper before the march. ‘What do you think, Johnson?’ asked Hervey.
Evidently Johnson had already been thinking. ‘I reckon we’d better physic ’im.’
Hervey sighed. He was probably right, and yet Selden, their former veterinarian, whose opinions were held in high regard still, had forsworn routine physicking as much as bleeding. ‘Leave him another hour or so, but keep a sharp eye out, and if he’s any worse get Mr Gascoyne to look at him, and call me.’
‘Right, sir. I’ll try and tempt ’im with a mash meantime.’
Hervey nodded, as Johnson put the blanket back on Harkaway. The gelding scarcely moved as he fastened the surcingle.
‘We can’t be very far from your parts now, can we?’ said Hervey, as Johnson ducked under the stall bar. ‘A day’s march?’
‘Ay, easy.’
‘Would you like leave to go there if things quieten down?’
Johnson shook his head. ‘I’ve no crave to go to Sheffield again, Cap’n ’Ervey. It’s a mucky place.’
‘You wouldn’t want to see anyone?’
‘Who? They were decent enough folk, them as ran t’work’ouse, but they’d be long gone. An’ I can’t very well walk t’streets all day on t’off chance o’ seein’ somebody.’
Hervey thought it better to let the matter rest.
At three o’clock the troop leaders assembled in the dining room of the White Hart. It was a room of some refinement, with a woven carpet and little oak, but the White Hart was undoubtedly a provincial hotel, only a fraction more elegant than a posting inn. It was, however, as serviceable a headquarters as they might find. The orderly room serjeant began distributing maps – a good start, they all agreed, for the absence of maps was the normal feature of the commencement of a campaign. And what maps these were! Not the old county charts, or the coach-cards which showed only the landmarks along a road, but the new inch-to-a-mile Ordnance Survey: detailed, accurate, and with the novel system of contour lines which gave a picture of the lie of the land. Hervey had asked for enough to give each troop a full set for the county, and a local sheet for every officer. From these he expected the NCOs to make sketches so they could familiarize themselves with the neighbourhoods as quickly as possible. It was a promising start indeed.
At the end of the conference, too, there seemed to be a very fair degree of contentment. Barrow went so far as to say that if this were foreign service he wished they might see it more often, though Rose declared that, for his part, the weather in these latitudes was already taking its toll of his humours. But it was happy banter, and the captains fell out to their troops in good spirits, and looking forward to their meeting together again to dine that evening.
Shortly before midnight, when the contented diners were dispersed, if not actually retired, Lord Towcester arrived from London. The adjutant told him of the plans that had been put in hand, and the lieutenant colonel at once exploded with rage. Why was his regiment broken up in this way, he demanded? Why had the dispositions been made so? Who had presumed to choose which troop would go where? He sent for Hervey.
‘What in the name of God do you think you do, sir?’ bawled Lord Towcester as Hervey came to his quarters – so loud indeed, that the whole of the White Hart must have heard.
Hervey explained, in the most composed manner imaginable, that the GOC had stated his intention, and that the consequent troop dispositions were all approved by him.
‘Then you should have represented to the general officer commanding, in the strongest terms, that the dispersal of cavalry is contrary to the practice of war!’
Hervey was now thoroughly on the alert, for the lieutenant colonel’s response was as irrational as it was hostile. They were no more at war than they had been in Ireland. ‘Your lordship, the general believes that the deployment of a troop to each town will of itself discourage trouble, and at the same time permit rapid reinforcement.’
‘Well, I do not, sir! It will inflame the population, that is all. And then we shall have trouble everywhere. Who decided which troop should go where?’
‘I did, sir. There is little to choose between the towns, so far as the general is aware.’
‘And you placed yourself here in Nottingham?’
‘Yes, your lordship.’ The inflection suggested he was puzzled.
‘You chose to remain close to the general, when the other troops are expected to face the trouble alone? And with your wife here, too!’
Hervey boiled inside. He wanted to treat the insult as a matter of honour, to have it out once and for all, with pistols
, swords – whatever the Earl of Towcester chose. He fought the urge for all he was worth, however, for the voices in his head – Henrietta’s, Armstrong’s, Strickland’s – all begged him not to call out Lord Towcester.
He told himself that the hour was late, and the lieutenant colonel’s journey had been long and tiring. In any case, the adjutant as the sole witness was not worth the trouble. ‘Your lordship, in your absence I was required to—’
‘I think you take upon yourself a very great deal, Captain Hervey! You must have known that I was to arrive this evening.’
‘No, sir, I did not. I received no communication whatever.’ He managed, he hoped, to keep the simple statement from sounding like a complaint.
‘Well, I tell you, sir’ – Lord Towcester’s voice had risen substantially in both volume and pitch – ‘that I command this regiment, and I say where the troops shall go. The adjutant shall countermand the orders at once and shall issue new ones at first parade. You may dismiss.’
Hervey replaced his cap, saluted and left. He was tired, confounded, and above all angry at the additional labour which would now fall to the troops – and the inevitable delay and confusion it must cause, so that what might have been the appearance of a regiment under good order would like as not be quite the opposite. Perhaps he overestimated the difficulties they faced with these Luddites; perhaps Lord Towcester’s arrogant disregard of them was more apt. But that was not Sir Francis Evans’s opinion. Hervey stood for several minutes in the White Hart’s empty smoking room wondering how much longer he could tolerate a martinet whose actions seemed calculated to bring the regiment to calamity.
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