A Regimental Affair mh-3

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey shook his head again. ‘I’m at a loss to know what it might be, Corporal Perrot. I don’t want to dose him if we don’t have to, not lying like this – and we’d never get him on his feet.’

  ‘I’d best have a look – if you don’t mind, sir?’

  Daniel Coates had once shown Hervey how to examine for impacted colic, but he had never had cause to. ‘Yes, I’d be very obliged if you would, Corporal Perrot. And I’ll send for Mr Gascoyne meanwhile.’

  The farrier-corporal asked for some whale oil, took off his tunic and shirt, then rubbed the oil over his right arm. ‘Pull his tail clear for me, Johnson,’ he said, rubbing a little oil on the anus. The picket corporal brought a lantern closer. ‘What bloody good’s that going to do, Sykes?’ rasped Corporal Perrot, sliding a hand inside the rectum.

  Corporal Sykes coloured up, and even Hervey managed a smile. Harkaway barely moved a muscle at the intrusion. Corporal Perrot pushed on gently until his forearm had disappeared, and then began carefully probing the abdomen to locate any blockage.

  A full five minutes passed before Perrot pronounced that there was no obvious obstruction. Hervey was disappointed, for although an impacted colic was a deuce of a thing to treat, they would at least know how to start. All they could do now was wait for the veterinary officer to arrive, and they knew he couldn’t do so before morning.

  ‘I’ll stay with him, then, Johnson.’

  When Johnson was gone, Hervey looked long at the gelding, and with a growing sense of despair. Never before had he been at such a loss to know what to do. All he could do, indeed, was watch.

  A little before first light, Harkaway gave up breathing. Hervey did not see the actual moment, for the gelding’s respiration had become so shallow by the end that it was almost imperceptible. One minute Hervey knew he was alive, and the next he knew he was gone. And it was an end with relief as well as melancholy, for Hervey had known for several hours that nothing could put life back into so weak an animal. He did not get up at once, apprehending a forceful command to remain at Harkaway’s side – an awe, numinal, powerful, which he had known once or twice in the Peninsula. It had not been something he had enquired into, or later denied. He waited reverently for several minutes, until, quite distinctly, he felt his restraints slip away. Then he rose, took a blanket and laid it over Harkaway’s head, and went out into the morning.

  Johnson was as grieved as Hervey, in some ways more so. He had seen enough horses die from wounds and malnourishment, strangles and staggers – from any number of causes, indeed – but never once reflecting on his own husbandry. It was as much to assuage his groom’s dismay, therefore, that Hervey asked the veterinary surgeon, when he arrived shortly after nine, to carry out a critical dissection.

  Hervey didn’t care to watch it, and neither did Johnson. As he said to Mr Gascoyne, the knife to a dead horse was a thing for the boucherie chevaline, or for Mr Sanbel’s new veterinary college, or even for Mr Stubbs and his palette, but he himself had no stomach for it.

  The knife revealed a sad story. ‘The pathognomonic was extraordinary, Hervey,’ said Gascoyne when he had done. ‘I looked at once at the lungs, for since you described respiratory failure those were quite obviously the organs to start with. They were very morbid, indeed – chronic abscessing in the upper posterior part. I’ve never seen worse. There must have been haemorrhagia over a very long period.’

  Hervey was puzzled. ‘And yet neither I nor Johnson saw any blood about the nostrils – not once.’

  ‘By no means impossible,’ opined Gascoyne in his gentle Devon burr.

  Hervey always respected the veterinarian’s willingness to concede that there was much still to be understood.

  ‘In any case,’ Gascoyne assured him, ‘a pulmonary haemorrhage of this magnitude is not something for which anyone might be blamed. There must have been some defect at birth.’

  Hervey expressed himself grateful, declaring, as cheerfully as he could, that it was now but a matter for the Rufford hounds.

  After his meeting later that morning with Sir Abraham Cole, who was just come from the building site that was his erstwhile factory, and who expressed himself very content with the peace about the borough these past forty-eight hours, Hervey began contemplating a ride to see Henrietta. It was less than twenty miles to Chatsworth. If he set out after first parade next morning, he would be there comfortably by noon. They could at least enjoy a walk together before he returned for evening stables. And Johnson could come, too. It would be a tonic for them both, for Harkaway’s death had cast a dismal spell over the grange.

  But Henrietta had already saved them the ride. The Bath chaise was standing at the front of the grange as he came from watering parade, and only a moment’s anxiety that something might be amiss dulled his thrill at seeing it.

  He took the steps two at a time to embrace her. ‘I can’t tell you how good this is, now of all times.’

  Inside the grange she condoled with him, and said how she hoped to be able to say something of comfort to Private Johnson, too, for besides Hervey’s own notice of his distress she knew from the evening in Hounslow that Johnson had developed a special feeling for the gelding. But in the end, she herself seemed in lower spirits than the news required, and this was betrayed by a rather distant look in her eyes.

  ‘Is everything well?’ asked Hervey, trying not to sound too anxious again.

  She sighed. ‘There is no one at Chatsworth, for William is gone south. I felt the need of company very keenly.’

  It seemed strange that the need of company should depress the spirits quite so much, but he presumed it was the result of her condition. ‘I was to have come to Chatsworth myself, tomorrow,’ he said to rally her.

  She smiled back appreciatively, knowing that his going there was a conscious decision to leave his dragoons, albeit for only a day. But her distant look remained.

  ‘Tell me what is the matter, my love,’ Hervey tried again, taking her hand in a way that said he would not release it until she told him all.

  ‘The news from London, of Princess Charlotte. I confess it troubles me greatly. Needlessly perhaps . . . but Sir Richard Croft is bleeding her every day, and allows her so little food. I read that she is become very disheartened, and speaks of the future being joyless.’

  He squeezed her hand and spoke softly. ‘Do you wish to engage a different physician? Is that your concern?’

  Henrietta shook her head. ‘No. Dr Croft is spoken of everywhere in the highest terms.’

  He put his arms round her. ‘My darling, there is no reason to suppose that your confinement will be as troubled.’

  ‘I should like to stay with you here, Matthew. I should feel better then.’

  ‘You could not be comfortable here, my love. And I should not wish you to stay in Mansfield, for everyone would know you were there, and if there were any disturbance—’

  ‘I can stay at Welbeck. The Portlands are cousins of William’s, I believe.’

  There could be no more objection to one dukery than another. And, though Hervey felt a little ashamed of the thought, it would do no harm to have an advocate at Welbeck if Sir Abraham’s picture of ducal detachment were a true one. ‘I should be very happy indeed if you did. We could meet every day.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘First you will want to send word, will you not?’

  Henrietta nodded.

  ‘Then while that is done, will you take Johnson for a drive? You could call on Sir Abraham Cole. He’s chairman of the bench, and a very engaging man. And he has a very extensive collection of Chinese porcelain – which I confess I found rather too extensive for my taste. He lives alone a few miles out of the town, and Johnson could take some papers which he must sign.’

  The prospect entirely delighted her. Her spirits seemed already to be rising.

  And now, explained Hervey, he must go and write to Daniel Coates, for Harkaway was his gift, and had been very much his pride. He was overdue writing in any case, and his last had been a g
loomy affair, composed when he was at the low ebb of arrest. He would have more agreeable things to tell him on that account which would, perhaps, counterbalance the news of Harkaway. The old soldier liked nothing more than news from the field, and a troop despatch – even allowing for the objectionable nature of a commanding officer such as Lord Towcester – was a thing to be savoured, wherever the campaign.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GOOD DEEDS AND BAD

  Clipstone Hall, that night

  Clipstone Hall was a fine gentlemanly residence. Its stone was good and solid, its lawns well laid. It was a place to which a man might retire of an evening, content with his day’s work, whatever it might be, and enjoy his diversion and repose. As the sun began to set, the stones turned a mellow amber colour, and the big oaks, which had stood in Sherwood since before the Conqueror, cast long shadows across the lawns, in which a rabbit or a pheasant sometimes braved the remaining daylight before darkness gave them licence to browse all of the mow. Rooks returning to their high nests cawed a general retreat, and Jacobs in the park bleated the same to their imagined lambs. To varying degrees, the picture was the same for the several owners whose pleasure it was to be close to their manufactories while enjoying a tranquil country living. But once night fell, especially when there was no moon, as this night, and when so much violence stalked the lanes, their country seats became places of anxiety, sometimes of fear, and occasionally of terror.

  In this dim darkness, the clock of Sir Abraham Cole’s parish church, just the other side of the park wall, struck two. Sir Abraham himself was asleep, but on the roof was an undergardener earning a handy extra shilling. He was wide awake despite the hour, for the ruination of Sir Abraham might well be his own ruination too – and consequently of his wife and five children. But diligent though the gardener was, he neither saw nor heard the intruder. The Jacobs hadn’t stirred, nor the geese at the back of the house; neither had the two King Charles’s in Sir Abraham’s bedroom.

  The intruder, his face blackened, stole across the gravel drive as if he were weightless, and reached the doors of Clipstone Hall without a soul knowing. But although he had a pistol in his belt, it was not his intention to use it. Indeed, he intended neither the house nor its occupants any mischief – that night at least. Instead, he took from his pocket a letter and pinned it to the front doors with a facing-needle. Then he slipped away as silently, so that the discovery of the letter when it was daylight might be all the more menacing. At a dozen and more houses in the borough, the same was happening.

  Sir Abraham was so alarmed when his manservant brought him the letter just before eight in the morning that he drove at once to the grange. He arrived as first parade was being dismissed, but the speed of his carriage and manner of his getting out arrested the dismissal. His meeting with Hervey was conducted with the entire troop standing, horses in hand, necks craning and ears straining.

  ‘Captain Hervey, this was pinned to my door in the night. And it was the same at Taylor’s and Arkwright’s too – probably everyone of the hosiers’ association has them, and the bench too.’

  Hervey took the letter and read the well-formed hand:

  Shirewood Camp

  To those whom it may concern –

  In consequence of the great suffering of the poor whose grievances seem not to be taken into the least consideration by government or the hirers of labour, General Ludd shall be forced to call out the brave Sons of Shirewood, who are determined and sworn to be true and faithful avengers of their country’s wrongs.

  And by night when all is still,

  And the moon is hid behind the hill,

  We forward march to do our will

  With hatchet, pike, and gun!

  Great Enoch still shall lead the van.

  Stop him who dare! Stop him who can!

  Press forward every gallant man

  With hatchet, pike and gun!

  General Ludd

  ‘The metre is very ill,’ Hervey pronounced. ‘I’ll warrant they’re tedious company.’

  The artifice was as reassuring for the dragoons as it was for Sir Abraham, who sighed in some relief. Nevertheless, Hervey lost no time in ordering NCOs’ patrols to the hosiers on the watch-list. Sir Abraham had not specifically requested it, but it was clear that prompt action was needed lest fear turn to panic.

  ‘It is not for me to suggest it,’ Hervey said to him when the last of the patrols was gone, ‘but now is the time your posse would be of greatest value. I can’t think that undrilled men can have much effect once real trouble has begun, but a large enough picket at each house and workshop might well deter attack.’

  Sir Abraham agreed, and, after a restorative, set off as quickly as he had arrived for the moot hall.

  It was now that Hervey began to feel keenly the lack of any intelligence as to what was happening outside the borough. Doubtless he would know more by the end of the day, when the ‘usual channels’ conveyed intelligence to the moot hall, but what he really wanted to know was what was happening with the other troops, especially Barrow’s in Worksop and Strickland’s in Ollerton on which he would have to rely for immediate support. He therefore ordered Lieutenant Seton Canning and Cornet St Oswald to ride to the other troops to find out what they could, and then he returned to his map board.

  Private Hopwood had made an enlargement of the Ordnance map by ten times, with colour and lettering so careful that it looked as if it were a piece of fine engraving. His skill with pen, ink and brush had come to light only through Caithlin Armstrong’s diligence in visiting the infirmary with comforts (indeed, Caithlin’s attentiveness had done much to hasten the healing of Hopwood’s wounds, moral and physical). Hopwood’s was a skill that not only aided the recovery of his self-respect, but was of real value to Hervey, for after each patrol, the officer or NCO had come to the map to add the human detail gained in reconnaissance. And so by this, the seventh morning, Hopwood had drawn a remarkable representation of the borough – more complete, Hervey supposed, than at any time since Domesday.

  ‘Would you like some tea, sir?’ asked the draughtsman.

  Hervey looked him in the eye. Hopwood held the gaze until Hervey smiled and said, ‘Yes.’ It had only been for a few seconds, but Hopwood could look his officer in the eye again. And he had asked if he would like tea – not waited to be asked, but offered it, and not out of servility, or fawning, but because that was what a dragoon should do. He was ready to rejoin the Sixth, instead of just mustering with the ranks.

  It took him a full ten minutes to make the tea, however. Hervey didn’t notice, for he was rapt in study of the map. Hopwood at last brought in a tray, and poured. ‘Milk, sir?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  He added the milk, and then turned to leave.

  ‘Shall you not have any, Hopwood?’ asked Hervey, still peering at the map with a magnifying glass.

  Hopwood looked hesitant. ‘Can I, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Go and get a cup and sit here while I continue to admire your work.’

  Hopwood did as he was bidden, but said not a word.

  In a few minutes Hervey put down the glass. ‘Where did you acquire such skill?’

  ‘When I left the workhouse, sir, I was apprenticed to a printmaker. I’d always liked drawing, but I could only do it on the slate before.’

  ‘If you were going to get a trade, why did you enlist?’

  Hopwood smiled. ‘We made a lot of recruiting posters, sir.’

  ‘And you ended up believing them!’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ He smiled.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I kept seeing soldiers in the town – it were Maidstone – and in the end I kept thinking that . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I just kept thinking.’

  ‘That you’d think the worse of yourself if you didn’t put on regimentals?’

  ‘Ay, sir, just that.’

  Hervey took another sip of the Honourable Company’s pekoe. �
�This tea’s good, Hopwood. I should be careful, or someone will claim you as a groom!’

  Hopwood smiled. It wasn’t much of a joke, but he knew Hervey was trying.

  ‘You were in America, first, with the Fourteenth, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was, sir. But we didn’t see a lot of fighting.’

  ‘No. But I’ve learned you saved a man from drowning.’

  Hopwood looked abashed.

  ‘And from a river with sharp teeth in it.’

  ‘I couldn’t very well leave him, sir.’

  Hervey looked at the dragoon with admiration as well as pity. ‘When your time with the colours is up, Hopwood, the thing to remember is that you saved a man’s life, when no one would have called you coward if you hadn’t. Nothing else is worth thinking of, you understand – nothing. It will be the only thing that matters.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No more “thank yous”, Hopwood. It’s just time to kick on now.’

  ‘Ay, sir. That’s what I’d like to do.’

  ‘Good!’ He drained the cup. ‘Then look at your map and tell me what you observe.’

  ‘More green than I thought I had ink for, sir!’ He smiled.

  ‘Yes. Green all over the place, and a few roads.’

  ‘Is that a good thing, sir?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but I’m trying to think of how it might be. It seems the hosiers and magistrates have all been threatened during the night. And either these Luddites are all like Robin Hood’s merry men and live in the forest – which I don’t believe for one minute, or why would they be so intent on breaking machinery which has nothing to do with them? Or else they’re travelling along these roads at night. And if they’re doing that then there must be a way to intercept them.’

  ‘It’s a big place, sir.’

  ‘I know, Hopwood; I know. That’s why we’re going to need exact intelligence rather than just beating around in the dark. I’m praying that the Bow Street men will not be too long.’