A Regimental Affair mh-3

by Allan Mallinson

  Henrietta smiled again. ‘He is very happy.’

  ‘He’s reconciled to his mother, then?’

  ‘No. He still does not have a mother. It was Ezra rather than Ezekiel.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  She set off up the steps of the grange house. ‘The testificate was a page from the Book of Ezra. Johnson’s was from Ezekiel.’

  He looked no wiser yet.

  ‘It seems the practice at the Sheffield foundling hospital – or the workhouse, as Johnson will insist on having it – is to tear a page in half from a special bible they have, and in the part remaining they record the details of the foundling, and give the other half to the mother or whoever brings in the child.’

  ‘As a receipt?’ Seton Canning sounded astonished.

  ‘You have lived too long with gentlefolk by the sound of it, Mr Canning.’ It gave Henrietta surprising satisfaction to say so.

  ‘Ma’am, that is most unfair. I—’

  ‘Oh come, Mr Canning: you don’t suppose that I make a habit of walking in gutters!’

  ‘No, of course. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  He called for fresh water. ‘But the name – “Johnson”. That was an extraordinary coincidence, was it not?’

  ‘No,’ she said, taking off her gloves. ‘All the foundlings that month were named “Johnson”. That is the custom; like naming hounds with the same letter in a year.’

  ‘Great heavens!’

  Henrietta was warming to her new-found social sensibility. ‘If he had been left at Lincoln’s Inn, he would have been named Lincoln no matter what the month. Just like your serjeant-major.’

  Canning had again learned something new. ‘Where is Mrs . . . Stallybrass now?’

  ‘She is with the Bow Street men. I believe the phrase is “assisting them with their enquiries”. Have you heard of “twisting in”?’

  He hadn’t.

  ‘Well, it is the secret rite by which someone is admitted to the company of General Ludd. I shall say no more. It is not women’s business.’

  Seton Canning could not imagine Henrietta conceding that any business could fall under such a ban, but he thought prudently to let it go. They chatted for not many minutes more before Hervey returned from his solitary ride. He managed a sort of smile, which alerted Henrietta to some distress while not suggesting the same to his lieutenant. He bent to kiss her, said how pleased he was to see the journey had not fatigued her, and then asked Seton Canning if he would leave them alone for a time.

  When Seton Canning was gone, Hervey asked how things had been with Johnson. She told him briefly of the particulars, saying that she would explain more about Mrs Stallybrass when he had told her what was troubling him.

  Hervey pulled a chair up close to Henrietta and gave her the news of Trumpeter Medwell’s death.

  Tears came to her eyes at once, for Medwell had been a regular visitor at their quarters. ‘What a terrible thing to be shot down by a fellow countryman,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a silk square.

  ‘Everyone’s been saying the same. It seems so much worse than falling to a French ball.’

  ‘Just like the poor Duke of Huntingdon’s son in London.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  Hervey took her hand, and sighed. ‘And there is ill news from Wiltshire. My father is to be arraigned before a diocesan court. Elizabeth believes he will lose the living.’

  ‘I think I had better go back to Longleat,’ she said, sorrowfully.

  He took up her hand again. ‘My darling, I would very much prefer if you didn’t.’

  Never had she heard him sound quite so dejected. She smiled encouragingly and kissed his forehead. ‘No, I shan’t go. We stay together now, be what may.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  REVOLUTION STALKS OUR COUNTY!

  Leading article, the Nottingham Mercury, 3 October 1817

  The insurrectional state to which this county has been reduced for the last month has no parallel in history, since the troubled days of Charles I. Even the depredations of Luddism in these parts only five years ago did not carry the attendant threats upon the Sovereign, his Regent or Government which have been uttered these last weeks in the name of Justice.

  The rioters appear suddenly in armed parties, under regular commanders. The chief commander, whoever he may be, is styled General Ludd. They march to their objective with military discipline, ten abreast, and as soon as the work of destruction is completed, the Leader draws up his men, calls the roll, each man answering to a particular number instead of a name; they then fire off their pistols, give a great shout and march off in regular military order.

  In spite of curfews and a posse comitatus, the Authorities seem powerless to halt the wave of machine breaking which nightly threatens the prosperity of these parts, and so thorough is that destruction, so indiscriminate in its abuse of employers who are spoken of by their workers as bad and good alike, that We are of the opinion that the spectre of Jacobinism which stalked the Continent these past twenty years is come to our shores, and that only by the most vigorous action shall it be extinguished!

  A week passed in which, despite the worst fears of the Mercury, the borough of Mansfield – and, indeed, most of the county – remained peaceable, and Hervey and Henrietta were able to enjoy an interlude of domesticity at the grange.

  One afternoon, an orderly dragoon brought a letter from regimental headquarters in Nottingham. Hervey read it, twice, and then put it down. ‘I can scarcely believe it. The man must be an imbecile!’

  ‘Lord Towcester, I suppose?’ sighed Henrietta, laying aside her novel. ‘Tell me of it.’

  ‘He says that the uniforms of my troop are now in the worst condition of any in the regiment and that I must put in hand their replacement at once.’

  ‘And are they?’

  He looked at her in some surprise. ‘How can I know? For I have seen none but my own troop for three weeks! Barrow’s was here for only a couple of days before Lord Towcester sent them back.’

  She simply raised her eyebrows.

  ‘In any case, we’ve scarcely been chafing them for our own amusement!’

  ‘How shall you have them replaced?’

  ‘The men must pay for them themselves, or else I must. We’ll make claims on the borough, and the insurance companies for the fires we’ve put out, but I’ll warrant the money’ll be slow in the paying.’

  She picked up her book again, and grinned. ‘Perhaps the clothiers of Mansfield can knit you all new tunics.’

  ‘Henrietta!’

  ‘But it is, I grant you, a strange preoccupation in the middle of all this skirmishing.’

  ‘Nothing I do seems to please Lord Towcester. Sir Abraham sent him a letter of appreciation and you’d think it had been a protest by the Prince Regent. It’s only when General Evans rides him that his stupidity’s at all curbed.’

  ‘And where is the general gone to, that Lord Towcester is let out of his asylum?’

  ‘London. To see Lord Sidmouth at the Home Office.’

  She merely raised an eyebrow.

  All this was really most dispiriting. Hervey was tired of talking about his commanding officer. ‘What do you read there?’

  ‘Miss Austen’s last novel. It is called Emma.’

  ‘Oh. A pretty name.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, turning a page.

  ‘I wonder if Emma Lucie is married to Mr Somervile yet?’

  ‘I hope so. They sound very suited from what you spoke of him. But I have had no word from her in response to mine.’

  ‘Another two months at least, even by the Egyptian route.’

  She raised another eyebrow.

  He poured more tea. ‘Why did you say her last novel? Has Miss Austen declared she will write no more?’

  ‘Oh, Matthew! She died but two months ago. Did you not read of it?’

  ‘Evidently not. I am sorry of it. Was she very old?’

  ‘She was not three a
nd forty! And, I confess, her passing made me most alert to my own mortality, for I had spoken with her in Bath only the month before you returned.’

  ‘My darling!’

  She shook her head. ‘Did you ever read the book of hers I gave you?’

  He had to own that he had not. ‘I confess it never engaged me.’

  ‘Matthew, do you ever read novels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which last did you read?’

  The answer came almost at once. ‘It was called Waverley.’

  ‘Was it of soldiery?’

  He frowned. ‘There were some very romantic episodes.’

  ‘It was about soldiery! And how recently was it that you read?’

  ‘On board ship.’

  Now she frowned. ‘The return or the outward passage?’

  He sighed. ‘I prefer poetry.’

  She laughed. ‘I know you do. Then I shall read to you tonight, when we are in bed. John Keats.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Don’t you remember? Mr Keble spoke of him when we were at the henge those three years ago, but I don’t think he’d been much heard of then. I have his first volume, published only this spring.’

  He smiled in pleasant anticipation. ‘You know, I do very much like it here.’

  She laughed again. ‘Of course you do, Matthew Hervey! You are surrounded by your dragoons, the lieutenant colonel is twenty miles away, and you have me with you!’

  ‘In that order?’

  ‘I think, probably, yes!’

  They kissed, and would have moved closer, but a knock at the door reclaimed them. Private Johnson announced the Bow Street men.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, come in,’ said Hervey, holding out his hand with a display of real pleasure. ‘You have been elusive this past week or so.’

  ‘Indeed we have, sir; indeed we have. Good afternoon, your ladyship.’

  Henrietta smiled as warmly, and asked Johnson to bring more cups.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please,’ said Hervey, helping them to chairs. ‘What brings you?’

  ‘I think we may be very close to a deciding bout,’ said the senior of the two. It seemed an apt metaphor, for he had always looked to Hervey like a man at home in the ring.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Wilks? Then I am all attention.’

  The other investigator, the former insurance man, took out his pocketbook and sat poised to make notes. There was no look of the pugilist to Mr Bartle. Rather had he the appearance of an apothecary.

  Wilks drained his teacup, drew forward in his chair and began to speak in a more confidential tone. ‘I do believe we know the identities of the leaders of the so-called Shirewood Brigade. It’s they that have been organizing the violence in the north of the county.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘You know who is this “Enoch”?’

  Wilks smiled. ‘That much was easy, sir. Enoch is a hammer.’

  Hervey did not comprehend.

  ‘The hammers they use for machine-breaking. They’re called “Enochs” after the ironworks that makes them.’

  Hervey felt a little foolish. ‘Do continue please, Mr Wilks.’

  ‘We had a meeting with General Evans last night in the castle when he got back from London.’ At this point Wilks looked rather uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but though I know we are in the borough’s pay, and you asked us here, we had a duty to the GOC.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Hervey, who had never for once supposed that Bow Street men worked to as rigid a system of command as his.

  ‘Well, then, the Home Office, it seems, is of the opinion that although there is plotting against the government all over the place, it is haphazard. There’s no method in it. All their spies and informers suggest the same, that these Luddites are only associated with the conspirators by opportunity – by suggestion, even, for the most part. And the likes of Hunt and the Spa Fielders have no more connection with the trouble here than Bonaparte.’

  Hervey was glad to hear it, but didn’t immediately see the implication.

  ‘If we can give one knockout blow to one of these “brigades” ’ – Wilks’s dislike of using an otherwise honourable term was quite evident – ‘then there’s a very good chance the others will be cowed into surrender – or, rather, inactivity. They’ll fear we’ve penetrated their secrecy entirely, and the threat of the gallows should do the rest.’

  ‘And we are now in a position to do this, to deliver this knockout blow?’

  Wilks smiled, and a suggestion of the same came to the lips of his assistant. ‘We are, sir!’

  ‘Would you like more tea before you tell us how, Mr Wilks?’ asked Henrietta.

  ‘Indeed I should, ma’am!’

  ‘And you, Mr Bartle?’

  ‘Very much, your ladyship.’

  She filled their cups and asked if they would prefer that she left.

  Before Hervey could say anything, Wilks protested that indeed he would not. ‘For it was your information with regard to Mrs Stallybrass that began the trail to this evening, your ladyship.’

  Henrietta seemed very gratified by this.

  ‘Well, sir, it seems that your ambuscading scheme has them running very scared. They can’t assemble in the numbers they need, especially since the posse is now so effective.’

  It was now Hervey’s turn to feel gratified.

  ‘And your dragoons are so quick about the place that our night owls fear being counter-attacked if they do manage to concentrate. It’s the same at Worksop.’

  Hervey was pleased to hear that Barrow was having equal success, though hardly surprised.

  ‘They’ve called a meeting tonight at the Crow’s Nest in Cuckney.’

  Hervey knew the place. ‘About the remotest spot they could have chosen.’

  Wilks agreed. ‘If they can get there, there’ll be every twisted-in commander in the north of the county – and one or two from as far afield as Derby and Yorkshire.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Upwards of twenty. And they’ll have their guards with them.’

  Hervey blew out his breath. ‘Twenty! That would be a devil of a fight with twice the number of dragoons.’

  Henrietta began to look anxious.

  ‘With three times the number!’ Wilks interjected. ‘These’ll be desperate men when they’re cornered. All of them’ll face the gallows.’

  ‘I shall have to send for help from Ollerton or Worksop.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, sir,’ said Wilks. ‘It would be better that there was no extra movement of troops. They’ll be jittery, these men, and I wouldn’t want them frightened off. They’ll know your dragoons by sight by now, and they’d recognize reinforcements from a different troop.’

  ‘Then I shan’t be able to lay my ambushes tonight.’

  ‘No, sir. I wouldn’t want you to, for that might discourage a few as well. No, we want the birds to flock to the Crow’s Nest, like regular black crows of an evening.’

  ‘Rookeries, again, Mr Wilks?’ smiled Hervey.

  ‘Rookeries indeed, sir. How many birds does it take to make a rook pie, d’ye think?’

  Henrietta rose, a little pale, and excused herself. Hervey made to follow, but she bade him stay. ‘Just a little air, that is all. I was never partial to the dish.’

  ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Hervey, sitting down again. ‘But I’m afraid I shall have to have a written request from a magistrate – either that or an order from my commanding officer.’

  Wilks looked uncomfortable for the second time. ‘How can I put this, sir?’ He cleared his throat. ‘The GOC said, most emphatically, that we were to treat direct with you, and on no account to speak of it . . . in Nottingham itself. The general will be here himself by five, he said.’

  Hervey made no comment. ‘So we shall ask Sir Abraham Cole?’

  ‘That would be best, sir,’ agreed Wilks. ‘Also, the general’s DAAG will come to apprise you of the position as regards the new Act.’

  Hervey went to
a writing table, dashed off a few lines to Sir Abraham, and called Private Johnson to have them delivered straight away to the moot hall, where the chairman of the bench had taken up residence. ‘Well then, gentlemen,’ he said, taking the stopper from a decanter of Madeira. ‘I imagine we have rather a lot of details to discuss!’

  Sir Francis Evans arrived shortly before five. His ears were bright red as he stepped from the stirrups to the mounting block, and Hervey took note of the danger signal. His look was fearsome rather than merely angry, however, for there was a glint in his eye like a hungry bird of prey – a hawk which had spotted its quarry and was savouring the swoop. ‘Everything set, Hervey?’

  ‘Yes, General,’ Hervey replied surely. ‘There is just the bidding from the magistrate to come.’

  ‘Good. Better tell me your intention, then.’ Sir Francis pulled off his gloves and set about the dust on his sleeves with the utmost aggression.

  Hervey took him to his map board, by which Johnson had already placed a steaming pot of coffee. ‘You don’t miss tricks much, do you, Hervey?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ Hervey assumed he meant the coffee.

  ‘Nor do I, Hervey. Nor do I!’

  ‘No, sir.’ Hervey was becoming a little lost, and thought he would press on with what he knew. ‘There is Cuckney, sir,’ he began, pointing out the little cluster of houses where the old Worksop and Chesterfield turnpikes crossed. ‘It’s eight or nine miles from here, and the roads are good. The Crow’s Nest was once a posthouse, and it has good-sized stables, with a few liveries still.’ He showed the general a sketch plan drawn from the recollection of the half-dozen dragoons who had visited there once or twice in the first days. ‘The Bow Street men say the Luddites will assemble over the space of an hour or so, under cover of regular taverners, and when all are come – by nine, they reckon – they will meet in the stables loft for about an hour and then disperse in time for the curfew.’

  ‘The trick will be judging the moment to take them. Has Barnaby instructed you?’

  ‘Yes, General. He arrived an hour ago. As I understand it, the new Act makes assembly for a seditious purpose illegal.’