Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

Hervey smiled back warmly, returning the salute with no less exactness. They were indeed old friends – certainly in terms of late years. He leaned forward and offered his hand. ‘Heartiest congratulations on your marriage, Worsley. You must both come and dine with us – with me – at my quarters presently.’

  If the momentary confusion of the plural – and indeed, which plural – registered at all with B Troop’s captain, he did not show it. ‘Delighted, Colonel.’

  ‘And now perhaps you will explain your scheme of things?’

  ‘Of course. I spent some time last summer in France and was much taken by their new methods.’

  ‘Yes; Malet has told me.’

  ‘In particular their exercises in yielding from the leg, and it occurred to me that there was some practical application to be had in dealing peaceably with a gathering, such as we’ve had occasion once or twice to do – one which was threatening no great violence. Versailles used the exercises solely as a means of increasing suppleness.’

  ‘Admirable,’ replied Hervey, keeping his doubts to himself for the time being (why would a magistrate read the riot act, the customary prelude to calling on the military for assistance, if the crowd were peaceable?). ‘How did they correct the tendency to lean towards the leg?’

  ‘By insisting the rider looked to where he was yielding. Or occasionally an apple on the head.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have the RM devise some programme of comparison. It would be a fine thing for the officers to think on it. A very proper diversion. Your sar’nt-major: he took to it keenly enough?’

  Worsley returned the smile with equal wryness. ‘Yes indeed, Colonel, as I’m sure you may imagine.’

  Hervey turned again to observe the object of their unspoken admiration – Collins. It was good to see him restored to his rightful troop after secondment to his – Hervey’s – own at the Cape when Armstrong’s wife had died. He now had – what? – twenty years’ service? As a serjeant-major his authority appeared effortless, his resource limitless and his judgement unfailing, though somehow, to Hervey’s mind, he would remain still the Corporal Collins of that last battle at Toulouse, the year before Waterloo …

  No, it was more than twenty years, for Collins had been at Campo Mayor – had cut down the French colonel of dragoons in single combat – and he’d worn a corporal’s stripe then, had he not?

  But Armstrong had been a corporal at Sahagun too … The years had passed, and their promotion had slowed with them, just as had his own. ‘Soldiers in peace were like chimneys in summer’ – what an apt saying it was. Yet where had been the peace, truly, since Waterloo? There’d scarcely been a year – if at all – that he himself had not bloodied his sabre.

  He realized – and, strangely, for the first time, for he had always thought of Armstrong as the man of mature rank and Collins as the coming young NCO – that the passing years had been the same for the two of them; and that there would not be years enough remaining for both Armstrong and Collins to wear a crown atop their four chevrons. To be the sar’nt-major – not of a troop but of the regiment.

  They chatted the while, until, roles reversed, the second half troop practised its peaceable dispersal of a peaceable assembly.

  It was all done really rather well. Practical or not, Hervey saw nothing but usefulness in having men so handy and troopers so supple.

  Eventually Collins and the lieutenant seemed satisfied too, and ordered the troop to rest and make much.

  It was now Worsley’s opportunity again. ‘Leave to present the officers, Colonel?’

  Hervey nodded. ‘By all means.’

  Worsley signalled them forward – his lieutenant and two cornets, and Collins, who came up at the trot and reined to a sharp halt in line.

  ‘Hep!’

  Up went four hands as one in salute.

  Hervey acknowledged with a touch to the peak of his forage hat, and a smile. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Noble work, and smartly done.’ He paused just long enough: ‘Would it beat the French though, Sar’nt-Major?’

  The subalterns smiled, and Collins even broader. Being singled out first was a compliment – and it was a good joke too.

  ‘Might well, Colonel, now that Bonaparte’s dead.’

  Hervey nodded approvingly. A good NCO was never in want of an apt riposte. ‘Well said, Sar’nt-Major.’

  He was indeed the image of a serjeant-major, as the shine on his leather, despite the exertions of the day, suggested. And beyond that he had the makings of a quartermaster who would not stint himself in all that was necessary to the comfort of all ranks. No, Hervey corrected himself: not merely the makings, Collins had the present qualities. But he could hardly be quartermaster without first holding the foremost non-commissioned rank.

  He turned to the unfamiliar face. ‘Cornet James, I presume.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘Your father had a troop when I joined as a cornet,’ he said, as James pressed his mount forward to take the extended hand. ‘I’ve not seen him these twenty years. He’s well, I trust.’

  ‘He is very well, Colonel, yes, thank you.’

  ‘And Mr Kennett, it is good to see you again too.’

  The lieutenant in turn came forward to shake hands.

  He was far from being Hervey’s favourite sort of officer. There was about him a certain expression of superiority, something faintly disapproving, an aloofness. Hervey could not suppose that dragoons warmed to him, though he was competent enough – that much was evident merely by watching him this morning. How far he could truly be trusted was a matter for conjecture, but in truth it was perhaps of no great moment to him what was the character of B Troop’s lieutenant, especially with a man like Worsley as captain, and Collins to keep an eye on things from the ranks.

  ‘And Cornet Jenkinson, Colonel.’

  The last of the officers rode forward to shake hands.

  It was not the easiest of moments, as Hervey had anticipated, Jenkinson with Agar at Oxford …

  ‘Your people are well?’

  So vague an enquiry was meant purely as a courtesy, Hervey expecting a mere ‘Very well’, like James’s, but the Honourable Charles Jenkinson was somewhat more literal – more curate than cornet, if entirely well-meaning. ‘My sisters are all well, Colonel. My eldest is now out and her younger sister is out this year. My father hopes to be offered a place in the cabinet soon.’

  Hervey made an effort to be matter of fact. ‘Indeed? Then we must hope that it is a place in which he may be of assistance to us in the Sixth. And your sisters: I hope we may see them at Hounslow ere long.’

  Again, he had imagined the expression to be purely rhetorical, but …

  ‘In point of fact, Colonel, my elder sister, Catherine, has dined at Hounslow several times, though it was as Cornet Agar’s guest rather than mine.’

  Hervey hoped he did not wince. ‘Agar’s loss will be felt by a great many.’ He was about to add a word or so about his dying well, but thought better of it. It was not his to explain these things: he had done so in a letter to the Horse Guards, commending his conduct, and it was for the commander-in-chief to determine if any recognition should be given, at which point the entire army would be made privy to the despatch.

  He turned back to Worsley. It was close to noon. ‘What arrangements are there for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Rations and then pivot drill, Colonel.’

  ‘Then I’ll take a turn of the park and afterwards watch a little more.’

  He said it with, he hoped, more enthusiasm than in truth he could muster, for the day that the regiment – every regiment – was able to manoeuvre freely, without a pivot, would indeed truly be a red-letter day. So much time was wasted turning a line on a fixed point that it astonished him that no better system had been found – or rather, approved. It was all the fault of old ‘Pivot’ Dundas – dead these past ten years, pensioned a good dozen before then, and yet his Principles of Military Movements still held as great a sway with the Horse Guards as those of F
rederick the Great, whom he had sought to emulate, still held in Prussia. General Sir David Dundas, a crabbed old Scot, had done fine things in his day, not least two years as commander-in-chief during the Duke of York’s penitential absence after the scandal of his mistress’s selling commissions, but the ‘tide in the affairs of men’ had left his pivot drill high and dry – or ought to have. Someone in the Sixth, many years ago, had composed a rhyme in mock-heroic, aping The Iliad (‘Come Heavenly Muse, Great David’s wrath disclose …’), and with it appropriate illustrations in the mess’s lines book, which had afforded much amusement to the more subversive officers in the regiment – which in the case of Dundas was practically everyone:

  This is the Scotch commander of men,

  Who in spite of his years three score and ten,

  Delights every morn to get up with the lark

  To pester His Majesty’s troops in the Park …

  (and so on for a dozen verses).

  But that was all an age ago, and Hervey was thankful of it (and trusted that he himself did not pester B Troop in this park). The present commander-in-chief, Lord Hill, he held of course in the highest regard – most affectionate regard; but ‘Daddy’ Hill’s days were spent in the business of retrenchment, so he understood, doing battle every bit as bitter with the Treasury as that he had done with the French. What the army – what Lord Hill – needed now therefore, reckoned Hervey, was a quartermaster-general with the wisdom of Sir John Moore, and one whose opinion counted. Then the cavalry would see a change – and (who knew?) even the red-coated Line, for there were enough men in green to show them how …

  ‘Have you seen the great plinth that is built for the statue of His late Majesty, atop Snow Hill?’ asked Worsley.

  ‘I have not,’ replied Hervey, recollecting himself. ‘What statue is this? I have not heard of it.’

  ‘Oh, a very fine one – an equestrian statue, all of copper. I’ve seen the clay model it’s to be cast from – Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline.’

  ‘Indeed? I’d have thought His late Majesty more likely to prefer the image of a ploughman.’

  There was the polite laughter customary for a superior officer’s jest, but in truth the notion of the poor old King – ‘Farmer George’ – mounted in triumph as a Roman emperor seemed incongruous to say the least. Yes, he had gained a few spice islands and the Cape of Good Hope in the war with France, but he had lost the American colonies twenty years before, and to the mind of many that was all there was to be said.

  ‘But we’ll take a look at Windsor’s new Capitoline, by all means. Carry on, then, please, Captain Worsley – but ride with us if you will.’

  The officer commanding B Troop saluted and turned away to give his orders, while Hervey reined about to give him the privacy to do so in the manner he saw fit, for it was Worsley’s parade not his.

  ‘Did not Marcus Aurelius see himself as the bringer of peace rather than as conqueror?’ asked Fairbrother when they were out of earshot. ‘I’ve never been to Rome, of course, but I’ve read of the statue and seen images of it. He bears no sword, if I recall it rightly. Perhaps it’s more apt than at first seems.’

  Hervey had both seen the statue and listened carefully in his lessons at Shrewsbury. And he did now recall that his friend might be right. ‘We need Agar to tell us definitively, of course, though I suspect Jenkinson could offer an opinion. Indeed, I am rather surprised he didn’t … But you are the most valuable fellow. What error I might fall into without your counsel!’

  ‘I liked the way Jenkinson spoke freely,’ said Fairbrother, tightening his girth strap again in anticipation of a gallop, having eased it while they stood watching. ‘It pays you a compliment – and, of course, Worsley.’

  ‘Just so. By the bye, I’ll be interested to see what post the duke does give the new Liverpool, Jenkinson père, for he was conspicuously without one throughout his brother’s time.’

  Fairbrother inclined his head in a knowing way. ‘Ah, the sibling rival, the stock trade of drama – and sibling loyalty too: “Is there no voice more worthy than my own / To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear / For the repealing of my banished brother?”’

  ‘I think that is enough of the Ancients, Fairbrother. Let us get ourselves across the bourne yonder and then give these horses their head up Snow Hill.’

  Fairbrother gave him a somewhat rueful look. ‘A hill aptly called. A gallop on snow will be entirely novel to me. I may well be down the other side faster than the grand old Duke of York.’

  IV

  AN EYE LIKE MARS

  Later

  The chimneys of Windsor in winter, and all about, were at their labours. In the still, cold air the smoke rose but a few feet before spreading edgewise, joining with that of adjacent chimneys in a great, grey canopy. But one column rose higher – far higher; bigger too, and darker.

  From the top of Snow Hill they could see for miles.

  ‘Something well alight to the west,’ said Hervey, pulling off a glove to get his telescope from its holster.

  Worsley was doing the same. ‘Towards Winkfield, I reckon,’ he replied, getting the glass to his eye; ‘and flames, distinctly.’

  ‘Well, no smoke without the proverbial fire, but what’s the cause of it? And a prodigious blaze, by the look of it. I think it worth your inquiry.’

  ‘I was about to ask leave to explore, Colonel. Innocent or not they’ll have need of hands to extinguish it. I’ll save the pivot drill for another day and take the troop whole, for it’s on route back to Maidenhead. They’ll enjoy the gallop.’

  ‘Go to it, then,’ said Hervey, lowering his ’scope. ‘And write me word of what you find. And my compliments on your field day. Dine with me when you’re returned.’

  ‘Very good, Colonel.’

  Worsley saluted, visibly encouraged, then, reining round, set off down the slope at a bold pace.

  Words of praise; words of encouragement, and an invitation to hospitality – words of command. Hervey was ever mindful of those his own captain had spoken when first he had joined: some officers need driving, most need encouraging, very few need restraining. Words in command were mightier than the sword.

  Fairbrother smiled to himself. ‘“An eye like Mars to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill”.’

  Hervey turned. ‘What is that you say? Speak plainly, for my ears are as numb as my toes.’

  Fairbrother shook his head. ‘I was merely recalling something I read.’

  Hervey frowned; his friend could be extraordinarily arch. He turned instead to the adjutant. ‘Well, Malet, what think you now: shall we pay a call on the orderlies at the castle? We might at least find a cup of something hot.’

  Windsor Castle was the furthest of the War Office party’s stations, with an NCO and two dragoons. There was not the least necessity of inspecting them, their being under such constant supervision as obtained at the Crown’s principal residence, but Malet agreed it would be diverting, especially on so cold a day.

  ‘Capital idea, Colonel.’ He turned to the serjeant-major. ‘D Troop furnishes the War Office party: who will be the NCO there at the present, Mr Rennie? Would you know?’

  ‘I believe it will be Corporal Fagan, sir.’

  It was not the business of the RSM to know every last detail of a troop’s duty roster. Rennie’s recall was impressive, and Hervey’s nod said as much. ‘Then let us go and see him.’

  As they turned north to descend to the Long Walk, Hervey thought it apt to draw in his friend again, who was so evidently weary of mock battle. ‘The straightest two and a half miles, I’d venture, this side of the Appian Way. Is it not a fair prospect, the castle?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Fairbrother. He had been contemplating it for some minutes.

  ‘Charles the Second began it, and then William of Orange planted the elms, and the Georges added to it. The late King had a good many stones brought from Leptis Magna, though I don’t recall—
’

  He pulled up suddenly, as if someone had plucked at his coat. He looked again towards the ever-darkening column of smoke. ‘Damn it, it can’t be a hapless thing. Not on such a day … Come, Malet!’ he snapped, reining sharp about and spurring his charger awake: ‘Let’s pay B Troop a second visit.’

  The little party sprang to life like the field after a bolting fox, swinging as one west down the hill in pursuit, though the RSM kept a stricter hold on his followers than any field master. They steadied at the bottom to a canter across the parkland towards the Battle Bourne ponds, and then a straight line through the South Forest, putting deer to flight in all directions before bursting onto the Windsor road, narrowly missing the Ascot stage bowling south, then scrambling across the ditches alongside, and back into a gallop due west across the parkland of Cranbourne Court.

  Hervey was relishing it – like a fast run with the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds on a good scenting day. He’d been so much abroad of late that he’d forgotten the pleasure of an English chase. ‘I’ve rarely hunted a cleaner line,’ he called to Fairbrother, checking just an instant to cross the Hatchett lane at the far end of the park, his gelding responding admirably to the merest flexing of the reins – and tiring almost not at all. They’d galloped true on the smoke even through the forest (though ‘forest’ did always seem to him overwrought) and strayed not fifty yards either side of dead straight. The park itself was not unlike the country of the Zulu, but without the thorn – except he was sure no Zulu ever saw the snow. What a life was this: India, the Cape, the western Levant, and all in the space of four years – only the time it took (decently) to back a foal. Would that it could be ever thus!

  Ten minutes, and only a few furlongs to run – yet no sign of B Troop. How could they be so far behind Worsley’s men?

  Back now into a hand-gallop across empty pasture, skirting the frozen fishponds, taking the hedges apace – and with not a faller – on up a steady rise, across the Winkfield road … and then, atop, with just a furlong more, a clear view at last of the blaze.