Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

  Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, and the procession had reached the dais. The band returned to its merry airs, and conversations were once again taken up. Hervey acknowledged the bows of several who supposed they might be acquainted, and spoke with two officers of the Coldstream who were lately returned from Portugal, until at length a gentleman-usher came up.

  ‘Colonel Hervey?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lascelles, Colonel. His Majesty commands your attention.’

  Hervey bowed to the Coldstreamers and took the usher’s lead to the dais.

  The King was speaking to a prince of the church, and then an ambassador, during which time Hervey could observe him keenly. He was most exquisitely got up, but his sad bulk, clothed in so much blue satin, gave him the appearance of an eiderdown, his bloated legs, so finely stockinged, and his feet so elegantly shod, hanging like those of a marionette whose strings had been loosed. And yet he seemed to be listening intently and speaking with awareness – and with none of the excitability of the time before.

  When the ambassador withdrew, the usher took a step forward. ‘Colonel Hervey, Your Majesty.’

  The King nodded, and Hervey approached.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said quietly, bowing.

  ‘Matthew,’ began the King; ‘it is so very good you are come.’

  Hervey was taken aback on hearing his name. ‘Sire.’

  There was a moment or two in which the King said nothing, seeming to struggle for breath a little. Then he smiled ever so slightly, almost resignedly. ‘So very good of you. I was most grateful for your letter. I might have been there, with you – would have, you know, were it not for … It is so damnably ill for men to do as they did – burn barns, offer violence. And you, your dragoons, apprehending them – admirable, admirable. You shall have some recognition.’

  ‘Sire, I did my duty, as any man. I merit no recognition.’

  ‘You will be so good as to allow me to be the judge of that.’

  The regal rebuke was nicely done. ‘Sire.’

  The King shook his head slowly. ‘I am grievously saddened that my subjects think so ill of their sovereign as to scorn him in his own park.’

  This was not the occasion to discourse on the condition of England, troubled or otherwise. Besides, Hervey felt compassion – a surprisingly profound compassion – for this unhappy ruler, who knew, surely, his time of judgement was near (and not merely in the reckoning of his subjects). He put the carriage priming aside, though not quite completely. ‘It is infamous, sire, no matter from what grievances the action springs.’

  ‘You think their grievances just, do you?’

  Hervey felt emboldened enough to speak what might be thought only obvious. ‘England is indeed a blessèd plot, sire, but a demi-paradise only.’

  The King seemed to smile. ‘You have wit, Matthew. It is most apt.’

  ‘Sire.’

  ‘But you do your duty unflinchingly, and are in no doubt what is that duty.’

  ‘As all my dragoons, sire.’

  The King seemed to smile again. ‘I wish … I wish you had come earlier to court – before …’ He held out a hand as if to indicate a body that was not his own. ‘Ichabod, Matthew: the glory has departed.’

  ‘Your Majesty’s enemies have much detained me abroad, sire.’

  The King appeared to chuckle. ‘Well, well, it is all for the best, I suppose. You will come again?’

  Hervey was surprised at the note of request. ‘Sire, I am at your command.’

  ‘Well, well.’ The King turned to his chamberlain. ‘I shall retire now to dine.’

  Hervey stepped back.

  ‘Good night, Matthew.’

  ‘Good night, Your Majesty.’

  He bowed, very formally, as the King rose unsteadily and began his withdrawal.

  Cornet St Alban returned to his side. ‘Colonel, Sir Henry Hardinge asks to see you.’

  Hervey nodded absently, his mind still with the King. ‘He wore the look of death, St Alban.’

  And the death of a king – even this despised king – was not to be contemplated without disquiet. Shelley might well write of ‘graves’ – the ‘princes’ (among England’s other corruptions), ‘the dregs of their dull race’ – from which ‘a glorious Phantom may Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day’; but what emerged from the sepulchre was not always luminous. Far from it.

  ‘Colonel?’

  He woke. ‘Yes, of course. Sir Henry Hardinge.’

  They made their way to the further corner, where the Secretary at War stood talking with Lord Rosslyn, Privy Seal.

  Hardinge beckoned him, the Privy Seal taking his leave with an exchange of nods that seemed to settle a matter of some moment.

  ‘Colonel Hervey, I am very glad we meet at last. Indeed, I’m astonished we never met before. I’ve heard much of you of late, and will do so in future I’ve no doubt.’ He let go of his left arm, which his right had been supporting, and offered his hand.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Henry. I saw your “fighting cocks” charge at Orthez.’

  The duke himself had given them their name – the little army of Portugal, dressed by London and led by some of his best officers.

  The Secretary at War smiled fondly. ‘Devil of a man to manage, the Portugais, but once under discipline he’s a deuced fine soldier.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hervey did not speak of his own, more recent, experience, which had confirmed his opinion of many years – sad as it was that Portugais should be set against Portugais in the present war of the two brothers contending for the throne.

  ‘But I must be brief, Hervey, for the King has retired and we’re summoned to his table. Your action last week over the incendiarists: admirable, admirable – its promptitude and resolve, and not least its restraint; especially its restraint. We’re in for a hard season of this sort. And it’ll be the very devil if there’s too great a repression – and even worse if there’s insufficient. Lord Hill is to see you, I know, next week. Your capability in this will be most prized. And now I must bid you goodbye, but I hope we shall meet with more leisure ere too long.’

  Hervey turned to St Alban when he was gone. ‘He wishes to commend us for the affair in the park last week, as did His Majesty. Who would have thought such a little thing would command the attention of the King and his ministers? There is patently intelligence of which we are wholly unaware … But come; we must go have our supper before the hungry “civilians” take our rations.’

  The room had now become two slow-moving streams, the lesser one towards the furthest door and the semi-state apartments where the King would preside, and the far greater stream towards the Waterloo Room, as it was to be known when the King had finished with its decoration. Here and there, like rocks dividing the waters, stood two or three individuals intent still on their tête-à-tête, so that there was no very great hurry in the general progress, though Hervey was determined not to allow his uniformed advance to be checked by ambling gents in plain clothes, and their equally unhurried ladies.

  But then he himself checked. Indeed, stock still.

  There stood Kat, one of the ‘rocks’ close on the dais – as arresting as the first time he saw her.

  For what seemed an age he could not move. Or could not determine which way. Flight was instinctive but insupportable; evasion unmanly.

  ‘St Alban, you will excuse me for a moment,’ he said softly – so softly indeed that the cornet was at first solicitous.

  ‘May I be of help, Colonel?’

  ‘No … thank you. Take your place at the tables. Speak with young Fane, or who you will. I’ll join you presently.’

  He stood a while longer, observing at a distance, trying to gauge Kat’s disposition.

  She looked happy – if not playful, as before, still with that power of attraction which, even now as the tables summoned, was adding numbers to her little court.

  But how should he approach? He must not discomfit her in front of those who might notice. But if he stoo
d at a distance until he caught her eye, how might that serve?

  And then came the consideration – he saw now too well – that ought to have been his first: would she welcome seeing him at all?

  That, however, was a question he could not answer now; nor perhaps at any time unless directly by Kat herself. And of the other two considerations, each seemed as bad as the other – save that presenting himself was more gentlemanlike than havering at a remove.

  He threw his shoulders back and strode resolutely to where she stood.

  Kat saw, and looked square at him as he halted before her (had she seen him earlier, before he had seen her?), and with not the slightest symptom of dismay held out her hand.

  Hervey kissed it with (he trusted) appropriate decorum.

  ‘Colonel Hervey, it is so very good to see you. You are well, I hope?’

  ‘Very well, ma’am. And you?’

  ‘As you see, I trust, Colonel,’ she replied, with the smile that had first beguiled him. ‘You know Lords Warrender and Tullamore, and Sir Hugh Alvanley,’ (she indicated each, and he bowed); ‘this is Colonel Matthew Hervey, who commands the Sixth Light Dragoons.’

  They in turn bowed.

  ‘Now, if you would excuse me, gentlemen, I would have a word with the Colonel concerning a mutual acquaintance, and I must not delay before dinner.’

  The two peers and the knight of the shires bowed again and took their leave, with looks of curiosity as to who was this lieutenant-colonel of cavalry whose name was unknown to them – save, perhaps, some collateral line of the Bristols – but who displaced them in the attention of Lady Katherine Greville, still one of the brightest ornaments of the London drawing room.

  ‘Well, Matthew,’ she began, lifting her head to meet his gaze.

  And Hervey could say nothing, her ease towards him so unexpected.

  ‘Well?’ she pressed him, but gently.

  ‘I … I did not expect to see you here. I had no idea … I … You look quite remarkably well.’

  She smiled. ‘I have not been ill, Matthew.’

  ‘No, no … of course.’

  She looked, indeed, just as she had when he had last seen her – not in the least reduced by motherhood (as she had so feared she would be). Her figure was not an inch altered, her eyes shone as bright as ever, and her complexion remained that of a woman half her age – her blush, if anything, yet more tempting.

  ‘And you too are well, Matthew?’

  ‘Yes … yes, I am very well.’

  ‘And all else is well?’

  ‘All else? Yes … I think … very well.’

  ‘You sound unsure, Matthew. Your regiment is well found?’

  ‘Ah, oh … the regiment … yes, indeed; very well found, thank you.’ He glanced somewhat anxiously towards the furthest door. ‘But are you not summoned to the King?’

  She smiled again. ‘The King will wait, Matthew. Do you yourself stay?’

  ‘I? Oh, I shall take a little to eat with my orderly officer and then drive to Hounslow, not late.’

  ‘Will you visit with me, Matthew – when you are able?’

  ‘Kat, I … that is …’

  ‘Soon, for there is much that it would be pleasant to speak of.’

  He swallowed. ‘I will, yes.’

  There were but a few left in the room now, who may have been studying them or not, but Kat was indifferent to their interest. She smiled at him with a warmth he’d not felt since leaving her eighteen months ago.

  ‘I shall go now, Matthew, but I’m glad you’ll visit with me. And soon.’

  And she kissed him – and none too fleetingly – then turned and walked from the room with the greatest self-possession.

  He ate little and spoke even less, and on the drive home was all but silent. At the Berkeley Arms he thanked Corporal Wakefield, acknowledged the salutes of the two dragoons who had returned on relief from Windsor, bade St Alban good night and climbed the stairs to his solitary quarters. He thought perhaps that he had never quite known his true feelings for Kat, but that now he did. Yet she would for ever be disunited with him, and he with her. He knew now, therefore, exactly to what he was condemned. The regiment of dragoons at his command could not suspend that sentence; but, for the time being at least – for the next three, four or even five years – they must wholly preoccupy him. There was no other way.

  XI

  THE SECRET THINGS

  Three days later

  ‘And he will not withdraw his accusation – not on any account?’

  Malet shook his head. ‘No, Colonel. He is in an altogether recalcitrant frame of mind.’

  ‘Do you believe he truly considers he is in the right?’

  Malet raised his eyebrows. ‘Kennett is of the frame of mind that considers it his right to do much as he pleases.’

  Hervey turned to the RSM. ‘Mr Rennie?’

  ‘For my part, Colonel, I have interrogated Serjeant-Major Collins and am of the opinion that his testimony is entirely truthful.’

  ‘Solomon, were he to examine this affair, might conclude that since this is a matter of intent and perception, both may be entirely truthful – which I am prepared to believe; indeed, it would be infamous to suggest that an officer or a serjeant-major would speak other than the truth.’ (He knew he said it more for effect than with conviction.) ‘But Solomon was his own lawmaker; I myself cannot order that the baby be cut in two.’

  Rennie stood impassively, Malet less so. ‘There’s now talk in the officers’ house, Colonel.’

  Hervey looked at Rennie.

  ‘And in my mess, too, Colonel – I’m sorry to say.’

  Hervey was unsurprised; it could only have been a matter of time. ‘And Kennett does duty now at St James’s?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. I sent him there – or rather, Captain Worsley did – to do duty with Harrison and the War Office party.’

  ‘Much the best way. And Collins, Mr Rennie?’

  ‘He remains at duty, Colonel, which I believe is the proper way – as well as being best for the troop.’

  Hervey nodded. It was not the RSM’s to remove any NCO from duty, but his opinion was – or very nearly – all. ‘Much for the best, in both cases. Very well, Malet: you had better have everything rendered in writing, on oath. That at least ought to buy a month’s peace. And who knows what will happen in that time – though the auguries aren’t good. I might speak with Lord George Irvine.’

  The serjeant-major braced. ‘Carry on, Colonel, please?’

  ‘Carry on, Mr Rennie. And thank you.’

  He turned to Malet when the door was closed.

  ‘For a guilder I’d …’ He shook his head. ‘I’m damned if Collins will be subjected to court martial. There must be another way. I’ll speak with the Adjutant-General’s office at the Horse Guards this afternoon, after the conference.’

  Malet nodded. ‘Indeed, Colonel, you’d better start out at once. The sky looks heavy again.’

  Hervey agreed, and after a few more words on regimental routine, and several signatures, he put down his coffee cup, gathered up the papers on his desk, took his cloak and cap, and swept out of the orderly room.

  ‘I shan’t suppose I’ll be returned before watch-setting,’ he told Malet as he got into the chaise, ‘but if there’s anything to be acted on in advance of that I’ll send word via the War Office party. Lord Hill’s perfectly capable of springing a surprise.’

  An hour and three-quarters later he got down at the Horse Guards in the arcade beneath the commander-in-chief’s office – the only road-metal free of snow he’d seen since leaving Hounslow. Fairbrother had travelled with him, intending on going to Guy’s hospital to see General Gifford again – and thence to the theatre, and the night coach back to Hounslow after supper.

  ‘Give my respects to the general if it seems appropriate,’ said Hervey as he bid him goodbye. (He might perhaps have gone in person to pay his respects, though he was not closely acquainted with Gifford; but a drive the other side of the r
iver would not help his return at a decent hour.)

  A sentry of the Blues came to attention as he made for the peculiarly unceremonious entrance to the headquarters of His Majesty’s Land Forces.

  Inside he announced himself and was taken to a meeting room overlooking the empty parade-ground, where half a dozen officers were already gathered. Three he knew, and the other three he knew of – six lieutenant-colonels of cavalry, two of them commanding. Five more arrived in the course of the next quarter of an hour, and two staff officers from the headquarters and a clerk from the Home department. Coffee, chocolate and madeira kept them entertained the while, as well as reminiscences – occasionally even of Waterloo.

  At eleven o’clock precisely Lord Hill appeared.

  The room bowed as one.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  His geniality was undiminished by the cares of office, though his coat had become undeniably tighter, and his pate shinier yet. Hervey swelled with the pride of his acquaintance.

  He went round the room shaking hands and passing remark, until everyone was greeted by name. ‘Well, well – please be seated. I shall not detain you long, though I shall ask of you a good deal.’

  They took their places round a large, oval table covered in green baize.

  ‘Gentlemen, the Home department, it seems, is in possession of intelligence that would suggest an increase in violent disorder will follow when winter is finished, on account of a general susceptibility to treasonable acts, and also the depressed state of agricultural wages.’

  Hervey heard this with a degree of misgiving. He had suffered the Home department’s alarms before, though if Lord Hill spoke in these terms it could not be without foundation. The prospect of a summer campaign against a new ‘peasants’ revolt’ was not a happy one.

  ‘The prime minister has been considering a scheme of dividing the country into districts of about ten thousand persons, each under the control of a half-pay military or naval officer who would be responsible for the prevention of crime and the maintenance of order …’