Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

  But then, like the stage scrim suddenly lit and the players revealed, he bobbed over the swell. There ten yards away was the coble and the Greathead, still lashed, and hands leaning out to others. And he roared at himself to crawl through the water, which seemed to resist all his efforts, refusing him all progress, trying even to pull him below … until, without sensation of movement, without rhyme or reason, there were suddenly helping hands to grasp.

  ‘Peto? Peto?’ he gasped, not hearing his own words.

  ‘Hold hard, sir!’

  He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t see. But he knew somehow he was saved – though the Greathead was gone back to the wreck and the coble was making fast for the landing before his senses were restored, and the dread that he alone was spared was so happily dismissed.

  A good moon favoured them home from Blakeney. Hervey had thought it best to put up at the White Horse where the sodden party had taken refuge, not least for the recovery of Corporal Wakefield, by whose endeavour Peto was rescued; but with a change of clothes and half an hour before a good blaze that admirable NCO had insisted he was more than able to ride post – by no means an easy road too – and he brought the White Horse’s liveries to Houghton in a little over three hours without once using the whip. Even after reaching the house he would not quit till the grooms had rubbed down the geldings, thatched and rugged them up, given them hay, and then, half an hour later, when their breathing was regular once more and the sweating done, a warm mash. Only then would he take a hot bath – a thing so rare as to defy his memory of the last time, but which Hervey insisted on – and then a mutton pie the like of which he would say he had never known, and the best stout porter this side of Bow. And Hervey would tell Johnson (whose relief at seeing the overdue party was most marked) to procure somehow – anyhow – a third stripe for him, and to have it sewn on his tunic by morning.

  And when he himself had at last gone to Peto’s parlour, close to eleven, where there was a spread to delight the better part of a troop, and warmed himself with the best burgundy that Lord Cholmondeley’s cellars could render, and sent away St Alban, who was even yet in dismay that his colonel had been in peril of his life and he had not been at hand to assist the gallant Wakefield, and listened patiently to Johnson’s strictures (‘A man who’s survived shot ’n’ shell and the edge of the sword, the point of the spear and all the diabolical creeping things and climates of foreign parts, and he risks his all on a Norfolk beach; the hero of actions too numerous to recall, and now at long last commanding His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons, and he puts to sea in a boat that a midshipman might command …’), he sank into a low armchair to contemplate the restorative properties of a good fire, and the thorough revitalization of his old friend.

  Rebecca Codrington now came, woken, Hervey supposed, by the late return, and bidding them both not to rise went to her hero of Navarino (and now Blakeney), and showed him every tenderness. And while Hervey felt a moisture in his eyes – such compassion for his old friend she showed, and such a gladness he had in Peto’s transfiguration – he knew it also to be self-pitying. It was perverse to think thus, unworthy, unmanly, but in two days he’d seen more of contentment than he could rightly digest. Indeed, he unnerved himself by its contemplation. He must with all speed end this bitter-sweet stay, return to duty, immerse himself in its every detail whether of moment or not. Peto, he knew, would protest, as would Rebecca, but tomorrow he would start back for Hounslow.

  XV

  WHITHER FLED LAMIA

  Walden Park, Hertfordshire, three days later

  The last time he’d come to Walden had been a year ago – a little more. It had been a cold coming then, too, on account of the weather, the snow lying deep – and of the reception. He’d arrived without notice (but then, why should he send notice to a wife?) and presented unpalatable news of a foreign posting (Lord Hill had offered him command of a battalion of his own regiment, in Gibraltar). Unpalatable, that is, to Kezia; for Hervey, in despair of getting command of his own regiment, which was under sentence of reduction, had been keen to accept what he saw as his best chance of advancement. And then he’d left hurriedly next morning after an express arrived saying his mission to the Levant was to begin sooner than expected. It was hardly the recipe for reunion – restitution, indeed, for Kezia had taken herself back to her people (and their marriage only the summer before). Perhaps it was not so unreasonable that she did so. He’d made no plans for their own establishment, so much depending on his prospects; and in any case he’d had to return to the Cape, to the temporary assignment with the Mounted Rifles. But he’d hoped there might be a beginning, not least for the sake of Georgiana. The honeymoon had not been as he’d wished; without question. The month and more that was customary had given way to but a few days – all that could be spared – and Kezia beset the while by sick headaches. The courtship had been too hurried, perhaps, and his motives uncertain. Widower marrying widow, each having a child – there was inevitably more than a touch of convenience in such a match. That he’d been powerfully attracted to her there was no doubt; whether she to him was altogether unclear. These matters, he understood, had a way of resolving themselves in the ‘mutual society’ (as the Prayer Book had it) that followed. But prospect of mutual society there had not been, and at their last meeting Kezia had been at pains for that state to continue. Yet for his part there’d been no choice but to take himself off; when first they’d married his place had been at the Cape, with his troop and the Rifles, and then again, last year, in the Levant; but in both cases he’d desired – expected – no more than physical separation (indeed, there’d been nothing to prevent Kezia’s coming with him to either place). There was no call in either sense – none that he could fathom – for the sudden distance between them. They had not, it was true, been conventionally affectionate lovers during their courtship, but things had happened quickly, and the place and circumstances had never been auspicious. And then although he’d not intended it, while in the Levant he’d somehow steeled his heart to the situation, if not entirely successfully, as of late the dark nights of the spirit testified. Seeing Peto in his pre-connubial bliss, however, had unexpectedly turned his mind to the cause of reconciliation. Indeed, to pass King’s Walden on his return to Hounslow without a call would have been an act of defiance that any Christian should denounce as sinful.

  His arrival caused some consternation. Kezia’s people were not at home, and the house (Walden Park was a considerable place) was shuttered and shrouded and in the care of what he would have called a depot party, the principal servants having gone to London with Sir Delaval Rumsey and his wife. But the sound of the piano told him that Kezia herself was here, and its abrupt ending that she had been alerted to his presence. A little while later – not long enough for her to have retired first, nor quickly enough for her to have come at once – she appeared in swaddling clothes and shawl (the house was unconscionably cold), and with the air of a convalescent being dutifully hospitable to a well-wisher of limited acquaintance.

  ‘Matthew,’ she said simply.

  He had not spent the journey from Houghton to Walden without thinking what might be their manner of greeting. He had resolved, come what may, to embrace her in the manner a husband ought.

  But he could not. Whether because of something within, or Kezia’s manner, it mattered not, for the effect was the same.

  ‘I am on my way to Hounslow.’

  She did not ask from where, or why. He had not come from Hounslow, evidently, and so his call was accidental.

  ‘You were in the Levant.’

  But he’d not been for some months, and he’d not told her so, or even written (much, at least), or sent her presents, or brought with him any now.

  ‘I was.’

  He had intended writing. He’d wanted to write to ask her to come to Hounslow, to be his wife – to be a wife to his position indeed. There was a handsome house to take, and good servants she might engage (he was not without a little money now). And
ample space for her piano, the piano that he himself had bought her – for a wedding present. But he hadn’t written. Worse, he’d not come to see her – not until now, en route …

  ‘So …’ she said, expecting more of him.

  But he was at a loss for words.

  They stood at twice arm’s length from each other, in the middle of the great hall, and she made no move – no bidding to a fire, no mention of refreshment.

  He made himself speak. ‘You are well, I trust.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘As you see.’

  But he didn’t see – couldn’t see, for she gave not the least thing away. Her complexion was fine enough – as it ever was – but there was nothing in her eyes that told him any more. Perhaps she was a little sparer though …

  ‘And how was Herr Mendelssohn?’

  She looked almost astonished.

  ‘You said you were to play before him when he came to London. I trust he did?’

  He’d learned of it when last he’d visited. It was one of the reasons she couldn’t come with him to the Cape.

  ‘He did. I played before him at Mr Hickford’s Room.’

  He didn’t know how this room stood in the estimation of those who knew about these things, but supposed that if Herr Mendelssohn (about whom he had heard) patronized it then it must be of some repute.

  ‘Brava!’ he tried.

  ‘He paid me very handsome compliments.’

  He shifted a little, and glanced about for a servant he might ask a favour of – anything – but saw none. ‘Might we speak a little more … where it is a little warmer?’

  They went to her drawing room. The fire was low. He hesitated, for it was not his house, but reached for a log.

  ‘Please don’t trouble on my account, Matthew. I cannot tarry long, for I have calls to make.’

  He hesitated again. She’d practically given him his congé. He placed the log on the fire, but just the one.

  ‘How is Allegra?’

  ‘She is well.’

  ‘I thought I might …’

  ‘She is not here. She is with her governess.’

  He shivered. It must go hard with a child, a daughter especially, to be in the charge of a governess, and not yet – what? – four years? And half an orphan. He himself had known a nursemaid until ten (and his governess, when she came, was the finest of women), but a mother also who was much about …

  ‘Might we – might I – have some coffee? It’s so deucedly cold. The carriage warmer failed this morning.’

  Kezia tugged the bell-pull.

  ‘I sent my driver on to the King’s Head. We needed in any case to change horses.’

  A maid answered, one he didn’t recognize. The footmen must all be with Sir Delaval in London, he supposed. She brought him coffee at once, however, and by no means poor. She must have made it in expectation of the bell – and then wondered perhaps why she’d had to wait so long for it to ring. He was still standing when she returned, for Kezia remained on her feet. Indeed they stood like cousins new met – conscious of a connection, but little else.

  Once she was gone and his cup was in his hand (though Kezia took none) he braced himself to what he’d been turning over in his mind since Houghton. ‘Kezia, I have come to ask – to beg, indeed – that you join me in Hounslow. You will have every convenience. I am now commanding the Sixth, as you will know, and—’

  ‘No, Matthew, I did not know. The last we spoke you were of a mind to go to Gibraltar – and before that to Canada.’

  ‘Yes, but that was … well, hastily done, though for the best. The regiment was to have disbanded, to all intents and purposes, but then the decision was overturned.’

  ‘I see. But I cannot in any event come to Hounslow.’

  He winced. He’d not expected so outright a rejection – not, at least, with so little explanation. With no explanation indeed. ‘May I enquire why?’

  Kezia pulled her shawl about her closer. ‘I cannot come, Matthew – Hounslow: I cannot.’

  Cannot. ‘Can’t means won’t and won’t means guardroom’ – that was the saying, was it not? But this wasn’t the barrack square or the riding school. In her wedding vows she’d promised to obey, yet … ‘Kezia,’ he said softly, almost tenderly: ‘Why cannot you come? Am I to be nothing to you? Nor you to me?’

  She clutched her shawl tighter. ‘I cannot express myself differently, Matthew. I cannot be with you … at Hounslow.’

  The hesitation was just enough to suggest the difficulty lay with the place – the proximity, perhaps, to the regiment. Could it be – it occurred to him for the first time – that such proximity would remind her too much, too painfully, of her late husband?

  ‘If not Hounslow, then somewhere else – Richmond perhaps. Worsley is there, with his new wife.’

  She shook her head. ‘It is out of the question, Matthew. It cannot be … And now I beg you would excuse me, for I’ve calls to make. It was very ill done – your coming without warning.’

  ‘Warning?’

  She didn’t answer.

  She gathered up her skirts and shawl, her eyes anywhere but his, shaking her head repeatedly and speaking of ‘refreshment’ – that Sarah would bring him soup, or meats if he wished, or whatever he willed. But on no account must she delay further. And she fled. There was no way other to describe her leaving.

  He walked from the house without farewells, and with not a backward look. There was scarcely point: he knew he’d never see it again.

  XVI

  WITHOUT DUE PROCESS

  Hounslow, next day

  ‘Good morning, Colonel. Your express arrived yesterday. I sent word to the Horse Guards at once that you would be returned today. I fancy we may have word by this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, Malet. I’m minded to report to Lord Hill as soon as may be.’

  He seemed … distant.

  ‘Did you find things so very amiss in Norfolk, Colonel?’

  ‘On the contrary. Matters are very much in hand, if somewhat too extempore. It only requires but a modest outlay to put things on a sound footing. And since it was Lord Hill’s wish that I report in person, I feel obliged to do so at once.’

  Coffee was brought by one of the sable twins. ‘Thank you, Abdel,’ said Hervey absently.

  ‘Please, Colonel, it is Hassan.’

  Malet bridled.

  But Hervey merely looked at him, as if summoned back to the place and moment – and laughed. ‘You must either wear different coloured feathers in the turban, or else both answer to … Karim.’

  Hassan appeared to be contemplating the options.

  ‘Away with you, Moor!’ Malet clapped his hands, pasha-like, scarcely able to suppress the smile.

  ‘Yes, master,’ said Hassan, bowing and trying unsuccessfully to suppress his own amusement.

  ‘What do you fancy Lord Hill would make of the state of discipline in the regiment?’ said Hervey when he was gone, diverted by the image of the seraglio and placing Norfolk – or rather, Hertfordshire – behind him.

  ‘That it is sufficient and enlightened, Colonel. Besides, they are not subject to the Mutiny Act and the King’s Regulations.’

  ‘Quite.’ But then his countenance changed again. ‘Collins is, though. How are matters in that regard?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no change, Colonel. The evidence has now been rendered in writing. I have taken advice – indeed I went to see Sir William Beckett.’

  Hervey was impressed – an audience of the Judge Advocate General … ‘And he received you?’

  ‘He’s married to a cousin of mine.’

  Hervey nodded. In this game of soldiers-in-peace it was well to have officers with connections – everywhere. ‘And his advice?’

  ‘That you yourself have the power to dismiss the charge summarily, if brought, but that in that case Kennett would at once make application for redress of grievance, which would take the matter out of your hands. You know already, of course, Colonel, that you do not have
the summary powers to find Collins guilty and then to award punishment. Sir William is of the opinion – without prejudice, he pointed out, for he had not considered the written evidence – that to dismiss the charge summarily would be tantamount to impugning the honour of an officer, and that Kennett would therefore have no course but to make such an application. However, and this he believed might be argued to advantage, the charge of assault would turn on the principle of …’ (Malet looked at the notes in his order book) ‘actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea, which means—’

  ‘That without intent there can be no culpability. I heard much of it after the affair at the gunpowder mills.’

  ‘Indeed, Colonel. And counsel for the defence’s submission would be that Collins intended no assault but merely to avert the commission of a felony.’

  ‘But that is precisely what Collins has said from the outset, and which I have no reason to doubt. Wherefore should I not summarily dismiss the charge?’

  ‘Sir William is of the opinion that an application for redress of grievance would not redound well to your – that is, the regiment’s – reputation.’

  Hervey blinked. ‘I trust that care for my reputation would not inhibit me from choosing the right course.’

  ‘No, Colonel, by no means. Sir William spoke of its being a case of prudential judgement, but I confess I’m at a loss to find any instruction in that. And Sir William said only that it was the attribute of seniority.’

  Prudential judgement once more. Hervey sighed. Prudence demanded three things: to take counsel for the means of securing the virtuous end, and then to judge soundly the fitness of those means; and, finally, to command their employment.

  Command. That at least was his business. And in the end it was all it came down to – his willingness and ability to exercise command … wisely.

  But evasion was not to be counted the same as the exercise of wisdom. ‘Has Kennett formally – in writing – laid charges?’

  ‘In his evidence, yes, but no charge has yet been framed according to the proper formulary … I mean, that I have not drawn up a charge sheet.’