A Close Run Thing mh-1

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Hervey calmly.

  ‘Very well,’ said the major, now equally composed, ‘you will hand your sword to the adjutant forthwith and retire to your quarters on parole, and there I suggest you render your entire account in writing.’

  Hervey unfastened the two belt-loops from the D-rings on his scabbard and held out his sabre. The adjutant took it and acknowledged with a brisk bow, and then Hervey turned smartly to his right, saluted and left the orderly room.

  ‘Events have a strange habit of repeating themselves,’ said the adjutant when the door was closed.

  Edmonds’s brow furrowed. ‘You and I should have done the same. At least, I hope we should. Besides all else, the surest way to provoke trouble here is to become embroiled in the dirty business of absentee landlords. However, the law as it stands is unequivocal. I shall forward a report to General Slade, but I do not suppose that the great man will have gained one ounce in sagacity since his translation here. I very much fear that this will make the incident at Toulouse seem a tea-fight.’

  That night Hervey wrote one letter, to Oxford. ‘My dear Keble,’ it began, and, after confirmation of the concerns of his letter of the night before, and of the events since: T fear that I am finished. But I believe I have done my duty to these people – and, indeed, to the king, for they are his loyal enough subjects if chance they be given. The law which should equally be their defender seems only to be the instrument of driving them to rebellion …’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A NOBLE PEER

  County Waterford, 4 November

  Lismore Castle, set high on a crag over the River Blackwater, had nothing of the elegance of Longleat, but that was not its original purpose. William Cavendish, the same age as Hervey and recently succeeded to the dukedom of Devonshire, had spent most of the crossing from Bristol explaining just this to Henrietta and Elizabeth, together with his plans for embellishing the castle now that peace had come to Europe and circumstances in Ireland were more settled. An ancestor by marriage (Richard Boyle, first earl of Cork) had built Lismore in the seventeenth century to withstand attack. And while, the duke explained, the earl had laid out some fine gardens, with yew hedges and topiary, and woodland trails of rhododendrons, it was not yet a place of gentlemanly leisure.

  A steam barge, a novelty to both women, had brought them up the Blackwater from Youghal (to where a brig had ferried them from the Cove of Cork), and a carriage had taken them the remaining half-mile to the castle. Here they had expected to find Matthew Hervey, but instead they found letters addressed in his hand. That to the duke was formal and brief, explaining that military duty had detained him and that he thought it unlikely that he would be able to accept the invitation to stay at Lismore. Those for Elizabeth and Henrietta were longer and, except in a few intimate details, each said the same. Both women felt the contents needed to be brought to the duke’s attention immediately.

  ‘William,’ began Henrietta in perfect calmness but with an edge he had not seen in her before, ‘Matthew is in arrest. You may read the details for yourself but it seems that he has refused to obey the instructions of a magistrate and is to face a court martial by that odious man General Slade.’

  ‘Let me first read of the exact circumstances,’ said the duke sceptically. ‘But why do you describe this general as odious – do you know him?’

  ‘Not other than by reputation, but Matthew has told me of the animosity that there was between the two of them in France, and I enquired of someone who is acquainted with the Horse Guards, and they affirm that the general is not thought well of in London.’

  ‘So they send him to Ireland,’ he smiled.

  ‘Duke, I believe this is very serious,’ Elizabeth interrupted. ‘In France, Matthew was placed in arrest by this general, who believed he had abandoned his post – which of course he had not. Matthew was later congratulated for his conduct by Lord Wellington, and this caused bad feeling on General Slade’s part. There was also some trouble over a serjeant whom Matthew stood up for against the same general. I fear that, whatever the rights or wrongs of the case, this general will be seeking retribution for the earlier affront.’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Hervey, but does your brother have an habitual difficulty with authority? He seems to have had a remarkable share of tribulation for so junior an officer!’

  Henrietta motioned Elizabeth to say nothing. ‘William, he is a very fine officer – everyone will tell you so. But he is no “yes man”, and when he believes something to be wrong he will say so. I want you to go to Cork today and do all you can to have him released from custody.’

  ‘Today! But we are only just arrived—’

  ‘Yes, today, now!’ insisted Henrietta. ‘And I shall come with you!’

  ‘And I,’ said Elizabeth.

  And nothing that William Devonshire said could persuade either woman that accompanying him would do no good. Only the most explicit threat that he would refuse to leave until the morning finally induced them to relent, and against all his better judgement he left Lismore for Cork, a journey by road of some fifty miles, before noon was out.

  The arrival in Ireland of a descendant of Richard Boyle, even so distant a one, was already cause for remark in Cork. The two centuries that had passed since his ancestor had landed in these parts, almost penniless, to become within an uncommonly short time one of the richest men in the realm, had done little to dull the reputation of the first earl. And, whether the reputation were admired or reviled, William Devonshire now sought to use it.

  ‘Well, Duke,’ began Edmonds, who knew nothing of the Boyle connection but enough about the Cavendishes, ‘I can assure you that we are not being idle in the matter. He is being advised by a local attorney in whom he – we – have great confidence: a Mr Nugent, who is also the chapter clerk here and an acquaintance of his. I will not hesitate to bring a man from Dublin, though – or London – if necessary. Do you wish to meet them? They are conferring at this moment here in the mess. Mr Hervey is confined to the barracks themselves, you understand.’

  The duke did indeed wish to meet them. And when he had heard what the attorney had to say he was not entirely discouraged. ‘Well, your Grace,’ Nugent had begun, ‘the law is not quite so precise in these matters as many seem to believe – and I include Magistrate Gould and General Slade in that category. It is without question the absolute duty of an officer summoned by a magistrate to do all in his power to prevent a breach of the peace, or to restore it. The means by which he disposes his forces is, however, his business and his alone. He can neither be ordered to do something which in his judgement is militarily unsound, nor for that matter can he relinquish his duty in this respect to the magistrate – whatever indemnities he is promised. He is answerable for that judgement, in respect of any breach of the civil law, to the civil courts, but in respect of his military judgement he is answerable only before an appropriate military authority. Do I make myself clear, your Grace?’

  ‘Indeed, perfectly clear, Mr Nugent, but as I understand it there was no difference with the magistrate over military matters. It was rather more fundamental, was it not?’

  ‘So it might seem. I wanted, however, to lay out the relative positions of the civil and military with respect to this frequently misunderstood point.’

  ‘You have also, if I may say so, Mr Nugent, laid out a remarkable knowledge of the law relating to these matters for someone whose work is with ecclesiastical business,’ said the duke approvingly.

  ‘That is because, sir, I have studied the history of this country from a legal aspect. You would be surprised by how many grounds for appeal there are in an average parish hereabouts.’

  ‘We will not pursue that,’ replied the duke with a further smile.

  ‘So let us return to the question at hand. You will recall that I said the military have a duty in the maintenance of the peace. This does not extend, however, to enforcing the law as such except where not to do so would lead to a breach of the peace. So Mr
Hervey’s troop at Kilcrea were not there to assist with the evictions but to prevent attack on the agent and his men proceeding about their lawful business.’

  ‘But any magistrate knows that,’ began the duke, ‘and Hervey, here, refused even to allow them to go about their business.’

  ‘Not so. The first tenants were evicted without incident,’ insisted Nugent, ‘except that one of the crowbar men struck the tenant for no reason.’

  ‘And Mr Hervey struck the man in return,’ countered the duke.

  ‘That, I believe, would be most unlikely to result in charges against the officer – a blow for a blow is what it amounts to. And, indeed, it could be argued that the action was anticipatory, there being good reason to suppose that the assault might continue. No, the significance of the foreman’s assault is its indication of a predisposition to violence on the part of the agent’s men, a factor of which Mr Hervey would take account in forming his judgement. In all, it seems to me that the evidence would suggest that Mr Hervey was at the outset perfectly prepared to carry out his duty in respect of the evictions. Indeed, the evidence of the parish priest would corroborate this – Mr Hervey said as much to him.’

  ‘Then how will you account for his subsequent obstruction of the eviction process?’ asked the duke doubtfully.

  ‘The agent gave an unlawful instruction to his men to collapse the second cottage on the heads of the occupants. The agent himself was thus about to precipitate a breach of the peace, even perhaps an unlawful killing. His men were already shown to be violent, and the magistrate took no steps to restrain them. As I said, Mr Hervey had an absolute duty to act at that moment, in the same way that he would have had a duty to ignore an unlawful order from the magistrate. It is the very devil of a position for an officer to be in, your Grace – damned if he does, and damned if he does not!’

  Silence followed as William Devonshire contemplated the import of what the attorney had said. ‘There is therefore only one question, Mr Nugent,’ he suggested eventually. ‘This is clearly your interpretation of the law – will it be that of others? Will it come to trial?’

  The attorney raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Your Grace, that question is of the essence. The fact is that in the case of military aid to the civil power there has been much confusion. You are too young to remember the Gordon riots. I was in London at the time. The riots could have been nipped in the bud if everyone had not laboured under the misapprehension that, in law, the Riot Act had to have been read, and therefore the riot to have begun, before the magistrates could call upon the military. After the riots there was a great deal of legal argument but, alas, there were few firm rulings. The best interpretation, ironically – though, alas, it has no force of law – was that given by the Archbishop of York in the House of Lords. Here it is,’ declared Nugent with a flourish, holding open a large bound volume. ‘It will form the centrepiece of my submission. The archbishop declares that “a fatal error prevailed among the military that they could not in any case act without the orders of a civil magistrate which is the case when a great mob has assembled but has not yet proceeded to acts of violence. But when they have begun to commit felonies any subject, and the military among the rest, is justified in Common Law in using all methods to prevent illegal acts.”’

  ‘That seems clear enough,’ replied the duke. ‘Who will make the ruling in this case?’

  ‘It would be argued in front of a judge advocate at a court martial – the facts themselves are not in any material dispute. The judgment would turn on whether or not collapsing a roof with the occupants inside amounted to an illegal act.’

  ‘Good heavens, man! We’ve hanged people in England this year for doing less than that – Luddites and the like. They get up great steel hawsers round the chimneys and bring them crashing through the roof. How in God’s name is it any different here?’

  ‘Your Grace, it happens here every day. A few months ago it was done in front of the Bishop of Meath himself. His protests at the time, and subsequently, came to nothing.’

  William Devonshire, not yet versed in these disparities within the Union, was unsettled by the revelation, and a steely resolve came to him in that instant. Cornet Hervey, he now knew, had not only in his judgement acted honourably – indeed, in the only way a gentleman could – he had acted within the bounds of justice, and if the Law here could not admit of that, then he would ensure the case came before the highest court of appeal in the Union. Meanwhile he could at least use all his good offices to have Hervey released from arrest. He thanked everyone for their forbearance, declined, with much regret, the invitation to dine and stay the night, and instead, though it was already dark, began the journey back to Lismore.

  Elizabeth and Henrietta had retired long before his return in the early hours, so it was breakfast before he could recount what had passed in Cork.

  ‘Then Elizabeth and I may go and see him, at least?’ said Henrietta as he finished.

  That much was reasonable, he agreed, but he counselled patience. ‘I have already sent an express to General Slade asking for Cornet Hervey to be released into open arrest, for which I have agreed to stand surety if that be necessary. I do not think the general will find it expedient to deny the request. As to whether charges will be pressed – that is another matter entirely.’

  Between them, the officers of the 6th Light Dragoons subscribed to four hunts, five if Mr Croker’s scratch-pack at Ballingard in Limerick were counted. The Muskerry hounds had hunted the fox in County Cork for the best part of a century, and the home troop enjoyed their bank and wall country on Wednesdays and Saturdays. When that hunt met as far west as Macroom, however, the officers would instead join those of the Bandon troop to the south and ride out with the Carberry. Sometimes hounds would run right down to Bantry Bay where the field would then overnight riotously in the town, or the military followers might ride on to Skibbereen and billet themselves on the outstation there. The Mallow troop subscribed to the oldest pack, the Duhallow, whose southernmost meets were also accessible to the home troop. Hervey preferred their country to the Carberry’s since there was less plough. But the hunt he loved best was the Scarteen: Mr Thaddeus Ryan’s black and tan hounds hunted both fox and stag over the finest bank-and-ditch country imaginable, and so good was the scent that hounds ran faster here than anywhere in Ireland.

  Before his altercation with the Ballinhassig magistrate had brought an abrupt end to his hunting, Hervey had managed no less than thirty days out, over half of them with the Scarteen. And on his release into open arrest (Slade having found the Duke of Devonshire’s appeal more than compelling) his spirits were once again restored – at least outwardly – by some of the longest and fastest points he had ever known, and in the company of the two women for whom his admiration and affection knew no equal. Beyond what was necessary, however, the three had no conversation on the matter of his arrest, for if the outcome of the due process of military law were favourable, then there would be time enough to talk of it, and with the necessary dispassion. But if the outcome were unfavourable, then it were better that he had at least some happy memories of carefree sport and good company to sustain him in the darker times to come. Throughout these weeks he enjoyed the generous and civilized hospitality of Lismore, or of the duke’s hunting box in Tipperary, but not the company of the duke himself; for, on the pretext of business in connection with his estates, the duke was working assiduously towards Hervey’s thorough acquittal. Indeed, his acquittal was to the duke an utmost imperative.

  By the end of November, Hervey and Henrietta had spent the greater part of every week in each other’s company, only the occasional field day or picket duty requiring his presence in Cork. Yet Elizabeth would confide to her journal that their association seemed no further advanced in those precious weeks than it had been on their parting at Horningsham. Hervey, had he kept a journal, would have confided the same: in general company Henrietta was easy, full of laughter and game, but each time there was any opportunity for int
imacy she became perceptibly distant – distant enough, in any event, to daunt any affirmation of his true feeling. It was not that his heart had faltered, but the arrest had sapped at his surety, as a worm in an oak, and he supposed Henrietta’s certainty to be likewise diminished. With each day he felt the initiative slipping yet further away, and he could conceive of no stratagem by which to recover it.

  Then one morning, as the Black and Tans were drawing covert in some of their best country, near the southern end of the Golden Vale, Henrietta took him by surprise. ‘Matthew, this is heaven, but I hear tell that the Muskerry are not to be missed. May we have a day with them, perhaps when next they hunt west of Cork?’

  ‘We may, of course,’ he replied, ‘but it is poor hunting compared with this.’

  ‘In truth,’ she returned, ‘I would see the country in which you made so gallant a stand with the magistrate. Believe me, Matthew, a woman might admire such courage.’

  And Hervey had been nothing but encouraged by this apparent resolution of doubt on Henrietta’s part, taking no note of the conditional in her assertion of admiration.

  The arrangements were made easily enough, and the following week he, Elizabeth and Henrietta were to be found with the sky-blue collar of Mr Samuel Hawkes, the Muskerry’s master, drawing the south bank of the River Lee from the meet at the artillery barracks in Ballincollig. By midday they were near Kilcrea, as Henrietta hoped they would be, and when Hervey disclosed this fact she asked if they might see the village. They left the field – and Elizabeth – and rode to the little settlement which he had not seen since the day of his arrest over a month before.

  Peat smoke rose from the holes in the thatch-roofs and from the chimneys of the more substantial cottages, but there was not a soul to be seen. Scarcely had they turned into the single muddy street, however, than the occupants of the dismal dwellings began to emerge, and as Hervey passed each door he returned their greetings in the same tongue. But, wary though the greetings were, and ignorant of the tongue that Henrietta was, there was no doubting their benevolence. One face at least bore him a smile, however, and he could not but reflect it. As he reached the cottage where first he had begun his precipitous friendships, he sprang from the saddle to hold out his hand to Caithlin O’Mahoney, but she dismissed his formality and instead put both hands firmly on his shoulders to kiss him on each cheek.