Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service

by Allan Mallinson

  It was easy. All three mounts had a turn of speed, and the bashi-bazouks had not yet made the road.

  The pair of plane trees either side of the road which marked the half-way point lay just ahead. ‘A mile on and we’ll be at the outposts,’ called Hervey, almost enjoying the chase. He let his gelding lengthen stride a fraction more and edged ahead of Fairbrother’s again by a neck.

  Neither of them saw the rope in time, or the men at each end, up from the ditches like jacksnipe, bracing the trip against the plane trees. Hervey’s gelding took it at the forearm and somersaulted, throwing him twenty feet, snapping its neck in the fall and kicking wildly in the road. Fairbrother’s caught it a fraction lower, stumbling sideways and throwing him into the ditch. Agar’s mare ran straight into Fairbrother’s and came down on top of her rider.

  Hervey fought the blackness overwhelming him. He wanted to call his friend’s name, but couldn’t. He lay stunned, prone. He tried to move his hands and feet – anything rather than nothing.

  Twenty yards away, in the ditch, Fairbrother did the same. His arm was broken – he knew it – but not his sword arm. He forced himself to move, to get to his knees, to begin scaling the mountainous side of the ditch. He found more breath: ‘Hervey!’

  No answer.

  He heard hoofs behind them, pounding.

  So did Hervey – or felt them. He used all his strength to roll onto his back. Where was Fairbrother – and Agar?

  Fairbrother dug his fingers in the earth to haul himself another inch up the bank.

  Seven wild-looking horsemen who took lives, honour and gold without a thought reined up hard. One only sprang down, for one only would be enough.

  Hervey could barely see as his executioner loomed over him and drew back his knife to savour the cut.

  Hervey’s right hand moved across his chest.

  The bazouk saw the pathetic gesture – pleading. He smiled, mockingly, tilting the blade this way and that to show what awaited his vitals.

  Hervey’s hand reached inside his tunic, to the Deringer pistol, primed and wadded. But he needed strength. ‘Dear God …’

  There was a great roaring in his head – like the Murom as they charged with the bayonet – and he pulled out the pistol, cocked the trigger and turned it on the looming bazouk.

  The flame, the noise, the smoke – like the powder waggons at Kulewtscha.

  The bazouk fell back, dazed, the ball lodged in the silvered belt at his chest. He sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

  Then, gathering his strength, he began crawling to finish the job.

  Another shot – louder. The bazouk fell dead.

  ‘Hervey!’

  Fairbrother limped towards him, dropping the pistol he couldn’t re-load.

  The others watched, laughing, biding their time.

  ‘Hervey!’ He sank to his knees beside him.

  The moment had come; this time they couldn’t cheat it. Still Hervey couldn’t speak.

  He heard the shots, and Fairbrother slumped across his chest.

  He felt the strength given to him again – to lift his arms and pull his friend close. But still without breath to speak.

  ‘Oh …’

  Hervey grasped him tight. Not like this, he prayed. Not both unable to say farewells.

  ‘Hervey … I’m done.’ It was barely a whisper.

  ‘No … hold hard, my friend.’ But did he speak the words? He prayed for all he was worth.

  ‘Hervey … the dark …’

  ‘Fight … fight, my dearest friend.’ Hervey’s voice came in gasps.

  And he could not hear the pounding hoofs of the bashi-bazouks – and of the Cossacks.

  XX

  BLEAK MIDWINTER

  London, 19 January 1830

  The heavy frost which preserved December’s snow and kept men by their fires made Kent a dismal place through which to travel, like some vast house dust-sheeted and abandoned in death. It had been a melancholy drive without the company of passengers of stage or mail. A private chaise, a relay of horses and post-boys – a great expense for not very much greater speed, and hardly more comfort; he was intent only on the Horse Guards; all other intercourse and diversion meant nothing.

  London Bridge was without its crowds – he had half expected to see it pulled down, gone – and ice languished in the hibernating Thames. Just beyond the Temple Bar one of the new policemen was keeping the peace in a dispute between pie-sellers; half-way along the Strand a piper had gathered a crowd, and at the bottom, by Charing Cross, the frosted scaffolding loomed like a giant spider’s web, the men aloft like caught flies. In all its ordinariness, the familiar scene was strangely consoling.

  As the chaise pulled up outside the United Service Club, he breathed (perhaps even audibly) the greatest sigh of relief. It was, so to speak, a journey of a full circle, a year almost to the day, but a homecoming without the joy of the departure. The long return – three months, almost – by way of Constantinople, steam frigate and the roads of France, had not eased much the oppressive sense of waste, of loss (and, in truth, of guilt). He had written long, condoling letters, but for all he knew they were still to arrive – and even the news itself. The committal to the earth of Ancient Thrace had been swift – too swift, but that was the only way in heat and war. He had found an obliging surgeon, though, and in the seraglio a little ivory casket, which a metal-smith had then lined with lead, and another who engraved a plate: ‘Nothing of him that doth fade/But doth suffer a sea-change/Into something rich and strange.’ Cor Cordium – it had not left his guard these six months.

  The United Service at last – haven. Here he could make another beginning, though what and where he did not know. Nor would he know until he had been to the Horse Guards; and even then the answer might not come at once. The letters at Adrianople – the only ones he had received in all of the year – had contained no word. He sighed heavily. Agar’s fateful ride had been needless, utterly needless.

  The hall porter, an old serjeant of the Line, turned from the blazing coal fire with poker still in hand, which he brought upright to a salute and greeted him with seasonal good cheer. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you back, Colonel Hervey, sir. And you, Captain Fairbrother!’

  The two went straight to the fire, holding out hands which felt suddenly cold.

  ‘Will you be wanting to stay, sir?’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Are there rooms? I would have sent an express but thought it would not precede us by much.’

  ‘All of ’em’s free bar one, sir. No one is back from the country yet. They say as this ’ard weather’s giving capital sport. But it fair makes my rheumaticky come on. ’Ave you come far, sir? I ’aven’t seen you in a while.’

  ‘Quite far, yes. Are there, do you know, any letters for me?’

  The porter gave a little laugh. ‘I’ll say so, sir! We’ve ’ad to put ’em all in a cupboard.’

  Fairbrother sat down on the fender-seat, his shoulders hunched.

  Hervey looked at him anxiously.

  ‘Too cold. Made me light-headed. It’ll pass.’

  ‘The baths we’ve been promising ourselves: that’s what’ll do it. And a good dinner,’ (he turned to the porter) ‘unless, that is, the boiler’s broken and the larder’s bare.’

  ‘Oh, the boiler goes like the Rocket, sir. Plenty of ’ot water. But I’m afraid the committee’s closed the kitchen for a week to put in gas. There’s the galley for coffee and such like.’

  Hervey remained cheery. ‘Then we’ll have to go to Rule’s.’

  Fairbrother smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Confounded ordeal, but I shall bear it manfully.’

  Hervey braced himself for the last furlong. ‘Meadwell, would you have our dunnage brought in? We’ll find our rooms and draw the baths. And would you have brandy sent up?’

  ‘Of course, sir. And your letters?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘No, they can wait a while longer.’

  When he came down an hour later the letters were arranged in
three neat piles on a writing table in the smoking room. He called for coffee, lit a Turkish cigar and, quite alone, began contemplating the year’s correspondence before him. But to one side was a copy of the London Gazette with a card bearing the royal arms attached to it. He picked it up, curious, and even with some apprehension (the Gazette was the government’s instrument of record – every sort of official announcement, for good or ill).

  The card read: Herewith the Gazette to which I referred. V. Y.

  So Valentine Youell had written to him referring to the Gazette – but when, and to where?

  He removed the card and began to read:

  The London Gazette – ‘Published by Authority’

  Tuesday, October 27, 1829.

  At the Court at Windsor, the 12th day of October 1829, PRESENT, the KING’s Most Excellent Majesty in Council, WHEREAS by an Act, passed in the sixth year of the reign of His present Majesty, intituled ‘An Act to regulate the trade of the British possessions abroad’, the several sorts of goods enumerated or described in a certain table therein contained, denominated ‘a Table of Prohibitions and Restrictions’, are either prohibited to be imported or brought, either by sea or by inland carriage or navigation, into the British possessions in America, or into the Island of Mauritius …

  Dull officialdom. Was he meant to read through the whole paper? He shook himself and turned the page.

  The next was sidelined in red ink half-way down:

  War-Office, 26th October 1829.

  6th Regiment of Light Dragoons, Lieutenant-Colonel Matthew Paulinus Hervey to command, vice Holderness, who is promoted Major-General. Dated 12 October 1829.

  Hervey leaned back in his chair, scarcely able to take it in. Indeed, he did not know whether to rejoice or despair.

  Then he smiled. Of course he rejoiced. It didn’t matter if it were a single troop or even a single dragoon: it was the object he had held in his mind since Spain and a cornet. ‘To command’, said the Gazette; all else was mere detail.

  But had his letter not reached the Horse Guards? Had Lord Hill revoked his earlier offer of the Fifty-third? Somewhere in all these letters there would be the answer – but where to start? He thought of going to see Valentine Youell, at once, but he could hardly turn up at the Horse Guards on a matter of but his own position. He supposed he would have to report in person to Lord Hill to account for his time with the Russians, in amplification of his despatches, but that was not pressing enough reason to go now, unannounced. He must trust that there was answer beneath one of these seals. Or would Lord George Irvine be at home?

  He began looking through them. Several were in hands he recognized, and he carefully placed these to one side. Some bore the impressions of coronets and other recognizable devices – congratulatory, no doubt, and these he laid aside separately too. There were three that bore the seal of the Horse Guards, and one from his agents; these he placed separately again, and would read first. The rest formed a fourth pile, which he would attend to last. There was none in Kat’s hand.

  The silent smoking room came abruptly alive. ‘My dear Hervey!’

  He turned.

  ‘Howard!’ He rose and took his old friend’s hand, never happier to see him. ‘When did you return?’

  ‘A month ago.’

  ‘The Cape pleased you?’

  ‘Very much. But I believe I am restored to my proper station.’

  Hervey’s smile increased. Lieutenant-Colonel the Lord John Howard was back at his desk at the Horse Guards, where for twenty years, with brief interruptions for service with his regiment on the parade ground outside, he had exercised sound judgement and wielded a sharp pen in the service of the duke and then Lord Hill. They were unlikely friends, perhaps, but their acquaintance went back many years, and each saw in the other the qualities that they perceived lacking in themselves.

  ‘What extraordinary good chance you should come. I’m returned little more than an hour.’

  ‘Not in the least good chance, I assure you. As soon as your letter reached us from Constantinople I left word here that I must be told immediately you arrived. And reminded them every week.’

  ‘That’s exceedingly gratifying. And Youell – is he replaced?’

  ‘No. We share the duties. They’d become too much for one man. But see, tell me what occurred in Roumelia. I was very sorry to hear, by the way, about Agar-Ellis.’

  Hervey sat down again, deflated somewhat. He nodded to acknowledge the sympathy as Howard pulled up a chair. ‘We were trying to outrun a pack of bashi-bazouks on the way back to Adrianople – just the three of us. We galloped straight into an ambuscade – a rope across the road, which I didn’t see, nor Fairbrother. They caught us square – toppled the three of us. Agar, so far as I can make out matters, was pinned beneath his mare, and Fairbrother broke an arm. I myself was so completely stunned I scarce knew a thing. I managed to shoot one who’d come to finish me off, but not dead, and he would have done for me had not Fairbrother at that moment shot him. But then the others began to shoot and hit Fairbrother in the back. Poor Agar must have struggled free and somehow used his pistols, but he was shot horribly through and died where he lay. We’d all be dead had it not been for a patrol of Cossacks who drove them off. They said that Agar was standing with his sword drawn. Fairbrother would have bled to death where he lay, too, had it not been for the Cossacks. They stemmed the bleeding – heaven knows how, but they say they never have a surgeon when they’re ranging, so must learn to look after themselves – and got him to Adrianople, and there the surgeons worked their miracles. I thought he was dead for sure. He himself thought so.’

  ‘And you remained there until he was fit to return?’

  ‘Yes. The parleying started not long after. The Sultan sued for peace, which in truth was the best the Russians could have hoped for. I don’t think, now, they could have taken Constantinople before the Turk reinforcements arrived.’

  Howard nodded. ‘Your despatches have made a considerable impression on Lord Hill. They’ve been copied to the duke, too.’

  There was no more approbation that Hervey could have wished for. ‘That is gratifying.’

  Howard now brightened. ‘But see, this news of command – splendid, splendid!’

  Hervey smiled likewise. ‘It is splendid news indeed, though it would be more so if the regiment were not reduced.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re not acquainted with recent events?’

  Hervey quickened. ‘As you perceive.’

  ‘The estimates have been restored, and with interest. Such a year of trouble it’s been: Ireland, the manufacturing districts – even violence in the country. Not only are the Sixth and the others to have been reduced restored to full strength, an extra troop is added to the establishment.’

  A year of trouble: Hervey could only be thankful – Reform, Catholics, Luddites or whatever they were. He smiled broadly as the full measure of his restoration was revealed. ‘An ill wind.’

  Howard smiled again. ‘Quite. I raised a glass in White’s to the place across the road when I heard the news.’

  ‘Brooks’s?’

  ‘Why not? The Reformists raised their standard there.’

  ‘An ill wind indeed!’

  ‘Dine with me tonight – and Fairbrother. Where is he?’

  ‘Resting after his bath. He’d be delighted to dine. At White’s? The name amuses him.’

  ‘He’s a good fellow. Shall he return to the Cape?’

  ‘I very much hope not. I tell you frankly, I’ll have need of him at Hounslow.’

  The coffee was brought, two cups. Howard took his, sat back and contemplated his old friend admiringly. Then he took a leather case from his pocket. ‘Lord Hol’ness left this in my charge for you.’

  Hervey opened it. The gilt shone bright. ‘You’ll know what it is? The gorget worn by the Sixth’s first lieutenant-colonel. It’s been passed to every one since.’

  ‘Hol’ness said it had been his greatest wish to pass it to you in person.’r />
  Hervey smiled, but a little wryly. ‘That, indeed, would have been to break with tradition rather. But it was very decent of him to say so – the major-general.’

  Howard leaned back in his chair again. ‘You’ll have the devil of a year ahead if things go on as they are. I wonder how you’ll do it; I shall watch keenly from the vantage of the Horse Guards. What first, I wonder?’

  ‘That is very simple – promote my groom to corporal.’

  Howard smiled. ‘Corporal Johnson. After all these years. How droll! He’s well, then?’

  ‘At this moment he’s probably roundly cursing me atop a waggon full of baggage on the Dover road. But see, when do you think I might call on Lord Hill?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘So soon? I’d have imagined his day replete enough with these troubles.’

  ‘I shall arrange some respite. And you must then, of course, go and see the fellows who disburse the Secret Vote. They’re much interested in your acquaintance with Müffling, and this Moltke – and, of course, Princess Lieven. Shrewd of you to chronicle your contact with her as you did.’

  ‘It’s just that I must go and see Agar’s people before I get myself to Hounslow.’

  ‘Of course … You know, by the way, that Lord George Irvine is here?’

  Hervey brightened. ‘I did not.’

  ‘Recalled for consultation with Lord Hill on the Irish trouble.’

  This was news of the very best: he would be able to call on the Sixth’s Colonel – under whom he had served since a cornet – before, so to speak, walking on to parade; as was only proper. ‘Capital.’

  Howard turned somewhat solemn. ‘No doubt you’ll want to call on all manner of people – take leave, by rights. But as far as the Horse Guards is concerned, you’ve been commanding for three months already. Don’t tarry too long.’

  Hervey frowned. ‘The troubles, you mean?’

  Howard laughed, put down his cup and clapped a hand to Hervey’s shoulder. ‘My dear old friend, I mean that I’m sure you shan’t have an eternity to enjoy it. I’ll wager it won’t be long before the Gazette is printing someone else’s name “vice Hervey, who is promoted Major-General!”’