Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War

by Allan Mallinson

  Elizabeth reddened. ‘There are whole barracks full of soldiers, Matthew – in every town almost. Are they too angling the while to have themselves sent abroad? Serjeant-Major Armstrong told me all about India. You did not even say that Georgiana was almost orphaned by a Burman bullet!’

  Hervey’s brow furrowed. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘And why should he not? He could not suppose that you hadn’t! We owe your life to the Wainwright boy from Warminster Common, it seems. That much you will thank me for, I imagine, since, as I recall, it was I who insisted you go there for your recruits.’

  ‘Elizabeth—’

  ‘And he told me all about the siege of Bhurtpore, and how you had captured the jheels in advance of the whole army so that the moats could not be filled. And how you had gone into the breaches with the storming party when there was no need. He told me all, Matthew.’

  Hervey imagined he had not told quite all. Armstrong would not have spoken of his own part – not the tunnel. ‘I think that—’

  And he also said you had scarce received any recognition in all this. So what is it you seek, then – the bubble reputation? Oh, don’t mistake me, Matthew; we are all excessively proud of you. But have a little compassion on your daughter!’

  She did not need to add ‘and me’ – if, indeed, she felt it. Hervey had been conscious these seven years and more that he trespassed on his sister’s loyalty. And in truth, although he was certain that his cause was just – that he could not discharge his duty in Portugal adequately if his family were at risk – it was also true that he wished simply and plainly to be unencumbered. It was an ignoble wish, he knew full well.

  He sighed inwardly. ‘Elizabeth, you may be right – undoubtedly are right – but what is now done I cannot undo with honour, if at all. When I am at Lisbon, if it appears at all prudent to do so, I will send for you both.’

  Elizabeth too sighed, but audibly, and the suggestion of satisfaction creased her mouth. ‘Thank you, brother. Though not for myself. And not just for Georgiana.’

  He understood. He might wish simply and plainly to be ‘unencumbered’, but if he neglected his paternal duties indefinitely he would come to despise himself. He could not follow a path regulated by the trumpet if he did not somehow provide more for Georgiana than was solely material.

  PART TWO

  REMEMBERING WITH ADVANTAGES

  PROCLAMATION

  People of Portugal

  The time is arrived to rescue your country, and restore the government of your lawful Prince . . .

  The English soldiers, who land upon your shore, do so with every sentiment of friendship, faith, and honour.

  The glorious struggle in which you are now engaged is for all that is dear to man – the protection of your wives and children; the restoration of your lawful Prince; the independence, nay, the very existence of your kingdom; and for the preservation of your holy religion . . .

  Lavaos, 2nd August, 1808

  Arthur Wellesley

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WINTERING SOUTH

  Holland Park 30th September 1826

  Dearest Caroline,

  You ask me why I am resolved to go to Lisbon, and chide me for not telling you before that I do. Yet I have only very lately come to a decision, and you were the first to know of it. And you ask what it is that induces me to go so far from my husband, yet knowing that he is nothing to me save the means of keeping me as our father intended, and that neither has he been so these past ten years and more. Nor even, if truth be told – and this you know already – from many years before then. From the beginning, indeed. You ask me about my ‘beau’, and I tell you I have never had such contentment and satisfaction, for he is everything that Sir Peregrine is not. His name is Matthew Hervey, but lest you at once fly into fretfulness and anxiety for me, his people are from Wiltshire and are not connected with the Bristols except at so remote a distance that there could be no peril of the blood of that infamous family being out, I am glad to tell you. His father is a clergyman, of some rank, but not high, and of little means. He became a cornet in the cavalry when he was still very young and served under General Moore and the Duke of Wellington, and he was at Waterloo. They say he is fearful brave, and of that I have no doubt for there is something in his air that is fine and true, and which has not been greatly diminished in his years of late in India, whence he is only lately returned, and where, says the Duke of Wellington and the officers who know him, he distinguished himself at that great siege whose name I do not now recall but which dazzled the whole of India. And yet there is something of the ingénu still in his manner and understanding, which has, I believe, exposed him to tribulation in the past. The Duke’s own secretary, a man whose confidence I have had these many years, has told me that he might rise to high rank if he were a little less unbending, by which I suppose he means if he were to embrace party. While he was there, in India I mean, we exchanged letters frequently, so that I feel I know him as if a friend of many years. I should have said that he was married some years ago, and that there is a child (a daughter), but that his wife died in America in the meanest circumstances on account, I believe, of the ill-doing of his colonel, though he has spoken of it but little. This was some years ago, and the child never knew her mother and is now nine years old, and so engaging a thing that I declare I should have been happy had she been mine. I should perhaps have said before that her mother was Henrietta Lindsay, ward of Lord Bath’s, whom we must therefore have met on occasion, though I cannot be certain. But Matthew Hervey, being without means, having placed in trust the small fortune which his wife brought with her, is forced to adventure where he can in order to advance, being too proud to accept any loan of money by which to buy advancement. He is now a captain, though he has a major’s brevet, and his regiment is quartered in Hounslow, which does not please him in this regard. And he is sent by the Horse Guards to Portugal because there is to be war there between the two brothers who pretend to the throne, and Spain intrigues against the one of them, and France too is not without interest, so that he goes there with prospects much to his advantage I believe. He is but one or two years my junior, and as fine a looking man as you would meet, not at all brought down by his years in the Indies, as are many, but quite the contrary, as if the place had invigorated him, for he is, I frankly confess, the best lover I have ever known, at once le plus fort and yet the most considerative, though it was but the cruellest short time for him to prove himself so, for he sailed for Portugal last week, and – I spare not your blushes, as you do not mine – the French lady visited me so early and unyieldingly that our last days together were very cruel torment. So you must not ask me, my dearest Caroline, why I fly south like the wintering birds, for it is all now laid before you. And I swear I would leave Sir Peregrine for ever to his Sark and his fishing were Captain Hervey to ask me – ay, even to quit Holland-park and give up the entire contents of its mews! So believe me, my dearest sister, when I assure you of my greatest happiness, in which consideration alone I am now resolved to act. Do not tell Louisa or our father, for they will surely not approve, yet their interference would not deflect me – I mean that you must not tell them of the reason I go to Lisbon, save to escape the mists and miasmas of this place, for Sir Peregrine knows I go, and on to Madeira he supposes. I leave by steam-ship two days hence, so do not trouble to reply at once, for it will likely not catch me. I shall put up first at Lawrence’s hotel at Sintra, I think, for it is there that Lord Byron spoke of so well when all else in the country he found wanting. Believe me, in all this I am more certain than of anything before, and beg you would be pleased for me in my new happiness.

  I am your ever affectionate sister,

  Katherine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE

  The Tagus, 2 October

  His Majesty’s Ship Acis, having had so much of her canvas blown out in the Bay of Biscay that she was all but under bare poles fore and aft, saluted and dropped ancho
r. Hervey’s relief was great, though not as great as Colonel Norris’s, the officer in charge of the special military mission to Lisbon. The colonel’s sea legs had early given way and he had spent the four days of the passage from Portsmouth alternately prone and supine in the cabin knocked up for him in the captain’s quarters. Hervey and the three others, when they were not holding on for dear life to the ratlines on the quarterdeck, had slept fitfully in their stygian cabins in the gunroom aft on the lower deck. Hervey had met them for the first time on going aboard – two majors of the Royal Engineers and one of Rifles. And within the limitations of the gunroom and the quarterdeck in seas in which many a ship would have foundered, they had formed a hearty fellowship and a common respect.

  It had been the same the first time he had entered the Tagus, all of eighteen years before. He had been a cornet then, and his new companions likewise. They – the whole regiment, indeed – had sailed from Northfleet in the middle of July (he remembered it well; it had been his father’s birthday), and they had hove to a month later in Mondego Bay. But Sir Arthur Wellesley had had such trouble landing there in the weeks before that in a day or so they sailed again for Lisbon, and much despair there had then been on hearing that a battle was fought and won at Vimeiro, and that the French were asking for terms without the Sixth so much as laying a foot, human or equine, on Peninsular soil. And he remembered the chiding they had all had from the adjutant, an old soldier who had first fought the French in Flanders. Bonaparte didn’t give up after an affair of a few thousand men, he said. It would be long years campaigning: Paris would have to fall, and the man himself put in irons. They need not fret for action, he told them; it would come soon enough, and many would then wish it otherwise.

  It had been true. A month they passed in Lisbon, and then Sir Arthur Wellesley was recalled to England to face an angry parliament over the terms afforded the French by the Convention of Cintra, and Sir John Moore had taken command of the army. And then at last they had got on the march for the Spanish border; Hervey had no need of his journal to recall it, so vivid still were those early days’ apprenticeship. It was then indeed that the hardships and privations had begun – three months the like of which the regiment had never known – greater by far than the adjutant could remember in Flanders, ten times worse than the affairs in Mysore. First the advance deep into Spain – ‘King’ Joseph Bonaparte’s Spain – the troops full of ardour, the going good, the little victories easy. Then, in December, the terrible retrograde movement, brightened only by the brilliant affair at Sahagun, and the desperate march through the frozen mountains to the sea, the fighting rearguards, the breakdown of discipline and the sullen morale in too many regiments, becoming instead mere battalions of stragglers. And then the battle at Corunna, the death of Moore and the ejection of the army from Spain. Thank God for the Royal Navy! Hervey shivered at the remembrance of it all, an episode that could only in part be expiated by the glories that followed under the renewed command of Sir Arthur Wellesley, later the Marquess and then the Duke of Wellington.

  ‘So do you think the place changed, Hervey?’ asked Cope, the Rifles major, as they peered through their telescopes at the distant prospect of the Castelo de São Jorge.

  ‘I think not in the least, though I hope we shall find the streets a deal less mean.’

  ‘Well do I recollect it,’ said Cope, taking a silk wipe to the condensation on the eye piece of his spyglass.

  ‘I confess I have scarce had a more agreeable billet as here, however.’ Hervey seemed almost now to be searching it out. ‘The most gentlemanly of men – a fidalgo, of the most upright character. And the most beautiful of daughters too. We were severally enraptured by her.’

  ‘Ay,’ sighed the Rifles major, with a wry smile, raising his telescope again. ‘I recollect many a green jacket here giving a girl a green gown.’

  Hervey smiled as wryly, but was in truth abashed by the memory of his own feeble attempts at lovemaking. ‘Let us hope the years have been kind to all,’ he said, elliptically.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ came a voice from behind.

  The two men turned to find Colonel Norris swaddled in a boat cloak. His cocked hat was pulled so far down as to push his ears outwards, his face the same sickly colour as the first day, and his efforts with the razor, although in one sense heroic, had evidently been neither skilled nor determined.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel,’ they replied as one.

  ‘What in the name of God happened this morning?’ he grumbled.

  They had all had to turn out on deck an hour after sunrise, but Norris had neither felt the ship strike the rock nor, in his unhappy condition, had he understood the urgency with which the pumps had been got up, since when he had sought the seclusion of his cabin and prayed for their early release from the purgatory.

  ‘There are two passages into the Tagus, Colonel,’ began one of the engineer majors helpfully. ‘One is close to the fort of St Julian, which is narrow and not very deep, and the other further south, which is wider and apparently the one more usually taken.’

  ‘By which I presume you are to tell me we imprudently took the more northerly one.’

  ‘Just so, Colonel. The master, it seems, is an old Tagus hand, and so the captain was persuaded to let him bring the ship in without a pilot, for which the master then has half the pilotage. Fortunately we were running so fast that she got off.’

  ‘Not an auspicious beginning, gentlemen,’ declared the colonel. ‘It will cost someone dear at Gibraltar too; I suppose that’s where she’ll have to go for repair.’

  ‘That is what the lieutenant says,’ confirmed Major Cope, with something of a smile. ‘The captain we have not troubled in the matter.’

  ‘Very wise,’ agreed the colonel, but without a suggestion of a smile. ‘In any case, the captain is making his barge available without delay, and I shall avail myself of it. You may stay aboard or come ashore as you wish.’

  Poor devil, thought Hervey. But another quarter of an hour of pitching and tossing in a little boat was clearly to be preferred if it were the speediest means of reaching dry land.

  Cope just beat Hervey to the reply. ‘I’m with you, Colonel.’

  ‘And I, sir,’ added Hervey.

  They had managed only a very little conversation with the colonel so far. Acis’s captain had dined his passengers the first evening aboard, but Hervey had been unable to gauge his new principal with any confidence. Colonel Norris was an artillery officer. He had been in the Peninsula before, though not, as far as Hervey could make out, greatly exercised. He was, however, the Duke of Wellington’s man, having been on the staff of the Board of Ordnance for the past five years. Manifestly there were depths to him, Hervey conceded. But, there was about him too something that Hervey found troubling. He had observed the same in only a few senior officers, and always the least effectual ones. It was the habit of assuming superior knowledge, of experience and insight. He had noted it that first evening: each time an officer – the captain included – had spoken of a thing, Colonel Norris had somehow sought to trump him or doubt his assertion. It did not augur well for a mission in which a subordinate’s observations and opinion were to form a part of the principal’s judgement.

  Out swung the barge, and down, followed by the boat crew on the jumping ladder. Then a gangway was lowered so that the captain, colonel and his officers might descend with proper dignity. They settled as best they could in the little space between the bluejacket oars, braced as the midshipman gave the order to pull away, and set their faces against or away from the spray depending on whether they wished a parting view of the wooden walls, painted Nelson style still, or not.

  Hervey’s face was salt-sprayed, for sure. He was transported to that first time they had come here, and the landing of the horses, the unlucky ones by lighter, those more fortunate left to swim ashore. It had been a hard passage for both men and horses. His own ship, a biggish transport, had lost a hand overboard in the Bay of Biscay, the poor devil f
alling from the mizzen straight into the sea, so far heeled over was she. And a dragoon had split his head open falling down a companionway in the same storm. He had been a long time dying, and pitifully. But it went hardest of all with the horses.

  It would have been even worse without the Sixth’s veterinary surgeon, Hervey was sure of it. John Knight had been one of the first names he had heard spoken of on joining for duty, such was the uncommon regard in the regiment for his art. That and the speculation as to his past years, for it was known that he had spent time in the West Indies, though not with His Majesty’s troops. There was, indeed, as mess gossip had it, a ‘touch of the tarbrush’ in Knight’s past, and the fare-ye-wells at Northfleet had seemed to bear it out. But that day in 1808 on the Granite, five days out from England, and every one of them storm-tossed, with the lee scuppers awash for the best part of twelve hours, the veterinary surgeon revealed his true mettle.

  ‘Take this to Mr Knight,’ Farrier-Corporal Martin had bellowed, pushing a steaming canteen at one of the dragoons. ‘He won’t leave ’em.’

  Hervey had been officer of the day, new come on duty. ‘Mr Knight is still on the orlop, Corporal Martin?’

  ‘He is, sir. I don’t reckon he’s been up once since we left England, sir.’

  Hervey made his way gingerly down the ladder to the orlop deck where close on a hundred horses were crammed.

  ‘Little better than blacks on a slaver,’ the troop quartermaster complained.

  It was gloomy, for sure, thought Hervey, dimly lit as it was by horn lanterns. And it stank almost as foul, he imagined – frightened horses and the bilges. He thanked heaven that Jessye was not aboard. It would have killed her. Well, perhaps not, for she was a good doer, steady too, not given to breaking out or the colic. Perhaps she would have managed, just. But the outbreak of farcy at her layerage had been a good thing if it spared her this torment.