This pleased him the more, for the only inference there could be was that any law-abiding citizen witnessing the events must desire the intervention of the military.
He read on with increasing approval, the words perfectly according with his own reports to the Horse Guards and the Home Office – ‘the most wretched depravity’, ‘barbarism’, ‘drunkenness’, ‘devastation’ et cetera – until he came to the account of the action by his own order, which, while faithful, somehow sounded ill:
At length the horrible transactions are arrested; the troops are acting, by scouring the streets and dispersing the mob by the gun, the pistol, and the sword.
For there followed, after much corroborative detail quoted from other correspondents, a statement which, no matter what the justification, he felt sure would be seized on in certain quarters as testament to the charge that His Majesty’s Land Forces were the enemies of Reform:
The total number of killed and wounded, as far as we have been able to ascertain, is as follows: – 4 men and 1 woman, the latter in consequence of severe bruises received in one of the houses where she had been engaged in plunder: a little boy, also, who was shot through the bowels, is not expected to live; 51 other persons, including 4 women, have also received injuries, some of them very severe ones, principally sabre wounds; a few in consequence of the parties leaping from the burning houses. In this account we enumerate the cases taken to the public hospitals only. Many lives were lost in the flames, and several persons who received injury having been taken to their own homes, we have no means of acquiring the requisite information respecting them.
The numbers would be greater when all was counted, he was sure, but even so, Englishmen – English women – sabred on the streets …
Prichard brought his coffee. ‘The duke was in this morning, Colonel. He’s still not best pleased about all his windows.’
‘Yes, I imagine so. Shameful business,’ replied Hervey, lowering his paper on finding no other report. ‘Is there a later edition of The Times to come?’
‘Not as a rule, Colonel. But there’s The Courier comes about five.’
‘Very well, Prichard, thank you.’
He took a sip at his coffee and contemplated taking a bath, but although baths were very expeditiously arranged at the United Service – with hot water proceeding in quantity at the mere turn of a lever – he was sure the summons back to the Horse Guards would come before he could take its pleasure. And so instead he picked up The Times again and read the court circular:
A Cabinet Council was held at 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon, at the Foreign-office, which was attended by Earl Grey, Viscount Melbourne, Viscount Palmerston, Viscount Althorp, the Right Hon. Charles Grant, Viscount Goderich, Lord John Russell, and Sir James Graham. The Council sat in deliberation about two hours. Earl Grey came to town from his seat, at East Sheen, for the purpose of attending the meeting. The Russian, Austrian, and French Ambassadors, the Prussian Minister, and the Russian and Austrian Envoys Extraordinary, held a conference with Viscount Palmerston yesterday afternoon, at the Foreign-office. Sir Thomas Cochrane, Lieutenant-Governor of Newfoundland, had an interview with Viscount Goderich, at the Colonial-office, yesterday. Letters from the Magistrates of Bristol, for Viscount Melbourne, were received yesterday at the Home-office. Despatches were forwarded by his Lordship yesterday to the King at Brighton.
Brighton. Forwarded by hand of his own dragoons, no less. They liked to post to Brighton, for as a rule they could stay overnight so as to bring back papers the following day – and they were always welcome at Mr Lincoln’s establishment. The Sixth’s quartermaster until lately (and before that, ‘from time immemorial’, the regimental serjeant-major), Lincoln had invested a lifetime’s bachelor thrift, and, recently, wedded thrift, into ‘a small hotel’, which was already a place finding favour with the gentry for its economy and efficiency. Lincoln had married an infantry widow in India, and earlier in the year his stepdaughter, to the astonishment of all, had married one of the regiment’s prize lieutenants. Lincoln himself had been wariest of the match, and was certain that Lieutenant Edward Pearce, Sir James Pearce’s younger son (and Pearce the most respected Assistant Secretary at War), must transfer to another regiment, where the taint of marrying a daughter from the ranks could be washed out the sooner. He’d joined straight from Eton, where his learning, looks and graceful bat had by all accounts made him one of the most popular Oppidans of his day; he’d charmed Calcutta and the regiment alike, and fought like a wildcat at Bhurtpore. His future seemed assured; but then he’d married for ‘love’.
As once he too had done …
Hervey drained his cup abruptly – and then spilled as much as he poured himself more.
But Lucy Lincoln was no Nan Clarges, old General Monck’s un-polished duchess – the washerwoman who’d kept him comfort in the Tower, Cromwell’s prisoner. At fifteen, the Lincolns had sent her to England to an academy for young ladies, and Lucy had emerged as pretty as the daughter of any earl and twice as clever. Pearce’s fellow officers may have been astonished, but none but the dolts did but admire. The wedding party had filled the church in Brighton, and afterwards one of the great tents taken booty at Bhurtpore; and Hervey had found a catch in his throat more than once. Pearce and his bride had lately dined at Heston, affording yet more proof of the warmth that came of mutual affection. Heston had seemed much the colder for their leaving that night.
He shook his head – this wouldn’t do – and took up The Times again.
The rest of the news amounted to nothing of substance. He read the money matters and thanked himself as ever that he wasn’t in thrall to them, and then the private announcements, sometimes enlightening and invariably entertaining, called for more coffee (an hour had passed), and then exchanged The Times for the London Gazette of the previous day, under which a half-pay admiral had been soundly sleeping.
The Gazette was engaging, though he first had to turn many pages of ‘rules and regulations proposed by the Board of Health’. There was, it seemed, an influx from foreign parts of Cholera Morbus, and ‘a
Committee of the Lords of His Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council’ were pleased to order that the symptoms and treatment be printed and published in the Gazette ‘and circulated in all the principal ports, creeks and other stations of the said United Kingdom, with a view that all persons may be made acquainted therewith’. He read them, and found nothing that any man who’d served in the Honourable Company’s domains would not know. There was advantage to being in England, he would freely admit, for the Cholera was infinitely the rarer; but was the Cholera in India not, after all, just another of the Grim Reaper’s devices, the price perhaps for the brighter sun and easier ways? Death from the Cholera, too, though an undignified and stinking business, was at least quick by comparison with many a wasting sickness here.
There were not many promotions to read of, and these mostly restricted to subaltern officers, which was never of great moment. Only one, he noted – ‘59th Foot, Ensign James Mockler to be Lieutenant’ – was without purchase. He wondered what had been Mockler’s good fortune – bloody war or a sickly season? He smiled to himself at the macabre old toast they used to propose in Spain. Where were the Fifty-ninth now? They’d been at Bhurtpore; that, he knew well …
Then a name did catch his eye: the 7th Fusiliers had gained ‘Second Lieutenant George Viscount Torrington, from the 60th Foot, to be Lieutenant, by purchase, vice Orr, promoted in the 88th Foot’. (It was queer how the Sixtieth called their cornets – or rather, ensigns – ‘second lieutenants’.) It must mean that old Admiral Torrington was dead, the title passed to his son or whoever. That or he’d been advanced in grade, and young George had taken the courtesy title. He must hope the latter, for Sir Laughton Peto had always counted Torrington one of his supporters, and if his old and gallant friend were ever to be recalled from the ‘Yellow Squadron’ – Rear-Admiral without distinction of an active squadron (or as the army had it, the half-pay) – he
must have his supporters. Perhaps, though, Torrington’s death created a vacancy not just in the peerage? The system of admiralty was at best a secret, black and midnight one.
Thoughts of Peto were ever pleasing. That a man could be so grievously wounded and yet recover such mastery of shattered limbs as to persuade their lordships to reinstate him – promote him to titular admiralcy indeed – was witness to England’s true glory. Witness also to the regard in which her sea captains were held, for the comforts of Houghton Hall in his native Norfolk, seat of the great Lords of Cholmondeley, had been placed at his disposal for as long as his convalescence required. There, of course, Peto had been nursed by Rebecca Codrington – now Lady Peto – and there was no knowing the power in that.
He couldn’t help a sigh. He couldn’t wish his old friend any greater happiness than this devotion – this love – of Rebecca Codrington’s (and so young a woman at that), but ignoble though he knew it was, their mutual affection, as the Pearces’, served only to magnify his own want of it.
But he smiled a few lines later on. Having so soon lost a viscount, the Sixtieth – who thought themselves always so superior – had replaced him with a knight: ‘Sir Brodrick Hartwell, Bart, to be Second Lieutenant, by purchase, vice Lord Torrington, promoted in the 7th Foot.’ In time of bloody war and sickly season, these things counted for far less, but in time of peace there was a strong financial interest. Regiments with a peer or two in their list, or failing that a baronet, could always command a higher price. When the wags spoke of a ‘peerless regiment’, it was not usually an expression of high regard. Sniff at these things though he was inclined to do occasionally, he could not deny that since his own assumption of command the value of his half-colonelcy had increased by the accretion of three sons of the peerage. That this owed nothing to his reputation as commanding officer, or to the Sixth’s fighting record, but instead to their station at Hounslow and its proximity to London, was by the bye.
Having read the promotions and appointments, he then found a rather encouraging entry that suggested that when it came to affairs like Bristol, the authorities would indeed take whatever action was needed. Respecting the late disturbances in the Midland counties, His Majesty promised pardon ‘to those who had forced open the prison at Derby and set at liberty the prisoners who shall discover his accomplice or accomplices therein, so that he, she, or they may be apprehended and convicted thereof’, and with the offer ‘as a further encouragement’ of a reward of one hundred pounds ‘to any person who shall discover the said offender or offenders, so that he, she, or they may be apprehended and convicted of the said offence’.
‘Capital!’ He said it so loud that several heads turned his way.
Indeed, he would have put down the Gazette had not turning the page allowed him to ignore the enquiring heads, thereby missing the most significant intelligence of the entire paper – from the East India House: ‘the Court of Directors of the United Company of Merchants of England trading to the East Indies do hereby give notice that Sir Eyre Somervile KCH is appointed pro-Governor of the Presidency of Fort St George, vice Stephen Rumbold Lushington Esq on indefinite leave of absence’.
For here was ripe news indeed. The Somerviles were not long returned from Canada; he had not yet seen them, for they’d taken a house in Yorkshire for the summer. He’d supposed they would stay in London a year or two at least, for although Canada was the province of the War Office – the War and Colonial Office indeed – Somervile was a Company man to his fingertips. Madras was where they’d first met, when Somervile had been but a collector – and when he’d met his wife – and Hervey supposed the prospect of returning as governor must be delightful to both.
Delightful it was, of course, but with Fairbrother’s sojourn in Jamaica, it now meant many months without the prospect of conversation on any terms of intimacy. He resolved to write at once. It was impossible that he should visit Yorkshire, but they were bound to come to London before sailing, and he must see as much of them as he might, for there was no knowing how long it would be until the next opportunity. There was a godchild, indeed. And Emma had been one of Henrietta’s closest friends – perhaps the very closest.
He wondered, though, about this strange substitution of governors, sine die. What was it that compelled Stephen Rumbold Lushington Esq to indefinite leave of absence – or John Company to grant it? He supposed that among the occupants of the tub chairs there would be one who knew, but to enquire would invite a conversation – which might very well lead to Bristol, and he’d still no wish to speak of it before he’d seen the commander-in-chief.
The smoking-room waiter had already lit the gaslights, and the lamp trimmer was beginning his rounds, so he moved instead to one of the writing tables. But he’d scarcely taken up the pen before the hall porter appeared.
‘Begging your pardon, Colonel, but a messenger has just come from the Horse Guards, and Lord Hill asks to see you now.’
Several heads turned, for it was never the practice of the club servants to announce messages with lowered voice. But they were looks of some regard – the hall porter had said ‘asks to see you’ – and Hervey took a certain pleasure in it, replacing the pen and folding the sheet of paper without undue haste.
As he rose and made to leave he was checked by the sudden appearance of the King’s private secretary.
‘Hervey, I understood you were in Bristol.’
‘Good evening, General. You understood rightly.’ Every head was again turned his way. ‘I returned last night.’
They were well acquainted. Like John Howard, Lieutenant-General Sir Herbert Taylor had never been shot over – or not much (the siege of Antwerp, before Bonaparte’s first exile, had not been much of an affair) – nor drawn his sword except on parade, but he possessed a great facility for counsel and discretion, having been private secretary variously to the late King George, and to his father and to Queen Charlotte, as well as, lately, Military Secretary and then Adjutant-General. It was not insignificant, Hervey reckoned, that he chose to announce to the room that he’d been in Bristol.
‘You’ll have read the report in The Clarion? Damnable. His Majesty’s most grateful for your services.’
Well, there it was. The press – a Radical part of it at least – made trouble, and the King disapproved of it. Hervey didn’t think he’d seen The Clarion on the bulletins table, but if His Majesty wasn’t disturbed by the ‘damnable report’, why should he be? ‘I’m about to see Lord Hill. There’ll be a thorough inquiry.’
‘Quite so. His Majesty’s cancelled all levees for the time being. He’ll await Lord Melbourne’s report, of course, but he may wish to hear from you in person, at Windsor.’
‘I shall inform Lord Hill.’
‘And brace yourself for slings and arrows. The Radicals aren’t above making mischief.’
Hervey thanked him. General Taylor was a courtier in uniform, but his occasional dealings with him at Windsor had been always agreeable, and any man favoured by the Duke of Wellington was a man whose own favour was worth preserving. Slings and arrows – what precisely did he mean? Lines in The Clarion and its like were hardly going to trouble him (he supposed).
At the Horse Guards he found John Howard still in uniform. It was the practice to wear a plain coat in the afternoon, which meant he’d taken no respite since seeing him earlier. Such, evidently, was the consternation that Bristol must be causing.
‘Lord Hill returned but an hour ago. He’s seen your memorandum, and a letter from Colonel Brereton – sent to the Military Secretary, for some reason. I’ve not myself seen it, and his lordship has not vouchsafed its contents. He seems, however, somewhat … preoccupied.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Hervey, in some surprise. ‘He must be wondering who’ll attaint him first – the government for excessive force or the Tories for want of it.’
‘That may be so, but I rather think that in the meantime he wonders how many will be the calls on the troops, and how if they’re many he�
��s to meet them. I gather it’s taken every post-house from here to Bristol to get one troop of guns there.’
Were it not so serious Hervey would have smiled at the thought of the post-masters all along the Bristol road having suddenly to turn out horses for 6-pounders instead of mails or the occasional chaise.
‘I beg pardon. I do him a disservice. I own that I substituted my own doubts, for I just saw Sir Herbert Taylor at the United Service, and he cautioned me against slings and arrows.’
Howard looked wry. ‘I can’t say, save that it would indeed be outrageous fortune. I should have thought the aldermen of Bristol are at this very moment considering the number of rubies to embed in the sword they’ll present to you.’
‘A sword with two edges, no doubt?’
‘I shall tell Lord Hill you are come.’
The commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s Land Forces, General the Right Honourable Rowland, Lord Hill – Baron Hill of Almaraz and of Hawkestone in the County of Salop – took off his spectacles as Hervey entered, and with them indicated the chair to the front and off-centre of his desk.
It was a good start, thought Hervey as he sat. That he was not ‘marched’ in was a good enough start, but to be greeted so familiarly – not with a word but a nod – spoke of the regard in which he was held by ‘Daddy’ Hill (as he was affectionately known by those who’d served under him in the Peninsula). It was a fact that a man who’d galloped for a general in a battle such as Talavera was never again a mere field officer to him.
‘Well, a pretty kettle of fish, Hervey.’
‘Indeed, General.’
‘I have an account of it from Colonel Brereton. It seems very plausible, were it not for the fact that half of Bristol lies in ruins.’
‘Well, half of civic Bristol, to be precise, my lord – and the major part of a rather fine square of houses. I don’t of course know what Colonel Brereton writes, except that he gave me an account of events and reasons for his actions when I arrived.’
The Passage to India Page 9