The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey was momentarily speechless. ‘Corporal Stray … how … very gratifying to see you looking so well.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘Is this transformation connected with your intention to commit matrimony? Stand at ease, man.’

  ‘Colonel, I’ll speak t’truth. When I went to buy a ticket for ’ome, t’carrier said I’d ’ave to pay excess, which vexed me; but then I said to meself, Mick, tha’s only thiself to blame, and mebbe it’s time to shrink a bit. An’ I ’ave done.’

  ‘You have indeed, Corporal Stray – in the course of which, it appears, you have found a woman consenting to be your wife.’

  ‘I ’ave, Colonel, a right good’n.’

  ‘From hereabouts?’

  ‘From ’ome, Colonel – a widder. ’Er ’usband an’ me were nippers together. ’E went for a marine, which were funny as there were no water for miles. Any’ow, ’e died a few years back, an’ Olive – beggin’ yer pardon, Colonel: Mrs Catchpole – went back to ’Ickleton and got work in t’big ’ouse there, an’ then ’er uncle died – ’e were a farmer near there – an’ left ’er a bit o’ money – not a lot, mind, but so as t’ave nice things – an’ I asked if she’d like to be wed again, an’ she said she would.’

  ‘Well, well; who’d have thought it?’ said Hervey, shaking his head. That Stray, for countless years the doyen of the canteen, was to have the consolations of a good woman … Though it did beg an unhappy question: ‘I imagine you will therefore be looking to your discharge, and going to live at Ickleton?’

  ‘’Ickleton it is, Colonel – with an aitch. No, I’ll not be looking for me discharge. Olive – Mrs Catchpole, I mean – will come and live ’ere.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. And when shall the marriage be contracted?’

  ‘With your leave, Colonel, just afore Christmas.’

  ‘Admirable. Well, Corporal Stray, I give you leave to marry, and my hand in congratulation.’ He stood up and reached across the writing table. ‘And I look forward to meeting the future Mrs Stray as soon as may be.’

  For what an excellent woman she must be to give up the comforts of this Hickleton to come to the rude quarters of a cavalry barracks, especially indeed if she had already seen those of the Marines. Stray came nowhere near him in rank, but in this measure he wholly surpassed him.

  ‘Dismiss.’

  At dinner that evening, Hervey found the surgeon unusually good company, though tired from his exertions in the sick-house – twenty-four hours in which he had had little sleep, though he would not own to it. The rain had continued, and Milne had come by hackney, and was thus already in good spirits instead of having first to be dried out in front of the fire, and the waiting glass of mulled punch served as a stimulant to conversation rather than just to warm. Hervey had spent the afternoon writing to the colonel of the regiment and sundry others about the events in Bristol – a somewhat repetitive exercise – and then on return to Heston had begun thinking rather too contingently on Sir Peregrine Greville’s presidency of the inquiry. Milne was therefore especially welcome diversion, notwithstanding his reputation for the dryness of the granite city.

  Annie and Corporal Johnson waited on them. White soup, steamed sole, and then beefsteaks fed their healthy appetites, but although conversation flowed freely, Hervey’s guest sipped only moderately at the best burgundy.

  ‘I have observed, doctor,’ (he kept ‘Surgeon’ for the barracks) ‘that as a rule you take little wine, but especially this evening.’

  ‘I have nothing against the grape, Colonel, I assure you, only that it tends to induce drowsiness in me.’ He did not add that he would be returning to the sick-house.

  Nor did Hervey say that that was one of the properties he prized – an aid to sleep when unwelcome thoughts otherwise kept him awake. But it mattered not. This was an evening for easy talk.

  ‘You have not by any chance had occasion to see Quartermaster-Corporal Stray since his return?’

  ‘Indeed I have. He brought nitrous acid to the infirmary yesterday.’

  ‘Nitrous acid?’

  ‘A fumigant. Though I try to insist on the greatest circulation of free air.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘I observed Stray’s … reduced circumstances, and when I’d satisfied myself that he was not himself ill, as I’d first suspected, for such exceptional loss of weight is indicative of illness, but which from the brightness of his eye and general energy I concluded unlikely, I questioned him about his regimen. He told me he’d ceased taking all alcohol, in his case largely hops, and ate only vegetables and eggs. I shall take satisfaction in relating it at the next meeting of the Medical Society.’

  Hervey nodded, and took a liberal sip of his wine. ‘You are most assiduous in this – the Medical Society, I mean.’

  ‘It is one of the attractions of practising in a regiment such as this, close by London. In truth there’s not a great deal to detain me each day in barracks – several hundred men, by the nature of their calling and service active and in good health, and usually scattered about the country; and a couple of dozen wives. Not an exhausting practice ordinarily.’

  ‘And the Medical Society – the meetings?’

  ‘Papers are read, and there are questions, and then published in the weekly journal.’

  ‘Have you yourself given a paper?’

  ‘I have.’

  Hervey drained his glass as Johnson removed their empty plates and then returned with another decanter. ‘On some aspect of military surgery, I imagine?’

  Milne frowned. ‘I have to tell you, Colonel, that Collins’s is only the second amputation I’ve performed, and the first was a poor fisher lad at Peterhead.’

  ‘Then I should say that your skill with a knife is the more admirable for its being acquired by study rather than by practice. Did the fisher lad live too?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And may I ask, then, what was your paper?’

  ‘Some aspects of post-partum morbidity.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It is, I grant you, a subject somewhat on the periphery of military surgery, but I’d begun to make a study of it in my civil practice. You’ll be aware no doubt that in the north of Scotland daylight is but seven hours at the winter solstice. My observations were to determine if the morbidity were in some way related to the attenuation of daylight.’

  Medical matters had never been something in which Hervey interested himself, except to the extent that they affected his parade state (and women’s medical matters had no bearing whatever on that). Nevertheless, a surgeon who took an enquiring interest in one aspect of his profession was likely to be receptive to new ideas in others. He’d known surgeons who appeared to have learned nothing since acquiring their licence – indeed, had forgotten a good deal of that in which they’d once been examined. But he’d no desire to discuss childbirth.

  ‘What precisely is this catarrhal fever?’

  Milne sipped a little water and said he would try to paraphrase the proceedings of a recent meeting of the Medical Society. When he’d done so, Hervey said he thought it amounted to a treatise on uncertainty, with which Milne agreed – complimenting Hervey, indeed, on his rapid grasp of the essentials, although he pointed out that in the realm of scientific enquiry it was as important to recognize that which could not with certainty be established as that which could. The material points, however – that it was not known whether the disease was infectious or ‘merely’ contagious, and that its cause and therefore treatment was unknown, but that its mortality was considerable – were, he explained, the reason for his anxiety for the sick-house. ‘Which is why my professional advice was – remains – to visit once the fever has run its course. I acknowledge, however, that your going there this afternoon was probably better tonic than my sulphate of cornine, dissolved even as it was in best port.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Collins, by the way, was sleeping when I called at his lodgings, so I didn’t stay.’

  �
��Perfectly reasonable.’

  Annie now came with a dish of brandied peaches and jug of thick cream. ‘Dr Milne’s hackney has come, sir, but I’ve given the cabman some supper, and he’s quite content.’

  The surgeon looked at his watch. ‘I hadn’t realized the hour was so late, Colonel. Forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the least to forgive. I don’t count it late before midnight. I hope you won’t forgo the peaches.’

  But the surgeon had engaged the hackney for ten, precisely so he could make a final round of the sick-house. He had at least the consolation of knowing the cabman was enjoying a bowl of something pleasant in the kitchen. ‘A very little, Annie, pleasing though it looks.’

  Johnson poured more wine – for Hervey at least.

  Over the peaches, Milne finished his discourse on the influenza, and then suddenly lapsed into thought. Hervey asked if something troubled him.

  ‘There is one thing more, Colonel, which perhaps I should have mentioned at orderly room,’ he said, laying down his spoon. ‘The Philharmonic Society has invited me to be an honorary physician.’

  Hervey rapped the table. ‘Admirable. You play with them regularly still?’

  ‘As a rule, each Thursday.’

  ‘I recall one of their concerts two or three years ago. Most diverting.’ On the whole, he was not much appreciative of music, except, as his sister had it, ‘drums and trumpets’.

  ‘You have no objection to the appointment?’

  ‘Not in the least. Why should I?’

  Milne looked uncertain.

  ‘Should I have reason?’

  ‘No, Colonel, I … The benefit concert at Christmas …’

  ‘Whose benefit?’

  ‘The Royal Hospital.’

  ‘Chelsea – the pensioners?’

  ‘Just so … The duke is to conduct an overture … I had imagined you knew of it.’

  ‘No, but I shall be sure to subscribe at once. The duke was always known for his music. And there’s no nobler cause than the pensioners.’

  Milne looked uncomfortable, however. ‘I … I believe I have in my bag a handbill. I shall leave it with you.’

  ‘Yes, if you would. Thank you. Another peach?’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, no. I want to see how Fitch, my assistant, manages. He’s diligent enough, but he’s not nursed the epidemic fever before.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hervey, putting down his glass. ‘You’ll report tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I shall.’

  They rose, and Annie went to fetch the surgeon’s coat while Johnson roused the cabman. Hervey saw him off in the same rain as that in which he’d arrived – and hoped the cabman’s oilskins were in good order – then repaired to the fire in his study, a glass of port and a page or two of Vom Kriege. Soon, however, he tired of the effort in the candlelight and instead took out the handbill that Milne had given him. It was as he’d said: the Duke of Wellington was to conduct an overture – which alone would be guarantee to sell every seat in the Hanover Square Rooms, regardless of the celebrity of the others whose names he began to read (names, in truth, he’d scarcely, if at all, heard of – nor their chosen pieces).

  And then, towards the middle of the bill, he saw what must have discomfited the surgeon:

  FANTASIA – PIANOFORTE – La Violette …… HENRI HERZ

  MRS HERVEY

  VIII

  The Tribunal

  Bristol, Thursday, 17 November

  THE ‘INQUIRY TO investigate the conduct of the officer in command of the troops’, as the convening order put it, had attracted many more spectators than could possibly be admitted to the Merchant Venturers’ Hall. Hervey supposed it was only right that the public and gentlemen of the press be admitted, for although it was a military tribunal it touched on matters of public moment. Not that he supposed it would be very edifying, however. He was certainly pleased to observe two armed sentries at the entrance. Best to leave no one in any doubt as to who was in charge.

  He took a seat in the front row reserved for the witnesses, and glanced in turn at the officers appointed to the inquiry, who sat one side of a long dining table, on the other side of which sat Brereton and his supporter, and at either end the clerks. They were as true a board as might be assembled: Colonels Sir Edward Miles of the 89th and James Fergusson of the 52nd Foot, Lord Loughborough commanding the 9th Lancers. None wore the Waterloo medal, but Hervey knew them to be men of experience and judgement nevertheless; and there was Major Edmund Walcott of the Horse Artillery, who did wear the medal. He’d known him as a lieutenant with F Troop – and before that at Corunna, with C.

  Brereton would certainly get a fair hearing.

  But what a troubled appearance was the colonel’s. He sat very upright at the table, with his supporter, Major Henry Ellard of the 65th Regiment, an officer on the half-pay, equally upright beside him, staring as if at some distant object and wholly oblivious to the rest of the assemblage. Hervey marked that he was smartly enough turned out, if without the ‘edge’ that might have presented a more commanding impression, and thought his expression ominously blank. When first he’d seen him that Sunday morning of the riot, brought from his bed and evidently having slept little, he’d observed a man whose nerves were clearly much shaken, but by no means broken. Now, he wondered if he weren’t near that perilous point. He’d seen men bear themselves when drained of all resource – in the face of the enemy and after – through naught but habit, and then suddenly, without apparent cause, begin to sob. He hoped for Brereton’s sake – and for that of the service – that he would not suffer the humiliation here, before civilians and scribblers.

  Sitting somewhat aloof from the board, his chair to one side, was Lieutenant-General Sir Peregrine Greville. It was the first occasion Hervey had had to observe the ‘other party’ in Kat’s mariage de convenance – a rather antique figure, not only considerably senior in years to Kat but with the distinct appearance of the old century. He did not actually wear a wig, but it looked somehow as if it were his custom to. His uniform was of the former pattern, the coat long and cutaway, revealing waistcoat and embonpoint like an old portrait of plenty. His breeches and court shoes served only to set him apart from the trousered field officers. He was portly, though not grossly so, his face was weather-beaten (which Hervey supposed was on account of his love of rod and stream, for he knew he had seen little service), and his hair like a cob’s mane that had been ill hogged. What terrible prospect of Irish penury could have driven Kat, daughter of the Earl of Athleague, into such a contract? Sir Peregrine was by all accounts – or rather, by Kat’s – a compliant sort of soul, undemanding, generous in most regards. He had for many years occupied the sinecure of lieutenant-governor of Alderney and Sark, where he had lived unaccompanied, occupying himself with sea fishing, before being appointed lately to an even better sinecure at Dublin. Three times a year he had occasion to journey to London, being also member for the ‘close and decayed’ parliamentary borough of St Felix in Suffolk (consisting of three houses and seven voters, most of the borough having long fallen into the sea); and three times a year he had hastened back to Alderney as soon as His Majesty’s speech had been read, and would no doubt continue the practice in his present appointment. Hervey was at a loss to know to what talent, influence or corruption Sir Peregrine owed his promotion and sinecures, save sound Tory principles. High rank and honours had indeed flowed effortlessly his way – and the connection of one such as Lady Katherine. Yet he himself had no wish to emulate him – even for such a prize as Kat. For what did it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soldier’s soul?

  It soon became clear that Sir Peregrine intended to preside at a remove, as the position of his chair indicated. (Hervey supposed that he knew his presence to be mere window dressing.) It was General Dalbiac who began the proceedings.

  ‘Gentlemen, I pray you, take note that this inquiry into the aid given by the Military to the Civil Power during the late disturbances hereabout is n
ow open. The board acknowledges the receipt of written testimony by various parties, both military and civil, and these will form the basis of our proceedings. These notwithstanding, however, the board may require the officers and civic officials whence came these testimonies to give evidence orally.’

  Hervey had expected as much, though he’d very much hoped it would not be so, since no good could come of trading accusations before the public. He perfectly understood that a man – principally Brereton – must know in full what had been laid before the board, and be able to question it or shape his own testimony to respond to it, but it would likely therefore be a matter of several days, and he had no wish to sit the while in the Merchants’ Hall in any circumstances, least of all under the gaze of Sir Peregrine. As the senior officer to be examined by the tribunal (General Jackson was not to give evidence, apparently), he supposed he could claim the privilege of being called first …

  A sudden murmur among the spectators made him look up. Kat was come to join her husband – to sit next to him indeed. Dalbiac’s preliminaries were temporarily halted while the gallants rose and fussed until she was seated.

  Hervey swallowed hard. She made a singular impression – green velvet coat with more frogging than a hussar’s, a hat suggesting a Tarleton (or else something auf der Jagd), and a skirt that showed her ankles to any risking a look. Why had she come? Why had she dressed so?

  General Dalbiac began reading the convening order – the last formality.

  Familiar words brought Hervey back to the matter at hand, which in any case could hardly be far from his thoughts, even if he wished it so. For all that it was a fortnight since the untoward events, there was still outside the odour of riot – the smell of charred timbers, burnt paint and tar, and noisome substances liberated from flasks in numerous workshops. The board would have had ample evidence beyond that of their eyes of the cost of Colonel Brereton’s hesitation – or else of Mayor Pinney’s indecision. He told himself that he’d no cause for apprehension in the matter; though that was easier said than believed.