The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Captain Warrington, too,’ added Howard.

  Hervey shook his head. ‘I could no more understand Warrington’s inactivity than I could Brereton’s. He’d have let the whole city be destroyed for want of a magistrate by his side.’

  A clerk brought coffee. Hervey took off his cap and stretched his legs as he took several sips.

  ‘Colonel Hervey!’

  He managed to spring to his feet without too much spillage. ‘My lord.’

  The commander-in-chief handed a sheet of paper to his trusted staff officer, looking far from happy with it. ‘I believe I should wish to see it after the printer has set it up.’

  ‘I’ll take it at once, my lord.’

  Lord Hill turned back to Hervey. ‘Supplementary Instructions to Officers in Command of Troops in Aid to the Civil Power. I should never have thought them necessary, but reading the inquiry made me doubt it.’

  Hervey fancied he knew the commander-in-chief’s mind in this. ‘I am astonished there could have been confusion over the necessity for a magistrate. Or, indeed, that even had an officer earnestly believed there to be so, he could still stand by and see a felony committed.’

  ‘We live in infamous times, Hervey,’ replied Lord Hill, taking off his glasses to polish them. ‘But I’m glad you’re come. I would speak with you, though I fear it won’t be much agreeable.’

  Hervey felt his stomach tighten. He wasn’t to face disciplinary action too?

  Howard had already left with the draft. ‘Come. Bring your coffee.’

  That at least was encouraging. As the saying went, interviews with superior officers came in two kinds – with and without coffee.

  The sun was already low across the parade ground, and the Guards were marching back to barracks to the tune of The Shrewsbury Lasses. Lord Hill settled behind his desk – the desk that the Duke of Wellington himself had occupied only of late – and nodded to the adjacent chair.

  ‘They play it because they suppose it pleases me – which it does, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s a merry tune, General. My own band is fond of it.’

  Lord Hill seemed unusually weary. Perhaps it was indeed the recent ‘exigencies of the service’, but whatever it was, Hervey did not now think it could be anything too grave. The commander-in-chief did not have the air of a man about to remand him for court martial.

  ‘Hervey, some weeks ago I put your name before Lord Goderich for promotion to major-general, as a formality before submitting it to the King. I’m afraid to say, however, that in the present circumstances he felt he couldn’t countenance it – and I know that he canvassed Melbourne’s opinion and several others, perhaps even Lord Grey’s. He said that – of course – once the sea was calmer he would have no objection whatsoever. I should, no doubt, have foreseen the present objection, but it would not have made any difference to my decision.’

  Hervey was at once of mixed mind – disappointed that promotion was denied, but satisfaction that it had been proposed. He had certainly not been expecting its mention any time soon. He placed his cup down, trying to think what was the material point on which he should seek, if not reassurance, then clarity.

  ‘I am grateful, General. When do you suppose the sea might be deemed sufficiently calm?’

  Lord Hill nodded. ‘I believe the Cabinet – if it were put to them – would say “after the passage of the bill”. Not immediately after, for that might seem unprincipled, but a year or so.’

  Hervey sighed. Two years; certainly no less. Would Lord Hill still be commander-in-chief then? Might there also be other colonels – others more agreeable to the government – to supersede him?

  Lord Hill imagined his thoughts. ‘The post, I should say, would not have been greatly to your liking – a district on the home establishment – but it would have placed you on the gradation list, which was my intent. As it is, my scheme is thwarted, but your brevet is some safeguard meanwhile. I only tell you this to put you on your guard, but principally because I wish you to know my esteem. I might add that Sir Henry Parnell was in complete agreement with me.’

  Parnell: the Secretary at War, and Goderich for War – the peculiar terminology of a system that had grown like a cottage garden rather than laid out to a grand design. It was certainly reassuring to have Parnell’s good opinion, for he was spoken of as a coming man (it had indeed been his motion on the civil list that had brought down the Duke of Wellington’s administration the year before). But the Secretary at War’s concern was administration; he was not in the Cabinet. There was no more he could usefully enquire, though, and he’d no desire to overstay the commander-in-chief’s confidence.

  ‘I’m excessively grateful to you, my lord.’ He rose and made to leave, for there was a fine line in these things. A show of undue regret would have been unmanly. ‘I shall at least have the satisfaction of commanding my regiment a good deal longer.’

  That is, if his pockets were substantial enough.

  Lord Hill rose and held out a hand – an uncommon gesture even for him. ‘Speak softly, Hervey, and pray for better times.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Or for a bloody war and sickly season?’

  X

  Acts of Charity

  London, Tuesday, 20 December

  HERVEY WOULD HAVE been surprised to learn of the lengths to which St Alban had gone. There was no end, however, to the duties of a good adjutant – only the limit of his powers of imagination and anticipation. The Sixth subscribed to the maxim that whatever could go wrong, would – Hervey had first heard it from his captain on his first day with the regiment – and as a consequence were rarely wrong-footed (or not for long). St Alban had been, so to speak, preparing the ground for the benefit concert since first learning of Kezia’s part in it, knowing therefore that Hervey would attend – and all with the greatest discretion. To secure the best seats he’d offered the Philharmonic Society the services of six NCOs as ushers. Two of the in-pensioners at Chelsea were old ‘Sixers’, and there were countless out-pensioners. It was something he could arrange without rousing suspicion. He had also made sure that half a dozen officers whom Hervey held in particular regard would have seats in the row behind him, and that he would be flanked in the front row by Captain Worsley and his lady, and Captains Vanneck and Malet. Corporal Johnson would be there, too, for if anything untoward were to happen, Johnson was the man to have at hand. Serjeant Acton would also accompany – armed.

  The reason he had made the arrangements without ‘authority’ was that he was sure Hervey would say they were excessive: a benefit concert, so close to Christmas – what was the probability of mishap? Yet the events at Bristol had been – continued to be – a licence to print every sort of calumny in the guise of ‘news’. On the one hand, the name of Colonel Matthew Hervey of the 6th Light Dragoons stood for the violent suppression of Reform, while on the other his condemnation of Colonel Brereton was self-seeking. True, the more ‘respectable’ of the press denounced in no uncertain terms the dereliction of duty that had delivered the city into the hands of the mob, but there was simply no knowing whose voice was heard. St Alban, as much as Hervey himself, wished devoutly for the speedy publication of the findings of the military inquiry, as well as of the civil proceedings that had just begun.

  But beyond these concerns, which were more than enough to occupy him, there were ‘delicacies’ to be addressed – Kezia’s appearance in public. His professional duty required him to safeguard his colonel from insult and injury; his private regard compelled him further to employ every means possible to avoid embarrassment over the estrangement of which no one ever spoke. It was for this reason principally, therefore, that he had arranged the ‘loyal party’, reckoning that the presence of the officers would better allow Hervey to maintain his ‘mask of command’.

  He’d certainly taken great pains to make sure that all was well at Heston beforehand. Heston was the commanding officer’s private residence, for all that there were blue coats there, and now red, for much of the time; but
everything that happened in a regiment was an adjutant’s concern, which was why the Sixth preferred ‘regimental’ officers in the appointment rather than those commissioned from the ranks, the more usual practice (for what was undoubtedly lost in efficiency by not employing a man who had risen from the ranks was more than made up for by the quality of gentlemanly discernment, besides enhancing the standing of the serjeant-major). At four o’clock, Serjeant and Mrs James, already at some pains to make Heston ready to keep a good Christmas, saw off the regimental chariot in good cheer and especially well provisioned.

  St Alban’s attempts at diverting conversation, however, were not entirely successful. ‘Reform’, on which he had always been ready to expound, was hardly appropriate; regimental business had been dealt with at orderly room that morning, and there was little more to say on those matters that hadn’t been resolved – not least the increasing numbers at sick parade and the ever-falling sabre strength, the solution to both being better weather to banish the pernicious ‘flu’ and to allow recruiting parties to get out to the spring fairs. By the time they passed the Hounslow bar, Hervey had sunk into contemplation.

  In truth, there was little that would have diverted him that afternoon. The deferral of promotion troubled him. The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that the ‘sea’ would never be calm enough. He’d no wish to relinquish command, but he knew it must come, and when it did so there would be but one consolation, and that was the gradation list. So what should be his course: stay in command until he was ready to sell out, which would certainly bring him a small fortune, for regiments of cavalry were going at many times the regulation price (and all of it profit, for he’d been promoted without purchase), and set himself up with a small estate somewhere – and plant cabbages? The prospect appalled him. Or else he might convert his colonel’s brevet to substantive rank and take some job on the staff, perhaps in a sunny clime – and wait. But wait for what? A bloody war and a sickly season? Five years was the Horse Guards’ rule, and then either promotion to major-general or the half-pay. He’d lose his profit that way, for he’d have to sell out at regulation price (gift of command reverting to the commander-in-chief on promotion from lieutenant-colonel), and with no personal fortune, the half-pay would be a miserable existence. If he were lucky he might be made brigadier-general for some particular duty, but it wasn’t permanent rank. He smiled to himself: perhaps he should take holy orders and find some fat parsonage – except that he’d find it difficult to convince even the most complaisant of examining chaplains that he subscribed sufficiently to the Thirty-Nine Articles.

  ‘A bloody war and a sickly season.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was thinking aloud. Take no notice.’

  Serjeant Wakefield paced the drive with his usual exactness. Serjeant Acton had to raise his voice at dilatory cabmen once or twice in Brook Street, but the procession in Hanover Square was marshalled with admirable efficiency by NCOs of the foot guards, and the regimental chariot pulled up to the west door of the concert rooms at twenty-five minutes to seven, where Corporal Johnson was waiting.

  ‘Are we arrived before the duke?’ asked Hervey as he got down.

  ‘’Aven’t seen ’im, Colonel, an’ I’ve been ’ere for t’best part of an hour.’

  It was not necessary that they should arrive before the duke, but the customs of the military were ever the customs. While the Duke of Wellington was now a politician (a word he himself would have deplored, seeing it to be but an extension of that same duty with which he had served his country hitherto), he remained a field marshal.

  ‘Very well.’

  Johnson took his coat, and St Alban’s. Hervey said he would take his seat at once, rather than a glass of punch (the gathering looking a deal too merry for his taste at that moment).

  ‘I’ll be sat just to yer right, Colonel.’

  Hervey nodded. He was pleased his groom had a good seat, though how he’d got it, and quite why, was another matter. Or no matter; for Johnson always had a way.

  They presented their tickets and entered the hall, which was already becoming full, the side benches especially. More comfortable benches, facing forward, filled the centre, with red plush chairs the front five rows. The surgeon had told him the hall could seat six hundred, and it looked as if it probably would. Hervey thought it gratifying that the quality turned out in such numbers for the benefit of the old men at Chelsea.

  One of his NCOs, shako under left arm, bowed smartly. ‘Colonel.’

  He would not at any time have been inclined simply to return the compliment, but where others observed, he was always minded to make a particular show of regimental fellowship (as St Alban had perfectly understood).

  ‘Corporal Ormerod, I have not seen you since you returned from the Martinmas recruiting. You brought some good men, I understand.’

  ‘One or two, Colonel. And keen enough.’

  ‘The red coat perhaps?’

  ‘Tell the truth, Colonel, we took blue with us as well. Didn’t want to be taken for heavies.’

  ‘No, that would not do at all.’ (He didn’t suppose the King had thought of that exigency when deciding he didn’t want his cavalry to look like sailors.) ‘Have you received your bounty yet?’

  ‘I have, Colonel.’

  ‘Capital.’

  He moved on. Days were when a recruiting party would bring two dozen men at least, but …

  ‘Colonel Hervey!’

  He turned to find a stout, rubicund squire smiling forcefully – Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, fifth baronet of Wynnstay, an improving landlord but a man of decidedly conventional opinion.

  ‘My congratulations, sir. Such resolve, such address!’ He spoke loudly (for he was at least half deaf).

  Hervey nodded. Sir Watkin was member for Denbighshire, a friend of the Duke of Wellington’s (or, at least, the duke tolerated his company, vigorous that it was), and had lately called out the yeomanry to deal with disturbances in the coalfields. ‘I would not wish it again, Sir Watkin.’

  ‘Eh?’ He cupped his ear.

  Heads had turned their way. ‘I said I would not wish to have to do it again.’

  ‘Aye, very true. Will you dine with me at Brooks’s later? My brother Charles is to come.’

  For a few months of Lord Grey’s administration, Charles Williams Wynn had been secretary at war. Hervey had met him the once, at Windsor, and thought there might be advantage in a more intimate meeting (both brothers seemed to enjoy a measure of respect in both parties). ‘I must return to Hounslow betimes, Sir Watkin, but a little wine before the journey perhaps.’

  ‘Eh? Damned trouble in m’ear. Can barely catch a thing.’

  Hervey was minded to say that he envied him, seeing how much Beethoven was to be played. With another effort and more pronounced mouthing he managed – he thought – to make himself understood, and then tried to withdraw to find his seat.

  ‘The Grevilles’ll be there, too. You can tell us more about Bristol!’

  Sir Watkin’s tongue was notoriously too big for his mouth, so that any utterance was a trial to both the speaker and the hearer. It was unfortunate, though, that his deafness made him raise his voice so high, for this time his tongue perfectly formed its way around ‘Greville’ and ‘Bristol’, so that none within a wide circle was left in any doubt.

  Hervey supposed he imagined it, but the looks as he then proceeded towards the front seemed not entirely warm. He was glad to find the friendly faces that St Alban had arranged, and to find also that, if any of Kezia’s people were come, they were not seated close by. He picked up his programme and made a pretence of studying it.

  Just before the hour, the duke arrived. Those in the front and second rows, and on either side of the aisle, rose and bowed, which the late prime minister acknowledged with what for him might pass for affability. On coming to his honoured place just before the stage and noticing Hervey, however, his expression changed to one more grave; and he gave a d
istinctly approving nod of the head – a gesture made plain for all to see.

  Hervey took his seat again with renewed assurance.

  Shortly afterwards the band came on to the platform, fifty or so musicians – many more than he’d seen before, except massed on the Horse Guards perhaps. They were strings mainly, but he was pleased to see some trumpets as well – and horns, which he liked because they minded him of hunting.

  The oboe sounded, and when the tuning evidently reached the point of satisfaction, the conductor himself – no lesser person than Sir George Smart, the foremost in the land – entered to great applause.

  A long roll on the timpani brought the audience to its feet: God Save the King (Hervey was glad the custom was to hear it in silence). Then when all including the band were seated and settled once more, Sir George struck down with his baton to begin the first of the evening’s pieces – Overture: Der Freischütz.

  Hervey found it agreeable – a tune he might remember, if a little slow in coming, and rather a lot of portentous stuff to begin with. Ten minutes in all, though; not too bad.

  Next a tenor came on stage, and sang something familiar by Rossini (he thought he’d probably heard it in Rome, when he’d gone there with his sister in that terrible year after Henrietta’s death). Then some Beethoven – a violin piece – and then more Beethoven, and a lively march by Schubert to which he tapped his foot noiselessly.

  Now the orchestra left the stage to great applause (when they returned it would be under the duke’s baton – Beethoven again, but it promised to be stirring stuff: Schlacht bei Vittoria, or ‘Wellington’s Victory’), and it was the turn of the three soloists, of whom Kezia was first.

  For the moment, though, Hervey resisted the temptation to look left or right, or to speak, and instead fixed his attention firmly on the piano, which had so far stood silent beside the conductor’s desk. He knew there would be some who were studying him, who knew the talk of estrangement but were unsure of its truth; and he knew there’d be some who knew more, or believed they did – those of the highest ton perhaps, to whom Kat’s ‘friends’ might have told ‘confidences’. But no one could know for sure – certainly not the whole truth, for he had never spoken of Kat or Kezia with anyone. And he would give none the satisfaction this evening of revealing anything whatever. Besides, a commanding officer of cavalry ought anyway to maintain a pronounced reserve.