On His Majesty's Service mh-11

by Allan Mallinson

  Agar-Ellis smiled modestly. ‘I was speaking of the new national collection.’

  ‘I confess I am in ignorance of it.’

  ‘It is very modest by comparison with those abroad, but then we began with but a modest sum of money.’

  Fairbrother had spoken to him of a collection he had visited in Pall Mall, which he said was a public gallery, but in truth he had taken little notice, preoccupied as he had been.

  ‘Perhaps you will let me show you the collection, Colonel Hervey – when you are returned from the East?’

  It was no hollow invitation – Hervey saw full well – and in truth at that moment he would rather have delayed his sailing to be able to take it up. There was something so effortlessly attractive in this man – in both of them. ‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it.’

  ‘It is a pity you are to leave so soon. Might you be able to dine with us before you go?’

  Hervey bowed appreciatively. ‘That is very civil, but I fear that every hour between now and the twentieth is already filled with more than I can hope to acquit.’

  ‘Then we must suspend the pleasure. You are not married, I presume, Colonel? Only my brother did not speak of it. Forgive me.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am married, but only lately.’ He was perhaps a little surprised that Cornet Agar had not told him of the greater connection – that he was married to the widow of a Lankester. But equally he was glad that the warmth of his brother’s manner could not be thought consequent on it.

  ‘Then I am discomfited, Colonel. The invitations are extended to your lady, of course.’

  ‘Thank you. She would be delighted, though I fancy she will have seen the collection, for she has a very lively acquaintance with the arts.’

  ‘Well then, Colonel, we may look forward with pleasure to receiving you both on your return. And I must say that I am considerably reassured that our brother will be under your protection in the East.’

  ‘Under his protection’ was not as Hervey would have put it, although he would see it as his duty to preserve Cornet Agar from unnecessary peril – as any man under his command; but he understood perfectly what lay behind the sentiment. ‘I am glad you think so.’

  The conversation now became general again until the minister resident’s wife, who had assumed seniority, at last led them to the drawing room. Here, Hervey talked with two or three prettyish wives of the Almack’s stamp, and then at some length with a French vicomtesse lately returned from Algiers, yet who had nothing to say of the place, only that it might become so much more agreeable when more of her fellow-countrymen settled there, so that, after a polite ten minutes, he felt able to excuse himself to find his hostess and make his exit.

  But it was the Princess who found him, and, it seemed, very deliberately. ‘Colonel Hervey, I regret that we have not had opportunity to converse before now,’ she began, staying him by a touch to the shoulder with her fan. ‘Per cortesia, I would speak with you about my people.’

  Before he could make any sort of reply she was guiding him to one side with the very lightest of touches, the consummate hostess. He noted too (or so it seemed to him) that others within earshot moved away a little, accommodatingly, as she did so.

  For one so slender, if not lacking in height, her presence was commanding; indeed, Hervey found the presence fascinating, not least for knowing that such others as the Tsar and Count Metternich had done so too. She stood closer to him than he would himself have presumed to, if by the smallest measure (perhaps, indeed, by no measure at all), and her eyes, no longer engaged in surveillance of the whole company, fixed him in a sure and steady gaze. He took his guard, though hoping he made no show of it.

  ‘Do you have any Russian, Colonel Hervey?’

  ‘I regret I do not, ma’am,’ he replied, puzzled that she should think he had, or that it might be useful – unless she referred to his coming mission, about which he must presume she knew.

  ‘Then your French will serve.’

  She had evidently heard his exchanges with the vicomtesse; it made him warier still. ‘I trust so.’

  ‘And your German?’

  He was not sure how to answer, his instinct being to reveal as little as possible to someone who might relay any and all to St Petersburg. ‘Does the Russian army use the language?’

  ‘There are officers whose first language is German, Colonel’ (as soon as she said it he recalled her own birth). ‘The Bavarian minister resident’s wife tells me you speak excellent German.’

  He began wondering if his chance conversations with die Bayerin and the vicomtesse had been quite so by chance as he’d supposed. ‘I cannot deny it,’ he said, with a smile.

  ‘Then I think it may interest you to hear of what we ourselves have lately learned, that a Prussian officer has arrived in Constantinople – one Moltke, a lieutenant who though but a junior officer is especially well connected in Berlin.’

  Hervey was largely indifferent to the intelligence itself (a Prussian observer with the Turk army, especially a lieutenant, seemed hardly more significant than an English officer with the Russians), but the vouchsafing of intelligence was always intriguing. For notwithstanding the action at Navarino, when squadrons from both countries had engaged the Turks side-by-side, Britain was neither an ally nor a co-belligerent with Russia in this war with the Ottomans (Lord Hill himself had made the position very plain). He was therefore at once both cautious and keen to understand the princess more. ‘Indeed, ma’am?’

  But she, likewise, was intent yet on drawing him out. ‘We are most anxious to discover what this portends. It may well be, in the course of your duties, that you have opportunity to meet with this Moltke; indeed we would urge you to seek such an opportunity, and to report as you find as soon as may be.’

  Hervey frowned just enough to convey that there was some misunderstanding. ‘Your Highness will know that it is on His Majesty’s service that I proceed, and no other.’

  ‘But of course, Colonel. That is perfectly understood, but our two countries share, do they not, the same endeavour in respect of the Turk? You know full well, I am sure, what passed at Navarino?’

  Navarino – how the guns evidently echoed still. He must redouble his guard. She spoke English with such precision, and with so indeterminate an accent – not obviously Russian, a little German perhaps, and possibly some French (the experience of so many courts) – it would have been so easy to join her scheme. He took refuge in the Duke of Wellington’s turn of phrase: ‘Indeed, ma’am: the “untoward event”.’

  He thought he detected the merest signal of distaste in the movement of her lips, but she was too practised to allow anything more definite. ‘Admiral Codrington did most noble service that day, Colonel.’

  Even had she known that as a consequence of the action that day, his old friend Laughton Peto lay invalide in Norfolk this very moment, she could not have played him better. He knew it, and he struggled hard. ‘I understand the King sent him the ribbon of the Bath.’

  ‘But do not you yourself believe our cause to be just, Colonel Hervey? You would not, I think, favour the Turk over Christian people?’

  He smiled again to attempt to disarm her. ‘I am but a soldier, ma’am. I cannot choose sides.’

  ‘But even as a “mere” soldier you may recognize … comment dit? – dispassionately, which has the nobler cause. Surely that is so?’

  ‘Without possession of all the facts, ma’am, which a soldier is unlikely to have, all he may do is conduct himself honourably, in accordance with the articles of war. And to observe how others conduct themselves.’

  The princess nodded. ‘I perceive you will be fastidious in this, Colonel. I have no doubt that you will find our army bears itself with courage and honour in equal measure. Your Lord Bingham found it so.’

  ‘You have spoken with Lord Bingham?’

  ‘Yes, indeed – both before he went to the war and again when he came back. He was greatly impressed by all that he saw.’

 
This much seemed singular, for Hervey knew that not even Lord Hill had spoken with him, and his despatches, which he had lately read, were non-committal. ‘I am sure Lord Bingham spoke as he found,’ he replied graciously, wishing only to ask by what experience of these things did Bingham judge?

  ‘And that is all that I beg of you, Colonel Hervey, upon your return … though if there is anything that might be thought pressing, I hope you will not hesitate to write it to me.’

  He thought he had the advantage. ‘What might be pressing?’

  She realized that she had been, as it were, flushed from covert. There was the merest flicker of awkwardness (but Hervey saw) before she proceeded boldly. ‘What this Moltke does, and what might be thereby the Prussians’ intentions at Constantinople.’ And then, before he could make reply, her countenance regained its steel. ‘But I forget myself, Colonel: I did not say that I dined with Lady Katherine Greville last month, before she went to Ireland.’

  He reeled, if not visibly (he hoped), then in his mind’s composure. Rats began scrambling in his stomach, and he had to summon every ounce of self-possession to keep the ‘mask’ in place.

  ‘You are acquainted, are you not?’

  ‘I am.’ It was all he could find to say, and the effort was prodigious. He awaited the coup.

  ‘General Greville – you served together, no?’

  He felt sure his expression had betrayed him, yet this mention of Kat’s husband was an unexpected deflection. If she ‘knew’ they had served together, she surely knew they had not. Was she toying with him? Was she offering a line of withdrawal? He took a breath to fortify himself. ‘How was Lady Katherine? I have not seen her in the better part of a year.’

  ‘She was very well, though I thought it improvident that she should travel in her condition. And I told her so, for we are very close; we have known each other these many years.’

  Hervey checked his instinct to say that Kat had never mentioned it. ‘She … That is, does General Greville accompany her?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes. For he is all excitement at the prospect of an heir. And so late come! Really it is very remarkable, is it not, Colonel?’

  He hesitated for as long as he dared (certain now of her ruse). ‘A blessing indeed.’ And he cursed himself for the blasphemy.

  The princess touched his shoulder again, ever so lightly. ‘Colonel, I lost my brother Constantin but a few months ago in the Dobrudscha. This war is very grievous to me. Your intelligence of it would greatly favour me. I should be ever in your debt.’

  PART TWO

  ‘A VERY OBSCURE PORTION OF EUROPE’

  The Spectator, for the week ending 5 July 1828

  THE THEATRE OF WAR IN TURKEY

  The ignorance which prevails respecting the situation of the Russian army has been displayed in many of the speculations on its progress … The truth is, that the Danube debouches in a very obscure portion of Europe, and, except in the case of a contest, like the one commencing, there is very little reason why we should trouble our heads with its geography. Between 1805 and 1812, however, a most sanguinary struggle was maintained between these two ancient enemies on the same ground, so that it might have been supposed that some recollections had remained on men’s minds. The slowness of the progress of the Russian army, for instance, and that the Lower Moldavia, by which the Russians approach the Danube, is a perfect swamp. In 1736, Count Munich required no fewer than 90,000 waggons to conduct the supplies of an army that never exceeded 80,000 men – and the features of nature are not changed. It is now supposed that, because the Russians have passed the Danube, they have nothing to do but march to Constantinople. Russian armies, however, as vigorous and as resolute as this under the Emperor Nicholas, have done the same thing frequently enough, and been compelled to return. We will endeavour, in a brief compass, to explain the geographical position of the parties.

  The Danube flowing to the east separates Bulgaria from the provinces of Wallachia and Moldavia – dependencies only of the Porte. Between the Danube and Constantinople lie this Bulgaria and a principal part of Roumelia. Bulgaria is an agricultural district, rich in soil, but thinly inhabited. The part of Roumelia, towards Constantinople, chiefly consists of downs: between these two provinces exists the great obstacle to the progress of the Russians. Roumelia is cut off from Bulgaria by the chain of mountains called the Balkan, which runs from the Black Sea to the Adriatic: over the lofty and precipitous ridges there are five passes – by either one of the two lying to the east the Russians will, in all probability, attempt to pass: these precipitous passes are, in length, about twenty-seven or thirty miles across, though, as the mountains push outworks, and form ridges a considerable distance before the most elevated points are arrived at, the roads difficult to pass, may be said to be ninety-six or a hundred miles across. The passes are such as a few troops could defend against any greater number: wretched bridges over ravines must constantly be passed; the paths are slippery, and it would be almost impracticable to convey artillery along the ledges of the precipitous sides of the mountains. Among the ridges which strike out from the main chain, lies the fortified town of Shumla, whence the two paths across the Balkan just mentioned, diverge. This town contains about sixty thousand inhabitants: its fortifications would be weak and contemptible in the eyes and in the hands of European troops, but are a very efficient defence when manned by Turks. They consist of earthen ramparts and brick walls. It is here that the Turks form their entrenched camps in their contests with Russia; and the Russians have always found it impregnable.

  VIII

  THE BLACK SEA HOST

  Siseboli, on the Black Sea, 3 April 1829

  ‘Bastard!’

  Private Johnson lay sprawled in a stinking pool, half-stunned and pride wounded.

  The others rushed to his aid, Hervey leading.

  ‘Are you hit? There’s no blood.’

  ‘Ah don’t think so,’ Johnson gasped as they pulled him up. ‘Bastard thing. What wor it, sir?’

  ‘A rifle,’ said Hervey. ‘And a Turk with a damn fine eye – or the Devil’s luck. See, the ball struck your knapsack’ (the corner was holed). ‘Keep your head low. I want to find yonder marksman.’

  He turned to clamber over fallen masonry to a half-demolished wall, pulling out his telescope from the holster slung over a shoulder. Fairbrother, Cornet Agar and Corporal Acton scrambled after him.

  There was a billow of white smoke, a report – louder in the warm, still air – and a flutter, bat-like, as the ball passed close and then struck the wall of the house behind. And it had been less than a minute: a Turk adept with powder and ramrod – or were there two rifles?

  ‘Mark the time, Mr Agar. What would you say it was, Fairbrother – three furlongs?’

  His friend was observing with naked eye. ‘At least. Deuced fine shooting.’

  ‘I wish I’d a rifle!’ snarled Johnson as he struggled out of his soiled tunic below the wall. ‘I’d knock ’im over all right!’

  Hervey kept the glass to his eye as he addressed the aspirations of his long-time companion: ‘To begin with, Johnson, His Majesty would not approve of your firing on our friend the Turk. Recollect that he is our friend, every bit as much as the Russian is. Or rather, the Turk is no more our enemy than is the Russian. Our situation here is as strict neutrals. And, even more to the point, yon fellow must be using double the charge. Your shoulder would be bruised a good deal more than it is now were you to try the same.’

  Johnson chose to ignore the challenge of a double-charged rifle, offended even more by the notion of being fired on by a friend. ‘’Is Majesty ought to ’ave a word wi’is friend t’Sultan. I thought we was just supposed to be ’ere watching?’

  ‘Observing. Observing the conduct of the belligerents with complete impartiality.’

  ‘Well, either way it’s not right to shoot an’ us not meant to shoot back!’

  ‘I dare say so. But at this range, ethics are anyway otiose.’ He knew pretty well how to silence Johns
on in his canteen-advocate’s hat.

  Another loud report, more smoke, then the fluttering ball – and this time the breaking of tile.

  ‘Forty seconds, sir,’ declared Agar.

  ‘Mm. Indeterminate. Certainly it might be the same rifle. Do you think he sees us, or having first seen us does he fire speculatively? What’s his game, eh, Fairbrother?’

  ‘One of us, if we’re not careful,’ replied his friend ruefully, unable to resist the pun. ‘Wily devils, I fancy. If there’s a pair of them, the other will be waiting his chance.’

  Wily for sure, but this was indeed a very … sedentary way of making war. He could not get the measure of it. The Russians had landed at this place almost two whole months ago, a full dozen leagues south of the Balkan, the mountains beyond which no Russian general had marched for a thousand years, and still the Turk made no substantial move against them. Just this franc tireur. Perhaps he – they – were not even Turk? Tatar, maybe, for that people were hunters, and might have facility with such a weapon; or else one of the Albanians who fled the place without much of a fight when the Russians landed.

  The Seraskier (commander-in-chief), so the spies said, was at Aidos, only three days’ march north-west, with ten thousand men. Why did he tarry when every day the Russian fleet brought more men – three thousand, now – and stores enough for the whole army? Perhaps he thought it not worth the trouble, that the stores would never see the mouths or the guns they were meant to feed. It would be a brilliant thing indeed for the Russians to bring off: the army marching south from the Danube, gaining the passes of the Balkan, debouching on the plains of Thrace – and at once their lines of communication shortened to a fifth by this bold seizing of Siseboli. He was full of admiration for this new Russian general-in-chief’s art (though it was one thing to make a plan, and quite another to execute it).

  Yet he would concede that the Russians had wasted no time here at Siseboli. It was an ancient place, with ancient walls that might once have withstood a powderless siege, and now the garrison had dug entrenchments, thrown up breastworks, hauled forward guns and made it into a decent fort. But they scattered their waste around as bad as anything he’d seen in India. The place stank; the air was foul with incipient disease (and the sun was not yet half its summer strength). Admire this coup de main as he did, he could not wait for their passage out – north to Varna, the Russians’ principal base, or, better still, to join General Diebitsch himself before Silistria. If this new man was to lead the army over the Danube and then the Balkan, he wanted to witness it.