There had been a night of rain and the Tiber had risen, so that the sewers were stagnant again and enterprising hawkers were doing a brisk trade in nosegays. Hervey made do without, though now the stench was so bad that he clutched a handkerchief to his face, and consoled himself with the thought that there would be incense enough to cover this rankness at the college. He quickened his pace, too, almost to double time, so that it was not long before he was pulling the bell handle at the ironclad doors of the English College, the Venerable College of St Thomas de urbe.
The portiere opened them, but he spoke no English, much to Hervey’s surprise – disappointment even – for John Keble had said the place was truly a piece of England in the heart of the old city, though he had not himself been to Rome. At length there came a tall man in a black cassock, and by the portiere’s manner, and a few of his words, Hervey supposed this must be the rector, which indeed the man confirmed as he held out a hand in welcome.
Father Robert Gradwell was striking in both appearance and bearing. Eyes that felt as if they pierced to the soul, albeit with gentleness, at once engaged the visitor; and when Hervey had detached himself from their hold he saw a face that might have been the Duke of Wellington’s own, for the features were spare, hawklike, fervent. Indeed, so arresting was the comparison that Hervey made a very faltering introduction for himself, and took a little time to explain that he would deem it a great privilege if he might see inside the seminary. He half expected to be asked for what purpose, but Father Gradwell did not enquire; he simply welcomed him, warmly and without condition.
Although it seemed otherwise, Hervey knew that the rector could not have had long experience of showing the college to chance visitors such as he. The house had only lately reopened following Bonaparte’s long occupation of what had variously been described as the Roman republic or the vassal kingdom of France’s. But mercifully, the evidence was not as great as it might have been, although horses had been stabled where the venerabili prayed, and the tombs had been opened for their imagined treasure. Least spoiled of all was the little garden, a very singular feature according to the rector, for where in other palazzi there would be a cortile, with pots and running water perhaps, here was a place where in but a few moments an Englishman might think himself at home. Hervey, certainly, was able to cast his mind to Horningsham and to conjure an image of his parents, his father especially, for in no man could there be a closer unity of chancel and garden than in the Reverend, indeed now the Venerable, Thomas Hervey.
When the garden had pleased enough, the rector showed him some of the college’s treasures – memorials rather than fine plate – and then conducted him to what he called the chapel of the Martyrs. ‘I expect you shall wish to be in peace here. It is our custom to offer hospitality to any visitor. Please come to the refectory when you are quite ready.’
Hervey murmured his thanks, and the rector took his leave. He stood at the chapel door for some time before he felt ready to enter, for here was a place where the remembrance of English blood was as real as in the chapels-turned-dressing-posts he had seen too often in the ‘never-ending war’. At length he went inside, got to his knees and closed his eyes. A quarter of an hour he remained thus, his prayers a ramble of pleas for the living and the dead – and for himself above all, for he could not in his heart believe that Henrietta needed his oration, nor yet that the living had more need of divine help than he. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of Henrietta before him. It was a picture that no other had seen. Even in this most sacred place he had no scruple in conjuring the picture of passion which had transformed her face.
And then when he could no longer bear it, he opened his eyes and fixed them instead on Alberti’s commanding allegory of persecution, so vivid a reredos, so prized a survivor of Bonaparte’s occupation, Father Gradwell had said. So vivid, indeed, as to overpower. Hervey transferred his gaze to the crucifix on the high altar, wanting all the strength it could give. But he was not practised enough, and tears began to flow, gently at first, and then almost with convulsions, so that he had to take out a handkerchief and clutch it to his eyes. He sat back and picked up one of the cards from the pew. On it were the names of the venerabili, for whom a Te Deum was sung periodically. Such ordinary names they were, so very English, unlikely-sounding martyrs: Ralph Sherwin, John Wall, Thomas Cottam, Edward James – too long a list to contemplate without wondering what guilt for their deaths remained.
Perhaps he should not have come. He had wanted to see if a place of so much willing sacrifice might have some secret message, some hidden power to ease the pain which every day visited him no matter how determinedly he sought diversions. But there was no message, nor any power to dull the pain. Those who might know of these things – John Keble, Daniel Coates, his father even – had said that only time could ease, that a search for an opiate was at best futile and at worst destructive, and that what would see him through time was God, and his own strength of character.
The trouble was that God did not come to his aid, and that his own strength looked increasingly ill-matched with the trial. Hervey closed his eyes once more, and sought the simplicity of St Mark. ‘Lord, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘Help thou mine unbelief.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FELLOWSHIP OF BLACK POWDER
A week later
When Commodore Peto arrived, Elizabeth recorded in her journal a distinct and immediate rise in her brother’s spirits. Shelley noted it too, and was at first discouraged that his own company had evidently been deficient. But Shelley could not – even if he had been so minded – hold any part of that against the commodore, whose direct manner and decidedly radical sentiments he found altogether engaging. Their company in the first days was delightful to each.
The evening Peto arrived had been a private affair between the two old friends, however. Not even Elizabeth joined them for supper, for she knew her brother would only speak were she elsewhere.
‘Tell me, then,’ Peto had demanded when they took their table at his lodgings, the Albergo d’Inghilterra. ‘What was done with Towcester? For you were silent on the matter in your letters.’
Perhaps most men would first have expressed sadness at the loss of a wife, even at the semi-orphaning of an infant, for the two had not met since the day of Hervey’s wedding; but Peto knew he did not have to speak of it. Long days, weeks, months together in those close quarters of the frigate Nisus had made for an understanding between the two men, and mere sentiment would have been repugnant to them both.
‘I sent you the report in the London Gazette,’ Hervey replied.
‘A very dry account. I want to know how things went.’
The cameriere had come to the table again, and asked them in English what they wished to order.
Peto did not hesitate. Indeed, he had not even consulted the blackboard which the cameriere had previously brought. ‘Trippa!’
Hervey looked surprised. Peto’s taste he knew to be choice, almost fastidious.
‘Three months at sea gives a man a powerful taste for the byre!’ was the commodore’s explanation.
Other occupants of the dining room were now looking towards their table, though only Hervey noticed. He thought he had better share Peto’s taste.
The cameriere began speaking excitedly, and in Italian. Hervey caught the word Trastevere, but little else. Eventually, one of the albergo’s men in authority came. He spoke with the cameriere, and then explained, in English and with great politeness, that it was not the practice of the Albergo d’Inghilterra to prepare dishes from the ‘fifth quarter’, as the Romans called it, but that if they were to cross the river to the Trastevere they could indulge their pleasure at liberty.
Peto looked at Hervey, as if his longer time in Rome might effect a change of practice. Hervey sought to accommodate both sides. ‘What do you recommend in its place, signor?’
The man in authority was certain. ‘Vitello, signori. You will not taste finer in this city!’
Peto lo
oked at him blankly.
‘Capital,’ said Hervey, keen to close the dispute. ‘The fatted calf. Is that not appropriate, Peto?’
Peto might have wondered who was the prodigal, but his hunger got the better of his curiosity. ‘Ay. It will do nicely.’
Hervey thought to distance matters further from the affront to the commodore’s culinary discernment. ‘And to begin with, I believe we should try the little marrow flowers which they do here in a light batter. They are very fine.’
‘Good, good, but not too insubstantial, I hope. I’m fair famished.’
The problem was that Peto’s voice was cast permanently to overcome the roar of the waves, the shrill of the wind, the groaning of canvas and the creaking of timber. He lowered it in company such as this, naturally, but from so high a volume that he never quite judged the decrescendo aptly. More heads turned towards their table, but Peto was still wholly oblivious to them – by design or not Hervey was unable to say. All he could do was pipe his own voice down still lower in an effort to have Peto follow him. ‘Wine?’
‘Barolo!’
The whole room turned.
Peto at last noticed. He nodded in turn to each table with an indulgent smile. ‘They love a blue coat,’ he said, turning back to Hervey, his voice now lowered to below the level of the wind and waves and canvas, as if he were at table in his own steerage, indeed – and at anchor. ‘Now, the court martial: I want to know all of it.’
‘Where should I begin?’ replied Hervey, raising an eyebrow. ‘It was a sorry business.’
‘Where was it held? Who were the members?’
‘At the Royal Hospital. It seems that the commander-in-chief wished to have it within London District, but not too close to the Horse Guards.’
‘I would suppose it afforded the pensioners good sport.’
Hervey raised both eyebrows. ‘They packed one of the galleries. Some of them had been in Holland when his lordship had first taken French leave. They tut-tutted throughout, and jeered terribly when it was revealed.’
‘Good! In circumstances such as this an officer should be left in no doubt as to what his inferiors think of him. What did the president do? Who was it?’
‘The Earl of Rotheram, the senior major-general. It was extraordinary: he merely asked them, very politely, if they would not make comment until after the proceedings were finished.’
‘Wise move making one earl the president of another’s court martial. Who were the others?’
‘General Sir Horace Shawcross, a very choleric man indeed, from Lancashire I think, with one arm. He glowered at Towcester so ill throughout the trial that I could almost feel sorry for him.’
‘The others?’
‘Three colonels, none of whom I’d set eyes on, as I suppose was right.’
‘And so how was he charged?’
Hervey took a large gulp of the Barolo, as if to fortify himself. ‘I remember the words as if they were only just spoken: “Lieutenant-Colonel the Earl of Towcester is charged with the unnecessary hazarding of his command in the Americas, and for conduct unbecoming an officer, contrary to the Articles of War.” ’
Peto looked puzzled. ‘The conduct unbecoming being that in Holland?’
‘No. The Holland business was not revealed until the end.’
Hervey said it rather flatly, prompting Peto to another quizzical look.
‘It seems the Judge Advocate General took the view that sending Henrietta away from the fort was ungallant beyond sufferance.’
‘There wouldn’t be many that could gainsay that. I wonder that he did not bring a charge of cowardice.’
Hervey tried hard to stick with the facts of the case. ‘It seems he did not believe such a charge had sufficient evidence. And Towcester’s counsel were very active beforehand, threatening proceedings on vexatious grounds.’
Peto knew as much about military law as the next man. ‘What? He would try suing the Crown?’
‘He would try suing me.’
‘Infamous devil! Why did you not call him out?’
Hervey huffed. ‘How might one settle so with a dishonourable man? He would have found a way to prevail.’
‘Shot at you in the back, I don’t doubt! And how did he plead? Not guilty, for sure.’
‘Just so. The case against him was then put in summary to the court by one of the Judge Advocate General’s staff, and then the witnesses were called.’
‘Who gave evidence? You, of course. You were, I presume, the principal witness?’
‘Yes. And great play did Towcester’s counsel make of supposed disloyalty and therefore unreliability. But in the material facts there were corroborating witnesses.’
‘Your serjeant, principally?’
Hervey sighed. ‘Regrettably not. He was still insufficiently well to give evidence, though he came to London for the purpose. The poor devil lost his senses a day or so beforehand. I even thought he had died, he fell so still in the hospital. No, the corroboration came from my lieutenant, Seton Canning, and Private Johnson, both of whom said far more than was strictly required to answer the questions. Towcester’s counsel protested frequently, but so much did they reveal of his character that any predisposition to sympathy on the part of the court must have been wholly worn away.’
‘Very satisfying,’ said Peto, taking up the last of his marrow flowers and pulling apart another piece of bread. ‘What else?’
‘I believe the most damning evidence came from the strangest place of all. There were two Indian guides who were with us the time when Towcester lost his head in the forest, when he thought we might be attacked. They made depositions to the officer in charge of the Indian department, and these were admitted in evidence. Towcester’s counsel protested vigorously that the testimony of savages against a peer of the realm could not be borne. Curiously, this appeared to vex both Lord Rotheram and Sir Horace Shawcross equally.’
‘No doubt, too, they felt affront that an Englishman could display such recreancy in that company.’
‘No doubt,’ agreed Hervey, shaking his head with the pity of it.
‘How long were the proceedings?’
‘Three days. At the end of the second morning the members retired, but the court reassembled in little more than a half-hour and pronounced his lordship guilty. Lord Rotheram then adjourned the proceedings until the following morning so that Lord Towcester’s counsel could prepare a plea in mitigation of punishment. This was heard on the third morning, along with evidence as to character – which was given by the prosecution, of course. All the business in Holland came out, and it was then that the gallery roared its disapproval. Lord John Howard – you remember him, the ADC? – told me later that the Duke of York himself had ordered that the facts be revealed in open court.’
Peto nodded approvingly. ‘The old fool’s not in want of sense at all times.’
‘And with the gallery still jeering, the members then retired to consider sentence.’
The cameriere brought two large plates of veal to the table, to Peto’s obvious delight and to Hervey’s relief. The commodore sprinkled black pepper over his in prodigious quantities and set about it lustily. ‘How long were they out?’ he managed between the first and second mouthful.
‘It seemed no more than a dozen minutes, a quarter of an hour at most.’
‘Always a sign they’d made their mind up even before the plea.’
‘And then the president announced the sentence. “To be dismissed from His Majesty’s service with disgrace.” ’
Peto remained silent for the moment, weighing the words. ‘That must have given you satisfaction. More so than calling him out.’
Hervey looked pensive again. ‘I confess I was astonished how in so very few words was the Earl of Towcester’s destruction so utterly completed.’
‘Indeed,’ said Peto, laying down knife and fork, so profound was the notion. ‘I cannot think that a capital sentence could have dealt him a greater blow at that instant.’
‘Th
e president then had to say the findings and sentence were subject to confirmation, of course, which drew the sting somewhat, but no one other than his lordship could have had any thought but that both would be confirmed.’
‘Who was the reviewing officer?’
‘In the normal course of things it should have been the general officer commanding the London District, but the commander-inchief had reserved the appointment for himself, apparently.’
‘And how long did it take?’
Hervey now smiled a little, evidence at last of his satisfaction in the proceedings. ‘That is the extraordinary thing. It was said seven days. But the next evening there came confirmation of both findings and sentence from the Horse Guards, and with it the order that the judgment be read out before every regiment, on parade – every regiment!’
‘It would have gone very hard with the Duke of York that a peer proved to be a coward. For all his faults, I imagine the old scoundrel holds to noblesse oblige.’
‘I imagine so. And I wished for a moment that I was still under orders, for I should have relished being on the parade at which the Sixth had the findings read to them.’
Peto beckoned for their glasses to be refilled, and looked at Hervey a shade sceptically. ‘Are you so sure of that? A ship’s company becomes very low when the captain is dishonoured – not often that that is, thank God. Even when he is thoroughly despised there is some feeling that every man bears some part of it, and is shamed. It will be the same in a regiment, will it not?’
Hervey nodded. He knew full well it was so. He had thought about it often. Indeed, guilt had gnawed at him that when his troop’s spirits must be at their lowest he was not with them – had deserted them, some might say. And he had been an instrument in the sorry business, had he not? If he had confronted Lord Towcester, even in Canada, late, then the terrible end might not have been. He had scarcely needed more evidence of Towcester’s incompetence and cowardice, surely?
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