A Call To Arms

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey was minded to dispute his sister’s thought in this. Instead he simply took her arm, and they walked about the exhibits for a while in welcome solitude, the carriage having drawn most of the sightseers.

  ‘Matthew,’ said Elizabeth suddenly, starting at the python coiled round a palm tree, yet trying not to be dismayed, ‘I saw a poster proclaiming the Waterloo rooms in Pall Mall. Is that far from here? Would you like to see them?’

  Hervey had seen the poster too. ‘They’re but five minutes’ walk, though I have no very strong desire to see them. I’ll warrant they’re full of gruesome pieces scavenged from the field, taken from dead and dying alike, or else fanciful pictures and accounts. I confess I have no stomach for it. I should rather go and see this new bridge they call Waterloo. It is very handsome, I hear tell – a full half-mile of granite.’

  Elizabeth was disappointed. ‘It would be nice to have some notion of the battle; that is all. It is difficult to conceive of your part in it with so scant a knowledge as I possess.’

  But her brother seemed not to hear. He had been studying a mounted knight in full armour for some minutes. Elizabeth wondered what it was that engrossed him so. When he emerged from his thoughts it was as if he had been turning over some profound question. ‘Elizabeth, would you come with me to Hounslow? Tomorrow, on our way to Wiltshire, I mean. It would be a courtesy to call on the lieutenant-colonel rather than merely to write.’

  Elizabeth thought she knew her brother’s mind better now than she had ever done. She was certain of what the trouble was: there were ghosts to lay in that place, and although her brother would face them alone if need be, a sister might be a powerful support. But would it be any kindness? Would it not be better to plead some reason why she could not go with him, thus making him face the ghosts alone? There would certainly be others in time, for it seemed to her that he had condemned himself to a perpetual haunting.

  But it was not in Elizabeth’s nature to abandon her brother. On their journey from Rome he had spoken a good deal about the change in the Sixth of which the Earl of Sussex had written. And yesterday, when they had called on him at his set in Albany, the colonel had repeated his opinion that there was much work to be done. This had fired Hervey, it was true, but Elizabeth sensed also a certain anxiety. Its root she could not tell for sure, and this uncertainty, combined with simple sibling loyalty, determined her response. ‘Shall your commanding officer not think it a trifle strange that you should bring me?’ she asked, thinking the question fair no matter what the other considerations.

  Hervey was quick to reassure her. ‘If he reveals it then I shall know I have made a grave error in returning.’

  It was so stark an opinion that it fair took Elizabeth aback. She had not supposed that the question was so contingent on the character of one man, and she said so.

  Hervey now sensed her surprise, and was dismayed that she had not seemed to grasp the essentials of what had gone before these past two years. ‘The commanding officer is everything to a regiment’s soundness and fortune.’ He meant to say it kindly: he was sure he had meant it kindly, but he knew it must have sounded otherwise. He felt a terrible rush of despair in Elizabeth’s incomprehension. Henrietta would have understood.

  Next day was St Swithun’s, and to general relief it was not raining. Indeed, it was as fresh and bright a morning as any they could remember of late in Italy. Matthew Hervey had advanced overnight from cornet of the 6th Dragoon Guards – the Carabineers, as some knew them – to lieutenant of the 82nd Foot, the Prince of Wales’s Volunteers. He had not worn any uniform of the Carabineers, nor would he of the Eighty-second. He did not think of himself as an officer of either regiment. This was a paper transaction only, the means by which he was proprietorially reinstated with a captaincy in his former regiment. It was a curious system by any measure. Indeed, he was not himself fully aware of its intricacies. He had tried, with varying degrees of success, to explain it to others as he did now to Elizabeth, but why there should be such a system he did not rightly know. Although it had served the country well these past twenty years, on the whole it had not been without its scandals and shortcomings. Had not the Duke of York himself fallen foul of it a little while ago – an unedifying affair of dubious trading in commissions? But of one thing Hervey was sure: it was a most expeditious way of restoring him to the Sixth. And as the travelling chariot he had engaged for the journey to Wiltshire drew up to the gates of the cavalry barracks at Hounslow, his only care was whether he might sufficiently conceal his pleasure at being … home.

  He did not recognize the sentry, nor the corporal of the guard, but entrance was arranged easily enough. He did not announce himself by rank (a lieutenant of line infantry would only serve to confuse), instead handing his card to the corporal and declaring that he was come to see the lieutenant-colonel. The corporal did not even look at the card: that was an officer’s business. Instead he gave it to an orderly with instructions to ‘accompany the gentleman to regimental headquarters’.

  ‘He did not recognize you, Matthew?’ said Elizabeth, curious, as they drove towards the single-storey building on the far side of the square.

  ‘It’s been more than a year. And before that we worked by troops, in the main. It’s possible we never saw each other before, if he joined after Waterloo. But it is unusual.’

  He was recognized at once at the regimental headquarters, however. Mr Lincoln, the serjeant-major, was just leaving for his second rounds with the usual attendant party of picket-serjeant, provost-NCOs and orderlies. In an instant he transferred his whip from his right hand to under his left arm and threw up a salute so sharp that it quite startled Elizabeth. ‘Good morning, Captain Hervey, sir! We had word this morning you were to rejoin.’

  Hervey raised his hat by return. ‘Elizabeth, this is Mr Lincoln, the regimental sar’nt-major. Mr Lincoln, my sister.’

  ‘An honour, ma’am,’ replied the RSM, saluting her in turn, though not as violently. ‘Captain Hervey has been very much missed these past twelve months.’

  Hervey smiled just enough to reveal his gratification. ‘Is the commanding officer at orderly room, Mr Lincoln?’

  ‘He is, sir,’ replied the RSM, turning to one of his orderlies. ‘Wiles, go and tell the adjutant that Captain Hervey is calling on the lieutenant-colonel.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Good, good. Then I’ll let you be about the lines, Mr Lincoln, and look forward to being back there myself soon.’ He resisted hard the temptation to ask him which would be his own lines, for that should properly come from the commanding officer.

  The RSM took his leave with another salute of absolute precision, and struck off for the horse lines followed by his attendant NCOs, each trying to emulate the master in the business of saluting.

  Hervey turned to Elizabeth and smiled in a way that conceded it was all rather … different. Elizabeth gave a smile and raised her eyebrows, perfectly grasping his meaning. But there was no sign of diffidence on her part, and Hervey was impressed by it. She had visited the regiment before, in Ireland, but she had not come so close to the heart of things as here this morning, on the very steps of the headquarters. Hervey was glad she had come, and so was Elizabeth.

  The first thing he saw inside the building, well lit by its clerestories, were the two guidons, the lieutenant-colonel’s and the major’s, lodged against the far wall and flanked by a semi-arch of old-pattern sabres. It was a good display, proud and telling of the business the regiment was about. Then the adjutant stepped from his office, and Hervey was surprised to see it was Assheton-Smith; the adjutant was as a rule from the ranks, not a troop-officer. But before either of them could say a word there came a voice from the door of the further office. ‘Hervey, my dear sir! I am so glad you have come! I am so very glad we meet at last!’

  A man perhaps ten years older than him, about his height and build, with the fine, unmistakably patrician features of the brother who had once been his idol, advanced with a broad smile and outstretched hand. He
rvey took off his hat, smiled as broadly and took the hand. ‘I am very glad to be back, Colonel. May I present—’

  ‘Miss Hervey, I presume? My brother spoke of you.’ Sir Ivo Lankester bowed.

  Elizabeth curtsied, returning his easy smile. She had met Hervey’s erstwhile troop-leader in Ireland, and had liked him very much. His brother appeared to her to have all Sir Edward’s good manners, and perhaps even more of his charm. She at once concluded that Matthew need have no concerns on his commanding officer’s account, at least.

  ‘Would you care to come into my office, Hervey? And Miss Hervey too, if that would not be too tedious. I shall send for coffee. Or perhaps you would prefer tea, Miss Hervey?’

  Elizabeth was sure she would not find it in the least tedious to accept the invitation. ‘I should be very glad of coffee, sir.’

  ‘Capital,’ Sir Ivo exclaimed, turning to the side and indicating the open door.

  It was Elizabeth’s first encounter with so intensely masculine a room, and she was evidently much taken with the buttoned leather chairs, the sabres and spurs, the drums, the oils of bloody battles and illustrious officers, for she quite failed to catch the commanding officer’s enquiry.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ prompted her brother.

  ‘Oh, yes, er … ?’

  Sir Ivo smiled. ‘I merely asked, Miss Hervey, if your time in Rome had been agreeable. I myself was there for some months before Oxford. I own that I might never have returned home had war not resumed.’

  ‘Oh, I liked it very much too, sir, very much,’ she replied, now repossessed of her former senses. ‘I liked its gaiety above all, I think, though they say it is nothing compared with Naples, but alas we were not able to travel there because of brigandage.’ She glanced at her brother; the explanation would suffice.

  ‘Who are the captains, Colonel?’ asked Hervey briskly.

  ‘Rose has A Troop, Barrow has B, Strickland C. And D is sold to a man from the Bays whom I have not yet met. Yours will be E Troop.’

  ‘So there are to be five troops only?’ Hervey’s voice betrayed a certain disappointment.

  ‘Five, yes. That is to be the Indian establishment. I confess it dismayed me to begin with, but so it shall be.’

  Hervey glanced at Elizabeth, who seemed not greatly to care about the Indian establishment, engaged as she was by the intricate wirework on a shabraque laid over a chairback settee. ‘And who shall be my lieutenant?’

  The commanding officer hesitated for a moment, as if he could not recall. ‘There is none at present.’

  That need be no bad thing, thought Hervey: he could soon have a new lieutenant on the bit. ‘Cornets, Colonel?’

  Colonel Lankester looked discomfited. ‘I regret there are no cornets either, Hervey.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hervey could not conceal his surprise at the squadron’s being without any officers whatsoever.

  ‘No, well … you see, Hervey, I’m afraid there is no troop in being. Third Squadron was disbanded nine months ago. I rather thought you might know this. I imagined that … well, no matter. We must raise a full troop inside five months before we embark for Hindoostan. That is why the colonel was so very particular in wanting you to return to duty.’

  Hervey’s heart sank fast. A troop of widows’ men to command, and five months only to find recruits and remounts: he might as well be with the Eighty-second and yellow jack in Jamaica after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE SERJEANT-MAJOR

  They left the barracks an hour later, Elizabeth in good spirits, her brother tolerably so. He leaned out of the window when they were well clear of the gates and called to the postilion to ask if he knew the Windsor road. He did, and so Hervey bade him put the pair into a trot as soon as possible for the Spread Eagle at Datchet.

  Well might Elizabeth look pleased, Hervey mused. She had received much flattering attention, and seen the regiment in hale condition. All he had been able to see was blank troop-rolls and empty stalls. True, he had been told that he could draw on Mr Lincoln’s seniority list of corporals, and that Lincoln also had a promising list of chosen men. And Sir Ivo Lankester had been straight and fair with him. ‘I will sign any reasonable promotion order,’ had he not said?

  At once Hervey had sought to probe what was reasonable to Sir Ivo’s mind. ‘I should wish for Serjeant Armstrong to be my serjeant-major, Colonel. I trust that would not go badly with the seniority rule?’ he asked squarely.

  Sir Ivo had shaken his head. ‘Promoting Armstrong would not go badly with the seniority rule,’ he had replied. ‘That is, it would not go badly if Armstrong were with us still.’

  Hervey was stunned. The colour drained from him in an instant. ‘I … I had no idea that … When did he die, Colonel? Where is his family?’

  ‘No, no – not dead, not at all dead. I mean that he was discharged these six months and more.’

  Hervey’s relief was palpable, but the very idea of Armstrong unbooted was only a partial consolation. ‘Why did he have his discharge, Colonel? He had made a fine recovery, had he not?’

  The lieutenant-colonel furrowed his brow. ‘I don’t rightly know. I had not been in command many months – weeks, indeed – when he applied. Mr Lincoln says he had become listless. Perhaps if he had returned to a troop instead of light duties with the quartermasters …’

  ‘And how goes he now? Do we have word of his family?’

  ‘Again, Mr Lincoln would best advise you. I know that he keeps a posthouse near Eton.’ Sir Ivo knew because he had himself arranged for it, though he did not say so.

  Hervey knew that it was not a time to explore his own culpability in Armstrong’s listlessness, nor in Armstrong’s estrangement from the regiment, which he had made his family when his own had been destroyed by a firedamp explosion fifteen years before. But guilt pricked him hard nonetheless. No matter how pressing his duty here, and to his own family in Wiltshire, he must see for himself that Armstrong was sound in soul as well as body. He glanced at Elizabeth. ‘With your leave, Colonel, I should like to take a look at Mr Lincoln’s promotion lists and then make a start for Wiltshire. I should like, if I may, a fortnight in which to set affairs right at home, and then to report for duty.’

  Sir Ivo smiled indulgently. ‘Of course, Hervey, of course. Take as long as you need. There’s no profit in having you begin before you can give it your heart.’

  Hervey had known Sir Ivo but a half-hour, yet he thought he had known him an age, so thoroughly regimental was his view. He could have been Lord George Irvine, Joseph Edmonds or Sir Edward Lankester for that matter. How right Lord Sussex had been, if not entirely fulsome with detail, when he had said that he was certain the Sixth were restored. Hervey rose and took up his hat, and held out a hand to Elizabeth. ‘I shall spend a little while with the adjutant and Mr Lincoln, then, Colonel, and afterwards drive west.’

  ‘I cannot prevail on you to stay to luncheon?’

  Hervey had glanced at Elizabeth, as a courtesy, but he had then declined.

  ‘Then while you are with Assheton-Smith and the RSM, allow me at least to show your sister the horse lines.’

  Elizabeth had accepted without waiting for her brother’s leave.

  Hervey left his sister to take in the sights of the Berkshire countryside while he himself sat back to contemplate the reunion ahead. He had no very clear idea of what it was he would say to Armstrong, a man he counted more than just his erstwhile serjeant. There was so much he could say: what he owed him, what he had failed him in, what he might do for him yet – confused notions which swam before him as the chariot picked up speed on the Windsor turnpike.

  And what a very agreeable mode of posting was the travelling chariot. Had he but had one in Italy, where the full vision forward would have afforded them many a longer preview of the glorious sights of that country! He knew full well it was an indulgence he was unlikely to be able to afford for many a year. Indeed, he had only been able to engage the chariot for the two days, which would mean their changing at A
ndover, or perhaps even Newbury, to something altogether more utilitarian. They sped past fields of ripening barley, empty now of the hoes which for months had tramped up and down the drills. In a few weeks or so they would be filled again, with scythes and rakes, by men and women who like as not had known nothing other than husbandry, and never would, and yet seemed content that it was so. It was from men such as these that Hervey must find his recruits, willing volunteers. He could go to the courts and arrange with the bench for felons to be given the choice of being sent down or taking the King’s shilling, but all he had seen of that sort of recruit was trouble. No, not all of them, not every one, for was not Private Finch called ‘Chokey’ for the manner of his enlisting? And could anyone doubt there was a truer man in a fight than Finch? But the effort in finding one good man was too great. Hervey had never been enamoured of those ‘paying with the drum’, nor had any of the Sixth’s officers or serjeants for that matter. And Armstrong had always added a practical as well as a principled objection: if a man were caught at petty crime, he would not have the wit to be a good light dragoon.

  ‘Are you going to say what is on your mind, Matthew?’

  Hervey sighed. ‘I had so hoped that the troop would be wellfound.’ He would admit to no more.

  Elizabeth said nothing. She could not be certain, but she supposed her brother’s despondency was caused not so much by the absolute state of numbers, but because he would not have around him those who had previously been his succour. His mind had been set on boot and saddle for a full month now, and to find a troop of widows’ men, as it was known, was disappointment indeed. That his serjeant and others of the like were gone was even greater discouragement to him. And yet Elizabeth was not so sure that this was necessarily for the bad, for she had observed in her brother over many years that he was not content with things as he found them: there was always the urge to adjust, to change, to improve. In fact, she was very much of the opinion that raising a troop – recruits and remounts alike – was just what her brother needed to engage every atom of mind and body these next five months. It was a high price for her, and their parents – that she knew well enough, for his time would not be theirs – but it was a price which any who truly loved him would pay willingly.