A Call To Arms

by Allan Mallinson

  Inside the walled yard he was able to get a better impression of the house, bought only recently by the duke from his elder brother, the former governor-general in India. Hervey was disappointed. He had imagined something more imposing. Next door was an altogether grander affair, twice as large, stone-faced instead of brick, with classical columns and pediments. But the disappointment did not dull his anticipation; in the yard the band of the Grenadier Guards was playing a merry tune, and in front and behind him were officers and their ladies who were also taking evident pleasure in the invitation. He recognized no one, and so contented himself with observing what he could without making it obvious.

  The queue advanced steadily until Hervey stepped into the entrance hall which, although painted rather drably, was brilliantly lit. He handed his hat and cloak to a footman, together with his card, and followed the other guests towards the spiral staircase which would take them to the principal floor. But at the foot of the stairs several of the guests had stopped to examine the towering statue of a nude Bonaparte, presented to the duke by the Prince Regent. Hervey stopped too.

  ‘Is it a fair representation, do you think?’ came a female voice behind him.

  Hervey turned, for the question sounded as if it were directed at him.

  A tall woman in her thirties, strikingly handsome and very elegantly dressed, glanced from the statue to him and then back again, her smile suggesting amusement in the obvious difficulty her question posed.

  ‘Twice life size, I should estimate, madam,’ replied Hervey. It was as good a response as any might make. He looked about for the woman’s escort but could see none.

  ‘I had not thought of Napoleon as so … athletic.’

  Hervey was doubly cautious. ‘I believe the artist exercised some licence.’

  The woman looked at him, with the same smile still, and inclined her head. ‘I believe I have rankled, sir?’

  Hervey was not without practice in this sort of conversation. ‘No, not at all, madam. I merely relay what I heard in Paris, where the statue was set up originally.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, in a delighted sort of way. ‘You have been in Paris.’

  ‘Yes. I first saw the statue in the Louvre palace.’

  ‘And who is it by?’

  Hervey paused. ‘I’m afraid I do not recall, madam.’

  ‘Well, it is of no matter. Not a Michelangelo, that is for sure. He would never have dissembled with a fig leaf!’

  Hervey counted it fortunate that at that moment the guests began again to ascend the stairs, allowing him to follow without need of more words. At the top was a footman to whom he handed another card, which was in turn passed to the master of ceremonies.

  ‘Captain Hervey, Your Grace,’ came his announcement.

  The duke, wearing the levee dress of the Royal Horse Guards, of which he was colonel, nodded approvingly and held out his hand. ‘I am very glad you are come, Hervey. All is well with you?’

  ‘Yes indeed, thank you, sir,’ replied Hervey, taking the duke’s hand for the first time.

  ‘I am glad to see you returned to the colours. In all the circumstances it is the place to be.’

  Hervey bowed appreciatively.

  ‘Lady Katherine Greville,’ announced the master of ceremonies, the signal for Hervey to move on and into the Piccadilly drawing room, but not before he saw the duke’s face light up with pleasure at hearing the name.

  Inside the drawing room, with its classical friezes and ceiling an altogether finer affair than the exterior of the house would lead to suppose, Hervey took a glass of champagne and looked for a face he might know. Here and there he recognized one from the Peninsula, general officers all, not least the unmistakable profile of Sir Stapleton Cotton – now Lord Combermere – his face even browner after two years as governor in Barbados than when he had commanded the cavalry in Spain. But there was not a face he might present himself to, and so he made instead for a painting of Lord Uxbridge – new done and by Sir Thomas Lawrence, he surmised. It would both engage him agreeably and cover his knowing no one. However, scarcely had he time to verify the portraitist when a field officer in rifle green approached him.

  ‘Captain Hervey?’

  He turned. As ever with the Rifles, the rank was difficult to make out at first sight, but the man was about the duke’s age, and his face more weather-beaten. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I am Colonel Warde, the duke’s secretary.’

  Hervey bowed. ‘Good evening, Colonel.’

  ‘We have a little time before dinner is announced. I wonder … may we have a word, privately?’

  Hervey looked surprised. ‘But of course, Colonel.’ He glanced about the room, now becoming quite full.

  Colonel Warde drew him away to a corner, taking another glass of champagne as he did so. ‘This affair of Peterloo – a damnable business. It has already caused the duke great embarrassment.’

  ‘I imagine so, sir.’ The duke had sent a letter to the magistrates commending their action, just as had Lord Liverpool, and there was much popular resentment at both.

  ‘It was, of course, a noble and brave thing to do, Hervey. The duke was mindful of the clamour there would be against him, and yet he was of the opinion that if the Manchester magistrates were not publicly supported, then others would shrink from their duties.’

  Hervey nodded.

  ‘But by heaven he is disturbed by what he reads. General Byng – the same that was with us at Waterloo – has the northern district, but his despatches have only an immediate account by the military. The duke believes there must be more to things than in the official despatches, but is not inclined to support a public inquiry. He wonders if you would go there and judge the various reports.’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Yes. You have experience of these things, do you not? And the duke trusts you.’

  ‘Well, sir, greatly flattered as I am by the duke’s trust, I do not consider that I am qualified!’

  ‘The duke is of the opinion that you are,’ replied the colonel, a shade testily.

  Hervey sighed to himself. He ought to have seen that coming. ‘But in only a few weeks I sail with my regiment to India!’

  ‘I am sure you can be spared, Hervey. Sir Ivo Lankester will not object when I have spoken to him.’

  There was a moment – perhaps no more than a second or so, though it seemed an age – when Hervey’s mind rested in the balance. Eighteen months ago he would have received a request from a senior officer as an order. From the Duke of Wellington it would have commanded his instant, unquestioning obedience. But not now. He had his judgement – percipient judgement, the duke had once called it — and he had seen the consequences of disregarding it. ‘No, sir. I am afraid I must insist that I have my prior duty.’

  ‘Mm.’ Colonel Warde’s eyes narrowed. ‘The duke said you might be recalcitrant. Well then, you can at least give your opinion of various statements that have been made?’

  ‘Sir, I really do not see that that would be of any merit, since I have no special insight. For me to express a worthy opinion I should have to do more than merely read what might any other officer.’

  ‘You really are most obdurate, Captain Hervey!’

  ‘With respect, I trust not, Colonel. I think it would be wrong for me to undertake an assignment that the duke believed would yield some particular result when I am not in a position to do so. And a wrong opinion by me would be greatly to the duke’s discomfort in no time at all.’

  Colonel Warde sighed, most displeased. ‘I cannot think what the duke will make of this. He was most adamant we had your opinion.’

  The master of ceremonies announced that dinner was served.

  Colonel Warde sighed again – huffed, almost. ‘Come then, we had better take our seats. The duke’s sister-in-law acts as our hostess this evening, in case you are presented.’

  Hervey looked uncertain. ‘In the circumstances, sir, would it not be more proper for me to make my apologies and leave?’

  �
�Don’t be an ass, Hervey!’ snapped the colonel, beckoning him on behind. ‘I’ll show you your place. You have very agreeable company – better than you deserve, I dare say.’

  Colonel Warde made his way to the centre of the room, to the woman who had questioned Hervey at the foot of the stairs. ‘Lady Katherine, may I introduce Captain Hervey, who shall be your companion at dinner. Hervey, this is Lady Katherine Greville.’

  Hervey bowed, and his dinner companion made a part-curtsy by return, but with the same knowing smile as at the statue.

  Colonel Warde eyed Hervey sternly again. ‘After dinner we must resume our conversation.’

  ‘As you please, Colonel,’ said Hervey, offering Lady Katherine his arm.

  ‘I see I have intruded on affairs,’ she said. ‘I have a mind that dinners such as these are mere interruptions to the serious business with which men concern themselves.’

  ‘Not at all, Lady Katherine,’ protested Colonel Warde. ‘They are most necessary to the cultivation of proper society, which in these times we must not take for granted.’ He glanced meaningly at Hervey.

  They passed through a mirrored lobby, in which Hervey noticed that his face had reddened somewhat.

  ‘We are the first to dine here,’ explained Colonel Warde, who seemed anxious to keep up his conversation. ‘The duke has had the room made only this year.’

  That much was at once apparent to Hervey, for it was a most masculine room, most military indeed. The walls were a buff colour, not unlike his own facings; the doors, dado and cornice were oak, the chairs red leather and the table, almost groaning with silver, was mahogany polished to a high gloss, so that countless candles reflected from silver and wood alike.

  They arrived near the far end of the table. ‘I shall leave you in the hands of Captain Hervey, then, Lady Katherine,’ said Colonel Warde, bowing again.

  ‘What a delightful prospect, Colonel,’ she replied, inclining her head slightly.

  Colonel Warde bowed more formally. ‘Until later, Hervey.’

  A footman held the chair for Lady Katherine as she sat, allowing just enough time for Hervey to introduce himself to the aide-de-camp seated on his left, a captain of foot guards. He turned again to his companion.

  ‘Colonel Warde seems most anxious that you speak together, Captain Hervey,’ said Lady Katherine. ‘You are evidently of some consequence.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Oh, I think not, Lady Katherine. I am a regimental officer.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Lady Katherine’s smile seemed fixed in a bemused, disbelieving fashion which Hervey was beginning to find slightly unnerving.

  ‘As a regimental officer, you could tell me what all this silver signifies.’

  Hervey was relieved but still inclined to be guarded. ‘I confess I do not know it intimately, but the centrepiece was presented to the duke by the Portuguese a year or so ago. The ornament in the middle of it shows the four continents paying tribute to the united armies – of England, Portugal and Spain.’

  ‘It is quite magnificent, if perhaps rather severe for my taste.’

  ‘When I first saw it, in Paris, there was a chain of silk flowers linking those dancing figures about the base. It was then a little less formidable.’

  Lady Katherine inclined her head as if to say she might have further questions on the matter. ‘Colonel Warde tells me you are to go to India soon.’

  ‘Yes, madam. My regiment is posted to Bengal in two months’ time.’

  ‘And does this please you?’

  ‘Yes, yes it does please me. I was there three years ago, though in Madras, which is much further to the south, and for only a very few months.’

  A footman leaned between them to serve a plate of soup.

  ‘My husband spent some time there, though he never speaks of it.’

  ‘I do not know your husband, Lady Katherine.’

  ‘Over there – Sir Peregrine Greville.’ She nodded to the other side of the table, further towards where the duke sat. ‘To Lady Combermere’s left, she in the blue.’

  Hervey saw a general officer who looked twice Lady Katherine’s age. ‘Forgive me, madam, but what is your husband’s appointment?’

  ‘He is Governor of Alderney.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hervey was not a polished conversationalist – he knew all too well – but even so, this was an appointment that did not make for a ready reply.

  ‘And of Sark,’ added Lady Katherine, mischievously.

  Hervey returned her smile involuntarily. Her eyes caught the candlelight and for an instant tempted him to some equally mischievous reply. He had had only the one glass of champagne, though, and he thanked God for it, too. ‘That must be very agreeable, madam. The climate, especially.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Captain Hervey. I visit there but very infrequently, and then only for a very short time.’

  Hervey knew he was making a poor show of it, and the knowledge did not improve matters. ‘Your husband is not resident there, then?’

  ‘Indeed he is! This is one of his few returns. He says that since the war there is little to engage him from a military point of view, so he can indulge his passion, which is fishing. There is nothing he likes more than to spend the day in a little boat among lines and pots and I know not what.’

  Sole, only half warm, had followed the soup, and then there was partridge. And all the while Lady Katherine pressed Hervey to reveal his exploits in the war, explaining that her husband had nothing to tell her of but the toings and froings of ships past his islands. And all the while Hervey tried equally to deflect the conversation to something less sanguinary. The effort was so great that he ate little, sipped his wine perhaps too often, and was altogether relieved when at last the arrival of the sweet confections allowed the officer on Lady Katherine’s right to engage her attention, and him to seek relief with the ADC. However, the ADC was engrossed in conversation to his left, so Hervey instead occupied himself with a survey of the room.

  They were thirty-four at table. Besides two or three junior officers such as him, there was an equal number of generals in their braid and ladies in their finery. Hervey mused that each in his or her own way had dressed to please or gain the attention of their host. There was no end of pleasing him, at the most exalted and the most personal levels alike. The fruits of victory at Waterloo were bountiful indeed. The gifts alone spoke volumes: the marble nude of Bonaparte from the Prince; the Portuguese service, a thousand pieces of silver and gilt; the Saxon service, finest Meissen; the Prussian service, Berlin green china, with its magnificent obelisk centrepiece depicting the duke’s orders and titles, perforce incomplete, for the honours still came; the Deccan service; the Egyptian service; paintings, furniture, statuary, porcelain of every description; field marshal’s batons of half a dozen nations and more. And many hundreds of thousands voted by parliament so that the duke might acquire a country seat, as Marlborough before him had acquired Blenheim. Hervey could scarcely believe that he himself had refused the duke what little he had to offer.

  ‘Do you enjoy your evening, Captain Hervey?’

  He turned to the ADC and smiled. ‘Yes, I do, very much.’

  ‘Let us hope His Grace does, for he has been in high dudgeon these past three days.’

  Hervey knew it was not a rare occurrence for the duke to be discomposed, but he had had no intimation of ill humour on arrival. Quite the opposite in fact. ‘Indeed? How so?’

  ‘Do you know what day it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you must. The duke’s time in India?’

  Now that he was given the hint, the answer came quickly enough. ‘The battle of Assaye.’

  ‘Just so. The duke had invited Sir John Vandeleur to be guest of honour, as colonel of the Nineteenth Light Dragoons, whose victory it was, in large part. But he declined in protest of the disbandments.’

  Hervey was intrigued. He had heard that the Twenty-first were to disband – the Twentieth had gone already – but nothing more. In
any case, the Nineteenth, the heroes of Assaye, had only lately become lancers – with the Sixteenth, the first in the King’s service. ‘I am very sorry for it, on all accounts.’ There were evidently other men, then, who were not disposed to obliging the duke in every particular.

  ‘Indeed. So we must hope that the ladies are sufficiently diverting this evening.’

  Hervey glanced up and down the table. ‘For the main part, I should say there is no doubt of it!’

  The ADC smiled and nodded while tucking into a cheesecake with surprising gusto after all that had gone before. ‘Lady Katherine is engaging company,’ he suggested between mouthfuls.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Hervey, a little unsure. ‘We have had plenty of conversation.’

  ‘She greatly enjoys company when she rides every day.’

  Hervey heard the suspicion of a warning, but before he could press the ADC to more, Lady Katherine turned again to him. ‘We ladies are being bidden to retire. Will you attend upon my husband and me afterwards, Captain Hervey – when, that is, Colonel Warde has done with you?’

  ‘With great pleasure, madam.’ He rose as a footman drew back her chair.

  She smiled warmly at him. ‘Until later, then.’

  Hervey turned back to the ADC, but that officer was already moving to attend on the duke, as, it seemed, was the officer who had been on Lady Katherine’s right. So he himself closed further towards the middle of the table, to begin an interesting discourse with a peer, whose name he did not catch, about the prospects of reform. But soon the several conversations deferred to the duke’s, in which he expressed himself glad to see so many of rank and distinction at his table, that he considered it a worthy ‘inauguration’ of his new dining room, and that he intended hereupon to hold a banquet each year in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo.

  The unreforming peer on Hervey’s right evidently wanted some association with Waterloo too, if only in conversation (for he did not have the look of one who had ever served). But he sadly misjudged his subject. ‘Did you have a good view of the battle, Duke?’