‘An’ I don’t see why there should be all this trouble either.’ Johnson sounded quite decided.
‘There was only ever a possibility of avoiding trouble, as you call it, if things remained in Lisbon. I was lost as soon as the Horse Guards learned of it, let alone the War Office.’
‘Will Corporal Wainwright get in trouble?’
Hervey shook his head at the thought of his covering corporal on the bridge: the courage was one thing, the presence of mind quite another. ‘I cannot think even Colonel Norris could see anything but honour in what Wainwright did. I’m determined he shall have some reward.’
‘Ah wish ah’d seen it. Why didn’t ’e just jump wi’out ’is ’orse, though?’
Hervey shook his head again. ‘He said he thought he would be a burden without her!’
Johnson nodded, perfectly understanding. ‘An’ ’e’s still only a young’n!’
‘Indeed, Johnson.’ He started searching again among the paraphernalia of uniform piled ready for packing. ‘Where is my button-stick?’
‘But that doctor were brave an’ all.’
Hervey looked up. ‘You know, Johnson, it was fifteen years ago, the business at Badajoz. I could never have imagined what long shadows it cast. I didn’t tell you the other two daughters died of fever before the war was ended, and that his wife took her own life not long after. He might have been a broken man – or, at least, a very bitter one. Yet I never met a kinder man.’
‘Will ’e be in trouble, d’ye think, sir?’
Hervey shrugged. ‘He cannot very well return to Spain, at least for a while. Mr Forbes at the legation is taking good care of him. They spoke of some employment in the Americas. I shall see him again before we leave, I hope.’ He threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Where is that button-stick?’
Johnson laid down the bellows. ‘Why don’t tha let me do that, sir. Sit down and ’ave thi coffee while it’s ’ot.’
Hervey sighed. He had no need of the button-stick anyway, except to occupy his mind. He sat in the armchair by the smoking fire and poured out some of the thick black brew which Johnson had perfected over many years of improvisation with the most unpromising of raw materials, and then picked up the letter again. ‘I must tell you frankly, Johnson: the Duke of York is greatly angered. Lord John Howard tells me all in this, here.’
Johnson took up the poker again, and scowled. ‘Ay. But t’Duke’d never ’ave known if Colonel Norris ’adn’t told ’im.’
‘Except that the Spanish ambassador has probably also protested.’
Johnson stopped poking the fire, and turned with a look of uncharacteristic anxiety. ‘Sir, tha doesn’t think tha’ll be—’
‘What?’
‘Well, I don’t know rightly – whatever it is as ’appens to an officer.’
‘Cashiered?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘Quite possibly. I imagine the Horse Guards would not go to the trouble of ordering a general court martial otherwise.’
‘An’ tha’s not worried?’
Hervey half laughed. ‘Johnson, in truth I’m so dismayed by how we seem to arrange things in the army that I hardly care what happens. I believe I may say that I would not do the same again, for I see all too clearly how things have become, but in all honesty I cannot regret what I did, for it was all I had learned in these eighteen years a soldier.’
‘Ay, well said, Major ’Ervey. An’ Gen’ral Clinton says ’e’ll speak for thee, doesn’t ’e?’
‘Oh yes, have no fear, Johnson. There’ll be testimonials enough. But if the Duke of York is as angered as Lord John says he is, it will be to no avail. He’s an old man, and a sick one too. His opinions are more decided by the day, and they are not favourable to junior officers who take things upon themselves, especially in the face of their seniors.’
‘All this is because of Colonel Norris.’
‘All this is because of me, Johnson. I cannot escape the responsibility.’
Johnson stood up and looked at the fire despairingly: no wood he could find in this place gave off any heat. ‘Very Christian that is, Major ’Ervey. Some consolation to thee, I suppose.’
Hervey scowled back.
‘An’ why ’asn’t tha been to see Mrs Delgado an’ ’er father?’
‘What has that to do with it? I told you anyway: I have been, and shall go again as soon as I am able. You forget, perhaps, I am in open arrest.’
‘Colonel Laming’s been to see ’er.’
‘I am glad to hear it. But I cannot call on her and her father before Colonel Norris gives me leave.’
‘Tha knows they might go to England? On account o’ t’trouble ’ere.’
Hervey looked surprised. ‘No, I did not. How did you come by this?’
‘Colonel Laming’s man.’
Hervey’s eyes widened. ‘I compliment you on your sources, I’m sure!’
‘Ay, ’e ’eard they’d be gooin’ by t’end o’t’month.’
‘Well, I have not seen Colonel Laming these last few days, I regret to say.’ Hervey sounded especially thoughtful. ‘He has important duties with General Clinton. He says he will come by tonight, all being well.’
But what came instead that night was a letter:
Head Quarters,
Valle de Pereira Barracks
8th January 1827
My dear Hervey,
I am prevented by only the most urgent duty from calling on you this evening, for there are matters with which I would acquaint you in person, and so I am obliged to depose these matters here instead, and would beg your indulgence, confident that you of all men will know the urgent delicacy of what we are about. You will be pleased to learn, for every good reason, that Sir William Clinton is inclined to base his dispositions in the very largest measure upon your design, for he has learned from M. Saldanha the Minister of War that the Miguelites will next renew their offensive in Minho and Tras os Montes, but that M. Saldanha is confident of the Portuguese army so long as there are English troops not too distant who would thereby demonstrate to the Miguelites that whatever success they might enjoy in the provinces it would never take them to Lisbon. Half our army is therefore to march forthwith to the Mondego, and shall have its Head Quarters at Coimbra. The remainder shall occupy the Tagus forts with a view to securing the peace of the capital and to be in a position to reinforce the garrison at Elvas if that front should become active. The Spanish announce that they are to form an army of observation of fifteen thousand men in Estremadura, this to guard against advance from Portugal, which notion is of course entirely without justification, and it is the opinion of M. Saldanha that the true purpose is to check the Miguelites, which they protest they are now certain to do. In any case, there is to be no occupying the lines of Torres Vedras, save for a very few forts. Instead if the division on the Mondego is obliged to withdraw, or withdraws to shorten its lines of communication in the event of the Regent’s forces driving the Miguelites from Minho and Tras os Montes, it will occupy a line from Leiria to Santarem, much as you proposed, with an advance guard at Thomar. In almost every detail, therefore, Sir William has adopted your design, and he asks me to assure you that he is most conscious of it. I do believe this will mean an end to your animadversion, for he is sure to write in these terms to the Horse Guards.
The second matter on which I write is one of some delicacy too, although a different kind. I have resolved to end my state of bachelorhood, and if Isabella Delgado returns a favourable reply to my offer of marriage then it will be ended sooner instead of later. I confess to you – and here, perhaps, I am able to confess more than I might were we to speak together – I confess that I have formed a most ardent affection for her. She is, without doubt, the most admirable woman of my entire acquaintance, and I pray that she will judge my circumstances to be to her favour. I go tomorrow to Belem, and you will wish me every good wish, for you, I know, hold her in the highest regard also. My one regret is that I did not press my suit all those years ago when fir
st we made the acquaintance of the baron, but then circumstances were hardly to my favour, whereas now a colonel instead of a cornet asks his daughter’s hand . . .
Hervey laid down the letter, his hand trembling. Favourable circumstances indeed! Lieutenant-colonel, with a colonel’s brevet – and more promotion to come, no doubt. What would Isabella’s reply be? What should it be, for her daughter had no father, and she no husband?
He sat down heavily in an armchair. What did he offer? Captain, a major’s brevet, and the prospect of a court martial that might end in cashiering. He did not even have the right to propose, let alone contest so favourable an offer as Laming’s – his friend of nigh on twenty years, the man who had risked everything to rescue him from Badajoz, and who even now was working for his deliverance from an injustice. It would be the basest thing, would it not?
Despite Johnson’s coaxing, Hervey lapsed into a long silence. In his resolution to put his affairs in order, and to ‘lead a new life’, he had allowed himself to imagine that Isabella Delgado might somehow play a part in it. Indeed, in the hours before his release he had begun to imagine her playing a very decided part. She would be mother to his daughter (she was loving and well practised in motherhood already); she would be an agreeable companion in every way (and, he imagined, a zealous lover); and she would be his strength through the public degradation that would follow from the Horse Guards’ discipline.
She would be none of these, now, and he could see no prospect of any other who would take her place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A GRAND OLD DUKE
Gravesend, 13 January 1827
Hervey came down the gangway of the steam packet into the bustle of the Peninsula quay and began making his way through the crowd of hawkers and porters to the Duke of York Inn, where he intended buying a ticket on the first mail to London. As he rounded the corner into the high street, he stopped sharp in his tracks. The inn sign was draped in black.
‘The Duke of York, is he dead?’ he asked one of the ostlers in the forecourt.
‘Ay, sir. A week ago and more. Dead, but not yet buried!’ The man might have been surprised by the enquiry had not Hervey been so evidently new-arrived in the country.
‘Not yet buried?’
The man smiled dryly. ‘They says as they can’t bury ’im since they can’t find enough sodjers!’
Not enough soldiers! Hervey shook his head in despair. But then, he was hardly surprised when the country had had to send a battalion of Guards to Lisbon, and call on the garrison at Gibraltar too. England was at peace, but she hadn’t enough soldiers to send to Portugal and to bury a field marshal! But what should he care? Was the commander-in-chief ’s demise not a merciful release for them all? He may have been ‘the soldier’s friend’, but the army was not prospering. And it might mean – might – that the convening order for his court martial would be rescinded. An ignoble thought, he chided himself: a field marshal was a field marshal.
But what, in truth, did he care now? He cared, certainly, about being cashiered! He would be defiant if it did come to defending his actions, but a court martial would find against him if that was what the convening officer wanted. It was the way. He could not count on a last-minute surrender to conscience and honour, as had happened at Badajoz (if that had indeed been the impulse for Cornet Daly’s action). At best he might hope for a commission elsewhere – black infantry in the tropics, perhaps, the white man’s grave. He could not afford to go on half pay; that was certain. Would that be the court’s offer – the fever colonies or the Inactive List? He shuddered at the thought. And would Isabella Delgado have come with him, if she had accepted his offer of marriage? Would her father, the baron, have permitted it? No father ought to! How could he have even contemplated asking her, or taking Georgiana?
He shuddered again. He shuddered at the disarray which was his life, things more disordered than ever – and only a fortnight ago he had been full of resolution to put all to right! A black-draped name was a powerful memento mori: he did not have for ever to master his life. Memento vivere had been Cornet Laming’s dictum all those years ago, and Colonel Laming was certainly grasping life to advantage now! Hervey knew his duty (or thought he knew) – to family and to those he counted his friends (which in a sense included every man of the regiment). And to himself, too: duty was not a matter of mere abasement. That, however, was the order of his priorities now, and he must keep it thus until he could truly declare his affairs in order.
Nothing was possible, however, unless the charges against him failed. That was his immediate objective; the rest might then just follow.
He managed to get an outside seat on the three o’clock up-mail, and settled as best he could for the four-hour journey to the General Post Office in Lombard Street, his thoughts on nothing but the tactics of his grand, improving design. When he arrived, and had himself and his travelling baggage transferred to the United Service Club in Charles Street, he wrote at once to Lord John Howard and sent the letter by messenger to White’s Club. By return he received a reply saying that Howard was dining with Lord Palmerston and would be pleased if he would come at nine.
Hervey bathed and put on undress, leaving the United Service on foot at ten minutes to nine, and reaching St James’s Street as the watchmen were calling the hour. Inside, he was shown to a small ante-room, where, ten minutes later, Lord John Howard and his party came, all wearing mourning bands, including Lord Palmerston.
Palmerston, though seven years his senior and Secretary at War for almost twenty, had to Hervey all the appearance of a blade, of a man not yet tired of the diversions of mess, dance or field. He was tall and uncommonly handsome, even by the standards of the army’s fashionables, and there was something about his eyes that spoke of a certain waywardness, as well as of high intellect. Hervey could not help but warm to him at once. He knew right enough of the quarrels and petty jealousies that had subsisted between the Horse Guards and the War Office, but he imagined that the fault lay at least half-way with the Duke of York, for it could not have been easy for the old field marshal to defer to an independentminded and brilliant young politician – all be he a Tory one.
Palmerston nodded upon Lord John Howard’s introduction, and with an easy expression. ‘You are well, I trust, in spite of your ordeal?’
Hervey knew he should not have been surprised by the Secretary at War’s knowledge of his ‘ordeal’, yet he had not actually imagined his name spoken of in Whitehall, certainly not outside the Horse Guards.
‘Perfectly well, sir.’
Palmerston saw his confusion, and enjoyed the tease. ‘I have been very well informed of events. You have most zealous friends at court.’
Hervey glanced at Lord John Howard, who shook his head, denying the honours.
‘Lady Katherine Greville has been a most assiduous agent, Major Hervey. I believe I may have learned as much from her as from any official source.’
Hervey coloured slightly. Lord John Howard smiled.
‘Do sit down,’ said Palmerston, as he perched on the arm of a chair.
Hervey was, indeed, wholly taken aback by the revelation of Kat’s unimagined intervention. Did he owe, therefore, these benevolent circumstances to her? He could only wonder at the change in them. On the Gravesend coach he could imagine only a frosty interview with the adjutant-general at the Horse Guards.
‘Tell me first’ – Hervey’s ears pricked at ‘first’, the promise there would be more – ‘how were the troops received at Lisbon?’
‘I did not see them arrive, Lord Palmerston, for I was at the frontier as they did so, but what little I was able to observe on return was perhaps disappointing. There was something of a sullenness, I should say, though that may well have been as much a reflection of the unhappy situation in Portugal as of anything else.’
‘But no flags were put out for us, so to speak?’
‘I would say not.’
Palmerston nodded thoughtfully. ‘Mm. But few of us expected any
different. These things are never quite as ambassadors’ eloquent entreaties have it. Well, Major Hervey, I am sorry not to be able to examine you more on the expedition, but the House sits late this evening and I am required there directly. However, I would know one thing. In your happy escape, was any countryman of ours left for dead?’
‘No.’
Lord Palmerston inclined his head. ‘You are certain of it?’
‘Yes. A Portuguese officer was killed, no other.’
Lord Palmerston turned to Lord John Howard.
‘Colonel Norris’s despatch spoke of a corporal, Hervey,’ said his friend.
Hervey was at once angered. ‘My covering corporal was lost for a day after he made his escape jumping into a river, but he is perfectly well, and on his way to Hounslow barracks as we speak.’
Lord Palmerston looked at him intently. ‘I am relieved to hear it. It would not serve to have a soldier killed by the Spaniards. It would give rise to a very proper indignation.’ He rose.
The rest of the party followed, Hervey wondering where might be this indignation (the death of a soldier was not usually cause for much notice).
‘On the basis of what you have informed me, Major Hervey, I shall issue instructions to rescind the convening order for general court martial.’
Hervey bowed. ‘I am very much obliged, Lord Palmerston.’
‘Very well, I hope there may be opportunity to speak further with you on the situation in Portugal, but for the present I bid you good evening.’
Hervey bowed again. ‘Goodnight, Lord Palmerston.’
Lord John Howard motioned him to wait as he accompanied the Secretary at War to his carriage.
When he returned it was with a distinctly breezy air. ‘Hervey, it is uncommonly good to see you! What an affair it has all been; I was very glad to have your account of it. Norris has been writing in vitriol. But he’s a fool. He doesn’t understand there could be communication other than official.’
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