Rumours Of War
( Hervey - 6 )
Allan Mallinson
In Europe, rumours of war are rife once again, as Matthew Hervey returns to the Peninsula to fight a new battle, and to confront the ghosts of his first campaign…
The year is 1826, and the fragile peace in Europe following the defeat of Napoleon is threatened by Spanish aggression in the Peninsula. Matthew Hervey, newly returned from India, joins a party of officers sent to make an assessment and lend support to their Portuguese allies. His place on the expedition is secured with the help and influence of his new friend, Lady Katherine Greville.
But the Peninsula is a place redolent with memories. For it was here as a seventeen-year-old Cornet that Hervey had his first taste of military action. The French forces had pushed the British into an ignominious retreat, losing morale as quickly as ground, until under the leadership of Sir John Moore the army made a defiant stand at Corunna. In the epic battle that followed, Hervey and the Sixth Light Dragoons played their part in one of the Napoleonic War’s most famous military scenes. As the wave of the French onslaught broke against the solid rock of British resolve, the tide of war was turned once and for all in England’s favour.
Now, with the Spanish threatening the fortress at Elvas, and as Hervey makes ready for the battle once again, the sights and sounds of the Peninsula bring back a flood of memories. But it is not only Spanish aggression and ghosts from his past that Matthew must confront; Lady Katherine has arrived in the Peninsula and is looking for rewards in return for services rendered.
RUMOURS OF WAR
ALLAN MALLINSON
Also by Allan Mallinson
A CLOSE RUN THING
THE NIZAM’S DAUGHTERS*
A REGIMENTAL AFFAIR
A CALL TO ARMS
THE SABRE’S EDGE
FOREWORD
The long peace that followed the final victory at Waterloo was in many ways similar to that which has followed the Second World War. The principal powers, exhausted to a greater or lesser degree, looked to their interior economy or their empires; distant wars of decolonialization troubled some of them, while several wrestled with the forces of revolution within. The Ottoman empire, in its early phase of collapse, resembled the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s. The Iberian peninsula too, for a decade one of the hottest seats of war on the continent, lapsed into a sad and squalid period of civil war, the implications of which, in Europe and South America, taxed the wisdom of the great figures of British politics. One of those was the Duke of Wellington, then in the process of metamorphosis from first soldier of Europe to prime minister of the world’s foremost power.
Captain and Brevet-Major Matthew Hervey, a professional officer of the 6th Light Dragoons, was recently returned with his regiment from India. Like many a cavalryman in the Cold War a century and a half later, he found himself frustrated with soldiering in such a peace. He therefore sought the sound of the guns.
I am indebted to the usual team at Transworld for their unfailing support, though with much sadness I must record the retirement of Anthony Turner, copy editor, who has worked on all the previous manuscripts with the keenest eye, and to whom I am greatly obliged. My younger daughter has been of unflagging assistance. Colonel Tom Huggan, a former military attaché in Lisbon, but for thirty years retired from the Active List (though still as active as might be), has been of true help throughout. I am grateful, too, to the British ambassador in Lisbon, Glynne Evans, and her personal assistant Patricia Fletcher; they have answered several thorny questions and pointed me in the right direction – not least to Major (retired) Nick Hallidie of Elvas. The archives and museum of the Portuguese army have provided me with a great deal of material, as too has our own Foreign and Commonwealth Office library. I owe thanks, as well, to Stephen Hebron of Dove Cottage. Monsignor Patrick Kilgarriff, rector of the Venerable English College, Rome, has wittingly and otherwise continued to be of enormous help. Finally, I should like to record my immense gratitude to Catherine Payling, director of the Keats-Shelley House in Rome, who over the past three years has allowed me unlimited access to the splendid library of that beautiful museum to the Romantics, and has in addition been a tireless and most generous adviser on a range of subjects, not least on the manuscript of Rumours of War.
London Gazette of 24 November 1826
St. James’s, November 21, 1826
THIS day His Majesty proceeded in state from St. James’s-Palace to the House of Peers, where he arrived ten minutes before two o’clock; and, having alighted from the state coach, was received at the portico by the Great Officers of State and others, and proceeded to the robing-room in the customary manner, wearing a cap of estate adorned with jewels: the sword of state being borne by the Earl of Liverpool, K.G.
His Majesty was there robed, and having put on the imperial crown, the procession moved into the House in the usual order.
His Majesty being seated upon the Throne, the Great Officers of State and others standing on the right and left, Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, Knt. Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, was sent with a message from His Majesty to the House of Commons, commanding their attendance in the House of Peers. The Commons being come thither accordingly, His Majesty was pleased to deliver the following most gracious Speech to both Houses of Parliament:
My Lords, and Gentlemen,
I HAVE called you together at this time for the purpose of communicating to you the measure which I judged necessary to take, in the month of September, for the admission into the ports of the United Kingdom of certain sorts of foreign grain, not then admissible by law.
I have directed a copy of the Order in Council issued on that occasion to be laid before you, and I confidently trust that you will see sufficient reason for giving sanction to the provisions of that Order, and for carrying them into effectual execution.
I have great satisfaction in being able to tell you, that the hopes entertained at the close of the last session of Parliament, respecting the termination of the war in the Burmese territories, have been fulfilled, and that a peace has been concluded in that quarter, highly honourable to the British arms and to the councils of the British Government in India.
I continue to receive from all Foreign Powers assurances of their earnest desire to cultivate the relations of peace and friendly understanding with Me.
I am exerting Myself with unremitting anxiety, either singly or in conjunction with My Allies, as well to arrest the progress of existing hostilities, as to prevent the interruption of peace in different parts of the world . . .
PART ONE
THE INTERRUPTION OF PEACE
CHAPTER ONE
THE EASTERN QUESTION
Whitehall, early evening, 19 September 1826
Lieutenant-Colonel Lord John Howard, assistant quartermaster-general at the Horse Guards, returned the sentry’s salute as he passed through the gates and set off down Whitehall in the direction of the palace of Westminster. He was not best pleased at being bidden at so late an hour, for he had an engagement at White’s club at seven, and summonses such as these had a habit of becoming drawn-out affairs. Too often, it seemed to him, His Majesty’s ministers tarried inordinately over their business before, as the evening’s diversions finally beckoned, they would make their pleasure known to their lordships at the Admiralty, or to the commander-in-chief at the Horse Guards.
And it would be a pretty business, of that there was no doubt. The summons had been to the quartermaster-general himself, but he was absent from London on duty, and even the adjutant-general, who might have stood proxy, was at a review on Wimbledon Common. Lord John Howard had had no opportunity to enquire of the Admiralty what might be the cause of the summons – it was rare that the one place should be troub
led and not the other – for as the principal staff officer remaining in the Horse Guards that afternoon he had been detained with all manner of affairs.
But he knew what would be the cause anyway. Or at least he thought he did. What else could it be but the Greek war? It had truly become very tiresome: what with Shelley’s Hellas and then that preposterous amateur warrior Byron (God rest their souls), the country was losing its sense to a heady tide of romantic self-indulgence. He frowned and shook his head. Well . . . be what may; the government had dug itself a fearful deep ditch and might yet find it difficult to come by a ladder. And what had prevailed on so level-headed a man as the Duke of Wellington to go to St Petersburg and do Mr Canning’s bidding? For now there was a treaty to help the Greeks, with the French and the Russians a party to the folly, and an ultimatum that the sultan would undoubtedly find repellent. There was a fleet at this very moment in the eastern Mediterranean – for all he knew in the Bosporus itself. And so the nation would next send a landing force, doubtless to seize Constantinople in the expectation that the sultan would at once seek terms. Had not the same happened at Rangoon? And what had followed? Two years of fever and fighting. He shook his head again. A right Gadarene rush to war it was, and at six o’clock of a chill autumn evening.
There was just a suspicion of fog, too, in the gaslight. Lord John Howard would have pulled up the collar of his greatcoat had he had to walk to the House of Peers itself, but parliament stood prorogued until November, and in a few more yards he turned right into the cul-de-sac of Downing Street and made for Number Fourteen at the western end, the modest three-storey house that was His Majesty’s Colonial Office. Here he was admitted promptly, shown to an anteroom and told that Lord Bathurst would see him directly. This surprised him, for his dealings were, as a rule, with an undersecretary. There again, it had been the quartermaster-general himself who had been summoned. Lord John Howard looked at his half-hunter a shade anxiously; he hoped this interview did not presage an intrusion on his appointment at White’s.
In five more minutes he was called to Lord Bathurst’s office. On entering he bowed, forage cap under his arm, and bid good evening to the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies.
Lord Bathurst looked preoccupied. His features were amiable but pinched; his hair, grey and much receded, was awry. At sixty-four years he was the second oldest member of the cabinet, and much the most experienced, having held his appointment since 1812. The Duke of Wellington counted him a friend and ally. Lord John Howard could not help but think that there should by rights have been little to disturb so richly earned an ease at this time. Europe and the Colonies were – at last – at peace, but for those querulous neighbours in the eastern Mediterranean . . .
The Secretary of State was undoubtedly troubled, however. His voice revealed it. ‘Ireland, my dear sir, Ireland. The oats and potatoes are ruined there. Drought!’
Lord John Howard was puzzled. He could see no immediate connection as far as his duties at the Horse Guards were concerned, unless the cabinet had a mind to increase the Irish establishment to deal with the imagined unrest – and that hardly seemed necessary, for there were surely more than enough soldiers in that country?
‘We shall have it out all over again with the Corn Laws. I see no escape from it. And what with Catholic relief and all.’
Lord John Howard, increasingly mindful of the hour, decided to attempt a conclusion. ‘Do you wish the commander-in-chief to place additional troops in readiness, my lord?’
Bathurst looked puzzled. ‘For Ireland? No, no, indeed not. Not for Ireland. There will be no need of that. Indeed no. Not when the situation in the Aegean Sea is so uncertain.’
Lord John Howard was beginning to chafe. ‘The Duke of York has placed a force upon notice for Greece, sir, as you know. Do you wish me to communicate with the general commanding-in-chief on the matter?’
‘Lord Hill? No, I think not, though I should wish to speak with him presently on sundry other matters concerning Greece. No, it is Portugal. That is what exercises His Majesty’s ministers.’
‘Portugal, my lord?’ Howard read the official despatches as well as the newspapers. He was well aware of the constitutional difficulties occasioned by the death of King John (and no doubt distantly stirred from Madrid too), but—
‘The Foreign Secretary asks that a special mission be stood up for Lisbon to tender advice to our ambassador. Or rather, I should say, to our chargé d’affaires. The commander-in-chief is already apprised of matters in a general sense.’
Lord John Howard was uncertain of this, as well as surprised. The Duke of York was hardly in a state to be conscious of anything but his own mortality at this time. He had been too ill of late even to put his signature to things. The officers at the Horse Guards who ran the army in his name saw the periodic despatches from His Majesty’s embassies in Lisbon and Madrid (and, indeed, from Paris, for Howard had a mind too that France’s hand would be detectable in the business) but he was certain that no thought had been given to intervention of any kind.
‘How large is the mission to be, my lord, and at what notice?’
‘Five or six officers, no more. A colonel to be in charge. Mr Canning is not yet decided on when they should sail, but by the end of the month I would say. There will be passports and the like to arrange. Would you have it attended to? And with discretion, if you will.’
Lord John Howard closed his notebook. ‘Of course, my lord.’
‘When is the quartermaster-general returned?’
‘On Friday.’
‘Very good. I would speak with him as soon as he is.’
*
As he left, Lord John Howard paused under one of the gas lamps at the door of Number Fourteen and looked at his watch again. It was a quarter past six; he just had time to pen a memorandum to the adjutant-general, who stood duty for the commander-in-chief during the latter’s indisposition and the quartermaster-general’s absence. An aide-de-camp could then take it to his lodgings in Albany. And, of course, he would send a copy to Apsley House at the same time, for although the Duke of Wellington was Master General of the Ordnance, everyone knew he was commander-in-chief in waiting. And in any case, as a member of the cabinet he would soon know of the mission, if he did not already. The duke would certainly have very decided opinions on the matter, and he, Lord John Howard, was not about to become a casualty of great beasts stamping their ground. He put his watch back into his pocket: with a little despatch, he could make his appointment at White’s with only a very little delay.
‘So, Hervey, how do you like my Spanish jennet?’
Captain (Brevet-Major) Matthew Hervey turned in the saddle.
‘He is all fire.’
‘I am of Pliny’s opinion, I think he was begot by wind; he runs as if he were ballasted with quicksilver.’
‘True, my lord, he reels from the tilt often.’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Major Strickland punched his fellow squadron leader playfully on the shoulder, and his gelding tried to bite the neck of Hervey’s little mare.
‘It was an uncommonly good evening, was it not?’
‘It was, Hervey. A very noble play. I am sorry I never saw it before.’
Hervey smiled as he recalled his original encounter. ‘It was in Lisbon I first saw it. Soon after we had got there. The duchess was Italian and spoke her lines very indistinct.’
‘Italian was she? I count myself poor, still, for not having seen that country,’ said Strickland, shaking his head. ‘And did you see Malfi when you were there?’
‘The play?’
‘The place.’
‘No. I went as far south only as Naples.’
They rode on a little without speaking.
‘You should join us more often at the theatre, Hervey. We shan’t be at Hounslow for ever.’
‘I know it. But I’ve been much distracted by affairs. I know the road to Wiltshire as well as I know it to London.’
Strickland’s gelding tried to take anoth
er bite at the mare’s neck. ‘For heaven’s sake! What possesses you?’
‘He knows the manger beckons.’
‘No doubt.’
Strickland’s charger was not alone in its ill temper. Down the long column of squadrons returning from exercise on the heath there were any number of displays – mares being marish, and geldings being coltish, for all their deficiency. Nappy troopers were just a part of a cavalry regiment on parade, especially one that knew it was returning to barracks.
‘You are much occupied by your ladies, Hervey,’ said Strickland kindly.
‘I confess I am. I have neglected them sorely.’
‘Then we shall see them at Hounslow soon?’
‘My sister, I think, would not stay long if she came. Our parents are not young. And there is no governess.’
‘And?’
‘What?’ Hervey thought he had misheard. The jingling of bits, the clanking of scabbards, and iron striking the road – even at the walk – did not make conversation easy.
‘Your lady in town.’
‘Strickland!’
‘Have a care for your soul, Hervey.’
‘Strickland, old friends though we are, you sometimes presume too much. I am perfectly careful of my soul, I assure you.’
‘You will remain in my prayers nevertheless.’
‘And you in mine!’
The gates of the cavalry barracks were now welcoming them. The commanding officer’s trumpeter sounded the approach, and the quarter-guard came doubling from the guardroom to present arms. Hervey touched his peak before dropping back to the head of Third Squadron as the regiment sat up to attention to ride in, then wheeling and forming on the square for the dismissal. He took post in front of E Troop as the commanding officer, adjutant and serjeant-major turned about to watch the evolutions.
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