A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  As the regiment woke to the call of the trumpet and began its familiar routine, he walked back to his cell, passing the chapel with its plain windows lit dimly from within. A frail chant, Te Deum Laudamus, drifted out, with an occasional whicker from the cloister stalls punctuating the plainsong. He found his cell a blaze of light compared with the gloom elsewhere, for each corner was filled with candles, and an oil lamp burned brightly on a small table, these meagre but useful camp-stores bearing witness to the ever-resourceful Johnson’s nocturnal activities. Next to the lamp stood a steaming canteen of tea, and a clean pair of undress overalls lay on the bed.

  ‘Baggage came in last night, sir,’ explained his groom. ‘I’ll bring t’rest along presently – thought these’d be more comfortable. I’ll take thee field overalls to mend now. I ’ear it’s all over?’

  But Hervey had to admit that he had no more information than the barrack room evidently had. ‘Do you have my sketchbooks yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Ay, sir; they’re with t’rest of thee things.’

  There was no more news at first parade, either, only speculation – Bonaparte was dead, Bonaparte had escaped to America, Bonaparte was in a cage in the Tuileries. By the time the officers assembled in the refectory, at eight o’clock, there was at least unanimity that Bonaparte was finished. There were barely a dozen and a half officers on parade that morning, fewer than half the establishment with which they had begun the campaign. Hervey could picture the absent faces as clearly as if they were standing there: the colonel would, no doubt, return to duty in good time, but the two captains, Lennox and Twentyman, would never again hear reveille; nor would Martyn and Mayall, the lieutenants who had fallen at Salamanca; nor Cornets Wyllie and Lord Arthur Percival, killed at Badajoz; Cornet Bruce would never again see the wild flowers of whose names, both vulgar and botanical, he had such astonishing recall, for the explosion of the arsenal after Ciudad Rodrigo had scorched his eyes terribly. And there were others, more fortunate, who had been invalided home with wounds or sickness: they had filled the mess with laughter and companionship (and Hirsch with the uncommon beauty of his flute), and he would miss them even more now that peace brought a respite from the exertions of this campaign. The noise which the gallant and fortunate remnant made suggested double their number, however, and Cornet Laming had to struggle to make himself heard: ‘D’ye see Edmonds, Hervey?’

  Hervey looked to where Laming nodded and saw the major at the far end of the refectory, looking sombre. Barrow was speaking into his ear and appeared equally grave.

  ‘Something’s up,’ said Laming. ‘I heard after stables that the Fourteenth are for America.’

  ‘I would not mind America. Why should that trouble us?’ replied Hervey, momentarily forgetful of his own pressing need to return home.

  ‘Because the regiment’s worn out, that is why.’

  ‘We might still have a march on Paris if Bonaparte’s flight is but rumour,’ he countered warily.

  ‘That is another matter entirely. Look around: we have been campaigning longer than any corps in the army – we are at less than half-strength! Look at Edmonds, his nerves have frayed to nothing; he’s had the blue devils for months! And there’s scarcely a horse that I’d warrant through another winter out.’

  But before Hervey could reply Barrow called them to order and Edmonds began speaking. ‘Gentlemen, I have a dispatch from General Cotton. It reads as follows:

  ‘“Lord Wellington has received intelligence of the abdication of the self-styled Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte and of his custody with the Royal Navy. There shall be an immediate armistice, for two months. Marshal Soult is to surrender his army of the south to the Commander-in-Chief directly. The Garonne is to be the line of demarcation and Toulouse will remain in our possession. The administration of the country is to be vested immediately in the appointed representatives of His Majesty King Lewis the Eighteenth, who are to be treated as our allies.”’

  ‘See how quickly will they make white cockades out of tricolours,’ whispered Laming.

  ‘Too cynical,’ Hervey whispered back.

  ‘“Si foret in terris …”’ declaimed Laming airily.

  ‘“Rideret Democritus.” What has Horace to do with it?’

  Laming nodded with faint surprise, and Hervey took the opportunity to tilt gently at the senior cornet’s self-esteem.

  ‘Laming, contrary to what might have been supposed at Eton, we were not barbarians at Shrewsbury.’

  ‘Oh, a most apt riposte, I do acknowledge!’ said Laming rather too loudly. Barrow glanced their way sharply, and then Edmonds continued.

  ‘But there is to be no rest, gentlemen. Two divisions under Lord Hill are to proceed to America as soon as possible. The Fourteenth are to accompany them and a squadron of the Staff Corps; we shall be asked for nominations of men of the highest character, as usual, for the Corps. Meanwhile we shall remain in Toulouse until the acknowledgement of King Lewis is universal and the French army and marshals have taken oaths of allegiance.’ The cadence seemed to indicate that this was an end to it, and a general hubbub began.

  ‘Thank God it’s only the Chambermaids for America, then,’ said Laming. ‘We can decamp to Paris and then be in Leicestershire for next season!’

  ‘Venery and then venery!’ quipped Hervey.

  Laming frowned, but at least the Sixth’s prizes at Vitoria had not landed them with so ungraceful a sobriquet as the Fourteenth’s: a silver chamberpot belonging to Bonaparte’s brother had at the time seemed amusing booty to the 14th Light Dragoons.

  ‘Gentlemen, please!’ called Barrow, and silence quickly returned.

  Edmonds paused. ‘Gentlemen, this is, I believe, the end of what we were coming to think of as a never-ending war. You have done well – the regiment has done well, but I fear that this end may be but a beginning. We are not for Paris, however. We have been warned for England together with most of the rest of the cavalry, and I need not speak aloud my worst fears, for you are only too aware of the economies which this parliament will now seek. I pray that our seniority will afford us some security. And the Earl of Sussex will not let his regiment disband without protest – of that you may be assured. Meanwhile we must continue to conduct our affairs with the same fidelity, trusting that virtue is in itself, ultimately, a sufficient reward. That is all, gentlemen.’ And, turning about, he left the room with not another word.

  ‘A very pretty speech, I do declare,’ said Cornet Laming. ‘What say you, Murray?’

  Their troop senior’s brow furrowed angrily. ‘So we’re going to be paid off, are we? And what price d’ye think our commissions will fetch now, eh? It’s all very well for the likes of you, Laming, but I paid twice over price and all my people’s estates in the Americas have been lost,’ he snapped, turning on his heel.

  Hervey and Laming looked at each other blankly as Lieutenant Murray stalked away. Barrow had not left, however, and he now came up to them looking no less preoccupied than he had before Edmonds had spoken.

  ‘The major wishes to see you directly, Hervey.’

  ‘About what?’ he replied. ‘There is no more trouble surely?’

  ‘Not in your case, not personally. Armstrong – bloody business, bloody, bloody business,’ he replied, shaking his head.

  The regimental serjeant-major was already talking with Edmonds when Barrow and Hervey entered the abbess’s library, which was beginning to look like the orderly room in Canterbury, for the regiment’s silver had arrived with the baggage train. The crucifix had been more reverently draped with a white sheet, and the guidon was unfurled so that the regiment’s four battle-honours (though still to be officially authorized) were clearly arrayed: Tournay, where they had lost every third man while covering the infantry’s hard-pressed retreat; Willems, where they had almost stuck fast in the Flanders mud; Egmont-Op-Zee, where they had galloped along the beach and dunes for six miles to cut off the French. He knew the battles well enough from accounts which lay in the regiment’s reading
-room. But that which he admired the greatest, that which he wished most to have been party to the honour, lay not in the Low Countries but in a place so distant that it could exist for him only at the extremity of his imagination: Seringapatam. There were still a few old hands in the ranks who remembered that day, though most had by now taken their prize-money to begin life out of uniform (those, that is, who had not drunk or whored it in the three years they remained in India after that affair). Edmonds was the only officer remaining who had been present. He would never speak of it, except of late to say that the sack of Vitoria was but revelry compared with that of Seringapatam.

  The adjutant joined Edmonds and the RSM beside the guidon, but Hervey saluted and stood at attention in front of the major’s writing-table – for a second time in as many days. The RSM’s appearance was more than usually imposing, and Hervey felt his habitual unease when in his company. Mr Lincoln had been in the same action as the rest of the regiment two days before, but for all the world he looked now as if he were ready for a review on the parade ground at the Horse Guards, his Hessian boots gleaming like patent. He looked as fit as any rough-rider, only the grey of his half-mutton-chops giving any clue to his real age. Abandoned as an infant in the undercroft of Lincoln’s Inn, raised subsequently on the charity of the benchers and given the customary surname for such foundlings, he had enlisted as a boy-trumpeter at the age of twelve, in the second year of the American revolt, and his attestation papers had long been conveniently lost. Hervey’s gaze fell on the four silver-lace chevrons, surmounted by the crown, on his upper right arm. The effort, the years of duty, which they marked would awe any cornet, and he wondered what Lincoln must be making of his handling of the picket: perhaps the RSM thought it all that could be expected from someone whose rank rested solely on the deposit of six hundred pounds with the regimental agents.

  ‘Mr Hervey, I will be brief,’ began Edmonds as the three turned towards him, Lincoln saluting briskly. ‘General Slade is pressing charges of gross insubordination against Serjeant Armstrong. He will allow me to deal summarily with the charges if I order him to be flogged, otherwise he will have Armstrong court-martialled and dismissed with disgrace. He knows the Sixth does not flog; I will not flog! It is the vilest thing – cruel punishment, corrosive of true discipline and morals. Yet Armstrong will be broken for ever if I do not. Was there anything more in mitigation that you have not already told me?’

  Hervey glanced at RSM Lincoln, who remained impassive, doubtless thinking that if he, Hervey, had kept calm, then Armstrong might perhaps have kept his temper. ‘Sir, Serjeant Armstrong was insubordinate, but he was my covering-serjeant and it surely might be taken to be mere excess of zeal. Lieutenant Regan was guilty of undermining my authority in front of the picket, and no doubt Serjeant Armstrong felt he should act in this respect.’

  ‘I do not doubt that, Hervey, but insubordination is a military offence whereas Regan’s conduct was ungallant, and that is not. Do not misunderstand, mind – Regan behaved like an ass by all accounts.’

  Edmonds now looked across to Barrow, whereupon the adjutant began speaking in an uncommonly warm tone. ‘There is but one chance, Hervey. You might petition for redress of grievance in respect of wrongful arrest. The prospect might cause the general to abandon the charges.’

  Hervey did not hesitate. ‘Then I will do so, of course. Will it work, sir?’ he asked, looking at Edmonds.

  ‘I think it very probably will. We do not know whether it was Slade himself who ordered the arrest or whether it was Regan who was overzealous. Even if it were Regan’s doing, he has such connections that Slade would not want a squeeze. But the thing is this, Hervey: I am afraid that, whichever way it goes, you will be a marked man so far as Slade is concerned – as, indeed, will I, though that is a different matter.’

  ‘So be it, sir!’

  ‘And, if this stratagem is a success,’ asked Edmonds, turning to Mr Lincoln, ‘what should be done with Armstrong then, Sarn’t-Major?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ began the RSM, ‘you know it is my opinion that a senior rank should not be humiliated for a momentary lapse of good sense. There was to be no punishment before General Slade raised these charges. My mess would not be dismayed if we followed that same course now, and I tender my apologies that one of my mess should fail his officer as Armstrong has done. I have yet to speak to him in connection with this: he will not forget it when I do.’

  No one could doubt it.

  ‘Very well, then, Mr Lincoln,’ said Edmonds, ‘a rebuke and nothing further. Mr Barrow, I suggest that you make the brigade major aware of Mr Hervey’s intention to petition without delay. With any luck it may never come to a formal submission. That is all, gentlemen; but, Mr Hervey, stay a moment.’

  When the others had left, Edmonds motioned him to sit in the chair by his writing-table and he himself sat on the edge, his earlier formality easing. ‘Look, Hervey, this is really a deuced tricky business. Slade is a vindictive man, and his reach is long. I do not even know whether approaching Sir Stapleton Cotton would be to any avail. In truth I wish Lord George were here now. We must get you out of Slade’s reach. There is an appointment with the Staff Corps squadron for America, and after the affair of the French battery I feel sure that we could place it for you, for you are aware of General Cotton’s opinion of your action. The last thing I want to do is see you leave the regiment, even temporarily, but I really do urge you to take this opportunity.’

  Hervey said nothing, stunned by Edmonds’s pessimism. At length he reached into his tunic. ‘Sir,’ he began, unfolding his sister’s letter, ‘I would have welcomed the prospect of America, but yesterday I received this from home. My brother has died. He was my elder, and I feel that I must at least return home to discover my father’s circumstances and wishes. I am not sure now that I may accept the lieutenancy even.’

  Edmonds nodded. ‘Yes, I understand well enough,’ he sighed. ‘There comes a time in this whole wretched business of fighting when the spirit just yearns for something peaceful and decent – yes, and gentle even. And you are aware, as I indicated in the mess, that this news of our returning straight to England may well mean disbandment? Your investment might then be lost.’

  ‘Yes, sir, though I would hazard all in that respect.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Those loobies in Parliament will make unconscionable reductions in the Army. Mr Pitt’s income tax will be repealed, and there’ll be beggars in scarlet aplenty on the streets. That is what Cotton believes, too. I do not wish to talk about it with the regiment just yet. As long as you understand all the implications of not going to America – there might even be promotion with the Corps, whereas you might be thrown on to half-pay with a worthless cornetcy to sell if you stay. You are a courageous officer, brave, but …’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied a little uncomfortably.

  ‘Not just that,’ continued the major. ‘I mean that you have yet to acquire sufficient guile … but, then, so have I, for that matter. It might be a case of crabs for us both if Black Jack Slade has another turn. I will leave the question of the lieutenancy for a while, but I must have an answer on America tomorrow. That is all, Matthew.’

  Captain Lankester’s advice was at least unambiguous – and exactly as Hervey would have predicted. Lankester the Corinthian always squared up to difficulties, as he had done to ill-breaking balls on Upper Club at Eton, though always with a sobering realism. He hardly looked up from his journal, which he kept with the same diligence that he would his game-book in Hertfordshire, as Hervey recounted the America option. ‘Petition and stay put!’ he drawled. ‘Slade has been the death of enough good men. Do you want to be shot like a black-cock by some half-breed in a racoon hat?’

  Hervey laughed for the first time since the letter from home. He was pleased with the advice, for though he was perfectly happy to take his chance with an American militiaman, the option seemed too much like running. Edmonds’s was without doubt the more prudent of the advice – he kne
w that full well – and it was all very fine for Sir Edward Lankester, with wealth and rank in his favour, to urge the devil-may-care course. But prudence in a cornet was a questionable attribute – like coyness in whores, Edmonds had once said. What would it profit him to evade this challenge to his self-respect, now, when other challenges would surely follow? He knew right enough that for him there was but one option.

  As in some medieval scriptorium, Hervey sat in his cell making a fair copy of the draft petition which Barrow had given him. There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in, Johnson,’ he called absently. But Johnson never knocked, and Hervey looked up to find instead the same sister of the day before. Her habit was no longer bloodstained and her face not nearly so drawn. He might not have recognized her but for the ice-blue eyes which, now less sunken, were more piercing than before. She had cast her overmantle, and he was able to gain a more faithful impression of her figure, as pleasingly slender as any he had seen. Her bosom, too, suggested an aptness for fashion, unlike the Spanish nuns whose amplitude would have challenged the corsetier’s art. Having had the broken sutures replaced by the surgeon only the afternoon before, he was perplexed at her being there – though much charmed. ‘Yes, Sister, can I help?’ he asked in French.

  And she replied, to his evident astonishment, in English. ‘Mr Hervey, I have heard that Lord Wellington has said that if King Louis were to be restored we would be treated as if liberated rather than conquered.’ Not only did she convey her sense perfectly, with an admirable mastery of the subjunctive, but her aspirates, as alien to a Frenchwoman as they seemed to be to Johnson, were breathed consummately. And there was scarce a trace of accent, though she did not Anglicize the king’s name as Cotton’s dispatch had done – or, at least, the way in which Edmonds had read it. ‘Mr Hervey, forgive me,’ she continued. ‘Yesterday you paid me the compliment of speaking in French, and I have not returned that compliment until now. Yesterday was … well, a most tiring day: I had not slept in—’