A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘By God, Mr Hervey sir, this is grand,’ said Armstrong at length.

  ‘Grand? Yes,’ replied Hervey, ‘but you should see Longleat House to know what is grand in the … grand sense.’

  ‘And that’s a grand family you’ve got, too.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘You have never spoken of your people, Serjeant Armstrong.’

  ‘Never seemed any point,’ he replied with a halfshrug.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because they’re all dead, sir.’

  Hervey was disconcerted: this was something he surely ought to have known. ‘Serjeant Armstrong, I … I am truly sorry to learn that …’

  ‘Well, that’s why I enlisted – had to start again.’

  ‘Start again? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you remember that tar on the transport from France, the one that ’ad been at Trafalgar?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, intrigued by the association.

  ‘Well, how many of ’is mates d’ye think were killed in that battle?’

  ‘Four hundred or thereabouts, was it not?’

  ‘Ay, nearer four hundred and fifty, and nearly three times that many knocked about bad. Now, Lord Nelson ’ad twenty-seven ships o’ the line: that makes seventeen killed on each, as near as makes no odds.’

  Hervey wondered how this surprising grasp of naval statistics connected with the circumstances of Armstrong’s family. But he forbore to hurry him: Armstrong had a way with stories.

  ‘And every man at Trafalgar is an ’ero, and every one of them four hundred and fifty is a dead ’ero. But no one ’as ever heard of the men and bairns killed that same day in ’Ebburn colliery – thirty-five of ’em, two of Nelson’s ships’ worth of dead ’eroes, and as many cripples. And the dead all sent to their Maker in a split second’s explosion of firedamp – my father and ’is father, and my two brothers. I was the youngest and should’ve been there with ’em except I’d been ’urt in a roof-fall a day afore.’

  Hervey was all but overcome, not just by the horror of the accident but by his knowing so little of things. From time to time news reached Horningsham of accidents in the coal mines nearby in Somerset, but the details were always sparse. ‘But I never knew that men could be killed in such numbers,’ he said at length, his brow furrowing in disbelief.

  ‘And bairns, and their mothers and sisters an’ all sometimes,’ added Armstrong emphatically, though more in resignation than in bitterness. Bitterness was reserved for what followed. ‘And you know what, Mr ’Ervey? That explosion made two dozen widows and a hundred orphans in ’Ebburn village, an’ all thrown on the parish with no extra from the coal owners. My mother died in three months in a damp and lousy poorhouse.’

  The birdsong swelled as Hervey sank once more into silence. Armstrong sat impassively, disinclined to tempt him from his thoughts. At length Hervey confronted his shame. ‘Serjeant Armstrong, I am truly humbled to admit of my ignorance of all this, and I cannot conceive of how I have never read of these things in the newspapers if they are so frequent.’

  ‘That one at ’Ebburn was small by comparison! And you know why you don’t hear of ’em? Because the papers are forbidden to report ’em, that’s why.’

  They remained a full hour talking, though much subdued. And they spoke of matters of which, only a short time before, Hervey would never have dreamed. That they were able to do so said much perhaps about mutual respect, but equally, it seemed to him afterwards, about the Sixth and its discipline, a discipline of which martinets like Slade could never have any comprehension. Slade – even at this time the ghastly remembrance could intrude!

  Serjeant Armstrong’s temporary assignment with the Warminster Troop proved not nearly so quarrelsome as many had anticipated. He was in any event unlikely to have failed to win the esteem of the yeomen troopers themselves, for any demands he would make on them would surely derive from experience rather than solely from the drill book. In a remarkably short time he was able to improve both their horsemanship and their sword-skills. He had been particularly careful, however, in his dealings with the troop serjeant-major, a foreman on the Marquess of Bath’s estate, and had shown him the deference that he would his own in the Sixth – probably more. And with Hugo Styles he was so correct in his compliments, and so leading in his instruction, that the lieutenant’s standing in the eyes of the troop must have been considerably enhanced thereby.

  They drilled on a Wednesday and a Saturday, and occasionally on a Sunday. Styles attended every muster, for his fortune was sufficiently mature not to require his presence elsewhere, and Henrietta Lindsay accompanied him. Hervey, who, at the outset at least, felt a duty of supervision lest his serjeant be placed in any position of disadvantage, was an equally punctilious spectator. At first he would stand aloof in some position of observation and watch the drill intently, until, by invitation or some other contrivance, he would find himself in the company of Henrietta and Styles. The latter tolerated his presence always with the very least civility that their status as gentlemen and officers compelled. Hervey’s disdain of Styles grew by degrees to detestation, for he could find in him no redeeming feature. His dress, speech and manner were contrived to an absurdly exaggerated extent. There were those in the Sixth, Hervey knew, who would certainly excel him in each, but they would give no offence in the doing. Styles was a man of considerable means, it was said, but there were some in the Sixth who were richer and yet would excite no such animosity. All these would-be candidates for equal disdain had the very quality, and in large measure, that Styles wholly lacked: generosity of spirit. And, what was perhaps more, they had shared the privations of a campaign. Hervey concluded that Styles was a man profoundly unsuited for anything but the most ornamental of commands. What a great good fortune it had been that the yeomanry had never been required to repel Bonaparte’s troops! One thing only puzzled Hervey: what it was that Henrietta found so agreeable in Styles.

  Henrietta herself was always entirely civil at these meetings, but nothing more (or so it seemed to him). As the weeks passed, however, Hervey showed less attention to the evolutions on the drill ground and greater address at joining the other two observers, and so obvious was that address that the lieutenant’s duty of civility was placed under a greater strain than he was sometimes capable of bearing. But when Hervey found himself in Henrietta’s sole company, as when, for instance, Styles took command of the troop for some manoeuvre or other, she spent so much time asking whether he did not admire this or other about the lieutenant and his yeomen that he became wholly cast down.

  Then, on St Bartholomew’s Eve, a fast day which the vicarage at Horningsham kept strictly, Hervey’s long-expected letter arrived.

  ‘You look puzzled, brother. It is not ill news surely?’ asked Elizabeth, sipping her unsweetened tea with no great relish.

  ‘It is from my major. I am to rejoin the regiment in Cork within ten days,’ he replied.

  ‘But you were expecting these orders, were you not?’

  ‘I was, but there is something more. It seems that Major Edmonds – he is acting as officer commanding since the lieutenant-colonel was wounded in France – it seems that he had asked the colonel to secure me an appointment at the Horse Guards, but that this had not proved expedient.’

  ‘But that is surely a most agreeable compliment, is it not, Matthew?’ she asked, further puzzled by his want of enthusiasm.

  ‘Perhaps so, but the major said nothing of this to me, and it astounds me that he should think I might welcome such a preferment. It is almost as if he wished positively to see me away from the regiment.’ He knew, or at least confided, that this latter could not be so. Curiously, however, he sensed that, if the choice had been his now, then it might indeed have been for London rather than for Cork. For, much as the Sixth meant to him, at that moment the thought of quitting Horningsham for so distant a station as Cork, without resolving his feelings for Henrietta Lindsay, filled him with profound gloom. Had he now been with the regiment he would have been ab
le to do what he had always done when troubled: he would have thrown himself at once into an excess of duties, not emerging until he was quite sure that his feelings were, like some difficult remount, in hand. But he was not with the regiment, and the feelings were not, in truth, an unwelcome intrusion. Elizabeth sensed all this better than he might have supposed, but again she said nothing.

  ‘I think I shall ride out on the plain a while,’ he said suddenly, almost jumping from his chair. ‘Shall you come with me?’

  She declined, however, judging the invitation to be but politeness. ‘But call, do, on Daniel Coates, Matthew. He is ever wise in all matters,’ she urged.

  He went to the stables, saddled Coates’s bay and within the hour he was on the downs, walking along the scarp with its distant views of Somerset, the Bristol road, and beyond, he supposed, to Cork. In some way or other he had imagined the ride might clear his mind, or steel him perhaps to what he must do. But the purpose was unaccomplished, for as he turned back at Wadman’s Coppice all he had succeeded in doing was to identify, by a process not unlike the appraisal of some military problem, two equally impaired options. First, he might proceed to Cork and put Henrietta Lindsay from his mind. The flaw in this, it was soon apparent, was that he did not possess the initiative in matters of the mind. Alternatively, he might make his still-indistinct feelings known and leave for Cork with some understanding between them. Here, however, the flaw seemed even greater, for he was near-certain that his feelings must be wholly unreciprocated – or else he might be deemed unsuitable by the marquess who, though no longer strictly her guardian since she had come of age, was unquestionably a man whose blessing must be sought. But in truth the real impediment was an incapacity to press himself with Henrietta, especially in light of her attachment, however imprecise, with Styles.

  For a while he contemplated returning via Drove Farm, where he hoped Daniel Coates’s wisdom might extend to matters of this kind. But their talk had always been of the soldier’s art and of horses, and there was no reason to suppose that a facility with these might apply equally to his newer concern. Daniel Coates had, indeed, expressed himself only once on the subject: of soldiers marrying he had opined it ‘a cruel thing to make a camp-follower of a decent maid’. So instead Hervey made straight for Horningsham by descending the near-vertical sides of Arn Hill (it gave him cause to make much of the young gelding for his balance), and thence through Norridge Wood, the furthest place he and Henrietta had ventured on their childhood rambles together. (He could picture, with surprising recall, her old nurse huffing and puffing, and protesting at the distance they had brought her from Longleat.)

  As he neared the edge of the estate he saw the yeomanry again, leaving the park, and they looked more than usually purposeful. He had not known they were to have a drill day and was surprised to see Styles at the head of them. ‘Haven’t time to dawdle with you, Hervey. There’s work to be done,’ he called loftily as they broke into a trot.

  Armstrong rode up with a resigned look. ‘Afternoon, Mr ’Ervey sir. They’re off to sabre some poor noddle-heads hereabouts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seems there’s a gang intent on breaking up machinery at Hindon and the justices have called out the yeomanry. Mr Styles asked me to go with ’em but I said I’d rather not if he didn’t mind. An’ d’you know what he said? “Damn you for a Luddite yerself, Serjeant – or don’t the regulars have the stomach for it?”’

  ‘Ass!’ rasped Hervey.

  ‘Well, yer cannee get sense out’r haddock on a Saturday night,’ pronounced Armstrong in his broadest Tyneside. ‘An’ yer wastin’ yer time the rest o’ the week an’ all! Come on, sir, don’t worry about it. Come on back to me lodgings and we’ll toast the regiment.’

  ‘No, Serjeant Armstrong – tempted as I am. Orders for Cork have arrived: you and I are to be there in a week or so, and there is much to be done. And, besides, today is a fast day,’ he added with a smile.

  Armstrong looked appalled. ‘Well, I for one will go and drink to our return to the regiment!’ he said, striking his boot with his whip. ‘Oh, an’ by the way, Miss Lindsay has been looking for you, and proper keen to see you she appeared to be.’

  Hervey was at once quickened by this report, though he tried to look otherwise. ‘Very well, then, Serjeant, I am for home: I will see you at the Bell some time tomorrow or the day after when arrangements for Cork are made.’ And he turned the bay sharply back in the direction of the village, putting him into a fast trot.

  He did not expect to encounter Henrietta so soon, but as he rounded a corner a half-mile on, he found her walking her hack, alone, in the same direction. His bay’s hoofs on the hard-baked road gave away his approach, and she turned. ‘Mr Hervey!’ she called, ‘I was on my way to ask Elizabeth and you to come with me to the great henge tomorrow. Shall you?’ she asked, in a manner altogether warmer than ever he had observed at the drill ground.

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, ma’am. I have not seen the henge since we shared the schoolroom. I cannot speak for Elizabeth, of course, but I am sure—’

  ‘I am going that way,’ she replied. ‘I will ride with you and save you the trouble of sending word. Tell me, do you cherish those schoolroom days?’

  He sighed to himself. She was the model of self-possession, more captivating than ever. Her riding habit was the same blue as the Sixth’s uniform, its finely cut bodice accentuating her slender waist, and the full skirt, reaching almost to the ground, was all elegance. Her black silk hat was oiled to a high gloss, her dark tresses were pulled back, and her blue eyes shone. ‘I might wish we were there still.’

  Even as they rode to the village, however, his doubts began returning. Why had she chosen now to reveal a warmth hitherto concealed? It was not as if she had known he was about to leave. And when she had said ‘Poor Hugo will be away at Hindon for several days, I fear’, it seemed both invitation and caution. But was he under some obligation to Styles in the lieutenant’s absence in aid of the civil power? So many questions of propriety did the circumstances pose that instead he fell into silent confusion.

  When, an hour or so later, Henrietta had left the vicarage with his sister’s acceptance of the invitation to the henge, he resolved to end his dilemma. ‘Elizabeth, I must speak with you about … that is, I should welcome your opinion as to …’ But he was again unable to summon the words.

  Hervey was relieved that there was a fourth occupant of Henrietta’s barouche, and especially pleased with who the occupant was (the early return of Styles would have been more than he could have borne). The evening before, John Keble had called on his way to Oxford from Lyme Regis where he had been taking the sea air and writing poetry. At first Hervey had thought that the object of his calling might have been Elizabeth, for whom the poet seemed to have formed a strong regard at his first visit (and Hervey had begun increasingly to think that this would be a wholesome match). But John Keble had no other object but to deliver letters of introduction to several clerics beneficed in the neighbourhood of Cork and Dublin, a gesture of kindness for which Hervey made fulsome show of gratitude. And when Elizabeth had asked him to join them for the excursion to the henge Hervey, too, pressed him to accept, word being sent to Longleat that, with Henrietta’s leave, a man of letters would accompany them in the morning.

  An hour or so before their barouche departed, another coach, not so grand but also bearing the Bath arms, left Longleat for the same destination. It conveyed the elaborate luncheon and the attendants who were to serve it – and Serjeant Armstrong. He had learned of the excursion from one of the Longleat lady’s maids, whose coolness towards him hitherto had had a most beguiling effect, and he had offered his services as guard, ingeniously citing the trouble at Hindon to gain a favourable response (forfeiting, thereby, a soldier’s farewell from one of the kitchen maids at his lodgings).

  If Armstrong’s conversation in the first barouche was of an unusually respectable nature, however (sensible as he was of the lady’s maid�
��s disposition), that in the principal carriage was positively high-minded, for John Keble’s presence, mannered yet warm though he was, seemed not at first to admit of gaiety. Elizabeth was troubled by the disturbances at Hindon, it seemed, fearing that they might spread to the malcontents on Warminster Common. John Keble believed the situation to be a paradigm for the general condition of the realm, and spoke with some passion, and evident knowledge, of poverty in the cities, and also in Ireland. ‘You will do well there, Mr Hervey, to keep clear of the disputes between the owners and their tenants, for it is very bitter, much worse than here, more bitter than you can possibly imagine, fuelled as it is by religious bigotry.’

  Hervey nodded.

  ‘An unhappy place indeed, Mr Keble,’ agreed Elizabeth.

  ‘As unhappy as ever a country could be, I believe, Miss Hervey, and the scars are deep. There is a saying there: “Old sins cast long shadows”.’

  ‘Whose are the greater sins there, Mr Keble?’ asked her brother. ‘Is it possible to discern? For I have read of perfidy on all sides.’

  ‘It is without doubt a confused and confusing story, I am the first to admit. Neither am I the best to tell it. Indeed, I know it very imperfectly. You must call on Canon Verey in Cork as soon as you are able, and he will tell you fairly. He is of the same mind as those in the Church of which we spoke when last we dined together. He is leading his congregation back to proper observance and will do great things.’

  But Henrietta would have done with politics. ‘I do not like only talk of trouble, especially now we learn that Mr Hervey is to go away so very soon. Mr Keble, you have been composing poetry at Lyme, have you not? May we hear some?’

  John Keble blushed. ‘Lady Henrietta, you are most flattering. I should in ordinary have been honoured to read some, but that which I have been composing recently is of a religious nature and, because of the sentiments you express, not, I think, what you have in mind. I do, however, have some Shelley with me.’