A Regimental Affair mh-3

by Allan Mallinson

  But India, with its brief excursion to the world beyond the barracks and the battlefield, and the acquaintances of exotic opinion and taste, was now far behind him. He was again, as the Gospel had it, ‘a man under authority, and having soldiers under him’. The army was not a world so apart from the everyday as was John Keble’s kingdom of God. But apart it was – not because Hervey wished it to be, but because it had to be. How might a soldier face death if he were not made to act contrary to what the instincts of any mere mortal told him? John Keble was not only, therefore, a guide to matters spiritual; he might easily prove his best counsellor in things temporal.

  The second letter troubled him deeply.

  Lynn Regis

  Norfolk

  25 March 1817

  Dear Captain Hervey,

  It was so very good of you to write. A grieving father is consoled by nothing so much as the thought that his son died doing his duty, as countless fathers’ sons have died in these troubled times.

  It was my younger son’s dearest wish, from when he was but a boy, to see service against the Great Disturber, and he fretted all the while at Eton, even as the army was assembling before Waterloo. And I confess to you that when I saw the casualty lists following that battle I gave thanks to the Almighty that He had spared my son from such a test. I do not dismay, though, as perhaps I might, that his death was at the hands of his fellow countrymen, for to do so might make in me a resentfulness that would be a canker. Neither do I need pain myself that there was any dereliction of duty on anyone’s part that, if it had been otherwise, might have rendered the outcome different, for Lord Towcester has written to me saying that my son’s squadron leader was the finest of officers and his serjeant the most experienced of men, so that nothing more might have been done to render him better support in that singular duty.

  I am ever grateful to you, sir, for your kindness in writing, and if this appears to be but a very inadequate expression of it, then be assured that it is caused only by a heart that I fear may be for ever broken.

  I remain, sir,

  Huntingdon

  The problem was the quite obvious untruth in the assurance that the Duke of Huntingdon had received from the lieutenant colonel – although Hervey could not be sure what the Earl of Towcester had actually written. He had no reason to doubt that Lord Henry Manners was ‘the finest of officers’, but Manners had not been in Skinner Street. And although Serjeant Noakes could certainly be described as experienced, in that twenty years’ service was vastly more than most soldiers could lay claim to, the greater part of that service had been spent with the quartermasters. Had it been one thing or the other, Hervey might have been inclined to think that the Duke of Huntingdon – perhaps even fortuitously – had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. But two misapprehensions was altogether different.

  Hervey turned it over again in his mind. Was it proper to ease the suffering of the next of kin by such an artifice? Had he not, himself, spared Margaret Edmonds the details of her husband’s shocking death at Waterloo? Had he not sought to spare Mrs Strange the anguish of knowing that her husband had died in the way he had? Yes – but not in order to conceal some neglect. Indeed, had he not been at pains to tell her of the sacrifice Serjeant Strange had made, so that he, Hervey, might get his despatch to the Prussians?

  But it was a dreadful thing indeed to imagine one’s lieutenant colonel capable of so ignoble a deed as covering up a misjudgement in this way. And this was the man on whose favour his promotion rested. Was there not, as ever, more to things than met the eye?

  Hervey laid both letters aside and looked out of the window at the delightful corner of Creation that was his father’s garden. He had enough things with which to occupy himself at present, and pleasurably so. By the time the regiment decamped to Brighton, Lord Towcester would be content, and the regiment, too: was that not the Sixth’s way? He really shouldn’t make it his business to worry, he told himself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AN HONOURABLE ESTATE

  Salisbury Plain, St George’s Day

  Hervey set his horse at the fence and kicked on. The big gelding took off long and pecked on landing. Hervey was so off his balance he was on the ground in a trice. It had been so quick he could do nothing to save himself, but not quick enough to spare him the exasperation of knowing it was happening. His hat fell the other side of the hedge, an iron missed his head by an inch and the gelding galloped off across the vale. Winded and bruised, but with no bones broken, furious with himself but not humiliated, for there was no one to see, he cursed everything – himself most. All the leaps for the King he’d made, or for his life, and a hedge in Warminster Bottom put him on his backside! Thank God it hadn’t been a field day with the regiment, where ‘dismounting involuntarily’ was an occasion for damage to both pride and pocket. He couldn’t blame his horse, and he didn’t. He’d put him at too big a fence for a youngster, a horse he didn’t know well enough, and his mind had been elsewhere. But the sound of liberated hooves now pounding the chalk would turn every eye for miles. ‘Hell,’ he cursed again, this time moderating the oaths. ‘Hell, hell, hell.’ He rubbed his shoulder, which had taken his weight as he hit the ground.

  There was so much Hervey liked about this gelding, though, not least because he was a grey, iron grey, and he had always liked that colour, especially when the quarter dappling was as pretty as this one’s. He sat up to see those quarters disappearing at a great pace in the direction of Drove Farm, where Daniel Coates had stabled him for a fortnight since the dealer had brought him from Trowbridge. It could have been worse: he might have been in the middle rather than on the edge of the downs. But, there again, had he been in the middle he wouldn’t have found a hedge to jump. There was no point ruing his luck: the gelding had dumped him and that was that. Better to stride out for Coates’s place while there was still light enough to see him back to Horningsham afterwards.

  What he had intended to do was take back the repeating carbine, which Coates had been trying for the better part of the month, and with it the old soldier’s opinion too, for Hervey felt it time to make some report to its supplier. For his own part he was very much impressed with the weapon. A day or so after arriving home, he had taken three rabbits near the hanger above the glebe before the rest made it to their burrows – something he had never managed even with his percussion-lock. And though it had jammed on one occasion he had righted it easily enough. But Daniel Coates’s opinion would be the long view, and that he must surely prize above his own. And soon he would be having it, for scarcely had he walked half a mile when he saw Coates trotting towards him on his old chestnut cob, the grey in hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, Master Matthew!’ hailed Coates as he neared. It was the old greeting, the way Daniel Coates used to address him when they had been together all those years ago, Hervey on the leading rein. And many had been the time the young Master Hervey had failed to keep his pony between himself and the grass, and ever grateful had he been that it was as springy on the plain as bogmoss in Ireland.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Coates,’ Hervey replied, humouring the old dragoon. ‘Do you have a hobby-horse I might try?’ If anyone was to bring him his loose horse, better that it were Daniel Coates. But Hervey’s equestrian pride had taken a fall, and though he might make a joke of it, that pride which remained was a sight more hurt than his bones. In truth, he would have been content to pick his way back to Horningsham at once.

  At Drove Farm, however, Coates was keen to show him his usual hospitality, and the jug of purl was brought. ‘Sit you down, Matthew. I have something important to tell you.’

  Hervey sat in his usual chair; Coates’s manner had a note of warning he had heeded with profit many a time before.

  ‘Your carbine, Matthew. Before I give you my opinion, I should like very much to know what is yours.’

  Hervey gave it simply. ‘I should choose it for myself.’

  ‘Instead of a Paget?’

  ‘At all times.’ />
  Coates nodded. ‘Instead of the percussion-lock?’

  Hervey considered carefully. ‘It would depend on the circumstances.’

  ‘Ay,’ conceded Coates. ‘Might you elaborate?’

  Hervey had not expected to be pressed to a view, but in principle the answer was straightforward. ‘In the wet I should prefer the percussion-lock. When dry, the repeater.’

  Coates nodded again. ‘Because the repeater’s advantages are voided by damp?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘But dry, it has the edge over the other?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hervey, quite assured. ‘It can fire at many times the rate of the other.’

  Coates thought for a moment. ‘And would you approve it for your dragoons?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hervey did not feel quite so assured.

  Coates made a thoughtful ‘um’ sound.

  ‘And your opinion, Dan?’

  The old soldier sighed. ‘Can’t be too careful with your flats and sharps, Matthew,’ he said, shaking his head from side to side.

  ‘So you have always said, Dan,’ replied Hervey, curious as to what was implied. ‘That’s why I brought the carbine to you. What’s your worry?’

  ‘For a start, it’s a mite too tangled for a private man.’

  ‘You mean he might not master the mechanism?’ said Hervey, with a touch of disbelief.

  ‘No, not that. Any as can be taught to strip and assemble a bridle ought to be able to cope with this. The problem, as I see it, is that the mechanism jams. Just like the first ones I saw years ago. A bit of dirt and the chamber won’t turn. And where there’s a field day and a dragoon, there’s dirt!’

  Hervey was disappointed. And, though he concealed it, even a shade exasperated. ‘But Dan, where there’s a field day there’s damp too – nine times out of ten. I’ve told you before that I’ve seen a whole troop’s carbines misfire after a deep fording. And heaven knows you’ve seen it yourself. That was why I prized your percussion-lock so highly.’

  Coates nodded. ‘Just so, Matthew. And if this mechanism weren’t a flintlock I should embrace it gladly. But here you have the chance that it will misfire and jam.’

  Perhaps his shoulder was hurting more than he pretended. Perhaps he was not attentive enough. But Hervey just could not see the logic. ‘But Dan, if it misfires with the first round, you’re no worse off than if it had been the Paget in your hands. And if it jams on the second, then what have you lost?’

  ‘Looked at that way, it’s a fair bet, I grant you. But it seems to me you’re doubling a man’s doubt in his firearm.’

  Hervey was dismayed. Coates was sounding opposed to what was better because it was not as good as it might be. Indeed, he was sounding not unlike the very Luddites he so railed against, fearful of some notion because it was new. Had he aged so much in the past year and a half? It was a loathsome thought, he knew, but Hervey began to wonder if Daniel Coates were not on that cusp where a man turns from being an old soldier to an invalid, from a sage whose wisdom protects to a reactionary whose fear only stifles. He rubbed his shoulder hard, praying for patience. ‘You would not wish to persuade me against it, though, would you, Dan?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t wish to persuade you against it. But I would counsel you to choose the percussion carbine any day.’

  It seemed to amount to the same. ‘And so you do not think I should recommend it to the Ordnance?’

  Coates shook his head. ‘I should be very circumspect were I you, Matthew. Urge them to trials, certainly – but no more. Except perhaps to allude to Forsyth’s percussion caps, and say that the two in combination might make a formidable weapon. Though you cannot say anything of the caps to your American, of course.’

  ‘No, of course.’ It wasn’t necessary for Coates to remind him of that, but he could hardly blame him for being prudent.

  They had a second glass of purl, then Hervey made his apologies and said he must be leaving: he could still get to Horningsham before last light, and the gelding was too green to be passing carts and cattle on a dark road. He realized it sounded rather lame, and hoped it didn’t give offence. He might have stayed for some supper, but he was no longer in the best of sorts, what with the fall and the wary counsel.

  Coates was obliging. He called for his man to fetch the grey.

  As Hervey climbed into the saddle (he used the mounting block – better not to give the youngster any more surprises), he began to rue his impatience. How short his memory had been for all he owed. ‘Thank you, Dan,’ he said, with a smile that revealed his contrition. He held out his hand. ‘I’ll be sure to write in very measured terms of that flintlock. For certain it would never have done for me at Waterloo – not in that sea of mud.’ He knew he ought never to forget it.

  Coates smiled back, a smile of paternal pride, albeit adoptive, and he clapped him on the leg. ‘And one more piece of advice, Matthew . . .’

  Hervey waited.

  ‘Three more days to yon wedding. Don’t go putting any more green horses at oxers!’

  When he returned to Horningsham that evening, Hervey was much relieved to hear from Elizabeth that the archdeacon’s visitation, which his ride on the plain was in large part designed to avoid, had gone more than tolerably well. The bishop’s caution to the Reverend Mr Hervey the previous month had required him to submit to an inquisition, as Mr Hervey put it, at the end of thirty days. And those thirty days had passed heavily, for Mr Hervey had not shown any great inclination to abandon the practices which the bishop apparently found so odious. When Hervey had left the vicarage that morning, therefore, it had been in the expectation of hearing on return that there would be proceedings of one sort or another against his father: a summons before the consistory at least, or even, perhaps, suspension of his licence. Hervey had pleaded with his father to let him stay. He could not be of any help beyond the filial, but that was some comfort to a father was it not? But Mr Hervey had insisted that this was a matter that he himself must bear.

  It appeared, however, that the meeting had been one of respectful listening and then accommodations, said Elizabeth. She had been there throughout, much to her surprise as well as the family’s, for Mr and Mrs Hervey had imagined that the archdeacon would wish his visitation to be entirely private (Mrs Hervey’s loathing of the archdeacon had disposed her to believe that he would not welcome witnesses). At the last minute, Mr Hervey’s spirits had faltered somewhat, and therefore Elizabeth had found herself the supporter.

  ‘And so what was agreed on?’ asked Hervey, as Elizabeth stood watching him rub down the gelding.

  ‘Well, Father was truly Christian – or, at least, he was very clever. He was at the greatest pains to explain each and every little thing to which the archdeacon had found objection. And he did so with such a humility that the archdeacon, who was disposed at first to be a little stiff, was quite warmed to Father by the end. And he stayed to luncheon.’

  ‘Did he indeed? Who would have thought it! So all along there has been much smoke and little fire?’

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t think we can say that. Did Father ever show you the letter of complaint? It was a long list, and it was written in attorneys’ language.’

  ‘No, he didn’t show me,’ Hervey replied, emptying a quarter of a bucketful of crushed barley into the stable manger. ‘But Mr Keble told me that if the complaints were upheld, then any diocesan would be obliged to act. There’s no doubt that Father might have been unbeneficed had the archdeacon still found fault today. As Mr Keble pointed out – as you did, indeed – Father does not own the freehold.’ He pulled the bar across the stall gate and took up his coat.

  Elizabeth noticed the streaks of dried mud across the shoulders. ‘Matthew, you haven’t taken a tumble have you?’ There was a smile on her lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he frowned.

  ‘Oh dear. He isn’t going to do, then?’

  Hervey was of a mind not to reply, but thought better of it. ‘He’ll do very well.’ He smiled and sho
ok his head. ‘It was I who didn’t do! He took off half a stride before I was ready and—’

  ‘Did anyone see? Are we to read of it in the Warminster Miscellany? “Captain Hervey, lately returned from—” ’

  ‘Enough!’ her brother protested, taking her arm and closing the bottom half of the stable door behind them. ‘Nobody saw. Daniel Coates brought him back soon afterwards and we had a laugh about it.’

  ‘I can imagine Daniel’s laughing. Did he say more?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About your gun. That is what you said you were to see him about.’

  ‘Oh . . . we had a good talk.’

  They walked to the front of the house as the first pipistrelles were beginning their nightly acrobatics, which, now spring was truly come, would soon be rivalled during the day by the house martins which returned every year to the vicarage. Hervey followed the swoops and turns for a while, as if they might help his thoughts.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he began, after an interval, ‘do you think Dan is become old? I mean . . . I know he’s not getting any younger, but today he seemed . . . well, a little less . . . reasonable.’

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow again, and shook her head. ‘No, I have not thought that – and not a week goes by that I don’t see him in the town. And Lord Bath was saying only the other day that he was the best magistrate in the whole of west Wiltshire. Why do you ask?’