The heavy silk curtains in the drawing room were closed, and candles burned brightly, although it was still light outside. The house was a picture of elegant comfort rather than of luxury, a good place for a soldier to withdraw to.
Henrietta greeted him warmly. ‘Johnson has just this minute left,’ she said, holding her cheek to his lips. ‘He told me about the affair at the barracks. I am sorry, my darling.’
It pleased and touched him that she should understand so perfectly. ‘A hideous business.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I should have been home before now, but—’
‘There is a bath drawn for you. Why don’t you wash away the day and then come to me as if it were a fresh one? I’ve news that should interest you.’
‘From Wiltshire?’
She gave him a puzzled smile. ‘Yes.’
‘Is my father to be made bishop?’
‘Wait and see, dearest,’ said Henrietta indulgently. ‘I shall expect you down in half an hour, and then I shall tell you all.’
His bath was a restoring exercise, but when Hanks poured water over his head he had a moment’s vision of the salt water and Private Hopwood’s back. He made an effort to put that from his mind, though, for Henrietta did not deserve to have to share the Sixth’s troubles. He dressed quickly and returned to her side, hopeful of diverting news from Wiltshire.
Henrietta was holding a glass of champagne, which she loved better than any other wine. Hervey might not himself have chosen it in the circumstances, but the regiment’s trials were not to be hers, and so he took the glass which Hanks proffered.
‘Well?’ he said, with amused anticipation. ‘What is it in Wiltshire that will interest me?’
Henrietta waited until Hanks had closed the door behind him, and then gave her husband another kiss. ‘My dearest, Princess Charlotte is with child!’
Hervey tried hard to conceal his disappointment at news that was of such little moment to him. Had he not heard it before, too? ‘My darling, what is—’
‘And so am I!’
Sensations of every kind came over him. He was dumbstruck. Henrietta, blushing a little, smiled at him. ‘Matthew, I am wondering why you seem so surprised. There has scarcely been a day when . . .’
This was certainly true, even on the night of the general’s inspection. He took her in his arms, shaking his head with a sort of unbelieving pride.
‘But I do believe it was the day when Jessye went to the stallion.’
He reddened, and then became anxious. ‘Shouldn’t you be sitting? Resting? Have you seen a doctor? Is there—’
‘Matthew.’ She put a finger to his mouth.
He kissed her with the greatest tenderness. ‘Whoever could have thought that the day might end as well as this?’
‘It is not ended yet, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘And I am not suddenly become as a piece of china.’
Hervey was ready for the rude rebuff, the curse, profanity, obscenity – whatever it was to be – for he was the man’s troop leader, the officer in whose charge Private Hopwood now was, punishment having been carried out.
Joseph Edmonds had told him, when first he had joined the Sixth, that it was unfair for an officer ever to confront a man when his senses were dulled by alcohol, or fired by another spirit, for if the man then acted violently – by word or worse – the officer was in truth guilty of provoking it. Hervey knew that Private Hopwood was scarcely able to rise from his bed and assault him, but what if his verbal abusing was loud enough to be heard by all the others in the sick bay? What if the abuse were directed not at him but at the commanding officer, the adjutant, the farrier-major – at anybody, indeed, who might then prefer a charge of insubordination? Would he, Hervey, have the right to overlook such a thing – as he was prepared to do now, should the invective be directed at him personally?
But Hopwood’s reply was silence.
At first Hervey thought Hopwood might not have heard him, being still drowsy, perhaps, from the laudanum. ‘Private Hopwood,’ he said again, thinking at least to give him back a little dignity in addressing him by his rank. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Still Hopwood made no reply. Hervey was now caught between anger at the refusal to speak, for the man was still under discipline, even prone in his sickbed, and compassion for his evident wish to be shot of officers. He would not leave, though, without first making Hopwood meet his eye. But as he moved closer to the bed, he wished with all his heart that he hadn’t, for Hopwood’s eyes were streaming – a continuous flow of tears, as if all will to stem them were gone, and every drop of that soldier’s spirit which had made him face his punishment so bravely the day before was being washed away. Hopwood was no longer a man in age three or four years his captain’s senior; he was not even a child.
Hervey turned to leave, but as he did so came the extraordinary sound of hymn-singing. Not the doleful stuff of Corporal Sandbache’s prayer meetings, which even Lord Towcester had not thought worth suppressing, nor even the regimented chorus of a Sunday church parade, but a full-throated rendering of ‘He who would valiant be’. By how many, Hervey wondered? It sounded like half the regiment! He hastened outside to find his troop and the chaplain, hats off, heads high.
The sound would be carrying throughout the barracks, and easily across the square. Hervey glanced towards the orderly room, where the lieutenant colonel’s pennant was run up the pole; Lord Towcester was certainly at orderly room. The windows were closing one by one. All, that is, but Mr Lincoln’s.
Henrietta was on her day bed, and did not hear him come in.
‘My dear,’ Hervey stammered as he saw her. ‘Are you unwell?’
She turned to see his anxious face, and laughed. ‘No. I am tired!’
It was not yet ten in the morning. ‘But—’
‘Matthew . . .’ she protested coyly.
He saw her tease at once, and kissed her forehead.
‘Why are you home so soon? Is anything wrong?’
Hervey shook his head, then shrugged. ‘Oh . . . I just didn’t want to be about the barracks.’
‘Why ever not? Ordinarily it claims you stronger than I can.’
‘That is not true!’
‘Matthew, I am not complaining. You might not be quite so much the man if I had you all to myself!’
He frowned, then realized she was teasing him again.
‘What has sent you home then?’
He sat at the edge of her bed. ‘I went to see Hopwood – the dragoon who was flogged yesterday.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her face becoming less animated. ‘Do you want to tell me of it?’
‘Would you mind?’
She sat up and took his hand. ‘Of course I should not mind. Why should I mind your speaking of anything which is making you unhappy? Did you not listen to anything that Mr Keble said when we were married?’
He smiled sheepishly. ‘You carry the evidence, my love.’
They kissed, but she broke off and pressed him to what had made him return.
‘It was as if we had thrashed the very manhood out of him,’ said Hervey, shaking his head. ‘I can’t think that is right, even for his offence – even for twice the offence.’
She raised her eyebrows – a look that implied she might agree with him. ‘If I were a soldier I should want an officer who felt as you did. What do you suppose would be my chances of getting one?’
It was a curious way of putting the question. He wondered if she thought him alone in his sentiments. ‘My darling,’ he said, smiling gently at her, ‘you flatter me, but you must not suppose that mine is a lonely opinion. Since before I joined the Sixth they were known to be a regiment that did not flog. It was – if you like – a point of honour with the officers that we did not need recourse to it to prevent riot or desertion. No doubt there were some men who took advantage of it, but the regiment was never found wanting on campaign. And we were by no means unique. I’m sure that not one in four regiments of cavalry used the lash in the Peninsula. The point is, this
business may have driven something of a wedge between the men and their officers. They assembled this morning to sing hymns outside the infirmary – hymns, of all things. And they sang most defiantly. It does not bode well.’
She nodded, and took his hand again. ‘What shall you do?’
He sighed. ‘I had a word with Strickland after seeing Hopwood. Do you know he is on the point of leaving? He’s continually subjected to insults for his religion by Lord Towcester.’
Henrietta said that she did not know. Barracks gossip had yet to establish its conduit to her, other than by Johnson, who so far seemed inclined to allow only a trickle. ‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him I had a mind to go and see Lord Sussex. That the colonel ought to know about the unhappy state of affairs generally. But he begged me not to.’
Henrietta looked hesitant. ‘I am very glad that he did. Do you really suppose it would do any good?’
‘It is Lord Sussex’s regiment.’
‘Yes,’ she conceded, frowning. ‘But a man such as Towcester will not be without wiles. And how do you suppose things will turn out if Lord Sussex is unable to take your word against his? Lord Towcester has put a deal of money into the regiment. You said so yourself.’
‘I don’t think that would affect Lord Sussex’s judgement.’
‘Not his judgement, Matthew. I am sure Lord Sussex would know that what you said was the truth. But his judgement might be that the greater evil could come of taking action against Lord Towcester.’
Hervey saw her point, and sighed again. ‘In any case, I had already decided against it.’
‘What have you decided instead? Or have you not?’
He paused, as if thinking how to explain. ‘I spoke with Serjeant Armstrong. We are going to try to get Hopwood’s wife to come here from Australia.’
‘And that will repair things?’ she asked, doubtfully.
‘The troop want to buy his discharge for him. But that won’t restore his pride. That we shall have to do by degrees when he returns to duty.’
She nodded again, in agreement with his reasoning. ‘Has Serjeant Armstrong said anything else?’
‘About Hopwood?’
‘No. About Caithlin.’
‘No. He’s reconciled to her leaving the school. She’s to find some other work, I think. Something in the town, perhaps.’
Henrietta knew that already. She had shared a dish of tea with her in the Prince Rupert only yesterday. ‘I mean that she is with child too!’
‘No! He said not a word!’
‘She is only surprised it has not happened before now.’
Hervey almost observed that a serjeant’s quarters did not provide the same opportunity that they enjoyed. ‘Do you know, my love,’ he said instead, smiling, ‘Armstrong a father – it is a very serious thing. He may never be inclined to a headlong charge ever again!’
CHAPTER TEN
THE LANDING
The Sussex coast, 1 September
The downpour was so heavy that Hervey’s reins kept slipping through his fingers, and he had to wedge his insteps in firmly to save losing his stirrups. Driven almost horizontal by the wind, the rain lashed his face viciously, and no matter how he bent his head, water found its way down his neck and inside his tunic shirt. How the carbine locks were faring he could only hope. The men had bound them with oilskin before leaving the billets, but that had never been entirely proof against damp, and this storm on the downs was as bad as any he could remember in the Astorgias. And he had to keep his head up because the night was so black he could see next to nothing beyond his charger’s ears. He would have dismounted and led, had the gelding not somehow been able to maintain a better pace on the rough road above the cliffs – perhaps because the chalk gave him a trail, perhaps because the sides rose two feet.
Behind Hervey were thirty dragoons; or rather he trusted that they were there, for he couldn’t see them and he certainly couldn’t hear them. He could trust, though, because Serjeant Armstrong was at the rear. Had the other half-troop not been at Lewes for the assizes he would have taken them as well, and then at least he would have had two officers. If, that is, the lieutenant colonel had let him.
Lord Towcester had raged like a wounded beast when the revenue men had come to his orderly room. ‘Coast duty? Coast duty? I’ve not paid thousands for new jackets and shakos to have them ruined chasing smugglers! I shall protest to the Prince Regent himself!’
But the chief officer of His Majesty’s Excise had been unmoved. ‘I regret the inconvenience to your lordship, but it is not every day that intelligence such as this comes into my riding officers’ hands. We stand to apprehend contraband and owlers at one and the same time.’
Lord Towcester had not been in the slightest degree animated by the prospect, however; only by the cost in appearance of his regiment. The latter was not something to which Hervey himself was insensitive – nor the other officers – but it seemed to him to be a cost that could be recovered, whereas the revenue’s opportunity was not.
By now Hervey knew the downs quite well, having ridden out most mornings, first on Harkaway and then Gilbert; and he had been glad to do so, for the lieutenant colonel had been in a bate since they arrived a fortnight before. Lord Towcester had expected to be attending daily at the pavilion, but the Prince Regent had not yet come, sending word that Princess Charlotte was not able to travel, and that he felt it his paternal duty to remain in London until she was able. But now, a full two hours after nightfall, Hervey was becoming worried. They were supposed, by his reckoning, to take a right fork at the top of the beacon ridge, and by his same reckoning they had made that distance easily already – yet without finding the fork. Indeed, if anything they seemed to be going downhill. He was regretting not waiting just a little longer for the revenue guide, but they had stood, horses saddled, for more than an hour in the expectation of his arriving, and he had despaired of making the rendezvous if they stood any longer. He knew the old windmill well. It could be seen for miles. It should not have been difficult to find, were it not for this storm.
Now they were most certainly going downhill; his stirrups told him so. Where in heaven’s name were they? He couldn’t see the moon, three-quarters though it was, let alone a star. The wind was still in his face, perhaps a shade round to the right side, but no more than it might have veered. The sea must therefore be to their right still, but had they overshot the beacon ridge, or had they turned fuller west and not made the crest at all?
It was no good asking anyone behind him. They had scarcely stepped off the well-lit streets of Brighton since arriving. One of the dragoons might somehow have seen the fork, however. But how long would it take him to go down the line anyway? And it would hardly inspire confidence.
He reined about and halted by Private Johnson, just behind. ‘I can’t find the turning to the windmill. We haven’t passed it, have we?’
Johnson had only ridden this way a couple of times. He didn’t know the fork, but he seemed certain they hadn’t passed one. ‘As certain as anybody can be in this lot, sir.’
With such a proviso, the reassurance was of no practical value. ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Hervey disconsolately. And then he cursed. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong. We may as well see if he’s certain of anything too.’
‘I only said as I found!’ Johnson protested.
Hervey knew his problems were already too many to go upsetting his groom. ‘Any tea?’
‘I’m not bloody Merlin, Cap’n ’Ervey!’
He could imagine the grimace of a smile, even if he couldn’t see it. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong, then.’
The column stood patiently – even the horses, as if submitting to the rain’s whip was just a little more bearable than struggling and catching its sting awkwardly. Hervey wondered how dry was his map, though what use it would serve he couldn’t imagine. It would be a sodden thing in seconds if he tried to read it, even under his oilskin cape. And there was no more chance of lighting a lan
tern than of unwrapping a carbine and expecting it to fire. He swore even worse, not bothering now to keep it below his breath, for the noise of the wind and rain would have masked it beyond two lengths even if he had bellowed.
Serjeant Armstrong came forward, cursing the dragoons to make way. ‘What’s up, sir?’
‘I must’ve missed the fork to the windmill.’
‘Well, I’ve seen none. But things are so black I’m not sure I would’ve seen it anyway. Where are we, do you think?’
Hervey was trying to keep his voice no higher than need be to speak above the storm, but it still felt like shouting words of command on the square. ‘I think we’re towards Ovingdean. All we can do is push on down this way and hope we find some landmark.’
Hope wasn’t a principle of war. Hervey had said it so many times that Johnson had even quoted it back at him once. Well, this wasn’t war, and in any case he couldn’t think of any alternative. If they retraced their steps there was no guarantee they would do any better than before – except that they might just meet the revenue guide.
He called for the corporal. Up came Sykes: a good man, Hervey considered him, but no Collins. He would spell out the orders. ‘Ride back down the route out, Corporal Sykes, and if you come across the revenue guide, bring him on at once after us. I’ll leave a vidette if the road forks.’
That done, they resumed the march. Hervey was soon praying that he’d done the right thing, for in a further half-hour they had found nothing. By his estimate they must have gone another mile and a half – perhaps two – and they ought surely to be coming off the downs and across some signs of habitation, whether they were marching east or due north. Where in God’s name were they?
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