Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (5 page)

But
Domine exaudi
did not comfort: it spoke of his days ‘consumed away like smoke’, his heart ‘smitten down and withered like grass: so that I forget to eat my bread’; he was ‘become like a pelican in the wilderness: and like an owl that is in the desert’; his ‘enemies revile me all the day long’. The words rebuked him as if from his father’s pulpit:
out of the heaven did the Lord behold the earth;That he might hear the mournings of such as are in captivity
. . .

He closed the book, very decidedly. In Badajoz there could be no mournings, only the resolve to escape – and quickly.

CHAPTER THREE

PLANTING THE STANDARD

Belem, Lisbon, 23 December 1826

Three days later, the frigate
Pyramus
, thirty-six guns, dropped anchor in the Tagus, as so many of His Britannic Majesty’s ships had during the late war with Bonaparte, and hands began swinging out her boats. Smoke from the royal salute hung about her gun deck still as Lieutenant-General Sir William Henry Clinton MP, commanding the expeditionary force to His Most Faithful Majesty’s Kingdom of Portugal, descended from the quarterdeck to the gangway on the port side and thence to the barge which would take him and his staff ashore.

Sir William, lately deputy to the Duke of Wellington at the Board of Ordnance, had no very great experience of campaigning, but his reputation was for a sure and steady hand. He picked his way carefully into the barge. The swell was not heavy, but Sir William was fifty-seven years old, and although but the same age as the duke, evidently by his appearance he was not nearly so active. He settled in the stern, where a bosun’s mate placed a blanket and a light paulin over his legs, pulled down his cocked hat, turned up the collar of his greatcoat, and set his gaze at the shore. It was his first sight of the city, although he had served briefly in Spain under the duke. As a young captain he had seen a little action (and much discomfort) in Flanders under the Duke of York, and as a colonel he had been aide-de-camp at the Horse Guards when the Duke had been appointed commander-in-chief. He had briefly been governor of Madeira, and as a major-general had seen a little service in Sicily, but since the end of the French war his time had been taken up with parliamentary duties. However, Lord Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, was of a mind that these credentials were apt enough for an intervention essentially diplomatic in its nature. Besides, he would have good brigadiers.

The barge made easy progress to the shore three cables distant, past the Moorish Torre de Belem, which old Peninsular hands had told Sir William to observe closely, with its statue of Our Lady of Safe Homecoming to bless the nation’s navigators and merchantmen. Sir William gave it a passing look, but his thoughts were more engaged by the audience he would have with the regent, and the warning that Lord Bathurst had given him just before he set out. Sir William liked clarity in affairs of all kind, and he was feeling the want of it now, for Bathurst had revealed strong disquiet over the purpose of the Foreign Secretary, Mr Canning, in sending five thousand men to Portugal. He reached inside his cloak and took out the tattered copy of
Hansard
, which had been his constant reference during the passage. He had been in the House of Commons when Mr Canning had read the message from His Majesty, and he had thought he had understood it plainly – before Lord Bathurst had sown the present doubt in his mind: His Majesty, said
Hansard
, had acquainted both the House of Lords and Commons that he had received an earnest application from the princess regent of Portugal, claiming, in virtue of the ancient obligations of alliance and amity subsisting between His Majesty and the Crown of Portugal, His Majesty’s aid against hostile aggression from Spain.

Sir William well recollected the acclamation in the Commons. There was a sentiment for Portugal stronger than for most places. Doubtless the fortified wine of Porto had much to do with it, but the sentiment went beyond commerce and taste. Portugal had been as good an ally as any in the late war with Bonaparte, and superior to most. Her soldiers had fought as well as His Majesty’s own (and in truth, on occasion, better). There was a fellow feeling for this country, and he was most conscious of it.

He took up
Hansard
again. It recounted that His Majesty had informed both houses of his exertions, in conjunction with the King of France, to prevent aggression, and of the repeated assurances of His Catholic Majesty neither to commit, nor to allow to be committed, any aggression against Portugal from Spanish territory. But His Britannic Majesty had learned that, not-withstanding these assurances, hostile inroads into the territory of Portugal had been concerted in Spain, and executed under the eyes of the Spanish authorities by Portuguese regiments which had deserted into Spain, and which the Spanish government had repeatedly and solemnly engaged to disarm and disperse . . .

The Tagus spray was giving
Hansard
a salty soaking, but still Sir William sought to assure himself of the King’s mind, and the government’s intentions. He read that His Majesty had left no effort unexhausted to awaken the Spanish government to the dangerous consequences of this apparent connivance, and that His Majesty made his communication to parliament with the full and entire confidence that both houses would afford him support in maintaining the faith of treaties, and in securing against foreign hostility the safety and independence of the kingdom of Portugal, ‘the oldest ally of Great Britain’.

They had been fine words when Sir William had first heard them, and they were fine, yet, on the page. As a dutiful member of the House of Commons, and deputy to a member of the cabinet (which rank the appointment of Master General of the Ordnance carried), Sir William had voted without hesitation in favour of the King’s proposal, as had the overwhelming majority of members, laying aside for the time being any party prejudice for or against Pedro or Miguel. And the Foreign Secretary’s own eloquence in the matter had been so affecting: Mr Canning might not enjoy the trust or affection of many, even in his own party, but his words had been received uncommonly well that day (and faithfully recorded in
Hansard
).

If into that war this country shall be compelled to enter, we shall enter into it, with a sincere and anxious desire to mitigate rather than exasperate, and to mingle only in the conflict of arms, not in the more fatal conflict of opinions. But I much fear that this country (however earnestly she may endeavour to avoid it) could not, in such case, avoid seeing ranked under her banners all the restless and dissatisfied of any nation with which she might come in conflict. It is the contemplation of this new power, in any future war, which excites my most anxious apprehension. It is one thing to have a giant’s strength, but it would be another to use it like a giant. The consequence of letting loose the passions at present chained and confined, would be to produce a scene of desolation which no man can contemplate without horror.

Sir William pondered deeply on those words – ‘a sincere and anxious desire to mitigate rather than exasperate, and to mingle only in the conflict of arms, not in the more fatal conflict of opinions’. That had been the import, as he understood it, of the King’s message. Yet Mr Canning seemed to believe that a force of intervention could not avoid the enmity of faction. Sir William read over the lines once more. Who, precisely, were ‘the restless and dissatisfied of any nation’? His orders from the Horse Guards were one thing, but what the Foreign Secretary had in mind might be quite another. Sir William shook his head. But at least, it seemed to him, Canning had nailed his colours to the mast in his grandisonant final flourish: if it came to ‘a scene of desolation’, and he, General Clinton, was hauled before parliament to give account for the wages of ambiguity, he would at least be able to point to the magnificent purpose of the intervention:

Let us fly to the aid of Portugal, by whomsoever attacked; because it is our duty to do so: and let us cease our interference where that duty ends. We go to Portugal, not to rule, not to dictate, not to prescribe constitutions – but to defend and to preserve the independence of an ally. We go to plant the standard of England on the well-known heights of Lisbon. Where that standard is planted, foreign dominion shall not come.

What, indeed, could be plainer than that? Sir William recalled, too, the Duke of Wellington’s words to him, that ‘the expedition ought to bring the Spanish king to a sense of what is due to himself and his own dignity’. Sir William smiled at the characteristic terms in which the duke had added, ‘our business is to drive out the enemy, Clinton; nothing else!’

If only Lord Bathurst had not said that Portuguese deserters combined with disaffected citizens were the likelier enemy than the Spanish! What should be his position, therefore, if
Portuguese
forces – the Miguelites – invaded from across the border with Spain, but without Spanish troops?

It was, Sir William considered, a deuced tricky state of affairs into which he was come. It did his temper, and his dyspepsy, no good whatever. He only hoped that people here in Lisbon saw things clearly.

‘Damn it, gentlemen! Can you not keep the water from inside the barge?’ he barked suddenly, as more Tagus spray fell in his lap.

The midshipman touched his hat to his choleric passenger. They were, thank God, done with pulling, anyway. ‘Boat your oars!’

He brought the barge smoothly alongside the landing, stood up and held out a hand. Lieutenant-General Sir William Clinton, the advance party in person of England’s first expedition to the Continent in a dozen years, was about to make his own firstfooting on Portuguese soil.

Ill tempered though he may be, the symbolism of the outstretched hand was not lost on Sir William. There was one thing of which he was certain – that a British army in the Peninsula must never be out of contact with the Royal Navy. That would be his first and settled principle. Then, if there came that ‘scene of desolation which no man can contemplate without horror’, he would at least be able to evacuate his force with honour. He wanted nothing of the retreat to Corunna.

A guard of honour from the Guarda Real da Polícia presented arms, the late-morning sun picking out the gold lace and the red facings of the blue uniforms. An official from the court bid Sir William formal welcome, presented Mr Forbes, chargé d’affaires at the British legation, and then conducted him briskly to the carriages and escort of light dragoons. It was all very practised, observed Sir William,
comme il faut
yet matter-of-fact, and entirely without sign of the exigency which caused him to be here.

The cortège set off without further ceremony, the court official, the chargé and Sir William in the first carriage, the military staff in the two following. The drive to the Palácio Cor de Rosa would be but a mile, although a frustrating mile, for Sir William had hoped for a confidential word with the chargé. The diplomatic usages did not permit of it, however, so he had to content himself with the official’s polite enquiries about the passage from England and his previous acquaintance with the country, and with looking out of the windows and making appreciative remarks, pretending to as much ease as he could.

When the Palácio Cor de Rosa came into view, he expressed delight with its faded pink façade, though in truth he thought it a pleasing rather than a magnificent aspect, judging it to be a house the size of Kensington Palace, a place to take tea rather than to receive ambassadors. The official explained that, for the present, the regent considered it better to be at a certain remove from the city.

There was more splendid ceremony, however, for another guard of honour awaited his inspection in the forecourt. Halberdiers of the Archeiro do Guarda Real, not long returned from self-imposed exile in Brazil, resplendent in scarlet coats, blue velvet and gold and silver lace, stood to distinctly grand attention. Sir William removed his hat and bowed, for these were gentlemen-at-arms. Then the lord chamberlain conducted him to an ante-room, its mirrors and gilding as fine as any he had seen, and here at last, with the officials of the court withdrawn, he was able to speak with the chargé d’affaires.

‘Where is Colonel Norris?’ he asked as the door was closed, taking a pillbox from his pocket and swallowing a dose of calomel. ‘I had imagined he would be here. Indeed, I expected he would be at the landing.’

The chargé d’affaires spoke quietly, though they were alone except for a footman. ‘It was his intention to be here, Sir William, but to be frank I wished first to have words with you privately. I confess Colonel Norris and I do not see eye to eye in respect of how the army is to be used. And since I have no expertise in these matters I felt I must talk directly with you.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ Sir William wondered at the presumption, and his dyspepsy made it plain.

Mr Forbes was not dismayed. ‘There is scarce time to rehearse the disagreements before the audience with the regent, Sir William. We shall have opportunity when we drive to the legation. For the audience itself, I have taken it upon myself to suggest that it would be better to conduct matters in our respective languages rather than in French.’