A Call To Arms (20 page)

The poster had been most carefully composed. Hervey had seen a good many which seemed contrived positively to make men take to their heels, and some so ludicrous as to attract mockery. He recalled one of the Seventh’s, which had been put up derisively in many a barrack-room, which announced that ‘since the regiment is lately returned from Spain and the horses young, the men will not be allowed to hunt more than one day a week next season’.

He had first consulted Serjeant-Major Armstrong. Armstrong had argued for command to be ascribed to the colonel rather than the executive officer, the lieutenant-colonel, for although titular, he argued, the rank of lieutenant-general and earl would reassure a recruit that he was joining a regiment which would not be too illtreated by government. Then there had been much discussion about whether to make the usual reference to being a hero, but Serjeant Collins had argued that now the war with Bonaparte was ended there was already quite evidently no regard for ‘heroes’ in the country: ‘adventure’ might be a more useful appeal, although he thought the bounty was probably the strongest inducement if distress in the neighbourhood was as great as Hervey said. Armstrong had wanted reference made to the law that no man enlisted could be arrested for prior debts below £30. Hervey had been tempted, but judged that the immorality of it outweighed the attraction. The usual reference to smart uniforms was omitted, since they would be able to judge that for themselves – besides which Hervey was not sure it was so great an inducement in the young men of that corner of Wiltshire, although had he imagined the animation among the townswomen on the first appearance of regimentals he would doubtless have included it. And Private Johnson had later added the reference to Hervey himself and the new-raised troop. ‘Y’see, sir,’ he had argued, ‘if I was a young’n wanting to advance, there’d seem more chance in summat new. And they’d like to think they was officered by someone as knew a bit about where they came from.’

‘Unless they wanted to get away from that,’ Hervey had countered.

But Johnson had persuaded him that for every man who stepped forward there would be another who could not quite bring himself to do so, and the thought that he might be among friends – at least, that there was an officer who was not quite so remote –
might just make the difference. ‘You might even get somebody from ’Orningsham as knows thi’ family.’

‘That would mean from Lord Bath’s estate, and I don’t think that would do.’

‘It’s a free world, Cap’n ’Ervey.’

‘Of sorts.’

The longest discussion had been on the question of India. Hervey had been adamant that the fact of their posting be advertised. ‘We cannot fail to declare such a thing!’

Again, Armstrong had countered that it would make no difference to the recruit himself but might set his family or sweetheart against it. ‘We should tell a man once he comes to us, before he takes the shilling. Then it’s his own doing. He might be looking for an excuse to leave the girl!’

Hervey pulled a face.

‘Come on, sir. This is the army, not New Lanark!’

‘And what if the news gets around? Won’t it seem we can’t be trusted?’

The arguments were finely balanced. Hervey was adamant that he would not trick any man into joining.

Armstrong was equally adamant that the bounty itself was a trick. ‘We pay him five pounds and then make him spend ten on clothing. That’s hardly fair, is it?’

At length, Hervey agreed to the compromise: recruits would be told about India before they took the shilling.

Hervey left Serjeant Collins to his duties and rode to Upton Scudamore to see Daniel Coates. He had no intention but to pass the day with him, an unexpected pleasure, but it did indeed prove fruitful to his recruiting. Coates had sat the day before on the Westbury bench and had had to deal with, as he described it, a particularly distressing case involving a shepherd he had once employed but who had left for a better position. ‘It appears he had a wife in common law but she had taken to another man on account of the nights he spent with his sheep. When he discovered them together he struck the man and did him no little damage. And although he wanted his wife to stay with him she left that night.’

‘I’m surprised a case should have been made for the magistrates,
Dan. It would hardly seem the other party received more than he deserved.’

‘Ah,’ replied Coates, suggesting Hervey was right. ‘But it was not that simple, for the other man turned out to be a son of his employer.’

Hervey sighed. ‘The social order in west Wiltshire was thus threatened!’

‘That is what Sir George Styles seems to have imagined.’ Hervey’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean—’

‘Ay. The very same.’

‘As if his brother was not trouble enough; God rest his soul.’ Hugo Styles had courted Henrietta, ineffectually, commanded the Warminster Troop of the yeomanry just as ineffectually, and died at Waterloo very probably in a state of terror. ‘What did you do with him, Dan?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I adjourned the court, and first thing this morning I went to see Styles senior to ask that the evidence be withdrawn. The shepherd has no position now, he’s lost his so-called wife, and their cottage: what more punishment might there be? But I can’t very well set him free. It would scarcely be exemplary.’

‘I suppose Styles refused?’

‘Would hardly hear me out.’

Hervey sighed again. ‘You’re thinking of inviting him to pay with the drum?’

Coates returned the look grimly. ‘Would you take him, Matthew?’

‘Would you recommend that I should?’

Now Coates sighed. ‘The Lord only knows whether he’d make a soldier, for I don’t. But there’s nothing for him hereabouts now. And I fear for him. He was a good shepherd. I don’t think he’d let you down willingly.’

‘Then if he’ll come I’ll take him.’

‘He’d have to attest before I released him.’

‘Well, you’re the magistrate, Dan: he can attest before you. I can have a dragoon bring him back to Warminster straight afterwards.’

‘Thank you, Matthew. Let us pray he sees sense, then.’

‘I’ll warn my serjeant this afternoon. What is his name?’

‘William Stent. Your father buried his at Imber, as I recall.’

‘Very likely. Well, it’s not a bad connection. By the way, I didn’t say as I have some officers at last. Seton Canning will be my lieutenant again, which I’m right pleased with, I may tell you. And the cornet will be Lord Huntingfield’s younger son. I knew his brother in the Eighteenth in Spain. He ought to have the makings.’

‘I’m glad of that for you, Matthew. You’ll want good officers by the sound of things.’ Coates now paused, seeming to contemplate something else. ‘Matthew, I’m pleased you’re come. I can’t tell you how glad am I to see you back in regimentals. You were not your true self without them.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘We may not have a chance to make proper farewells. I want to give you this.’

Hervey was taken aback by the sudden reminder of his transience on the Plain. He took the leather case and opened it carefully.

‘I sent to London for it. It has hands which luminesce. I scarcely believed it – but they do.’

Hervey examined the watch closely, but in vain. It showed no sign of luminescence. But he saw the maker’s name, George Prior: the same as d’Arcey Jessope had given him five years earlier, and he was at once confident that, come the evening, the hands would somehow be visible. And in that name he saw, too, the extent of Coates’s generosity as well as his thoughtfulness. ‘Dan, this is so very good of you, I—’

‘And
this
,’ added Coates enthusiastically, reaching into the other pocket. ‘See
this
, Matthew!’

Hervey looked at the instrument curiously. He had not seen a compass outside of a binnacle, and certainly not one as small.

‘The strangest thing. I was sat at the Devizes bench a month ago, and a man entered it in lieu of payment of his fine. The clerk wouldn’t have it at first, but I gave him sufficient to pay his fine and a good deal more. I reckoned I might have use of it on the downs of a night. But then I thought you would make more of it in the Indies.’

Hervey smiled gratefully. ‘Dan, you are the most solicitous friend a man might have. Why do you not follow to India in a year or so? I ought by then to know the safe ways.’

Coates clapped his hands together and laughed. He had ever had a mind to see the east, but Hervey’s caution on his behalf sounded like the wheel turning full circle. ‘Matthew, a very handsome offer
that is. But if I should come, I should not want to see only the
safer
ways. And, I might say, Captain Hervey, neither should you!’

Hervey laughed, and assented with a nod.

A few moments of contented silence passed, and then Coates spoke quite gravely. ‘And everything is right with you otherwise, Matthew?’

‘ “Right”, “otherwise”, Dan?’

‘Ay. Are all your affairs put in order?’

Hervey balked at the directness. But Daniel Coates had picked him up when first he had fallen from a pony. ‘Dan …’

Coates sat down.

Hervey half sank into the ash dugout, and with a further sigh. ‘Elizabeth will take Georgiana to Longleat just before I leave. They’ll stay there until I’m gone.’

‘I should think that’s very wise of her, Matthew.’

Hervey remained silent for a while, trying to think how best he might explain it. ‘She is not two years, Dan, and yet she has everything about her that is her mother’s.’

Coates nodded. The silence returned. ‘She’s
not
Henrietta, of course, Matthew.’

‘No, that I understand. When I am able to reason, that is.’

‘Oh, Matthew, never surrender that power to reason.’

Hervey smiled. ‘No, I don’t believe I shall – not willingly, at any rate.’ And then he frowned. ‘I should have liked a little more time, though.’

‘Perhaps it’s better you hadn’t, Matthew. It would go harder with yon infant.’

And with himself, Hervey knew.

Late in the afternoon, at the time that Canon Hervey was saying the evening office, Hervey strolled with Elizabeth through the village. It was warm, perhaps as warm as an evening in India early in the summer. Swifts, swallows and martins were everywhere, jinking and diving, and a continuous stream of rooks headed west towards Longleat park. There were labourers about the fields still but not nearly so many, the work of haymaking done for a week or so; and cottage tables were claiming the menfolk at this hour. ‘How do you persuade a man to leave this for the barrack-room and India?’

Elizabeth looked at him, puzzled. ‘You don’t!’

‘Yet we have to fill the ranks somehow.’

‘Well, there’s little profit in trying to persuade a man with a wage and a sound roof. There’ll be one or two who might like the thrill of it, I dare say. But in truth you had better look elsewhere.’

‘You’re right, of course. We had a fair bag today, but not as good as I’d hoped.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. She could never fathom the town. ‘Why don’t you go to the Common?’

Hervey looked at her, pained. ‘We’re recruiting for the cavalry and India, Elizabeth, not a penal battalion for the West Indies!’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘You’re not recruiting very much for anywhere, by your own admission, brother! Didn’t your Duke of Wellington say that his men were the scum of the earth?’

Hervey did not answer at once. ‘Elizabeth, you go to the workhouse, and I admire you much for it. But can you have a true notion of what the Common is?’

‘Why do you suppose otherwise?’

Hervey looked at her quizzically. ‘Father has forbidden your going there, has he not?’

‘Father forbade me to
visit
there.’

He furrowed his brow again.

‘He did not say I could not go about workhouse business.’

‘Are you saying you go
into
those hovels?’

‘I do. But I do not
visit
with them.’

Hervey said nothing, but his look betrayed his disapproval.

‘Matthew,
someone
must attend there. Last Monday we took in an unwed girl and her child from a single room in Marsh Street. The child’s father was her own father. Yesterday the constable arrested a young woman not one and twenty who was carrying on her trade while her common-law husband lay three days dead in the room upstairs. And this morning he turned out a young man who slept in the same bed as his unmarried mother. A singular week in numbers, perhaps, but not otherwise. Shall I say more?’

Hervey was speechless.

‘There is life there which cannot be any worse in the London rookeries. In the main I grieve only for the children now. But some of the young men might have redemption. The Methodists are
doing fine work, but they must break through so much with the younger men.’

‘Elizabeth,’ said Hervey, muted. ‘I cannot do God’s work with these men. All we may do is make soldiers of them.’

‘I have seen enough to know what that would do.’

‘Yes, but you can’t make a good soldier out of a bad character.’

‘And I am not suggesting you try to. Only that you look for young men whose character is not yet formed.’