A Call To Arms (24 page)

The anniversary of the battle of Assaye

Hervey rose before dawn and took the morning stage to London. He intended being in good time for the Duke of Wellington’s dinner, with sufficient in hand that if the coach were to meet with any delay, he could engage a saddle-horse to complete the journey. However, the
Quicksilver
was true to her name. She covered the distance not very greatly slower than the post by virtue of being exempt from the prohibition on galloping to which the government mails were subject. What she lost in the leisurely team-changes, and indeed the quality of the roadsters, she partially made up for in celerity over the macadamized turnpike.

For more than six months now, the duke had been Master General of the Ordnance with a seat in the cabinet, and the signal honour of this invitation had given Hervey much pleasure in the anticipation; as much, indeed, as the consolation which the duke’s letter of support had given him eighteenth months before. Doubtless the invitation was but a formal conclusion to his earlier employment, which had ended somewhat unceremoniously, the duke being preoccupied with affairs elsewhere than Paris. Yet even
if this were the case it was a handsome gesture still. He would savour the occasion, speak only when spoken to, and drink only very moderately.

Having spent what remained of the afternoon with the regimental agents seeing to various advances and allowances, at ten minutes to seven he climbed into the elegant dress chariot which he had engaged for the evening and left the United Service Club for Apsley House. Charles Street to Hyde Park Corner was a walk of but ten minutes at most, but in that short distance the edge could be taken off his ball dress – d’Arcey Jessope, of late lamented memory, had once regaled him with the story of how, similarly accoutred, he had been passing White’s club when the contents of a fish kettle were hurled into the street and over him. And so while Hervey told himself it was to be his last extravagance before India, it was at least to a practical purpose.

A large crowd had gathered to see the arrival of the guests, and there was a steady parade of carriages to the porticoed entrance to the yard at the front of the house. They deposited their elegant occupants, female and male, and then drew away through the toll gates at the top of Knightsbridge to wait in Hyde Park. At once Hervey knew that the expense of his equipage saved him at least from disappointing the crowd; there had been times enough of feeling the country cousin. Indeed, as he stepped down, and rather to his surprise, he noticed several men raise their hats. But then if regimentals did not receive a cheer outside Number 1, London, where in the land might they?

Inside the walled yard he was able to get a better impression of the house, bought only recently by the duke from his elder brother, the former governor-general in India. Hervey was disappointed. He had imagined something more imposing. Next door was an altogether grander affair, twice as large, stone-faced instead of brick, with classical columns and pediments. But the disappointment did not dull his anticipation; in the yard the band of the Grenadier Guards was playing a merry tune, and in front and behind him were officers and their ladies who were also taking evident pleasure in the invitation. He recognized no one, and so contented himself with observing what he could without making it obvious.

The queue advanced steadily until Hervey stepped into the
entrance hall which, although painted rather drably, was brilliantly lit. He handed his hat and cloak to a footman, together with his card, and followed the other guests towards the spiral staircase which would take them to the principal floor. But at the foot of the stairs several of the guests had stopped to examine the towering statue of a nude Bonaparte, presented to the duke by the Prince Regent. Hervey stopped too.

‘Is it a fair representation, do you think?’ came a female voice behind him.

Hervey turned, for the question sounded as if it were directed at him.

A tall woman in her thirties, strikingly handsome and very elegantly dressed, glanced from the statue to him and then back again, her smile suggesting amusement in the obvious difficulty her question posed.

‘Twice life size, I should estimate, madam,’ replied Hervey. It was as good a response as any might make. He looked about for the woman’s escort but could see none.

‘I had not thought of Napoleon as so … athletic.’

Hervey was doubly cautious. ‘I believe the artist exercised some licence.’

The woman looked at him, with the same smile still, and inclined her head. ‘I believe I have rankled, sir?’

Hervey was not without practice in this sort of conversation. ‘No, not at all, madam. I merely relay what I heard in Paris, where the statue was set up originally.’

‘Oh,’ she said, in a delighted sort of way. ‘You have been in Paris.’

‘Yes. I first saw the statue in the Louvre palace.’

‘And who is it by?’

Hervey paused. ‘I’m afraid I do not recall, madam.’

‘Well, it is of no matter. Not a Michelangelo, that is for sure.
He
would never have dissembled with a fig leaf!’

Hervey counted it fortunate that at that moment the guests began again to ascend the stairs, allowing him to follow without need of more words. At the top was a footman to whom he handed another card, which was in turn passed to the master of ceremonies.

‘Captain Hervey, Your Grace,’ came his announcement.

The duke, wearing the levee dress of the Royal Horse Guards, of which he was colonel, nodded approvingly and held out his hand. ‘I am very glad you are come, Hervey. All is well with you?’

‘Yes indeed, thank you, sir,’ replied Hervey, taking the duke’s hand for the first time.

‘I am glad to see you returned to the colours. In all the circumstances it is the place to be.’

Hervey bowed appreciatively.

‘Lady Katherine Greville,’ announced the master of ceremonies, the signal for Hervey to move on and into the Piccadilly drawing room, but not before he saw the duke’s face light up with pleasure at hearing the name.

Inside the drawing room, with its classical friezes and ceiling an altogether finer affair than the exterior of the house would lead to suppose, Hervey took a glass of champagne and looked for a face he might know. Here and there he recognized one from the Peninsula, general officers all, not least the unmistakable profile of Sir Stapleton Cotton – now Lord Combermere – his face even browner after two years as governor in Barbados than when he had commanded the cavalry in Spain. But there was not a face he might present himself to, and so he made instead for a painting of Lord Uxbridge – new done and by Sir Thomas Lawrence, he surmised. It would both engage him agreeably and cover his knowing no one. However, scarcely had he time to verify the portraitist when a field officer in rifle green approached him.

‘Captain Hervey?’

He turned. As ever with the Rifles, the rank was difficult to make out at first sight, but the man was about the duke’s age, and his face more weather-beaten. ‘Sir?’

‘I am Colonel Warde, the duke’s secretary.’

Hervey bowed. ‘Good evening, Colonel.’

‘We have a little time before dinner is announced. I wonder … may we have a word, privately?’

Hervey looked surprised. ‘But of course, Colonel.’ He glanced about the room, now becoming quite full.

Colonel Warde drew him away to a corner, taking another glass of champagne as he did so. ‘This affair of Peterloo – a damnable business. It has already caused the duke great embarrassment.’

‘I imagine so, sir.’ The duke had sent a letter to the magistrates
commending their action, just as had Lord Liverpool, and there was much popular resentment at both.

‘It was, of course, a noble and brave thing to do, Hervey. The duke was mindful of the clamour there would be against him, and yet he was of the opinion that if the Manchester magistrates were not publicly supported, then others would shrink from their duties.’

Hervey nodded.

‘But by heaven he is disturbed by what he reads. General Byng – the same that was with us at Waterloo – has the northern district, but his despatches have only an immediate account by the military. The duke believes there must be more to things than in the official despatches, but is not inclined to support a public inquiry. He wonders if you would go there and judge the various reports.’

‘
I?
’

‘Yes. You have experience of these things, do you not? And the duke trusts you.’

‘Well, sir, greatly flattered as I am by the duke’s trust, I do not consider that I am qualified!’

‘The duke is of the opinion that you
are
,’ replied the colonel, a shade testily.

Hervey sighed to himself. He ought to have seen that coming. ‘But in only a few weeks I sail with my regiment to India!’

‘I am sure you can be spared, Hervey. Sir Ivo Lankester will not object when I have spoken to him.’

There was a moment – perhaps no more than a second or so, though it seemed an age – when Hervey’s mind rested in the balance. Eighteen months ago he would have received a request from a senior officer as an order. From the Duke of Wellington it would have commanded his instant, unquestioning obedience. But not now. He had his judgement –
percipient
judgement, the duke had once called it — and he had seen the consequences of disregarding it. ‘No, sir. I am afraid I must insist that I have my prior duty.’

‘
Mm
.’ Colonel Warde’s eyes narrowed. ‘The duke
said
you might be recalcitrant. Well then, you can at least give your opinion of various statements that have been made?’

‘Sir, I really do not see that that would be of any merit, since I have no special insight. For me to express a worthy opinion
I should have to do more than merely read what might any other officer.’

‘You really are most obdurate, Captain Hervey!’

‘With respect, I trust not, Colonel. I think it would be wrong for me to undertake an assignment that the duke believed would yield some particular result when I am not in a position to do so. And a wrong opinion by me would be greatly to the duke’s discomfort in no time at all.’

Colonel Warde sighed, most displeased. ‘I cannot think what the duke will make of this. He was most adamant we had your opinion.’

The master of ceremonies announced that dinner was served.

Colonel Warde sighed again – huffed, almost. ‘Come then, we had better take our seats. The duke’s sister-in-law acts as our hostess this evening, in case you are presented.’

Hervey looked uncertain. ‘In the circumstances, sir, would it not be more proper for me to make my apologies and leave?’

‘Don’t be an ass, Hervey!’ snapped the colonel, beckoning him on behind. ‘I’ll show you your place. You have very agreeable company – better than you deserve, I dare say.’

Colonel Warde made his way to the centre of the room, to the woman who had questioned Hervey at the foot of the stairs. ‘Lady Katherine, may I introduce Captain Hervey, who shall be your companion at dinner. Hervey, this is Lady Katherine Greville.’

Hervey bowed, and his dinner companion made a part-curtsy by return, but with the same knowing smile as at the statue.

Colonel Warde eyed Hervey sternly again. ‘After dinner we must resume our conversation.’

‘As you please, Colonel,’ said Hervey, offering Lady Katherine his arm.

‘I see I have intruded on affairs,’ she said. ‘I have a mind that dinners such as these are mere interruptions to the serious business with which men concern themselves.’

‘Not at all, Lady Katherine,’ protested Colonel Warde. ‘They are most necessary to the cultivation of proper society, which in these times we must not take for granted.’ He glanced meaningly at Hervey.

They passed through a mirrored lobby, in which Hervey noticed that his face had reddened somewhat.

‘We are the first to dine here,’ explained Colonel Warde, who seemed anxious to keep up his conversation. ‘The duke has had the room made only this year.’

That much was at once apparent to Hervey, for it was a most masculine room, most military indeed. The walls were a buff colour, not unlike his own facings; the doors, dado and cornice were oak, the chairs red leather and the table, almost groaning with silver, was mahogany polished to a high gloss, so that countless candles reflected from silver and wood alike.