Hervey 09 - Man Of War (26 page)

He warmed at the thought of communication with his betrothed, however, be it ever so distant. The night before (it was the strangest thing), he had even found himself lying awake in his cot wondering how long it might be before there was not
just
Elizabeth Hervey to think of. At first he had dismissed the idea, but then he had asked himself why he should not think thus; Elizabeth was certainly not beyond the age of bearing a child – bearing
children
. And (it was stranger still) he had found himself imagining what it would be to have a daughter like Rebecca Codrington; or a son like Mr Midshipman Pelham . . .

‘Si-ir.’

Flowerdew’s yap woke him. He sprang up. ‘Miss Codrington, good morning! I was only . . . Forgive me, I was turning over matters in connection with
Archer
.’

‘Please do not apologize on my account, Captain,’ said Rebecca, with a note of surprise. ‘I cannot imagine how you have the time to render me any consideration at all.’

Strangely enough, there were moments when in her manner of speaking Rebecca Codrington reminded him more of Elizabeth Hervey than of a child (he really must
not
think of her as a child: undoubtedly the midshipmen did not . . . but that was another matter). ‘Miss Codrington, it is no imposition at all. A glass of . . .’

‘Water, please.’

He turned to Flowerdew. ‘A glass of our best water, Flowerdew.’

Flowerdew looked at him oddly (water was either potable or it wasn’t). ‘Mi-iss.’

‘Well, well, Miss Rebecca, I trust you had a diverting morning. I saw that you were engaged in the affairs of the poop deck.’

‘Oh yes, a
most
diverting morning, Captain Peto. I never saw such a thing. I think it most noble what was done. Those poor men in that slave ship.’

Women, too – but Peto was not going to be so indelicate as to correct her. Better not to imagine the situation in those holds. He had, though, thought of sending over his surgeon and mates to render what aid they could, but he was under orders to join Rebecca’s father’s squadron with all despatch. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, being not long out of Tangier, there would not be too great a mortality.

‘The only difficulty that presents itself now, Miss Rebecca, is that
Archer
will not be rejoined when we pass Malta, so we must trust to a lighter or some such to convey you ashore.’ He realized he might be alarming her. ‘But be assured, you will not be permitted to hazard yourself for a moment.’

‘Oh, I do not mind that in the least, Captain Peto. I am quite prepared to share the hazards of the service – just as the sailors’ wives below.’

Peto looked surprised at the mention of the women; he had quite forgot them. And . . . ‘How do you know of the . . . wives?’

‘Mi-iss.’ Flowerdew proffered Rebecca her glass of water. ‘Can I serve the kej’ree now, sir?’

His cook had acquired the dish when they had been on the East Indies Station, and it was now a firm favourite. ‘By all means.’

‘I saw them when they came on deck yesterday,’ said Rebecca, following Flowerdew to the table, perfectly at ease.

Peto had been content to let the women take the air during the afternoon watch. ‘Ah, yes.’

‘I found them very pleasant, very civil,’ she continued, spooning kedgeree to her plate. ‘They seem to endure a good deal on account of their husbands, I think. Do not you, Captain Peto?’

Peto almost turned red. He did not doubt that the women had been on their best behaviour, but even so . . . ‘Ye-es. Just so. However, I think it best, Miss Rebecca, if you do not converse with them. It . . . it is . . . unsettling.’

Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I am very sorry, Captain Peto, if I have offended. I would not wish for one moment to unsettle anything. I am aware that it is somewhat irregular in any case for there to be any females on board a ship of war.’

Peto nodded as in turn he helped himself to kedgeree. ‘Irregular, yes, but not unknown. It is a pleasure to have you on board,’ (he would change the subject) ‘but after a few days at sea you will be glad of Malta. The harbour at Valetta is one of the finest sights I ever beheld.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Yes, my father said the same in his letter to me. And I have seen paintings of it too. But I assure you, Captain Peto, I shall by no means tire of being at sea – not in
your
ship. It is a revelation to me, so that I quite see now what it is that has animated my father these many years.’

Peto smiled. Any praise of the service brought him satisfaction, and praise of a ship of his the most intense pride. But more than that, this girl, this . . . young woman (he must make up his mind) had such self-possession as to amaze him. He had next to no experience of those of her age and sex, and when he summoned to mind those volunteers and midshipmen of the same age he
had
known (even, he had to admit, himself) he found the comparison unfortunate. ‘That is very gratifying, Miss Rebecca, though I must point out that we have unusually calm seas, a fair wind and some days in hand. It may not be so agreeable when we reach Greek waters.’

Rebecca sprinkled salt about her plate. ‘I should so very much like to accompany you, Captain Peto. I should so like to see my father at sea, in his true element. And my brother, Henry: he is midshipman aboard my father’s flagship.’

Peto smiled again, indulgently. ‘I think it a charming idea, Miss Rebecca. Only the threat of powder and shot rather makes it less so.’

Rebecca looked a shade affronted. ‘I should not mind that, Captain Peto!’

He sighed, inwardly. These girls – these
women
indeed: they had no conception of how shot transformed a deck from the most agreeable place on earth to a representation of hell. In seconds. But he could not blame her for it, nor even chide her. Besides, the matter was hardly of moment, a mere hypothetic. He would change the subject again, this time more subtly. ‘You understand, of course, that in part our engagement in the Eastern Mediterranean is not unconnected with the suppression of slavery.’

‘How so, Captain Peto?’

‘The Turks have been abducting the citizens of the Peloponnese and taking them to Egypt.’

‘I did not know that. It is perfectly dreadful.’

‘Quite. I do not understand the Turk: I have met so many fine fellows, and yet they seem capable of unspeakable barbarity. Thus are all men, perhaps, but I never saw such wanton cruelty as is with the Ottomans customary.’ (He rather forgot himself in the unaccustomed situation of having an interlocutor at his table who was not in the service.) ‘I confess I was uncertain of this venture – compelling them to leave Greece – though delighted nevertheless to have command of
Prince Rupert
. But if it comes to a fight I shall shed no tears for them.’ He now realized he had spoken in rather too sanguinary terms for a daughter whose father, and brother, would be in the thick of the fighting if it came. And, for that matter, he had spoken rather too freely about his own thoughts – as if Miss Rebecca Codrington, indeed, had been Miss Elizabeth Hervey. He cleared his throat.

‘More kej’ree, miss?’ asked Flowerdew, offering the bowl.

‘How do you like it, Miss Rebecca? Speak plainly,’ added Peto.

‘I like it very much, Captain Peto. Thank you, Mr Flowerdew, I will have some more,’ replied Rebecca sweetly. She helped herself to two good-size spoons full. Then her countenance turned earnest again. ‘Do you truly believe it will come to a fight with the Turks, Captain Peto?’

Peto was annoyed with himself. He had dug a hole, so to speak, and now he was going to fall into it. But he could scarcely dissemble. ‘I do,’ he answered gravely, nodding. ‘I do. But it does not follow that the fight need be . . .’ (he checked himself) ‘very bloody. Your father’s squadron is vastly stronger, and the Caliph knows full well that the Royal Navy’s habit is of unrivalled success.’

‘I am relieved to hear it is so,’ said Rebecca. And she
looked
, undeniably, relieved. ‘I do most sincerely wish, however, that I could see my father dismay the Turks, so that those poor people of Greece might have peace.’

‘Coffee, ma’am?’ asked Flowerdew, in no doubt now of the real status of their guest.

XII
A MARRIAGE KNOT

Hertfordshire, 2 May 1828

‘Hervey, I am ever more delighted by your English countryside,’ declared Fairbrother, looking out of the chaise window at the rippling fields of barley. ‘I did not think I should see scenes more pleasing to the eye than those from the Rochester mail, and yet in whichever direction we travel there are prospects to rival those before. And such houses!’

‘It is a green and pleasant land.’

Hervey still sounded . . . distracted, despite the conversation of several hours. Fairbrother thought he would tempt him one last time. ‘The house of your affianced’s people is, I imagine, a handsome one?’

Hervey too was gazing from the window, but not at the country. ‘It is.’

Fairbrother sighed. ‘You are still at Hounslow, I suppose.’

Hervey turned to him. ‘I should have remained with them. At least until Lord Holderness was entirely fit. You saw him: he was not himself.’

Fairbrother had indeed seen him: he looked like a spectre. ‘But the surgeon said he was recovered from the seizure, and you yourself said that the adjutant and the captains were perfectly able to carry on.’

‘So they are.’

‘And the manoeuvres were declared complete.’

So they had been. And Hervey had been as glad of it as he had been surprised. But, as the general had pronounced, the regiment had demonstrated its capability in spectacular measure, and his recognition of it was an early return to barracks. ‘Indeed.’

Fairbrother sighed again, this time audibly. ‘You know, Hervey – I will say it once more – I am at a loss to understand your thoughts in the matter. You concealed the colonel’s indisposition most effectively, and that, I acknowledge, was an admirable instinct, but if in doing so you deny yourself the laurels which are rightfully yours, and a man who is incapable, however fine a fellow he is, remains in his place – and mistake me not: Lord Holderness is the finest of men – how does that serve? How does it serve the regiment? How does it serve the
King
?’

It was indeed old ground over which Fairbrother picked, and Hervey was no more moved by it than before. ‘You make the case compellingly, except that you discount the injury that would be done when it were known, both inside and out, that a regiment had not remained true to its colonel. I do not wish to debate with you the theoretical limits of loyalty, my friend’ (no, indeed: there was a rawness to that particular wound still – the affair of Lord Towcester) ‘for if we do not admit it to be absolute, then there is no foundation to discipline but the lash.’

Fairbrother was momentarily distracted by the distant sight of rooks harrying a kite, which somehow seemed apt. He turned back to his friend. ‘The lash? What? See, Hervey – and then I will speak no more of it, for the time being at least: it matters only in part that you succeed in preserving Lord Holderness’s reputation with the general; there will not be a man in the regiment who is not speaking of what happened that night. And with the most decided opinions. Think on it.’

His friend turned in silence to the passing acres, and for a good while the only sound was the rumbling of the wheels.

Hervey had engaged a chaise for the journey down to St Paul’s Walden, the seat of Sir Delaval Rumsey, ninth baronet, father of Kezia, and squire of extensive acres in the rich arable between Saxon St Albans and the Templars’ Baldock. Only the Lankesters, he had heard say, rivalled the Rumseys in Hertfordshire antiquity.

‘Lady Lankester has a daughter, you say. To whom therefore did the Lankester baronetcy pass when Sir Ivo died?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘There was no male relative, I believe, so it must therefore have lapsed.’

‘Would a male child of hers then succeed to it?’

Hervey laughed. ‘I am uncertain, but I believe the answer to be no.’ In truth, he had given no thought to the fecundity of the coming marriage, even if he had thought a good deal about the actual process. A very good deal indeed.

In a quarter of an hour more, the chaise turned into the long, metalled drive of Walden Park. Hervey looked at his watch – a little before midday. He had said in his express that he was uncertain what time precisely they would arrive, but even so, the footmen were sharp about the chaise when after five minutes at a good trot it drew up at the entrance to the great Elizabethan mansion.

The two friends alighted, adjusting their neckcloths self-consciously. Hervey paid off the coachman and arranged refreshment for him and for the horses, then led his friend up the ten impressively wide steps to the vault-arched doorway.

Inside, the only sound was of a fortepiano, and not too distant. It stopped abruptly, and a moment or so later Lady Lankester appeared. She smiled – welcomingly enough, thought Fairbrother, but without great ardour (and he wondered again if he intruded) – and Hervey and she kissed, fleetingly.