Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (13 page)

‘I would have given a deal to witness it,’ said Fairbrother, pulling up his collar as they turned from Sheet Street onto the King’s Road, ‘though I was most hospitably diverted by the Grenadiers.’

Hervey’s charger, reshod and with a good measure of oats inside him, champed at the bit as if it were first parade. ‘It’s better that you didn’t,’ he replied unhappily. ‘It was not an edifying encounter.’

‘But you have your beaters at least.’

Indeed he did. A hundred Grenadiers would march out of barracks at four o’clock and take this same road, and at fifteen minutes before sunrise they would form line along the Winkfield road to advance in open order and drive the ‘firebirds’ onto the guns. Every house and cot, every hut and barn, every stable and byre, every copse and hedge – every hiding place of every kind – would be searched. There would be no escape. Not if B Troop kept its ground well in the meantime.

‘You know, Fairbrother, once for a while I was on quite intimate terms with the poet Shelley – you’ve heard me speak of it – and though I found him in himself a most engaging man, I couldn’t abide his politics. And yet something he once wrote came to me most forcefully as we left the castle.’

‘Now you are a little inclined to be a republican.’

Hervey did not rise to the bait. ‘It was a poem about England after “Peterloo”, about the King’s being mad and parliament corrupt …’

But Fairbrother had spent long hours on the
stoep
beneath the palms reading everything that was sent him by his bookseller in London. He could quote Shelley at almost the length that he could Shakespeare: ‘“An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King; / Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow / Through public scorn, – mud from a muddy spring”.’

‘Upon my word, you have a powerful recall.’

‘It is a poem of some power – or should I say anger? – and therefore commanding recall. And only but a dozen or so lines. But I should have thought it repugnant to your Tory principles: “An army, whom liberticide and prey / Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield.” Is that not seditious stuff?’

‘He wrote it after “Peterloo”, as I said, not long after I met him, in Rome. I liked him a good deal, but he misrepresents the army in the business that day at Peter’s-fields. It was the yeomanry that gave the sword, not the regulars.’

‘It is perhaps of some comfort to be cut by a volunteer’s blade rather than a regular’s?’

Hervey frowned. ‘As I said, I liked Shelley – very much – but I don’t subscribe to his England then or now. These things must be weighed in the balance. The senate unreformed is as may be, but I don’t believe reform would bring improvement, as I’ve told you before, though I dare say the call for it is about to become clamorous. But I do say this – and I tell you most privily – those words describing the late King: they were not fair, by no means fair. He was not despised – pitied, but not despised. But the words might well apply now to his son. It was a most unhappy encounter this evening … And when he’s gone, as the tattle has it he soon will, and the evidence of my own eyes could hardly dispute it, we’ll hear nothing but “reform”, and in no small part on account of this king.’

Fairbrother did not reply at once, as if weighing his friend’s words … and then, ‘“A senate, Time’s worst statute,
unrepealed
”. I wonder if mere
reform
will satisfy.’

‘“Unrepealed”. Quite so.’

‘But this political circumspection has not dulled your ardour for the business at hand?’

Hervey braced, as if cold water was thrown at him – perturbed by the notion that he somehow perceived his duty otherwise. ‘Not in the least. Violence to law-abiding citizens, and arson – a barn in
winter
! – I’ll have not the least regret if they go to the gallows.’ And as if to emphasize his determination to see them taken up the scaffold, he pressed into a fast trot.

Fairbrother fell silent. He knew when it was better to be so: his friend would already be ruing, no doubt, his lifting the mask, speaking his inner thoughts – thoughts not conducive (he would no doubt believe) to good order and military discipline …

The moon was obliging, however – not yet into its first quarter, but bright nevertheless in the cold, clear sky, with the snow to reflect its light – and the road was clear too, so that the silence lasted barely an hour. When they reached Winkfield the church clock was striking ten.

‘Colonel, sir, the captain’s doing his rounds,’ said the picket corporal in a voice from the valleys as they came up to the crossroads. ‘Serjeant-major’s over yonder at the tithe barn, Colonel.’

‘The troop serjeant-major or Mr Rennie, Corp’l Parry?’ (Hervey surmised that it was Parry, though he couldn’t see him, for there was but one Welshman of rank in the regiment.) And it was indeed an occasional point of confusion:
the
serjeant-major was always Rennie, but there again a dragoon looked first to his own troop.

‘Serjeant-Major Collins, Colonel,’ came the reply.

‘Thank you,’ replied Hervey, dismounting and holding out his hands to warm at the picket’s fire. ‘Stand easy. Is there anything to report?’

‘There is nothing to report, Colonel. Everything is as quiet as the chapel on market day.’

Hervey had once ventured into Wales from Shrewsbury and found it a gloomy place, but acknowledged it bred a hardy sort of man for a soldier; and Parry’s turn of phrase was never without colour. ‘Very well. What feed and rations have you had issued?’

‘Oh, ample corn, Colonel, and hay – good hay, too, mind. And best beef and bread, and a nice measure of brandy. And we’ve potatoes in the fire, and a good brew. No, Colonel, we’s very well provided for. Thank you for asking.’

Rennie had evidently risen to the occasion, thought Hervey, wondering by what means of credit. But he was glad the sar’nt-major wasn’t by his side now, for Parry would be receiving words in his ear – ‘As you were, Corporal! The colonel is
never
thanked – except at orderly room, and then only for his lenient punishment!’

‘How are the reliefs rostered?’ he asked instead, tolerantly.

‘I and my three stand duty until midnight, Colonel, and then we are relieved by Corporal Harris, and then all we stand-to-arms at six o’clock.’

‘And then?’

‘And then, Colonel, we are to take prisoner those who did this wicked thing.’

‘Very well,’ replied Hervey, satisfied he had the measure of B Troop’s temper, and confident they would maintain a cordon tight enough to pen the firebirds until morning. ‘I bid you good night, Corp’l Parry.’

The NCO of the valleys braced to attention again, and answered with an earnestness that might have rung false had it not been characteristic. ‘Good night to you, too, Colonel, sir, and to you, Mr Malet, sir.’

Hervey turned away with an inclination to smile. It was good to speak with such an NCO – any NCO – off-parade, in the silent hours, by the fire; nature was revealed more truly, and although a regiment was nothing if it did not, when required, act as one body, that body was made of many parts, and it was well always to recollect it.

And he had asked questions enough; this was Worsley’s troop after all, and Worsley was perfectly capable of mounting a night watch. He needed only now to tell him what was afoot for the morning, and so they marched without ado to the tithe barn.

It was remarkably well lit – he supposed by every candle the church could render. Serjeant-Major Collins was writing up the evening states at a makeshift table.

‘Good evening, Colonel,’ he snapped, springing to attention.

‘Stand easy, Sar’nt-Major. What’s to report?’

‘Colonel, the troop is disposed as it was when you left for Windsor, but on half-sentry. Captain Worsley is doing his rounds at this time with the orderly serjeant. Mr Rennie has just gone up to the manor again to get more corn for the morning. There’s not been sight nor sound of the incendiaries, Colonel.’

‘Mm.’

‘The troop has dined well, Colonel. Have you had aught to eat yourself?’

Only now, given leave to think of it, did Hervey realize how hungry he was. ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t.’

Collins called into the shadows, ‘Corp’l Tinker, a plate for the colonel. And tea.’

Where a plate was to be found was intriguing but in the circumstances not the stuff of enquiry. He could only hope it wasn’t hallowed. ‘Thank you,’ said Hervey simply.

‘And the adjutant and the rest of your party, Colonel?’

Hervey glanced at Malet and Fairbrother, and smiled ironically. ‘They dined well off the Guards, though I’m sure tea would be welcome – as ever.’

‘And will the Guards be coming to assist us, Colonel?’

‘They will. At dawn. And if we’ve been able to confine those devils the while, I’ve no doubt they’ll be in irons by midday.’

‘A fuller moon would have served, Colonel, but even so, they’ll have a job moving without being seen. Their only chance’d be to follow their tracks back east, but Captain Worsley put a patrol on the Cranbourne road too. Oh, one more thing, Colonel: the gentleman at the manor says the officers are assured of his hospitality. He’s the magistrate too.’

‘Is he, indeed? I think the sheriff himself has been sent for, but a magistrate could be a boon. Be that as may, I’ll be glad of a few hours’ sleep while we wait. And stabling.’ He turned to Malet with an enquiring look.

‘I’ll go myself at once, Colonel.’

‘Rouse, Hervey. Past five o’clock, on a cold and frosty morning.’

Fairbrother was unusually hearty; indeed, it was unusual for him to be awake at all at such an hour.

Hervey sat up. He had slept for four – enough, but scarcely satisfying. Hot tea, the kind that as a rule Johnson brought him whether in quarters or bivouac, would have been welcome and reviving; instead he took the proffered glass of brandy.

He had lain atop the blankets under his cloak having removed his boots and sword but little else. Malet had first woken Fairbrother in the room adjoining – though in truth Fairbrother had been awake a good while on account of the cold – and taken his assurance that he would wake his friend in a timely fashion for the breakfast that Winkfield’s magistrate had ordered for five-thirty.

It had been past midnight when they had at last accepted the hospitality of the manor. Worsley had returned to the tithe barn at eleven, and Hervey had spoken with him at some length about the arrangements for the morning. He had checked the instinct to visit all the videttes in person, for that might have suggested he lacked confidence in B Troop’s captain – and this was hardly Waterloo, or even Bhurtpore.

He dismissed Fairbrother and the second glass, and after pulling on his boots, fastening on his sword and gathering up his cloak and cap, descended to a breakfast worthy of a Melton hunting box.

The magistrate had said he would open his court in the manor house to remand any captives at once to the crown court in the custody of the parish constable, who would of course call on the Guards to escort them to Windsor, whence the sheriff’s men would convey them to Reading gaol. ‘I’ll brook no riot in
my
jurisdiction, Colonel,’ he’d said, and as Hervey watched him do battle now with knife and fork to fortify himself with the roast beef of old England, fowling piece by his side as if summary execution were within his powers, he could not doubt that here was a doughty warrior for the King’s peace. It was all he could do to persuade him to remain in waiting at the manor rather than dispensing justice from the saddle.

‘Have you read Fielding?’ asked Fairbrother, as they left the house, much intrigued by his first encounter – other than on the page – with the Tory squirearchy in the exercise of rustic justice.

‘No, but since you ask me at this time I think I may have an idea of his subject.’

‘I was minded of Squire Western, but for the latter’s West Country vowels and curses.’

‘But thank God for him, no doubt, and Winkfield’s magistrate too, and not a Fouché. His justice’ll be tempered by good country sense. But see, we haven’t time for this. It’s good that you’re with us still. I’d like you to take a note of what transpires this morning. Malet would do it as a rule, but he’ll be much occupied.’

Fairbrother pulled his collar up and adjusted his hat. ‘By all means. A life of Colonel Hervey might one day be my fortune!’

‘You are uncommonly droll. For my part, with business to be about I fear I shall be poor company.’

Fairbrother said nothing. It was when there was business to be about that his friend was
incomparable
company – albeit single-minded; and it amused him always that his friend never perceived it thus.

But as the clock was striking the quarter after six, and the party mounted and left the stable yard, Hervey, warmed by strong-roasted coffee and good meat, was suddenly inclined to be hale (as perhaps was his duty). ‘Mr Rennie, your provisioning was worthy of a Bengal sutler. I never heard such satisfaction expressed as last night.’

But the RSM was constitutionally inclined to be taciturn. ‘Thank you, Colonel. The market at Ascot was most obliging.’

Hervey would not be put off. ‘Sar’nt Acton, the stables were commodious?’