Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (21 page)

It was a walk in which he saw nothing and heard nothing, however, the dread in his breast rising with every step, until he wondered if it would overwhelm him. Kat’s ‘situation’ was beyond anything his twenty years a soldier had prepared him for. ‘He who leads men must be able to quell his own terror to tolerable levels in order to take action’ – the counsel of his first commanding officer. In the end, it was not solely a matter of practice but of the will. He could let his imagination run riot with the awful possibilities that his news portended, or he could quell the gathering storm of his mind and do his duty until forcibly relieved of it – quell it if not by practice then by the will.

And by that will, slowly at first, and then with increasing resolution, he did indeed begin to raise his head, pull his shoulders back, and step out.
For I also am a man set under authority
… He had a regiment to command.

At seven o’clock Fairbrother found him in good spirits, and no sign of the terrible discovery – the deferred discovery – he had made in Printing House Square.

‘Let us go in at once, and then return early to Hounslow,’ said Hervey as his friend came into the smoking room. ‘There’s much I have to do. How was General Gifford?’

‘He was quite remarkably well. ’

Hervey checked his stride. ‘How so? You said he lay in the coach as good as dead.’

‘Indeed he did, but I’m no doctor – and I’ve seen stranger things. As have you.’

‘“And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave-clothes”?’

‘Gifford was not even grave-like. He spoke as if he had merely taken excess of bad liquor.’

‘Well, I am very glad of it, though I have a mind that the porters will consider themselves robbed of a good line in tattle. They’re full of stories of Balkan brigands, though – strange to relate – they failed to mention your driving them off and rescuing him.’

Fairbrother raised an eyebrow, and lowered his voice. ‘That is as well, in the circumstances. There was therefore no mention of the lady, I take it?’

‘None.’

‘The general spoke of her with some distress.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘I told him I didn’t wish to know her name – for the reasons you understand – but he told me her husband is one of the government.’

Hervey became rather more circumspect as they entered the coffee room. ‘Gifford’s a good man. His wife died in India some years ago. I recall it well.’

They took a table by a window at the far end of the room. The curtains were not drawn, Waterloo Place with its snow and its gaslights and the handsome Athenaeum a more than usually fair sight.

‘I like this city,’ said Fairbrother decidedly. ‘Even in weather so strange to me.’

Hervey was at something of a loss for words, for at this moment he equated London only with his misfortunes, yet he had no desire either to disclose these or to take away from his friend’s innocent contentment.

A waiter brought a decanter of club claret, and the list. ‘The venison is very good, sir.’

‘Thank you, Alfred. We’ll think on it.’

But Fairbrother already had, looking only for which soup to begin with – the red or the white? ‘I take it that you concluded your business,’ he said, putting down the card.

Hervey nodded, taking a sip of his wine. ‘I did.’

Fairbrother sensed it was not a profitable line of enquiry. ‘I took a sweating bath at the Hummums in Covent Garden. Most invigorating.’

Hervey looked at him, curious. ‘You are a very exploratory fellow. I’m excessively in awe of it.’

Fairbrother sat back in his chair, with a quizzical look. ‘But I, of course, am not bound by King’s Regulations. Nor, indeed, by
Manners and Tone of Polite Society
. Nor do I have soldiers under me.’

‘Alligator lay eggs again?’

‘Exactly so.’

‘Pish!’

They had now known each other for three years, or the better part of. Or rather, they had first made each other’s acquaintance three years ago. It had taken rather more than that for their acquaintance to turn into mutual respect and affection, though three years was by no means long for the forming of friendships among military men (Fairbrother would have balked at the adjective ‘military’). They had seen much service in that time – owed much to each other in that service – and spent much time in each other’s company even when not in the field. And yet when it came to those things that oppressed him greatest, Hervey could not confide in his friend. And he did not know why. Indeed there was no man he could – would – confide in. He believed most devoutly in the principle that had animated the Romans (
Respica te, hominem te memento
), and although his command was hardly that of a legion, he wished earnestly to apply it. But in his own mind, in the silent hours – and moments – he knew all too well of his human failings, for he lived daily, and alone, with their consequences. He could not reveal to another – not another man – the extent of his mask, for in so doing he might discover that it was greater than he himself had thought. And what then? In truth he did not wish to look behind him –
Respica te
– because, seeing what he would, he might not have the strength to look forward again and proceed.

‘Well,’ said Hervey decidedly as they strode from D Troop’s stables for the second time, the ‘show again’ inspection; ‘I had not thought to see so thoroughgoing a transformation. Not even a dirty lantern.’

‘Indeed, Colonel,’ said Malet, not adding that the lanterns had burned late into the night to work the transformation – for why should such effort be of remark?

‘What say you, Sar’nt-Major?’

‘Very commendable, Colonel.’

The veterinary surgeon remained silent, reckoning that he’d not been given leave to speak.

Nor did Hervey invite him to, for the moment. ‘Would you have Mr Mordaunt come at midday?’ he said to Malet.

‘Colonel.’

‘I fancy you will speak with the troop serjeant-major, Mr Rennie?’

‘I shall, Colonel.’

Without checking his stride Hervey acknowledged the salute as the trumpeters came to attention on the square. ‘Carry on, please, Trumpet-Major!’

‘Colonel!’

Only then did he address the veterinarian. ‘Mr Gaskoin: Corporal Figgis – his farrier-pay to be stopped until he is certified once more as competent?’

The trumpeters began sounding the customary fanfare for Saturday, making the veterinarian’s reply something of a strain (which afforded Hervey some amusement). ‘Yes … indeed, Colonel. It shall be.’

‘And who shall stand duty during his re-apprenticeship?’

Gaskoin was quicker with an answer than expected. ‘Weeks, Colonel, who was assigned to E Troop.’

Such details were beyond, rightly, what a commanding officer ought to concern himself with, and Hervey knew it; but they were details of which the veterinarian must be master, and he wished to determine if it were so. In truth, nothing would please him more than to hold the loosest set of reins in his hands, for he might then be free to contemplate higher matters.

But if he were to have a handy regiment, then just as a handy charger he would have to be sure of its schooling. And he’d made a good start: it was particularly satisfying – auguring well – to dismiss the little party outside the orderly room with a cheerful salute and a ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

‘Coffee for the colonel, if you please,’ said Malet as they swept up the corridor, wondering, as Hervey, if it were Abdel he addressed or his brother.

Hervey took off his forage cap and half tossed it onto his writing table, the atmosphere in the orderly room transformed by the satisfactory inspection of the D Troop stables.

The coffee was brought at once, for the orderly room serjeant had his spies at the stables. It made Hervey even cheerier.

And Malet would have given a great deal to be able to leave him to his enjoyment of the bean, but matters were pressing, and they would not be made any less disagreeable by delay.

First, however, Hervey insisted on better – at least, routine – things. ‘I called on the Horse Guards yesterday. We’re to place a troop at the Royal Hospital to reinforce the Household Cavalry, and a second at short notice here to replace them if called out. On account of the parliamentary debates.’

‘I didn’t know you intended calling, Colonel, else I would have given you the latest
Gazette
.’

‘I hadn’t intended to, only that I found myself rather unexpectedly with time in hand.’

‘I’ll make the arrangements.’

‘Worsley’s to the hospital, I think, and D at notice here.’

Malet looked pained. ‘I think it better, Colonel, to withhold any decision till I’ve made you aware of certain other matters.’

Hervey frowned. ‘Tyrwhitt?’

‘The situation with Tyrwhitt is not propitious, but the greater problem is with B Troop. Kennett has laid charges against Serjeant-Major Collins. Worsley informed me after first parade.’

Hervey darkened. ‘What charges?’

‘Striking a superior officer, and insubordination – along the lines you spoke of on Thursday.’

‘This is very ill. Very ill indeed.’

Malet needed no telling. Nor was it merely the fall from grace of one of the Sixth’s best – some said
the
best – serjeant-majors: under the Mutiny Act, striking a superior officer could carry the penalty of death, remote though that sanction might be. ‘Worsley’s sent Kennett from barracks for the time being.’

‘That’s wise …’ said Hervey, calming a little, and then after thinking blackly for an age, ‘There’s nothing for it but for Kennett to be made to withdraw the charges.’

Malet shifted in his seat. ‘Captain Worsley informed me that he had spent an hour trying to do so. But … Colonel, with respect, can you be entirely sure that Collins did not strike Kennett?’

Hervey looked at him in disbelief.

‘Colonel, I must be scrupulous in the matter.’

The voice was of gentle insistence, not pettifogging. It took but a moment for Hervey to reconsider. ‘You must, of course, be scrupulous. I pre-judge things, no doubt. But I tell you, I can conceive of no evidence that would make me change my mind.’

‘Nor mine, in truth, Colonel. I shall see Kennett and question him.’

‘Where is Collins now?’

‘The sar’nt-major was to summon him as soon as the inspection was finished.’

Hervey nodded again, slowly. ‘Very well … What other business is there?’

‘Tyrwhitt. I spoke at length with his attorney yesterday—’

‘Is this pleasing, and if it is not, can it wait for another day?’

Malet raised his eyebrows. ‘It isn’t pleasing – not at all – but, yes, it can wait for another day.’

‘Monday. I’ll consider it then.’

‘I thought you were to go to Wiltshire that day, Colonel?’

‘My mind is changed. There’s too much to be about for the moment. And I’ve calls to make. What are the arrangements for worship tomorrow?’

‘None, Colonel. There are no parades.’

‘Of course; so you informed me.’ He reached for a pencil to make a note. And then – but as if his mind were not wholly on the matter – added, ‘We must make some arrangement soon. Church parade on Sunday seven days. Any minister’ll do.’

Malet made a note too, but said nothing. He would leave it till Monday, along with Tyrwhitt and any other intractable evils.

But Hervey was not yet finished. ‘Do you have the list of today’s defaulters?’ (It had always been the custom in the Sixth to hold regimental courts martial each Saturday, this being the day of the adjutant’s and RSM’s parades.)

Malet opened his order book. ‘There are five dragoons, Colonel. No NCOs. A private of A Troop, deficient, in part, of uniform; one of C Troop, attempting to deceive his inspecting officer; another of C Troop, in possession of peas for which he cannot honestly account and for making improper use of the barrack bedding; one of D Troop, drunk before dinner although confined to barracks, and another of quitting barracks without leave after last post.’

‘A remarkably light bill.’

‘Indeed. Three hundred lashes the lot,’ suggested Malet in an attempt at therapeutic levity.

Hervey huffed, and raised his eyebrows. In any battalion of infantry – and even some regiments of cavalry – the lash was the corrective of first choice. But the Sixth did not flog; it never had, not even in the sternest days of the Peninsula (or rather, the lash had at some time out of mind been put away, and its absence scarcely noticed). The one deviation from this rule at the hands of a commanding officer come in from another regiment – Lord Towcester – who would ultimately be deprived of command by order of the Duke of York himself, was remembered even now with repugnance, so that, perversely, the fear of another such lapse of custom acted as a sort of preventive. Nor was there any lack of alternative correction. Stoppages of pay – in effect, stoppages of grog – was harsh punishment, the sting lasting longer than that of the lash. Restriction of privileges – when privileges were few – had their effect also. Detention in the guardhouse and a ferocious regimen of fatigues was enough to recall all but those unredeemably possessed of devils. And for those who broke not just the peculiar law of soldiers under authority but the law of the land, there was prison and the gallows. When the regiment was at war, the saying went, the NCOs showed the men how to fight, and the officers showed them how to die. In barracks, on the other hand, the principal occupation of the NCOs was to bully the men out of vice, whereas that of the officers was to flatter them into virtue. And Hervey had long been of the opinion that virtue would be so much easier to advocate were it to carry some pecuniary advantage. Indeed, he had resolved some time ago that he would at the first auspicious moment lay before the commander-in-chief just such a scheme.