Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE
THE EASTERN QUESTION

Whitehall, early evening, 19 September 1826

Lieutenant-Colonel Lord John Howard, assistant quartermaster-general at the Horse Guards, returned the sentry’s salute as he passed through the gates and set off down Whitehall in the direction of the palace of Westminster. He was not best pleased at being bidden at so late an hour, for he had an engagement at White’s club at seven, and summonses such as these had a habit of becoming drawn-out affairs. Too often, it seemed to him, His Majesty’s ministers tarried inordinately over their business before, as the evening’s diversions finally beckoned, they would make their pleasure known to their lordships at the Admiralty, or to the commander-in-chief at the Horse Guards.

And it would be a pretty business, of that there was no doubt. The summons had been to the quartermaster-general himself, but he was absent from London on duty, and even the adjutant-general, who might have stood proxy, was at a review on Wimbledon Common. Lord John Howard had had no opportunity to enquire of the Admiralty what might be the cause of the summons – it was rare that the one place should be troubled and not the other – for as the principal staff officer remaining in the Horse Guards that afternoon he had been detained with all manner of affairs.

But he knew what would be the cause anyway. Or at least he thought he did. What else could it be but the Greek war? It had truly become very tiresome: what with Shelley’s
Hellas
and then that preposterous amateur warrior Byron (God rest their souls), the country was losing its sense to a heady tide of romantic self-indulgence. He frowned and shook his head. Well
. . . be what may;
the government had dug itself a fearful deep ditch and might yet find it difficult to come by a ladder. And what had prevailed on so level-headed a man as the Duke of Wellington to go to St Petersburg and do Mr Canning’s bidding? For now there was a treaty to help the Greeks, with the French and the Russians a party to the folly, and an ultimatum that the sultan would undoubtedly find repellent. There was a fleet at this very moment in the eastern Mediterranean – for all he knew in the Bosporus itself. And so the nation would next send a landing force, doubtless to seize Constantinople in the expectation that the sultan would at once seek terms. Had not the same happened at Rangoon? And what had followed? Two years of fever and fighting. He shook his head again. A right Gadarene rush to war it was, and at six o’clock of a chill autumn evening.

There was just a suspicion of fog, too, in the gaslight. Lord John Howard would have pulled up the collar of his greatcoat had he had to walk to the House of Peers itself, but parliament stood prorogued until November, and in a few more yards he turned right into the cul-de-sac of Downing Street and made for Number Fourteen at the western end, the modest three-storey house that was His Majesty’s Colonial Office. Here he was admitted promptly, shown to an anteroom and told that Lord Bathurst would see him directly. This surprised him, for his dealings were, as a rule, with an undersecretary. There again, it had been the quartermaster-general himself who had been summoned. Lord John Howard looked at his half-hunter a shade anxiously; he hoped this interview did not presage an intrusion on his appointment at White’s.

In five more minutes he was called to Lord Bathurst’s office. On entering he bowed, forage cap under his arm, and bid good evening to the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies.

Lord Bathurst looked preoccupied. His features were amiable but pinched; his hair, grey and much receded, was awry. At sixty-four years he was the second oldest member of the cabinet, and much the most experienced, having held his appointment since 1812. The Duke of Wellington counted him a friend and ally. Lord John Howard could not help but think that there should by rights have been little to disturb so richly earned an ease at this time. Europe and the Colonies were – at last – at peace, but for those querulous neighbours in the eastern Mediterranean . . .

The Secretary of State was undoubtedly troubled, however. His voice revealed it. ‘Ireland, my dear sir, Ireland. The oats and potatoes are ruined there. Drought!’

Lord John Howard was puzzled. He could see no immediate connection as far as his duties at the Horse Guards were concerned, unless the cabinet had a mind to increase the Irish establishment to deal with the imagined unrest – and that hardly seemed necessary, for there were surely more than enough soldiers in that country?

‘We shall have it out all over again with the Corn Laws. I see no escape from it. And what with Catholic relief and all.’

Lord John Howard, increasingly mindful of the hour, decided to attempt a conclusion. ‘Do you wish the commander-in-chief to place additional troops in readiness, my lord?’

Bathurst looked puzzled. ‘For Ireland? No, no, indeed not. Not for Ireland. There will be no need of that. Indeed no. Not when the situation in the Aegean Sea is so uncertain.’

Lord John Howard was beginning to chafe. ‘The Duke of York has placed a force upon notice for Greece, sir, as you know. Do you wish me to communicate with the general commanding-in-chief on the matter?’

‘Lord Hill? No, I think not, though I should wish to speak with him presently on sundry other matters concerning Greece. No, it is Portugal. That is what exercises His Majesty’s ministers.’

‘Portugal, my lord?’ Howard read the official despatches as well as the newspapers. He was well aware of the constitutional difficulties occasioned by the death of King John (and no doubt distantly stirred from Madrid too), but—

‘The Foreign Secretary asks that a special mission be stood up for Lisbon to tender advice to our ambassador. Or rather, I should say, to our chargé d’affaires. The commander-in-chief is already apprised of matters in a general sense.’

Lord John Howard was uncertain of this, as well as surprised. The Duke of York was hardly in a state to be conscious of anything but his own mortality at this time. He had been too ill of late even to put his signature to things. The officers at the Horse Guards who ran the army in his name saw the periodic despatches from His Majesty’s embassies in Lisbon and Madrid (and, indeed, from Paris, for Howard had a mind too that France’s hand would be detectable in the business) but he was certain that no thought had been given to intervention of any kind.

‘How large is the mission to be, my lord, and at what notice?’

‘Five or six officers, no more. A colonel to be in charge. Mr Canning is not yet decided on when they should sail, but by the end of the month I would say. There will be passports and the like to arrange. Would you have it attended to? And with discretion, if you will.’

Lord John Howard closed his notebook. ‘Of course, my lord.’

‘When is the quartermaster-general returned?’

‘On Friday.’

‘Very good. I would speak with him as soon as he is.’

*

As he left, Lord John Howard paused under one of the gas lamps at the door of Number Fourteen and looked at his watch again. It was a quarter past six; he just had time to pen a memorandum to the adjutant-general, who stood duty for the commander-in-chief during the latter’s indisposition and the quartermaster-general’s absence. An aide-de-camp could then take it to his lodgings in Albany. And, of course, he would send a copy to Apsley House at the same time, for although the Duke of Wellington was Master General of the Ordnance, everyone knew he was commander-in-chief in waiting. And in any case, as a member of the cabinet he would soon know of the mission, if he did not already. The duke would certainly have very decided opinions on the matter, and he, Lord John Howard, was not about to become a casualty of great beasts stamping their ground. He put his watch back into his pocket: with a little despatch, he could make his appointment at White’s with only a very little delay.

‘So, Hervey, how do you like my Spanish jennet?’

Captain (Brevet-Major) Matthew Hervey turned in the saddle.

‘He is all fire.’

‘I am of Pliny’s opinion, I think he was begot by wind; he runs as if he were ballasted with quicksilver.’

‘True, my lord, he reels from the tilt often.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Major Strickland punched his fellow squadron leader playfully on the shoulder, and his gelding tried to bite the neck of Hervey’s little mare.

‘It was an uncommonly good evening, was it not?’

‘It was, Hervey. A very noble play. I am sorry I never saw it before.’

Hervey smiled as he recalled his original encounter. ‘It was in Lisbon I first saw it. Soon after we had got there. The duchess was Italian and spoke her lines very indistinct.’

‘Italian was she? I count myself poor, still, for not having seen that country,’ said Strickland, shaking his head. ‘And did you
see
Malfi when you were there?’

‘The play?’

‘The place.’

‘No. I went as far south only as Naples.’

They rode on a little without speaking.

‘You should join us more often at the theatre, Hervey. We shan’t be at Hounslow for ever.’

‘I know it. But I’ve been much distracted by affairs. I know the road to Wiltshire as well as I know it to London.’

Strickland’s gelding tried to take another bite at the mare’s neck. ‘For heaven’s sake! What possesses you?’

‘He knows the manger beckons.’

‘No doubt.’

Strickland’s charger was not alone in its ill temper. Down the long column of squadrons returning from exercise on the heath there were any number of displays – mares being marish, and geldings being coltish, for all their deficiency. Nappy troopers were just a part of a cavalry regiment on parade, especially one that knew it was returning to barracks.

‘You are much occupied by your ladies, Hervey,’ said Strickland kindly.

‘I confess I am. I have neglected them sorely.’

‘Then we shall see them at Hounslow soon?’

‘My sister, I think, would not stay long if she came. Our parents are not young. And there is no governess.’

‘And?’

‘What?’ Hervey thought he had misheard. The jingling of bits, the clanking of scabbards, and iron striking the road – even at the walk – did not make conversation easy.

‘Your lady in town.’

‘Strickland!’

‘Have a care for your soul, Hervey.’

‘Strickland, old friends though we are, you sometimes presume too much. I am perfectly careful of my soul, I assure you.’

‘You will remain in my prayers nevertheless.’

‘And you in mine!’

The gates of the cavalry barracks were now welcoming them. The commanding officer’s trumpeter sounded the approach, and the quarter-guard came doubling from the guardroom to present arms. Hervey touched his peak before dropping back to the head of Third Squadron as the regiment sat up to attention to ride in, then wheeling and forming on the square for the dismissal. He took post in front of E Troop as the commanding officer, adjutant and serjeant-major turned about to watch the evolutions.

At length, Lieutenant-Colonel Eustace Joynson, lately confirmed in both his substantive rank and his long acting command of the regiment, rode forward a dozen paces. ‘Light Dragoons, I was exceptionally well pleased with exercise this morning. There could be no handier regiment of cavalry than ours.’

Hervey smiled to himself: good old ‘Daddy’ Joynson – any other colonel would have said ‘mine’ rather than ‘ours’.

‘I must tell you, however, that I have – with regret – come to the decision that I must quit the command.’

There were sounds of surprise, and regret too, from the ranks. Not full-throated, but distinct enough.

‘That is all. Troop-leaders may carry on.’

There followed the usual five minutes’ hubbub as command of each troop and section was successively devolved and the dragoons returned to their stable lines. Hervey half sprang from the saddle rather than dismounting in the prescribed fashion. His mare was green, and he did not want her bearing more weight in the stirrup. He handed the reins to his groom, touched his peak to acknowledge the salute, and watched him lead her off (there was no need of words with Private Johnson after all these years). He nodded to his lieutenant and cornet, dismissed his trumpeter, returned his serjeant-major’s salute in the same fashion as with his groom, then turned for the officers’ mess. There was even less need of words with Serjeant-Major Armstrong, for their years together one way and another had been greater even than with Johnson.

He met Strickland again as he came round the corner from the lines.

‘Soho, Hervey! Joynson to sell out?’

‘I can’t say as I’m surprised. He’ll get a fair penny for it.’

‘Well, I’d wager fifteen thousand at least,’ said Strickland, unfastening the bib front of his tunic as they walked. ‘The Ninth went for sixteen; I heard it from the agents only last week.’

Hervey sighed to himself. Fifteen thousand pounds for the lieutenant-colonelcy of a cavalry regiment of the Line – two and a half times over the regulation price! How might he ever afford it when the time came? How, indeed, might he afford the majority when
that
came? Six months ago, when Sir Ivo Lankester had died in the storming of the fortress of Bhurtpore, Eustace Joynson had advanced free – by ‘death-vacancy’ – and Strickland, as senior captain by a few months, had advanced free to major in his place.