Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service (4 page)

Fairbrother had saved the life of the lieutenant-governor in the desperate skirmish with Mbopa’s warriors. Hervey was sure that this alone would secure him entry to any drawing room in London.

Fairbrother made no reply.

They walked a few more yards in silence. ‘And it was Bishop Andrewes. Lancelot Andrewes.’

‘I shall make enquiries of him,’ said Fairbrother in all seriousness. ‘What fine words, they: “The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short”. I only wish I might hear them from your father’s pulpit.’

Hervey smiled. ‘I’m sure you shall. The parish is very fond of the sermon. They would have him preach no other at Christmas. Perhaps we might resolve here and now that if we do not Christmas next at Hounslow then we shall do so at Horningsham. There; does that serve?’

‘It does most assuredly.’

‘And you shall come with me to Wiltshire as soon as we are finished here and wherever we must – to ride the Plain again, and shoot bustard. Just as I promised we would.’

‘Agreeable in every respect.’

Fairbrother felt a warming in his breast that no brandy could induce. In truth his studied nonchalance and contrary passion masked a great want of companionship, which Hervey had come unexpectedly to supply, and which Fairbrother by return supplied in like manner, though in Hervey’s case the want arose not from birth on the other side of the blanket but by the steady falling away, for good reason and ill, of those with whom he had seen service.

It was more than that, however. In Fairbrother, Hervey recognized a quite exceptional aptitude for the sabre and the saddle, a sort of ‘sixth sense’ for the field. He himself had been taught a good deal as a boy – in a boyish sort of way – by Shepherd Coates, who had lately been trumpeter to General Tarleton. But it seemed to him that Fairbrother’s talent was not merely acquired; there was something that came with the blood – and he was sure it must be that part of the blood which came from the dark continent of Africa. Fairbrother’s mother was a house-slave of a Jamaica plantation, and therefore but one generation removed from the savagery of her tribe – the savagery
and
the wisdom. When the two friends had faced that savagery together, at the frontier of the Eastern Cape, it had been Fairbrother who had known, unfailingly, what to do. But more: he had then been able to execute his own advice, to take to his belly to out-savage the savage. And yet, too, such were Fairbrother’s cultivated mind and manners – which his father, the plantation owner, had seen to as if Fairbrother had been born in the great house rather than one of its cabins – that his company would be sought by gentlemen of the best of families. When first Hervey had introduced him at Hounslow, Lord Holderness had expressed himself delighted: ‘a fine-looking man’, with a ‘gentlemanlike mien’.

Only a certain weariness with life on Fairbrother’s part (although not so much, perhaps, as when they had first met eighteen months or so ago) stood occasionally between them. Yet so erratic was it, for his enthusiasm for knowledge seemed at times to know no bounds. But then Fairbrother never admitted himself to be a willing soldier in the way that Hervey was; he had not thought himself a soldier from an early age. His father had purchased a commission for him in the Jamaica Militia, and thence in the Royal Africans (a corps which more resembled the penitentiary than the regular army), and then on Hervey’s recommendation and entreaty Fairbrother had quit his indolent half pay at the Cape to accompany the Mounted Rifles to the frontier as interpreter. Their first meeting had indeed been unpropitious; Hervey had very near walked away in contempt. But now this handsome, half-caste, gentlemanlike, disinclined soldier was his paramount, boon companion.

The clock began striking eleven as they walked under the arch of the Horse Guards – in step, for Fairbrother had picked up Hervey’s as they approached (which amused his friend since Fairbrother had always affected an unmilitary air) – and Hervey returned the sentry’s salute as they made for the oddly unimposing door into the headquarters of the commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s Land Forces. Inside, an orderly showed them to a waiting room. Hervey took off his greatcoat, bidding Fairbrother to do likewise, and moved to the fire to warm his hands.

Hervey was now revealed in the undress uniform of a lieutenant-colonel of the 6th Light Dragoons rather than of the Cape Mounted Rifles, which hitherto he had been assiduous in wearing, for his substantive promotion on the regular establishment had only been lately gazetted. He wore no sword, as was appropriate for an ‘interview with refreshment appropriate to the time of day’, but carried, wrapped in leather, an
iklwa
taken at the fight at Ngwadi’s kraal, which he intended presenting to the commander-in-chief. Fairbrother, in the green serge and black buttons of a captain of the Rifles, appeared unmoved by his proximity to power and glory – which was exactly as Hervey would have it, since it was his design to have his friend impress their ‘host’.

‘I thought that it bespoke history the last time I passed through the arch, but did not remark on it,’ said Fairbrother, watching through a frosted window the change of mounted sentries below. ‘Why is it, do you suppose, that the videttes stand on this side and not at what is manifestly the front of the building?’

‘I may tell you very precisely,’ replied Hervey, nodding his thanks to a porter who had brought them coffee, ‘because I asked the same question of John Howard some years ago.’

But before he could give any explanation the orderly returned to take him to his call. He nodded to Fairbrother – he would wait here, as ‘arranged’ – and then walked along the familiar corridor, spurs ringing, to the antechamber of the commander-in-chief’s office, where sat Lieutenant-Colonel the Honourable Valentine Youell working at his papers.

Hervey saluted as he entered, a courtesy rather than a requirement, the custom on entering an office, no matter what the rank of its occupant. In like fashion the staff lieutenant-colonel rose to acknowledge the salutation with a military bow, if perhaps more stiffly (reckoned Hervey) than would his old friend John Howard.

‘I have brought with me Captain Edward Fairbrother of the Corps of Cape Mounted Riflemen,’ Hervey explained as he took the proffered chair. ‘I wish to present him to Lord Hill on account of his service there.’

Colonel Youell looked doubtful. ‘I am not sure that without due notice the commander-in-chief will receive an officer, Colonel Hervey. And a captain at that.’

Had Youell simply voiced his perfectly reasonable reservation as to the propriety of an unscheduled call, Hervey would have taken no offence, but disregard on account of mere rank vexed him. He had the highest estimation of the Foot Guards, but occasionally their officers could show excessive attachment to form – especially when they had not been shot over. He could not check himself in replying truculently, ‘We shall see.’

The remark brought a stifled groan from Youell: for his part, he never failed to be astonished by how little officers at regimental duty had regard for the difficulties under which the Horse Guards laboured. ‘Wait here, Colonel Hervey, if you will,’ he replied, with some weariness, gathering up a portfolio and moving to the door of the commander-in-chief’s office.

Inside, Lord Hill was coming to the end of a memorandum from the chief secretary for Ireland. He looked up, took off his spectacles and said, with an appreciable sigh of relief, ‘The chief secretary is of the opinion that there is no need of reinforcement.’ He rubbed his eyes. He had been bracing himself for days in the expectation of having to find more troops for Ireland. ‘Leveson-Gower’s a most excellent fellow. Few in his place would have expressed themselves content, even knowing how damnably in want of men I am at this time. I would that the duke hastened his Relief bill and have done with the business. Or else vote me supply enough.’

Colonel Youell considered that it was not his to reply. The Duke of Wellington, for a decade and a half the prime soldier of Europe, and for a year the prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, was no longer the bulwark of the old order. His bill for ‘the Relief of His Majesty’s Roman Catholic Subjects’ – which, not long before, he and his home secretary, Robert Peel, had so steadfastly set their face against – was daily expected on the floor of the House of Commons; as was disorder the length and breadth of the realm.

‘And for that matter I would that Peel hastened his Police bill. It’s all very well for the Secretary at War to be disbanding regiments of dragoons, but if Bow Street insists on patrols every day, how’s it to be done. Eh? And dragoons sent all over the country to keep the peace: what the deuce are those Yeomanry fellows about that they can’t scatter a few labourers?’

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Lord Hill’s question, Youell understood from experience, was entirely rhetorical. The commander-in-chief knew as well as he that the Yeomanry were all too adept at scattering labourers, as well as hand-loom weavers and even passably peaceful citizens of Manchester deluded enough to want to listen to Orator Hunt. The problem was that the yeoman seemed incapable of giving the flat of the sword rather than the edge. It was ten years since ‘Peterloo’, but they had not been ten years of any marked progress.

Lord Hill shook his head, and sighed. ‘Very well, Youell; send Leveson-Gower my expressions of appreciation. Is that all?’

‘Colonel Hervey is here, my lord.’

Lord Hill brightened at the sudden prospect of diversion. ‘Splendid. Where’s that despatch from Lord Bingham? I don’t recall reading it.’

‘I placed it on your table yesterday, my lord.’

‘Ah. Bingham is well, then, do we suppose?’

‘He is well, my lord. Quite recovered, it would seem from his despatch. But that we knew already.’

Lord Hill became agitated. ‘Quite so. I do consider it highhanded of him to return to his estates in Ireland without presenting himself here first, no matter how turbulent the situation of his tenantry. And, indeed, so I understand, finding occasion to attend various drawing rooms before posting to Holyhead, telling all and sundry of his eastern sojourn … And not to render a complete account of what has transpired other than to refer us to his despatches, which appear to travel very much more slowly than does his lordship.’

Colonel Youell could only sympathize; trying to regulate the Earl of Lucan’s elder son was, by all accounts, a fool’s errand. ‘Indeed, Lord Hill.’

‘Do you recollect the despatch? Are you able to give me its import – until I have opportunity to peruse it fully?’

Youell, anticipating the request for a summary, had underlined the salient sentences in the copy made for the record. He had done so, too, with a certain distaste (which would have come as a surprise to Hervey): he had not met George Bingham, but what he had heard did not dispose him to think at all highly of an officer so improbably rich and assured of his right to command. For though Bingham was not yet thirty, with the wealth of his father’s Irish estates at his disposal, he had been able to purchase, for a sum, it was said, approaching £22,000, the lieutenant-colonelcy of the 17th Lancers. But there again, to his credit he had travelled to the seat of war between the Tsar and the Sultan so that he might be shot over – officially, to accompany the Russian army in their campaign against the Ottomans in Bulgaria, and to relate what he observed to the Horse Guards – for although wealth might buy the Seventeenth smarter uniforms and better horseflesh, it was no substitute for some schooling in other than mock battle.

He took the fair copy from his portfolio. ‘It is written off Varna, my lord, aboard His Imperial Majesty’s ship
Pallas
, whither Lord Bingham had been taken by stretcher, and is signed the seventeenth of September. I fancy it must therefore have come by St Petersburg. We had the ambassador’s despatch a full month before, by Constantinople.’ He read aloud the underlined passages:

To the Commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s Land Forces

Horse Guards

London

My Lord
,

I have the honour to report that I accompanied His Imperial Majesty, Autocrat of all the Russias, and His Excellency the Ambassador to the seat of the War at Varna, where by His Majesty’s order
Count Woronzov took command on the 29th of August from Adjutant-general Menshikov
who had been wounded in one of the Turk sorties.
The approach to Varna by His Majesty’s forces was first assayed on June 28, but the Russian avantgardes were met by considerable Ottoman forces, and the siege postponed. The appointment of Count Woronzov was signalized by a sortie made in force during the succeeding night, against the right of the Russian trenches
. The Arnauts entered the redoubt sword in hand through the embrasures, but were repulsed, after a determined struggle, by the efforts of a regiment called after His Grace the Duke of Wellington.
The 31st was then remarkable for a considerable number of attacks and counterattacks by the besieged and the besiegers, who alternately attacked the flank of their adversary. Towards the close of the day, the Turks mastered some strong ground near the enemy’s right, on which they planted five of their standards, but during the night General Woinoff regained this position, though with great difficulty
. A Turkish lunette was carried at the same moment, but it was retaken next morning by a storming party sent for the purpose from the garrison
.