A Regimental Affair Read online

  ‘These the nominations?’ asked Sir Horace, pulling at the ribbon on the portfolio in front of him.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the chairman anxiously. ‘But do permit me to explain more fully.’

  Sir Horace raised his eyebrows a little petulantly and gave up fingering the silk.

  ‘Our work this morning,’ continued Sir Loftus quickly, ‘is in two parts. The most important is to recommend ten lieutenant colonels’ brevets. But first there is the same number of majors’ brevets. The Duke of York’s military secretary would be obliged if all our recommendations were done by the dinner hour so that he might take them for the commander-in-chief’s approval this evening.’

  ‘Well, let’s be about it, then,’ demanded Sir Horace. ‘How many names are there for each brevet?’

  ‘Two,’ replied the chairman. ‘And so, gentlemen, if you would please open now the portfolios before you, you will see the summaries of service and the letters of nomination for each of twenty captains. In the usual manner we shall each of us award a mark out of six, and when I ask you for that mark I should be obliged if you would all, at the same instant, indicate it to me by the dies which the military secretary is now distributing.’

  The lieutenant colonel placed an ebony die, half as big as a sword basket, in front of each member of the committee.

  ‘And may I respectfully remind you, gentlemen, that the die has two blank faces, for any lesser score than three would be unseemly.’

  All nodded. And then, at Sir Loftus’s bidding, they began the task of assessing the twenty claims to a coveted brevet.

  An hour passed in varying degrees of silence. From time to time a clerk was sent scurrying away on some errand or other, but the seven major generals laboured in the main with little need for clarification. When all were done – Sir Francis Evans the last to finish, but only by a minute or so – Sir Loftus motioned a footman to bring Madeira and seedcake to the table, and as smoke from assorted cigars began to fill the room once more, he invited the committee to declare their marks for each contender. ‘Let us begin, then, with number one: Captain Lord Arthur Fitzwarren, First Guards.’

  The dies each showed six, except Sir Loftus’s own and Sir Horace Shawcross’s, which showed four. The clerks took note.

  ‘Captain Sir Aylwin Onslow, Second Guards.’

  The scores were as before, except that Sir Horace’s die showed three.

  The chairman made a thoughtful ‘um’ sound, before naming the third. ‘Captain the Lord Collingbourne, Royal Horse Guards.’

  The scores were as before, except that Sir Loftus’s die now showed three as well as Sir Horace’s. ‘We seem to be in a fractional degree of disparity,’ said the chairman, diffidently.

  ‘Seems to me you’re both marking meanly,’ said Sir Archibald Barret. ‘Even I can see that!’ He adjusted his eyepatch pointedly.

  ‘Meanly be damned,’ huffed Sir Horace. ‘All I’ve seen so far are men with more than adequate means to buy their own advancement. None of them has seen campaigning service. All they’ve seen is the inside of St James’s and got themselves a good patron!’

  ‘Sir Horace . . .’ began Sir Archibald, kindly. ‘It is not the good fortune of every officer to hear the sound of the guns every day. These are diligent young men with much to offer the staff. Especially now that peace is come.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ conceded Sir Horace. ‘But there is ever a need for men on the staff who know what it is to fight. If peace is indeed come then it’s even more important that there are officers in positions of influence who know what is the true business of war. Peace will not be with us for ever, and the devil in a long peace is that the army forgets how to fight!’

  ‘Prettily said, Sir Horace,’ acknowledged Sir Archibald, ‘but let us not be overly fastidious. Let us just suppose that in ten brevets we shall turn up ten officers as can with honour serve their country best.’

  Sir Loftus Wake now showed something of the quality for which he had been entrusted with the committee’s chairmanship, suggesting that the military secretary make a note of those nominations where there was a disparity of more than two points as members saw them. ‘And then, perhaps, we may look again at those names in the light of our findings as a whole.’

  The members of the committee were content, and the next nine names passed without much comment.

  ‘Captain John Daniells, Sixty-ninth Foot,’ said Sir Loftus for the thirteenth.

  Sir Horace’s mark was six, Sir Loftus’s five, the others threes and fours.

  ‘Now this I don’t understand,’ sighed Sir Horace. ‘Daniells is described by Sir Charles Alten – who did, after all, command the division at Waterloo in which that regiment was – as the most able captain in his command, and certain to rise to general rank.’

  ‘But you see,’ replied Sir Archibald Barret, rubbing his eyepatch a shade wearily, ‘he scarcely needs a brevet to secure that prediction. He’ll fight his way there in the usual way – as you did and I did! We are trying to place men in positions of responsibility on the staff now. I am very much afraid that if a major general says he wants someone as his brigade major then that is greatly more to the point than one who simply predicts a man will reach high rank.’

  Once again Sir Loftus managed to stay Sir Horace’s protest. ‘Gentlemen, what we are meant to be about is the advancement of officers who will serve their country with distinction. This, I believe, is what we are trying to do. We each, perhaps, perceive that service to be rendered differently, but not the ultimate effect. The process is not science, though. I do beg a little forbearance from members.’

  Calm returned to the table as three more names were marked: Broke of the Rifles, Lord Henry Lygon of the Bays, and Sir Idris Llewellyn of the 23rd Foot.

  ‘Number seventeen,’ said Sir Loftus, sounding a little tired. ‘Captain Matthew Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons.’

  Sir Horace displayed five, Sir Loftus six, the others fours and one three.

  ‘Oh, come now!’ Sir Horace complained. ‘Lord Uxbridge writes that this officer has one of the best cavalry eyes in the service, and Colquhoun Grant says he did sterling service lately in India for the duke. What more d’ye want?’

  Sir Francis Evans answered this time, his chin for the moment out of sight below his collar, and his tab-ear, like Lord Dunseath’s port-wine nose, reddening as it always did when he was perturbed by something. ‘We cannot go awarding brevets just because someone is a Waterloo hand. The rest of the army is becoming impatient of the duke’s habit of favouring men so. Hervey has no experience of the staff, and he is not proposed for any special appointment.’

  ‘That, I grant you. But it’s not merely Waterloo. The man, it seems, did extraordinarily well on his own in India.’

  ‘India!’ muttered Lord Dunseath from his lately silent corner of the table.

  ‘My noble lord,’ sighed Sir Horace, forcing himself to measure his words, ‘if we continue to think of India in that manner, we shall waste much experience of fighting that we can ill afford to. Mark my words: these Indiamen have things to teach us.’

  ‘I never heard such nonsense! Brown faces is all they see. How can a brown face teach an officer more than a Frenchman?’ Lord Dunseath’s own face had turned red, and his nose almost violet.

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ Sir Loftus appealed: ‘let us not disparage any of these candidates. They are all worthy men. Let us proceed to the remaining three.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Horace, ‘but I must have the floor if Daniells and Hervey do not show when the count is made.’

  ‘Of course, of course: I have said already that it will be a member’s prerogative,’ conceded the chairman.

  When the declarations and the counting were all done, Sir Loftus announced the preliminary brevets. Daniells’s name was not one of them; neither was Hervey’s.

  ‘Then I must protest most strongly,’ said Sir Horace, striking the table with the stump of his absent hand.

  Sir Loftus was an officer who
sought concordance in the committees of which he was chairman. But although he had risen by his skill on the staff rather than in battle, he shared Sir Horace’s opinion of Daniells and Hervey. He did not know, however, if his staff skills would extend to converting the other members of the brevets committee to that view. He summoned the footman to bring more Madeira.

  Earlier that morning, Captain Matthew Hervey had found himself once more at the Horse Guards, in the yard below the room where the major generals would discuss his fitness for a brevet.

  ‘Shall we walk there directly, or take a chaise through the park?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Hervey, with a smile. ‘Let’s see your guardsmen at drill.’

  Captain the Lord John Howard, in full dress – smart as a carrot new-scraped (the buckles of his shoes were gleaming so bright that Hervey knew they could not be pinchbeck) – returned the smile and picked up the step as they struck off towards the Horse Guards Parade and St James’s Park. A company of the Grenadiers, as they were now calling themselves (Howard’s own regiment), was wheeling in slow time at the furthest corner of the parade ground by the Judge Advocate General’s garden at the end of Downing Street, but they were too few, and it was too dull an evolution, to merit more than a passing observation – though their band made a pretty noise. The dismounted sentry at the arch, from the Oxford Blues, had brought his sword from the slope to the carry as they passed, and Hervey had returned the salute with a hand to his shako, thrilling more than a little to the compliment, for the Duke of York’s headquarters was the place from which all the King’s men, no matter how far-flung their post, had their fortunes ordered. It did not fall to every officer to walk thus.

  ‘Shall you tell me what was said?’ asked Howard, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Did the Duke of York have laurels for you?’

  ‘I didn’t see him,’ said Hervey simply.

  Howard looked at him with disbelief. ‘But that is why you were come here!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hervey absently, for the sight of the parade ground had brought to mind the last occasion he had walked here. Then, Howard had been his arresting officer, and the future had looked black indeed – until the confusion leading to his arrest was suddenly revealed. The revelation and the honours that had come with it seemed as yesterday. But he made himself rally. ‘You would scarce expect, though, that the Duke of York would be able to spare the time to see a mere captain of light dragoons.’

  ‘That is deliberately to demean yourself, to degrade your station as aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington!’

  ‘Lately aide-de-camp. As I told you before, I was discharged by the duke.’

  Lord John Howard sighed. ‘Hervey, I am truly astonished. You are appointed aide-de-camp to the first soldier of Europe – of the world indeed – and you ask to be relieved!’

  ‘There’s no profit in doing a job which is better fitted to others.’

  ‘But you scarce served beside the duke. Might you not have given the prospect a chance, at least?’

  ‘You are in the right there, my dear Lord John,’ said Hervey, looking straight ahead still. ‘I didn’t serve directly on his staff. But India re-salted my appetite to be with troops – and not just any troops.’

  Howard shook his head again. ‘You have a most uncommon attachment to your dragoons. No good to you may come of it if you persist.’

  ‘And you in the Guards have no such attachment?’ Hervey’s frown implied scepticism.

  ‘I confess I was never able to recognize my company unless the serjeants had taken post. That is the way in the Guards. It would not do for an officer to know a private man’s name.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense! I never heard its like,’ laughed Hervey. ‘You are beginning to sound like d’Arcey Jessope. I know for a fact that you visit the Chelsea hospital every week and have seen to pensions for half a dozen who were at Waterloo!’

  The captain of Grenadiers stayed his argument abruptly. How Hervey knew of his charity, he could not imagine. But there was no doubting that his friend had detected his pretence at Guards insouciance. ‘I was not there, you see,’ he replied simply. ‘And if you weren’t at Waterloo . . .’

  The point had not occurred to Hervey quite so plainly before.

  ‘I listen to Rees Gronow in White’s. He never boasts, of course, or says anything that might promote his part in things, but I know that being at Waterloo has changed the entire way in which he thinks. Is that not so?’

  The band had broken into quick time, encouraging both men to step out. Hervey was keen to leave the subject behind. He liked Lord John Howard a good deal, and thought he might even come to like him as much as he had d’Arcey Jessope – though he could never be a true intimate because, like Jessope, Howard did not wear a blue coat and a buff collar, and the Roman six on his shako.

  ‘Howard,’ he announced. ‘I shall be pleased to breakfast with you.’ He took his arm. ‘Only let us avoid mention of things which are now properly in the past. There is more before us than behind: of that you can be sure.’

  After their breakfast and a change into plain clothes, the aide-de-camp and the former aide-de-camp took a chaise to the City, for Hervey was determined, now that there was no duty to detain him in London, to secure a seat on the first coach for Wiltshire. The last occasion he had had for one had been the better part of three years ago, when, with Bonaparte despatched to Elba and peace seemingly come at last to Europe, he had been given his first leave in as many years to return to Horningsham and his people. And there he had met Henrietta again.

  He would have a very great deal to speak about with Henrietta. He had rehearsed it the better part of his passage home from India, and the delight he was taking in the prospect of seeing her was now and again marred by the darker parts of those litanies. However, that she might throw him over – or that she might, indeed, have done so already – could not take away the pleasure just in seeing her again, for it had been all but two years since their hasty affiancing and his even hastier departure. But for the time being at least, Hervey had only practical concerns, and these were welcome as a distraction from those others.

  On that last occasion for posting to Wiltshire, he had gone to the Saracen’s Head in Skinner Street, the offices of the Universal Coach and Wagon Company, to pay over the odds for an inside seat on one of their mails, a balloon coach which had conveyed him at a full nine miles an hour to Salisbury; thence, after a night’s fitful sleep at the Red Lion, he had taken the Bath stage for Warminster. And although he hoped the demand for seats had slackened in the intervening two years, this was his intention again now.

  Lord John Howard was minded to go with him to Horningsham, for Hervey’s sister Elizabeth had become the object of his considerable admiration (but which fact he had not yet been quite able to tell his friend). Duty at the Horse Guards, however, would delay that pleasure a further while.

  As the chaise got closer to Snow Hill, its progress was checked to an unusual degree, even allowing for the habitual congestion of the narrow thoroughfares of the City. Lord John Howard stuck his head out of the window and called to the driver for his opinion of the delay.

  ‘Cashman, sir! They’re hangin’ ’im at noon outside Beckwith’s gun shop in Skinner Street. I doubts as I’ll be able to get the carriage through to the Saracen’s at this rate.’

  From both windows they could see men and women, in the main respectably dressed, walking with grim purpose in the same direction they were heading, though with more ease.

  ‘I think it better if we alight,’ said Howard. ‘This will never do.’

  They stepped down from the chaise – not without difficulty – and Hervey paid the driver. ‘Straight on up here, then, sir, on across Gray’s Inn Road and you’ll be there soon enough. And mind, gentlemen; there’ll be pick-pokes and nippers all over the place.’

  They thanked him and joined the flow of people eastwards. ‘Who is this Cashman?’ asked Hervey, fastening tight his coat. ‘I heard speak of him at t
he United Services this morning.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Howard, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s a very rum affair indeed. There was a big gathering of Radicals on the Spa Fields at Clerkenwell last December. The crowd was whipped up by agitators and the like, and then a couple of hundred of them marched into the City, breaking into some gun shops on the way.’

  ‘What happened when they got there?’

  ‘Oh, the Mayor had things properly seen to. They couldn’t make any mischief at the Exchange, so they set off for the Tower instead.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The Mayor had sent for the cavalry, and they dispersed them without too much trouble.’

  ‘And Cashman was one of the ringleaders?’

  ‘Heavens, no. He was just one of the poor sots to be taken in by the likes of Hunt.’

  ‘Hunt?’ Hervey had been little enough in England these past five years to know anything much of the troubles, let alone the names of the ringleaders.

  ‘ “Orator” Hunt they call him – a fearful rabble-rouser. Makes mischief all over the country at present, what with his calls for reform. He and others like him are the real villains of the piece. But it was Cashman who broke into Beckwith’s, and he stands convicted of stealing arms for the purposes of insurrection. He’s being hanged outside the very shop.’

  Hervey sighed a sigh of ‘cruel necessity’.

  Howard caught his meaning and was – to Hervey’s surprise – not wholly in accord. ‘There are many who believe his former service was not taken in mitigation, and that he was ill-used.’

  ‘What service?’ asked Hervey, now intrigued.

  ‘He had, it seems, served bravely for some years in the navy, and they’d discharged him without arrears of pay or prize-money. According to the Morning Post, he’d applied to the Admiralty for redress on several occasions, and he’d been there in person on the morning of the Spa Fields meeting. It’s at the very least a possibility that his actions that day were more in anger and frustration than in any spirit of revolt – such as the quantity of gin he’d consumed allowed them to be in any way his own.’