A Regimental Affair Read online

  ‘What a devil of a business then,’ Hervey conceded. ‘The court hangs a man for mutiny who has proved his loyalty under more trying conditions.’

  ‘I tell you, Hervey,’ said Howard, lowering his voice and glancing to left and right, ‘it makes a fellow ashamed the way these men are treated by a supposedly grateful nation. There are men with stripes on their arm cleaning out gutters for a few pence – Waterloo stripes, too. I can scarce look them in the eye.’

  As they came to Snow Hill they found the streets blocked by posts and chains, allowing only those on foot to pass, and in Skinner Street itself the pavements were railed off with sturdy wooden planks. A large press of people seemed set to topple the barriers at any moment, but somehow they were holding, the crowd brooding rather than clamorous – though there was no doubting the sympathy for the gallant tar about to be hanged. And the crowd was, indeed, a thorough mix of people, of both good appearance and bad, for to the clerking classes and the respectable poor of Hackney were added the sweepings of St Giles’s – the rookery of rookeries. The special constables from each of the City wards were here in force, though Hervey thought them hardly sufficient to deal with a crowd turned ugly. In Whisken Street there were firemen on alert, ready to assist with subduing disorder if need be. In the yard of Newgate prison were threescore militiamen, and in the streets adjacent to the route of Cashman’s procession were yeomanry cavalry, while in a nearby courtyard, out of sight, a half-troop of regular cavalry stood as the force of last resort.

  ‘There are rumours.’ Howard’s voice was hushed. ‘Plans to rescue him as he arrives, to bustle him away to Broad Street. There are so many Irish there he’d never be found.’

  ‘You didn’t mention he was Irish.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. That confounds things too, does it not?’

  Hervey sighed again.

  A great roar went up from the crowd, followed by booing and cries of ‘Shame!’ as workmen drawing the wheeled gibbet arrived from Newgate. The special constables looked about anxiously, tapping their staves nervously on a shoulder or hand. ‘I don’t fancy they might do aught but save themselves if this crowd makes ugly,’ said Hervey.

  ‘It will be the cavalry that has to deal with it. And they’ll get no thanks, no matter how bloodlessly they manage,’ Howard agreed.

  ‘I hate the business with magistrates. I had enough of it in Ireland. The sooner there’s a proper constabulary the better.’

  ‘My dear friend, I could not agree with you more. Our guardsmen are never so disquiet than when they’re deployed for the civil power. A company of Grenadiers who stood fast throughout at Waterloo were close to insolence when they were turned out during the Corn Law bill.’

  They pushed a little further up the street in the press of people still arriving, making for the scaffolding which the Newgate men had trundled to the front of Beckwith’s shop.

  Howard stopped. ‘Look here, Hervey,’ he frowned. ‘I’ve never seen a man hanged before, and I don’t think I care to.’

  ‘I’ve seen it not a great many times myself,’ Hervey assured him, ‘and though each time the man had committed the foulest murder I could take no satisfaction in it.’

  Howard shook his head.

  ‘Let’s away, then,’ said Hervey, putting a hand to Howard’s shoulder.

  The press was too great for any quick escape, however, so they decided to work their way along past Beckwith’s shop, its windows stoutly boarded, and out towards the wider Essex Road beyond. But this they found not easy either, for many of the onlookers were resentful of what they presumed was an attempt to get closer to the gibbet. After a full half-hour they had advanced scarcely fifty yards.

  Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd behind them as the carriages carrying the sheriffs rounded the corner, and then the cart bearing Cashman himself. Hervey climbed onto a window ledge to see what was the cause. ‘I think it’s our man,’ he said, unable to balance there for more than a few seconds. ‘And he’s dressed in his sailor’s best.’

  Cashman was, indeed, a sight offensive to every right instinct. He stood proud and erect, with not a sign of fear. He had on his blue jacket and white trousers, and a black silk handkerchief tied smartly about his neck, bareheaded as if mustered on deck for divine service. He was calling to the crowd, now muted by the appearance of their hero. ‘This is not for cowardice,’ Hervey heard him call defiantly. ‘I have done nothing against my king and country, but fought for them!’

  The crowd roared its approval, putting to flight the roosting pigeons on St Botolph’s spire two streets away.

  ‘I always fought for my king and country, and this is my end.’

  The noise grew louder, and the constables had the greatest trouble keeping a way clear for the procession.

  ‘Huzza, my boys, I’ll die like a man!’ shouted Cashman as he reached Beckwith’s shop. ‘If I was at my quarters I would not be killed in the smoke; I’d be in the fire!’

  The crowd was now as angry as ever Hervey had seen men away from the battlefield. The constables had to make free with their staves to get the sheriffs and clergy to the scaffold.

  ‘Hurrah, my hearties in the cause!’

  Hervey wondered for a moment in which cause, though he hardly expected that a man in Cashman’s position could be expected to say anything of sound mind.

  ‘Success! Cheer up!’ The gallant tar scaled the scaffold ladder as surely as if he had been climbing to the yards, waving aside the minister who was attempting words of comfort and inviting him to repent. ‘Don’t bother me. It’s no use. I want no mercy but from God.’

  Hervey and Howard were now but twenty yards from the scaffold and could see everything perfectly.

  ‘This fellow’s a cool customer,’ Howard whispered. ‘Is it gin or rum speaking, do you think?’

  ‘He treads the boards. But he does it bravely, for sure,’ replied Hervey, shaking his head in doubt.

  The hangman put the rope around Cashman’s neck. The crowd gasped and then groaned. Then he tried to put a nightcap over Cashman’s head – but the sailor would have none of it. ‘No thank you, Mr Ketch. I’ll see till the last!’

  Here was courage indeed, thought Hervey. He had seen bravado turn to nothing when the moment came.

  But Cashman’s resentment seemed to get the better of him, and he began a tirade against Beckwith himself, whom he supposed was cowering behind the boarded windows of his shop. ‘I’ll be with you there!’ he shouted. ‘My unquiet spirit’ll walk your floors!’

  ‘Oh God,’ sighed Howard. The hangman had come down the steps and was standing by the lever which would trip the hatch beneath Cashman’s feet. ‘I cannot see this, deserving or no.’

  Hervey was about to turn away too when Cashman called out again. ‘I am the last of seven of them that fought for my king and country. My father was killed too in the service. I could not get my own, and that has brought me here!’

  ‘This is too much,’ Howard muttered. ‘And I who have never heard a shot fired in anger am stood gawking.’

  ‘Come then,’ said Hervey, turning.

  But Cashman called for the crowd to give him three cheers, making them both turn back once more. And then, in the language the sailor knew best, he called to the hangman to ‘let go the jib-boom’.

  Suddenly his words were choked off. His body swung crazily in mid-air. He struggled only briefly, but it silenced the crowd. When his writhing was no more, several of the onlookers muttered, ‘God rest his soul.’ Some made the sign of the cross. For a while, as the sheriffs’ men took down the body, there was scarcely a word, but as quickly as the silence had come the clamour returned, and everywhere there were shouts of ‘Murder! Murder! Shame! Shame!’

  The constables looked about anxiously as Hervey and Howard took the opportunity to push their way to the end of the street. There was the sound of splintering timber and then a terrific roar as some of the rougher elements mounted the scaffold and pulled down the gibbet. The pavement boards outsid
e Beckwith’s shop gave way and the crowd surged into the middle of the street, the constables quickly abandoning their attempts to hold them back and running to the west end where one of the City magistrates stood with an armed guard.

  ‘We’d better leave them to it. This is no place for either of us,’ said Hervey, having to fend off one of the ladies of the district (business always increased after a public execution).

  The magistrate looked nervous too. More people – and a sight less respectable-looking than before – were coming from the rookeries. The crowd in Skinner Street was now in a distinct tumult. He clearly feared for property and life. Hervey saw him signal to one of his deputies at the end of the street, and then take out his pocketbook.

  ‘Our Sovereign Lord the King,’ he began, though the tumult was so great that none beyond a dozen yards could have heard him; ‘chargeth and commandeth all persons being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peaceably to depart—’ A piece of rotten fruit struck the magistrate square in the face, but he faltered only for a second before continuing. ‘. . . Peaceably to depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the Act made in the first year of King George for preventing tumultuous and riotous assemblies. God save the King!’

  But this magistrate was not going to wait a full hour for the crowd to disperse, as the Riot Act required. In less than a minute there was a sudden roar and then the clatter of hooves above it, as the City officials’ force of last resort appeared from around the corner.

  ‘Great gods!’ exclaimed Hervey. The facings were unmistakable. ‘It is the Sixth! And I recognize some of those dragoons!’ What a place to see them, jeered by their own countrymen when only a year ago they had been cheered to the eaves. He balked at the prospect of what they had to do, but he wanted to be with them nevertheless. ‘Go to it, the Sixth!’ he called, before he could think better of it.

  Howard had turned the colour of the Sixth’s facings. His eyes were empty.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Hervey, grasping his arm, ‘I think we’d better get you some brandy.’

  ‘No, no; it is all right. I want just to walk, that is all,’ he replied, shaking his head.

  Hervey glanced back over his shoulder at the dragoons.

  ‘Why don’t you stay?’ said Howard. ‘I’ll make my way back to Whitehall: there’s no chance of getting to the Saracen’s Head by the looks of things.’

  Hervey was not of a mind to leave him, but Howard protested he was perfectly well enough to find a chaise.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Hervey conceded. ‘But let’s dine as we said. A little later, though – say, eight? At the United Services,’ and he reached for his hunter to see how long he had. It was gone – twisted from the chain, for it had no safety swivel. ‘Oh, in heaven’s name!’ he groaned.

  Lord John Howard raised his eyebrows as if to apologize for his city.

  ‘It saw me through Belgium and India, and now a wretch from—’

  Howard stayed his protest with a hand on his arm. ‘I think I should remain here with you.’

  ‘No,’ said Hervey shaking his head. ‘They’ll not have another thing from me. Go back to the Horse Guards. You have duties to be about.’

  Hervey turned back to see the dragoons already beginning to advance with sabres drawn.

  ‘The flats, mind; the flats only!’ called their cornet, a face new to him.

  He thought it odd that a half-troop on duty such as this was under command of so junior an officer. He could see the serjeant – Noakes, a steady sort, but never a man for troop work – behind the rear rank. A fat lot of good he’d do there with a greenhead cornet in front! But Hervey was relieved to see that the right marker was sound. What a welcome sight was Collins, his old covering-corporal. Collins had galloped for him in the Peninsula and at Waterloo; and (eighteen months ago now) to Boulogne and from there to Le Havre with Henrietta on that ill-starred chase to reach his ship. Why Collins had but two chevrons still, Hervey couldn’t imagine. He’d back his wits in an affair, any day, against those of ‘Auntie’ Noakes.

  The sight of drawn swords served notice to the crowd. To some it was a signal to be off, and Hervey was pleased that the cornet had sense, at least, to advance slowly enough to give them plenty of room. But to the roughs at the far end of the street the appearance of the cavalry was a signal to increase their mischief, and to open a steady fusillade of brickbats. These dropped well short of the dragoons, however, onto the front of the crowd not yet managed to get away. Soon there were men – and women – fallen to the cobbles, some bleeding from gashes about the head. It would be an even uglier sight from astride a horse, thought Hervey; and bewildering, too, since the ‘innocents’ were now in the way of any effort to quell the more violent rioters. But it was not a time for too much thinking. If the line of dragoons stood still they’d positively encourage trouble.

  Another hail of stones fell, closer to the line this time. ‘Turn about, turn about!’ Hervey shouted: the hindquarters of a troop-horse would, he knew, be a powerful street sweeper – and would do no lasting damage. There was certainly no room now for the flat of the sabre underhand. The cornet must have seen this, for he shouted to his dragoons to raise swords. This only made the roughs bellow defiantly, and increase their fusillade of stones. Some of the braver ones climbed to the roofs of the buildings either side of the street, and it was not long before they began hurling slates down at the dragoons.

  One of the first casualties was the cornet himself. A piece of guttering hit the brow of his shako and then his charger’s head. He managed at first to stay in the saddle, but before his coverman could close to support him the horse reared full upright, paddling with his forelegs as if at a prizefight. The cornet, half dazed already, had no chance. He fell heavily to the ground, hitting his head hard on the cobbles. The dragoons behind tried desperately not to trample him, but more than one iron struck.

  ‘Christ!’ cursed Hervey as he pushed through the crowd to reach him.

  Some dragoons had stopped, trying to shield the cornet where he lay. Some were still pushing forward at the crowd, and those behind were falling into confusion, not knowing what was happening in front. Serjeant Noakes looked at a loss, while Hervey could see Corporal Collins shouting something to the front rank, whose dragoons began returning sabres to the carry and kicking their horses’ flanks to urge them forward.

  Good, thought Hervey. Get the front rank forward five lengths to make space!

  Corporal Collins was now a length ahead of the others. He turned his trooper sideways and put him into a trot close along the edge of the crowd. It seemed to do the trick. Panic for a second or so silenced the missile-throwers and allowed Collins to re-dress the front rank so they could press forward knee to knee. ‘Keep them swords sloped!’ he shouted the while.

  ‘Well done, well done, Corporal Collins!’ said Hervey. One of the crowd eyed him suspiciously. He had better be careful. This was not the place to be taken for an agent.

  The solid line of horses pushed the crowd steadily back until the missile-throwers on what remained of the scaffold suddenly realized they were within range of being captured, and started to scramble down the far side. Collins called to the corporal of the second rank to show a front to the Newgate end to discourage reinforcements. In another ten minutes they had reached the Essex Road, and Skinner Street was clear. Serjeant Noakes now reasserted command (he could scarcely pretend any longer that the confusion prevented his getting to the front) and posted videttes to which the City constables could rally.

  Cursing to himself, Hervey pushed through the looser knot of onlookers to the picket line of dragoons at the ingress to Sekforde Street, where the unconscious cornet and injured dragoons had been taken. He had a mind to take the command himself, but seeing order restored among the ranks, pressed on down the street instead.

  Several of the men recognized him and called out with the enthusiasm that always came with the end of a bloody affair. ‘Go
od day, Mr Hervey, sir! We thought you was gone for good.’

  Hervey raised his hat and smiled as best he could, but did not stay to exchange banter. Round the corner in Sekforde Street a constable pointed to the Crown and Mitre. ‘They’ve taken the injuries in there, sir.’

  Hervey entered the low, gloomy taproom of the city alehouse, scarcely able to make out who was where.

  ‘It’s Mr Wymondham, sir,’ said an NCO, indicating the motionless figure on a long table. ‘I’ve sent a dragoon to fetch that doctor from the ’anging.’

  Hervey did not know Cornet Wymondham. He supposed he must have joined in the past eighteen months. He nodded, approving, to the NCO, and put an ear to the cornet’s mouth.

  ‘Can I go and find another doctor, sir?’ asked Wymondham’s coverman, whom Hervey recognized as a handy dragoon from F Troop.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘though I very much fear it will be of no avail. His breathing is so shallow as to be unnoticeable.’

  He said it with sadness rather than certainty – and without thinking. A young cornet, green, probably his first time out – what an impious waste. Hervey was as angry with whoever it was that had sent him here as with the crowd which had done the mischief. ‘Find a doctor as fast as you can. It’s his only hope!’ he urged suddenly, cursing himself for conceding defeat in the dragoon’s hearing, and hoping his agitation might make up for it.

  Hervey put his ear to the cornet’s mouth again, for there was no rise or fall in the chest. He was reluctant to believe this fine-looking youth could succumb to a stone hurled by a street rough. Something told him he ought to turn him on his side. He called to the NCO for help.

  They turned him ever so carefully, but Hervey felt the blood and the pieces of splintered bone at the back of the skull, and it made him so qualmish he almost let go.

  ‘Good day, Captain Hervey, sir,’ came a voice from the doorway. ‘We none of us knew you were back. I’m sorry you had such a poor show of us, sir. How is his lordship? Pride a bit bruised, sir?’