A Close Run Thing

o’clock. A jaunty little tune, it put a skip into his spirits, if not into his step, as he left:

An officer’s wife has puddings and pies,

A Serjeant’s wife has skilleee …

But a soldier’s wife has nothing at all

To fill her empty belleee … E, E, E

Thank heaven there were no soldiers’ wives with them this time, nor any others for that matter. He knew their worth on campaign, for sure, but he knew their trouble, too; and the balance lay heavily, in his judgement, with the latter. In any event, all that might soon be behind them: no-one at the stables parade had said as much, but there had been a distinct air of anticipation, a sensing that the end of their long ordeal, this seemingly unending war with Bonaparte, was near.

But even these comparatively light duties were telling on him, and he was glad of the opportunity to get to his own mess. However, his hopes of any immediate rest were dashed as soon as he entered the noisy and smoke- filled refectory. Cries of ‘The child Samuel!’ greeted him, though he was at a loss to know why.

‘First book of Samuel,’ called Harding, the senior lieutenant, in mock despair. ‘“And the child Samuel grew on, and was in favour both with the Lord, and also with men”!’

Hervey smiled as he tumbled to the reference. The intelligence of Lord Wellington’s pleasure had, it seemed, reached the mess before him, though he hardly expected that he was in favour with the stable details after calling them out a second time. A press of officers formed to shake his hand, and the steward, trying manfully to find some ingress, was jostled this way and that before being able to proffer a silver tray on which there was a letter for him.

‘It has been some time in reaching us, sir,’ he said apologetically, though the delay was none of his making.

Hervey was pleased with the excuse to seek out a quiet corner, but as he did so the sight of the envelope at once discomfited him. Though he had never been given to too much introspection — nor, indeed, had there been any great opportunity for it during this campaign — there was something in the three short lines of the address which brought him up short, made him abruptly aware of just how much his life belonged to the Army. That would not ordinarily have discomposed him, for this was his life and he held no other to be more honourable, but the sudden notion that his soul might have been taken by the drum, too, disturbed him more. Perhaps it was the terseness of the address:

Cornet M. P. Hervey,

6th Lt. Dgns.,

Spain

Three lines — name, regiment, country — the very essence of his being in so short a space. And then another chill, a portent of the contents: he stared for some time before he could bring himself to open it, for the hand was unmistakable, though months had passed since any word from Wiltshire, and it was a hand conspicuously more restrained than he had seen before.

Horningsham,

17 January 1814

Dearest Matthew,

I am afraid that this letter bears the saddest news. Our John has died in Oxford on this 12th instant. According to Mr Heywood, his vicar, this hard winter we are enduring was taking its toll most cruelly on his parish and he was much about the poorest parts trying to bring relief. He became ill a fortnight ago and then succumbed to pneumonia.

There were three more pages in his sister’s round script, but he could not read on. Though his expression must have reflected the news, and little to his mind could have been worse, he was able nevertheless to slip the letter into his tunic and escape without giving away his anguish. In the quiet of his cell he sat with his head in his hands for what seemed an age. The irony, that surrounded by death, as he had been these past six years, it was death at a distance which was finally to pierce him, only added to his grief.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Not now, Johnson!’ he called. But it opened slowly, and there appeared, diffidently, the regiment’s veterinary officer.

‘Pardon my intruding so, Hervey, but I wished to have words concerning the chestnut in C Troop.’ The voice was equally hesitant.

Hervey would have wished for this at another time but he sensed he had little choice but to yield. ‘Well, yes, indeed, Selden. Come in, sit down,’ he said, indicating a sedile which Johnson had acquired during the day.

‘Hervey, the farrier-major has reported to me what transpired at evening stables.’ He began coughing badly, his face in a feverish sweat. Hervey gave him a cup of water.

‘You ought not to be out of your bed, Selden, for heaven’s sake!’

‘That I know; it’s a damned potent attack this time, but I had to speak with you about my diagnosis. You examined the eye, I’m told?’

‘Yes.’

‘I could barely see it, I confess. What did the pupil look like?’

‘Undiminished — a little dilated, if anything, I should say.’

The veterinary officer sighed. ‘I should have got someone to look, but the eye was so far back in its socket …’

Hervey nodded.

‘And I looked at my notebook and saw that the horse had had a previous attack of ophthalmia. If there is recurrence, then it signals progressive blindness, and there is no recourse but to the bullet — as you very well know. Thus I made the presumption of the specific condition. I have only seen two cases before, both in the Indies, but I do not understand how there could be a recurrence of the simple.’

‘I think you will find,’ said Hervey quietly, ‘that it was the other chestnut — J78 — that was the previous case. You have made the two as one.’

The veterinary officer’s jaw fell. ‘Then, I must go at once and offer my papers to the major,’ he replied.

‘There is no need for that,’ insisted Hervey. ‘You were in no condition to be attending to them in the first instance. Here, take this brandy.’ And he poured a large measure from the bottle which Johnson had left by his bed. ‘None of us, I dare say, is in the best of sorts.’

‘But your judgement seems not to have been impaired by your own infirmity,’ said Selden, gesturing towards Hervey’s leg.

‘That is as may be, but I dare say I would not be so attentive now,’ he replied.

‘How so?’ asked Selden, at once puzzled but faintly encouraged by the reply.

‘Oh, it does not matter,’ said Hervey dismissively, realizing he had let on more than he intended.

Selden had another fit of coughing, which required more brandy to subdue, and he mopped his brow with a large, ochreous silk square which matched almost exactly his feverish complexion. ‘Horse doctor that I may be, I am still able to recognize obvious symptoms of dispirits in humans.’

Hervey sighed, but in truth he was glad to share his ill news, which Selden received attentively. ‘And your brother was, I would hazard, a fine sort of man, an active clergyman, no mere time-server,’ said the veterinary officer when Hervey had finished.

‘Of all the worthless creatures I have seen survive — no, prosper — these past six years, I cannot understand why a man so full of goodness as he should die.’

‘A cruel and troubling paradox,’ agreed Selden: ‘“The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: but those things which are revealed belong unto us.”’

‘Indeed, and John would quote Deuteronomy just so, but it all seems remote and … conjectural now.’

‘I find it ever to be so, frankly. I confess that I cannot put any faith in the claims of the Church. What will you do? Are there any family obligations which now befall you?’

‘I have just accepted a lieutenancy and I do not know if I am in any position to do so. I simply do not know