On His Majesty's Service

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