A Close Run Thing

with Daniel Coates, his sister’s nimble fingers at the keyboard, his mother’s fussing as they made ready for Shrewsbury each term, his father’s long yet absorbing sermons, his brother’s—

The sudden recollection was disturbing, painful even. For Hervey knew he would never again — not in this world, at least — feel the strength that came of John’s peace of mind.

And then, as it were, the stream’s sudden turbulence ended, and he saw a girl of about twelve, the same as he, in fine silks, with ribbons in her hair. She teased him and teased him, until he put his pony at an elm that lay uprooted in front of a large house, clearing it — just — but losing his hat, which the girl then ran with into the great house, beyond his reach.

He was jolted out of his reveries by a particularly large pothole into which both nearside wheels fell in succession. He looked about him, but none of his fellow passengers stirred, so he resumed his study of the tranquillity beyond the window. Here and there, however, even England’s garden bore the signs of the violence of which Edmonds had spoken. There were the charred remains of a barn which had fallen to the torches of the rick- burners. At a crossroads there was a lonely gallows with the stiffened corpse of a footpad hanging from its hoist, though here at least the body was without the marks of torture. At one halt near Faversham, an inn surrounded by hop fields, Hervey heard how a steam engine (he knew of steam engines but had never seen one) had recently been installed at the manor farm to drive the new threshing machines from Norfolk, and how, less than a month later, a band swearing allegiance to ‘General Ludd’ had destroyed both engine and machinery. The Maidstone Yeomanry had been called out but arrived long after the wreckers had gone. It was too frequently the case, said a fellow passenger, a Lancashire cotton man who feared for his own looms, declaring it quite beyond him why the magistrates were not able to keep order with so many yeomanry, militia and fencibles embodied or at call. Hervey had never held high in his estimation either yeomanry or magistrates: it seemed to him that their interests were too often more than decently entangled, and brutality too often a substitute for foresight and efficiency. But he had been away for some time, he reminded himself, and he did not wish to provoke this choleric weaver with views that would no doubt be taken as — at best — feckless.

The Dolphin stopped overnight in both Canterbury and Chatham, and arrived at eleven on the third morning at the Swan tavern in Southwark. The Swan, which was the Dolphin’s terminus, was no different from the half-dozen other inns by which they had staged from Dover, set as it was in the leafy Kentish environs of the Thames. But a keen eye could detect in the quickened pace of its servants, and that of the people of the street, proximity to a great city. And for the first time Hervey was to see a great city; for, in his reckoning, Lisbon could not answer to that description. He could scarcely bear the wait while his lodgings were arranged and a chaise summoned to take him across the river.

He had not imagined how the greatness would be manifest, however. He caught his breath at the sight of the Thames at Blackfriars, its wide, sweeping curve more majestic than anything he had seen in the Peninsula or in France, and he gazed in awe at the noble dome of St Paul’s as they trotted up Ludgate Hill. But it was in the streets that his senses were all but overwhelmed, for the press of people and carriages, especially in the Strand, was immense. And, above the hubbub and noise of hoofs and wheels, vendors cried their wares, assisted by trumpet or bell, in a continual cacophony: ‘Buy my floun … ders!’ ‘Sixpence a pound fair cher … ries!’ ‘Crab, crab, any crab!’ ‘Buy a dish of great ee … ls’ ‘Hot baked war … dens!’

His progress was slow, and twice he had his driver stop to buy cold ginger beer, and once to buy a muffin, so that it was almost four o’clock before he reached the premises of Mr Gieve in Piccadilly, the tailor who kept the sealed patterns for the uniforms of the 6th Light Dragoons. But he needed less than an hour there, for his letter had arrived ten days before and his new regimentals were ready for fitting. He was pleased at having been able to steal a march on the legions of officers whose own uniforms, too, had been worn to rags, and who would doubtless soon be descending on their tailors to amend their pulled-down appearance (as well as the many officers who had received brevets and field promotions who would be wanting to make the appropriate embellishments).

‘They look very fine, sir,’ said the little round cutter who attended him, adjusting his equally round spectacles as he made deft marks with a chalk on tunic and overalls. ‘We will only require a day or so to adjust them, sir. May we now fit the levee dress?’

Hervey noted with satisfaction how the pelisse hung from the left shoulder, examining its fall with particular attention between two standing looking-glasses. ‘Yes, they are fine. Let us to the levee dress, then.’

The Sixth’s levee dress consisted of a tunic of the same pattern as the other regimentals but of finer cloth — a dark blue coatee with gold epaulettes, a high collar and bib-front in buff, the regiment’s facing colour. With it were worn white cotton breeches rather than the heavier buckskin for review order, and tasselled patent-leather knee (or Hessian) boots.

‘You may of course wear court shoes instead of the boots, sir, when not a strictly military occasion,’ prompted the genial cutter.

Hervey added a pair to his order but made the economy of specifying pinchbeck for the buckles rather than anything grander: he had gold enough from the Peninsula but he did not care to see it on his feet.

‘Finally, sir, we must fit your court overalls.’

Hervey was generous in his praise of the stitching of the gold lace on these: ‘Upon my word, the stripes are most beautifully executed. And the court hat?’

The cocked hat with its white ostrich feathers, worn perfectly fore-and-aft in the Sixth, was to his mind an unnecessary extravagance since he could not conceive of any occasion for its use, unlike the overalls which were also worn as undress in the evening. Nevertheless, the hat was tried and it, too, was a sound fit.

‘You did not specify a pelisse coat in your instructions, sir. May I enquire if that is still your intention?’

Hervey swallowed awkwardly. His pelisse coat had been lost at Corunna, and the compensation paid for the loss of private property not been sufficient to replace everything: he had chosen to forgo a coat, extravagantly frogged and braided, hoping that one might be acquired on campaign at a reduced price. But there had been no such opportunity. The pelisse coat was an indulgence, a conceit, for nothing in regulations prescribed it. However, now that they would be returning to the ways of peace he knew that without one he would be bound to take endless rib-bending from the dandies. Besides, it was a very handsome conceit. ‘How much would a coat be?’

‘Twelve guineas, sir.’ And a coat was added to the order. ‘To where do you wish these severally to be consigned, sir?’

Hervey had not considered this and, after a moment or two reviewing the options, he decided on Horningsham.

‘Very good, sir. And may I on behalf of Mr Gieve be so bold as to say how gratified we are to see the first of our officers home, and safely.’

Very prettily put, thought Hervey — and genuine enough, he reckoned. ‘I am very much obliged to you, Mr Rippingale, and I hope to have occasion to visit you oftener in future.’

His next appointment was with the regimental agents, Messrs Greenwood, Cox & Hammersly of Craig’s Court. Here his reception was courteous enough but stiff, without any of the warmth of his tailor’s, and he soon formed the impression that to them he was no more than an inventory item, and a not especially valued one at that. For, although he would have, as a lieutenant, a book-value of twelve hundred pounds, lieutenants, even of light cavalry, would soon be the proverbial ten-a-penny, and the extra profits from officers paying over price would all but disappear. He was dealt with throughout by a clerk (and not over-civilly), none of the partners emerging to take notice, though at least one, he was sure, had walked through the chambers.

‘“Every man thinks meanly of himself for never having been to sea nor having been a soldier.”’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said the clerk in some confusion.

‘Nothing; it is nothing,’ replied Hervey, sighing to himself how optimistic had been Dr Johnson’s view. First the officials and bond-dealers at Dover, and now a clerk in an army agent’s. Was England tiring already of her soldiers? ‘Damned quill-drivers!’ he muttered as he left.

The Earl of Sussex was not at home when Hervey called the following morning. In June he habitually left the Albany for his seat in Oxfordshire. The earl had been colonel of the Sixth since before Bonaparte had crowned himself emperor, and had always exercised a distant but proprietorial interest in his regiment. Unusually, Hervey