A Close Run Thing

my own,’ Hervey rasped. And, turning to the magistrate, he issued his own warning: ‘Mr Gould, I am obliged to follow your instructions but I will not stand by and witness an assault.’

‘I think the officer may be correct in law, Mr Fitzgerald: that was an unwise thing for your man to do,’ replied the magistrate hesitantly.

Hervey meanwhile had dismounted and, followed by Strange and Armstrong, began to help the evicted man to his feet. The rest of the family were crying and shaking, Hervey took off his cloak and put it round the three younger children, and Strange’s and Armstrong’s cloaks covered the remaining two and their mother.

‘In God’s name will yer look at that!’ exclaimed the agent, with so much contempt that Magistrate Gould shifted awkwardly in the saddle again, and he defiantly beckoned forward the wheeled contraption.

Its purpose was quickly revealed, and its work did not take long. Two hooks on the ends of ropes were thrown on to the roof, a man clambered up and fixed each to a coign stone, the ropes were tensioned by the pulleys and then, in three strides of the draught-horses, the upper walls were pulled in and the roof collapsed. The crowbar brigade set to work and within a quarter of an hour the cottage was no more.

The troop watched in silence, only Armstrong giving voice to his feelings: ‘This’s no way to treat a dog. Not even the coal-owners stooped to this.’

‘Hold your peace, Serjeant Armstrong,’ said Strange.

Mellow Suffolk again: Hervey would need every ounce of composure before the day was out.

The next cottage proved an altogether more stubborn proposition. Hervey knew well enough that it was Fineen O’Mahoney’s, and that he would not walk out meekly as the others had.

The door and window were firmly barricaded, and the crowbar men could make no impression. ‘Put the hooks on the roof, then; if they won’t come out, we’ll carry ’em out!’ the agent called to his foreman.

‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ shouted Hervey. ‘There’s a family in there, for pity’s sake.’

‘Then he’s the reckless one for not coming out!’ snapped Fitzgerald. ‘Get them hooks on!’

Even above the noise of the rain and the crowbar men’s hubbub Fineen O’Mahoney’s voice could be heard shouting in a manner at once both pleading and defiant: ‘I’ve a sick wife and mo phaisti in here, and a sister. For mercy’s sake leave us!’

A sister — O’Mahoney had but one. Hervey’s stomach tightened. That Caithlin was there put paid to his hope that the O’Mahoneys might be brought out without a fight, for he had intended bringing her from her father’s cottage to try to persuade her brother to quit. And, while the eviction of the first family had been hard enough to bear, they were at least strangers to him: Caithlin’s presence changed everything. ‘Mr Gould, it cannot be lawful to pull a roof down on the heads of a family,’ he shouted.

Fitzgerald glowered at the magistrate, who dithered. It was the due process of law, he replied. ‘But go easy with the roof,’ he called to the agent — as if the idea were even practicable.

‘No!’ shouted Hervey. ‘You will not touch that roof!’

* * *

‘Tell me, Mr Hervey, what then happened as a consequence of your altercation with the agent?’

Matthew Hervey’s sodden uniform clung to him tighter by the minute. The big fire in Major Edmonds’s office had begun to dry the front of his overalls (so long had he been standing at attention recounting the events at Kilcrea), and he struggled hard not to shiver lest it gave his commanding officer the wrong impression. ‘I told Serjeant Armstrong to escort the crowbar brigade clear of the village, sir, and Serjeant Strange to dispose the remainder of the troop to prevent their return.’

‘And what did the magistrate then say?’

‘He kept ordering me to desist; but I repeated, several times, that I would not be a party to injuring women and children, whatever his orders were — sir.’

‘Were those lawful orders, do you consider?’

‘With respect, sir, I am not a lawyer.’

‘No, Mr Hervey, indeed you are not. And if you cannot be sure that they were unlawful orders you had no business disobeying them.’

‘I could not be sure that they were lawful, sir, and in that case I should have thought it reckless to conform, especially since there was no threat to life in disobeying — whereas just the contrary was true.’

‘That is veritably a moot point. It does not pass muster with me, and I doubt it would in court. Are you sure that your friendship with these people did not cloud your judgement?’

‘I do not believe so, sir. It would have mattered not to me who was inside that cottage.’

Joseph Edmonds sighed and then swore to himself. ‘Mr Hervey, why are we stationed here in Cork?’

Hervey continued to look directly ahead. ‘In aid of the civil power, sir.’

‘Just so. And on what duty — in the general sense — were you engaged this morning?’

‘Aid to the civil power, sir.’

‘So, Mr Hervey, by your own admission you have failed to do your particular duty and, in that failure, you have set yourself not only against military authority but against the civil as well.’

Hervey assumed the judgement to be rhetorical.

‘Answer me, Mr Hervey!’ barked Edmonds.

‘Sir, that is as Mr Gould and Mr Fitzgerald would see it.’

Edmonds sighed again. ‘In heaven’s name, Mr Hervey, I doubt you will find anyone who sees it any differently. This is not Merrie England; we are beyond the Pale — the arse-end of the realm. Who do you suppose is in the slightest degree interested in the niceties of conscience when there’s rebellion lurking in every hedgerow?’

Hervey remained silent.

Edmonds picked up several sheets of paper on his desk and held them out towards him. ‘Do you know what this represents?’ he demanded. ‘Never have I seen a deposition from a magistrate written so fast: it is a declaration of intent, an example to be made — exemplary punishment and all that!’

Hervey shivered, and was angry that he did so.

‘Do you have anything more to say at this juncture?’ asked Edmonds, shaking his head.

‘No, sir,’ replied Hervey calmly.

‘Very well,’ said the major, now equally composed, ‘you will hand your sword to the adjutant forthwith and retire to your quarters on parole, and there I suggest you render your entire account in writing.’

Hervey unfastened the two belt-loops from the D-rings on his scabbard and held out his sabre. The adjutant took it and acknowledged with a brisk bow, and then Hervey turned smartly to his right, saluted and left the orderly room.

‘Events have a strange habit of repeating themselves,’ said the adjutant when the door was closed.

Edmonds’s brow furrowed. ‘You and I should have done the same. At least, I hope we should. Besides all else, the surest way to provoke trouble here is to become embroiled in the dirty business of absentee landlords. However, the law as it stands is unequivocal. I shall forward a report to General Slade, but I do not suppose that the great man will have gained one ounce in sagacity since his translation here. I very much fear that this will make the incident at Toulouse seem a tea-fight.’

That night Hervey wrote one letter, to Oxford. ‘My dear Keble,’ it began, and, after confirmation of the concerns of his letter of the night before, and of the events since: T fear that I am finished. But I believe I have done my duty to these people — and, indeed, to the king, for they are his loyal enough subjects if chance they be given. The law which should equally be their defender seems only to be the instrument of driving them to rebellion …’

CHAPTER ELEVEN. A NOBLE PEER