A Close Run Thing

The attorney raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Your Grace, that question is of the essence. The fact is that in the case of military aid to the civil power there has been much confusion. You are too young to remember the Gordon riots. I was in London at the time. The riots could have been nipped in the bud if everyone had not laboured under the misapprehension that, in law, the Riot Act had to have been read, and therefore the riot to have begun, before the magistrates could call upon the military. After the riots there was a great deal of legal argument but, alas, there were few firm rulings. The best interpretation, ironically — though, alas, it has no force of law — was that given by the Archbishop of York in the House of Lords. Here it is,’ declared Nugent with a flourish, holding open a large bound volume. ‘It will form the centrepiece of my submission. The archbishop declares that “a fatal error prevailed among the military that they could not in any case act without the orders of a civil magistrate which is the case when a great mob has assembled but has not yet proceeded to acts of violence. But when they have begun to commit felonies any subject, and the military among the rest, is justified in Common Law in using all methods to prevent illegal acts.”’

‘That seems clear enough,’ replied the duke. ‘Who will make the ruling in this case?’

‘It would be argued in front of a judge advocate at a court martial — the facts themselves are not in any material dispute. The judgment would turn on whether or not collapsing a roof with the occupants inside amounted to an illegal act.’

‘Good heavens, man! We’ve hanged people in England this year for doing less than that — Luddites and the like. They get up great steel hawsers round the chimneys and bring them crashing through the roof. How in God’s name is it any different here?’

‘Your Grace, it happens here every day. A few months ago it was done in front of the Bishop of Meath himself. His protests at the time, and subsequently, came to nothing.’

William Devonshire, not yet versed in these disparities within the Union, was unsettled by the revelation, and a steely resolve came to him in that instant. Cornet Hervey, he now knew, had not only in his judgement acted honourably — indeed, in the only way a gentleman could — he had acted within the bounds of justice, and if the Law here could not admit of that, then he would ensure the case came before the highest court of appeal in the Union. Meanwhile he could at least use all his good offices to have Hervey released from arrest. He thanked everyone for their forbearance, declined, with much regret, the invitation to dine and stay the night, and instead, though it was already dark, began the journey back to Lismore.

Elizabeth and Henrietta had retired long before his return in the early hours, so it was breakfast before he could recount what had passed in Cork.

‘Then Elizabeth and I may go and see him, at least?’ said Henrietta as he finished.

That much was reasonable, he agreed, but he counselled patience. ‘I have already sent an express to General Slade asking for Cornet Hervey to be released into open arrest, for which I have agreed to stand surety if that be necessary. I do not think the general will find it expedient to deny the request. As to whether charges will be pressed — that is another matter entirely.’

Between them, the officers of the 6th Light Dragoons subscribed to four hunts, five if Mr Croker’s scratch- pack at Ballingard in Limerick were counted. The Muskerry hounds had hunted the fox in County Cork for the best part of a century, and the home troop enjoyed their bank and wall country on Wednesdays and Saturdays. When that hunt met as far west as Macroom, however, the officers would instead join those of the Bandon troop to the south and ride out with the Carberry. Sometimes hounds would run right down to Bantry Bay where the field would then overnight riotously in the town, or the military followers might ride on to Skibbereen and billet themselves on the outstation there. The Mallow troop subscribed to the oldest pack, the Duhallow, whose southernmost meets were also accessible to the home troop. Hervey preferred their country to the Carberry’s since there was less plough. But the hunt he loved best was the Scarteen: Mr Thaddeus Ryan’s black and tan hounds hunted both fox and stag over the finest bank-and-ditch country imaginable, and so good was the scent that hounds ran faster here than anywhere in Ireland.

Before his altercation with the Ballinhassig magistrate had brought an abrupt end to his hunting, Hervey had managed no less than thirty days out, over half of them with the Scarteen. And on his release into open arrest (Slade having found the Duke of Devonshire’s appeal more than compelling) his spirits were once again restored — at least outwardly — by some of the longest and fastest points he had ever known, and in the company of the two women for whom his admiration and affection knew no equal. Beyond what was necessary, however, the three had no conversation on the matter of his arrest, for if the outcome of the due process of military law were favourable, then there would be time enough to talk of it, and with the necessary dispassion. But if the outcome were unfavourable, then it were better that he had at least some happy memories of carefree sport and good company to sustain him in the darker times to come. Throughout these weeks he enjoyed the generous and civilized hospitality of Lismore, or of the duke’s hunting box in Tipperary, but not the company of the duke himself; for, on the pretext of business in connection with his estates, the duke was working assiduously towards Hervey’s thorough acquittal. Indeed, his acquittal was to the duke an utmost imperative.

By the end of November, Hervey and Henrietta had spent the greater part of every week in each other’s company, only the occasional field day or picket duty requiring his presence in Cork. Yet Elizabeth would confide to her journal that their association seemed no further advanced in those precious weeks than it had been on their parting at Horningsham. Hervey, had he kept a journal, would have confided the same: in general company Henrietta was easy, full of laughter and game, but each time there was any opportunity for intimacy she became perceptibly distant — distant enough, in any event, to daunt any affirmation of his true feeling. It was not that his heart had faltered, but the arrest had sapped at his surety, as a worm in an oak, and he supposed Henrietta’s certainty to be likewise diminished. With each day he felt the initiative slipping yet further away, and he could conceive of no stratagem by which to recover it.

Then one morning, as the Black and Tans were drawing covert in some of their best country, near the southern end of the Golden Vale, Henrietta took him by surprise. ‘Matthew, this is heaven, but I hear tell that the Muskerry are not to be missed. May we have a day with them, perhaps when next they hunt west of Cork?’

‘We may, of course,’ he replied, ‘but it is poor hunting compared with this.’

‘In truth,’ she returned, ‘I would see the country in which you made so gallant a stand with the magistrate. Believe me, Matthew, a woman might admire such courage.’

And Hervey had been nothing but encouraged by this apparent resolution of doubt on Henrietta’s part, taking no note of the conditional in her assertion of admiration.

The arrangements were made easily enough, and the following week he, Elizabeth and Henrietta were to be found with the sky-blue collar of Mr Samuel Hawkes, the Muskerry’s master, drawing the south bank of the River Lee from the meet at the artillery barracks in Ballincollig. By midday they were near Kilcrea, as Henrietta hoped they would be, and when Hervey disclosed this fact she asked if they might see the village. They left the field — and Elizabeth — and rode to the little settlement which he had not seen since the day of his arrest over a month before.

Peat smoke rose from the holes in the thatch-roofs and from the chimneys of the more substantial cottages, but there was not a soul to be seen. Scarcely had they turned into the single muddy street, however, than the occupants of the dismal dwellings began to emerge, and as Hervey passed each door he returned their greetings in the same tongue. But, wary though the greetings were, and ignorant of the tongue that Henrietta was, there was no doubting their benevolence. One face at least bore him a smile, however, and he could not but reflect it. As he reached the cottage where first he had begun his precipitous friendships, he sprang from the saddle to hold out his hand to Caithlin O’Mahoney, but she dismissed his formality and instead put both hands firmly on his shoulders to kiss him on each cheek.

Scarce a dozen words (of Irish) passed between them before Hervey turned to Henrietta, yet in the space of those seconds of vocal intimacy Henrietta’s doubts seemed confirmed: all her instincts were to turn her horse for Cork. Only pride kept her hands still.

The fine cloth and colours of his uniform had thrown the village and its people into drab contrast, and his black coat for once made him almost a part of that scene, but the golden-yellow velvet of Henrietta’s riding habit was in stark contrariety. Caithlin knew that the cash-crops of the entire village would not in one year be enough to buy such clothes. And, for certain, all that there was inside their cottage, into which Henrietta now stepped at her invitation (and with perfect graciousness), would buy neither scent nor gloves for such a lady. Caithlin was at ease,