A Close Run Thing

‘Don’t lie.’

‘I … I just put in a good word for you from time to time. You’d do the same for me!’

Hervey laughed. ‘I just have!’

Armstrong’s expression lost its remaining assurance. ‘What do you mean?’

I mean last week. While you were with my intended at riding school, I rode over to Kilcrea to see Michael O’Mahoney. And he asked me if you were good enough to be a son-in-law.’

Armstrong was struck dumb, though he recovered after some self-conscious shuffling. ‘Ah, well, right enough. I’ve been on duty at that place for the best part of two months off an’ on since the trouble. I got to calling on the O’Mahoneys and walked out with Caithlin once or twice. I never thought I’d be asking an Irish lass to marry me, an’ I never would ’ave thought she’d have me — they may be dirt-poor, but she’s full of learnin’. I think the old man’s pleased enough but I couldn’t speak for them two brothers. She’s a grand lass, though. She’ll make a soldier’s wife right enough!’

Hervey agreed wholeheartedly. But whether she would be happy the other side of the barrack-room curtain … Well, it was none of his business now. However, if that was where she was to live, then Hervey was certain of one thing: she could not live more happily or, it would seem, more cherished than with this man.

‘An’ so will that Miss Lindsay make a soldier’s wife,’ said Armstrong, who could never be troubled with titles. ‘An’ it was me as told you as much in England if you remember!’

‘Indeed I do, Serjeant Armstrong; indeed I do!’

The orderly trumpeter, passing on his way to the middle of the square to sound ‘Watering’, was bemused by the sight of both men shaking hands and smiling. His call interrupted their mutual congratulations, however, demanding a further round of mundane inspections — a half-hour in the stables checking that buckets were full and clean. Afterwards Armstrong, his customary wile and composure restored, took advantage of the earlier bonhomie to probe on the question that occupied so much of ‘A’ Troop’s canteen talk. ‘The word in the mess is that “C” Troop will be wanting a new captain in a couple o’ months,’ he began.

‘Since you know so much, Serjeant Armstrong, you ought to know that I will not be eligible to apply!’ Hervey answered, sounding more than a little sore.

‘That I did not know, sir. How is it, then?’ asked Armstrong with a frown.

‘Because — and I do not wish this to become commonplace in the mess or the canteens — General Slade has in his dispatches declined to endorse any recommendation for promotion.’

‘What! An’ after all that business at Kilcrea?’

‘Because of the business there apparently. It seems my judgement is questionable!’

‘In God’s name! Can’t you appeal?’

‘I am not even meant to know! It is only because Lord George Irvine is acting as military secretary in Dublin that I learned about it. He recommends we let sleeping dogs lie for a while.’

‘Sleeping dogs be damned: you’re as good as finished in peacetime with a mark like that against you. That Gen’ral Slade ’as ’ad it in for the regiment since T’loos — that’s what this’s about! Can’t your grand friend the duke help?’

‘No, I think not. Something will up, peace or no. All we can do — as Major Edmonds would say — is be stoical.’

Armstrong looked puzzled: ‘Well, it’s all Greek to me!’

PART TWO. ONE HUNDRED DAYS

The Tiger has broken out of his den

The Ogre has been three days at sea

The Wretch has landed at Frejus

The Buzzard has reached Antibes

The Invader has arrived in Grenoble

The General has entered Lyons

Napoleon slept at Fontainebleau last night

The Emperor will proceed to the Tuileries today

His Imperial Majesty will address his loyal subjects tomorrow.

Paris broadsheet, April 1815

CHAPTER TWELVE. ‘EVIL NEWS RIDES POST’

Cork, 12 March 1815

The Times arrived in Cork each morning two days after leaving the new steam presses in Printing House Yard, unless strong contrary winds delayed the Bristol packet. From time to time its news arrived sooner, by word of mouth of some traveller who had covered the 130 miles from London to the great sea- port faster than the mail-coach’s twelve hours, and who had been able thereby to join an earlier sailing. But not often.

News of Bonaparte’s escape from Elba reached Cork in this accelerated fashion, however, and for several hours on 12 March 1815 one Jeremiah Sharrow, manufacturing apothecary’s agent, found himself the unlikely guest of the officers of the 6th Light Dragoons, who pressed him to every detail of the escape and the response of the government of Lord Liverpool. Without doubt Lord George Irvine, who had been retained in Dublin, much against his will, would have greeted the news with the pleasure that a sporting man takes in seeing a fine dog-fox break cover: with good hounds, and a huntsman who knew what he was about, the chase and prospect of a kill promised capital sport. Major Joseph Edmonds received it differently, however: ‘“Evil news rides post, while good news baits!”’

‘Milton, I think, sir,’ began Hervey, ‘but I cannot quite place it—’

‘Samson Agonistes.’

Hervey had watched the major’s spirits ebb throughout that winter. Command seemed a trial to him now, with nothing of the energy of those days before and after Toulouse. He no longer seemed to lose his temper even. Hervey had thought the news might somehow invigorate him when, as picket officer, he had brought it to the mess: instead it received only the melancholy quotation from Milton. Here, indeed, was the heavy heart of a family man who had spent practically every one of his thirty years in King George’s uniform on active service. He had no personal wealth to speak of, and although he had accumulated a little prize-money he had lamented that he would never be able to buy the lieutenant-colonelcy of even an infantry regiment now that peace had come to Europe. He was too old, he knew, to seek preferment with the Honourable East India Company. In truth he had privately become reconciled to going on to half-pay and to joining his wife and three daughters in Norwich. Hervey was puzzled none the less why this news of the flight from Elba was not greeted with more enthusiasm: surely it was cause for hope in one respect, for the fortunes of war were ever changing? The Agonistes seemed apt indeed — Samson ‘calm of mind, all passion spent’. It was not a heroic state — not a state fitting for this man in whom the regiment had placed its trust time and again, and who had never once failed them. ‘Do you believe there will be war again, sir?’ he asked (he would not be put off by the insouciance).