A Call to Arms

which indeed the man confirmed as he held out a hand in welcome.

Father Robert Gradwell was striking in both appearance and bearing. Eyes that felt as if they pierced to the soul, albeit with gentleness, at once engaged the visitor; and when Hervey had detached himself from their hold he saw a face that might have been the Duke of Wellington’s own, for the features were spare, hawklike, fervent. Indeed, so arresting was the comparison that Hervey made a very faltering introduction for himself, and took a little time to explain that he would deem it a great privilege if he might see inside the seminary. He half expected to be asked for what purpose, but Father Gradwell did not enquire; he simply welcomed him, warmly and without condition.

Although it seemed otherwise, Hervey knew that the rector could not have had long experience of showing the college to chance visitors such as he. The house had only lately reopened following Bonaparte’s long occupation of what had variously been described as the Roman republic or the vassal kingdom of France’s. But mercifully, the evidence was not as great as it might have been, although horses had been stabled where the venerabili prayed, and the tombs had been opened for their imagined treasure. Least spoiled of all was the little garden, a very singular feature according to the rector, for where in other palazzi there would be a cortile, with pots and running water perhaps, here was a place where in but a few moments an Englishman might think himself at home. Hervey, certainly, was able to cast his mind to Horningsham and to conjure an image of his parents, his father especially, for in no man could there be a closer unity of chancel and garden than in the Reverend, indeed now the Venerable, Thomas Hervey.

When the garden had pleased enough, the rector showed him some of the college’s treasures — memorials rather than fine plate — and then conducted him to what he called the chapel of the Martyrs. ‘I expect you shall wish to be in peace here. It is our custom to offer hospitality to any visitor. Please come to the refectory when you are quite ready.’

Hervey murmured his thanks, and the rector took his leave. He stood at the chapel door for some time before he felt ready to enter, for here was a place where the remembrance of English blood was as real as in the chapels-turned-dressing-posts he had seen too often in the ‘never-ending war’. At length he went inside, got to his knees and closed his eyes. A quarter of an hour he remained thus, his prayers a ramble of pleas for the living and the dead — and for himself above all, for he could not in his heart believe that Henrietta needed his oration, nor yet that the living had more need of divine help than he. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of Henrietta before him. It was a picture that no other had seen. Even in this most sacred place he had no scruple in conjuring the picture of passion which had transformed her face.

And then when he could no longer bear it, he opened his eyes and fixed them instead on Alberti’s commanding allegory of persecution, so vivid a reredos, so prized a survivor of Bonaparte’s occupation, Father Gradwell had said. So vivid, indeed, as to overpower. Hervey transferred his gaze to the crucifix on the high altar, wanting all the strength it could give. But he was not practised enough, and tears began to flow, gently at first, and then almost with convulsions, so that he had to take out a handkerchief and clutch it to his eyes. He sat back and picked up one of the cards from the pew. On it were the names of the venerabili, for whom a Te Deum was sung periodically. Such ordinary names they were, so very English, unlikely-sounding martyrs: Ralph Sherwin, John Wall, Thomas Cottam, Edward James — too long a list to contemplate without wondering what guilt for their deaths remained.

Perhaps he should not have come. He had wanted to see if a place of so much willing sacrifice might have some secret message, some hidden power to ease the pain which every day visited him no matter how determinedly he sought diversions. But there was no message, nor any power to dull the pain. Those who might know of these things — John Keble, Daniel Coates, his father even — had said that only time could ease, that a search for an opiate was at best futile and at worst destructive, and that what would see him through time was God, and his own strength of character.

The trouble was that God did not come to his aid, and that his own strength looked increasingly ill-matched with the trial. Hervey closed his eyes once more, and sought the simplicity of St Mark. ‘Lord, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘Help thou mine unbelief.’

CHAPTER FOUR. THE FELLOWSHIP OF BLACK POWDER

A week later

When Commodore Peto arrived, Elizabeth recorded in her journal a distinct and immediate rise in her brother’s spirits. Shelley noted it too, and was at first discouraged that his own company had evidently been deficient. But Shelley could not — even if he had been so minded — hold any part of that against the commodore, whose direct manner and decidedly radical sentiments he found altogether engaging. Their company in the first days was delightful to each.

The evening Peto arrived had been a private affair between the two old friends, however. Not even Elizabeth joined them for supper, for she knew her brother would only speak were she elsewhere.

‘Tell me, then,’ Peto had demanded when they took their table at his lodgings, the Albergo d’Inghilterra. ‘What was done with Towcester? For you were silent on the matter in your letters.’

Perhaps most men would first have expressed sadness at the loss of a wife, even at the semi-orphaning of an infant, for the two had not met since the day of Hervey’s wedding; but Peto knew he did not have to speak of it. Long days, weeks, months together in those close quarters of the frigate Nisus had made for an understanding between the two men, and mere sentiment would have been repugnant to them both.

‘I sent you the report in the London Gazette,’ Hervey replied.

‘A very dry account. I want to know how things went.’

The cameriere had come to the table again, and asked them in English what they wished to order.

Peto did not hesitate. Indeed, he had not even consulted the blackboard which the cameriere had previously brought. ‘Trippa!’

Hervey looked surprised. Peto’s taste he knew to be choice, almost fastidious.

‘Three months at sea gives a man a powerful taste for the byre!’ was the commodore’s explanation.

Other occupants of the dining room were now looking towards their table, though only Hervey noticed. He thought he had better share Peto’s taste.

The cameriere began speaking excitedly, and in Italian. Hervey caught the word Trastevere, but little else. Eventually, one of the albergo’s men in authority came. He spoke with the cameriere, and then explained, in English and with great politeness, that it was not the practice of the Albergo d’Inghilterra to prepare dishes from the ‘fifth quarter’, as the Romans called it, but that if they were to cross the river to the Trastevere they could indulge their pleasure at liberty.

Peto looked at Hervey, as if his longer time in Rome might effect a change of practice. Hervey sought to accommodate both sides. ‘What do you recommend in its place, signor?’

The man in authority was certain. ‘Vitello, signori. You will not taste finer in this city!’

Peto looked at him blankly.

‘Capital,’ said Hervey, keen to close the dispute. ‘The fatted calf. Is that not appropriate, Peto?’

Peto might have wondered who was the prodigal, but his hunger got the better of his curiosity. ‘Ay. It will do nicely.’

Hervey thought to distance matters further from the affront to the commodore’s culinary discernment. ‘And to begin with, I believe we should try the little marrow flowers which they do here in a light batter. They are very fine.’

‘Good, good, but not too insubstantial, I hope. I’m fair famished.’