Man Of War

Hervey looked at his friend suspiciously. ‘That she may know her affianced is well.’

Now Fairbrother sighed, and took a long measure of his brandy-soda. ‘My dear friend, I do not even apologize for pressing this. We are by accident or otherwise close companions; but I counsel the greatest caution in all this. I know what I believe, though I cannot be certain: no woman of your sister’s sensibility would do as she does without the utmost conviction. If you persist in . . . frankly, hectoring her, you risk both reinforcing her will and driving her from you.’

Hervey was tired. He had not slept much these past days, and his mind had been wholly active during the journey up. He was in no mood for dispute, even if he had had the inclination. He too took a long measure of his brandy-soda. ‘Fairbrother, I confess that in Horningsham I wished you were not there; and now I’m only thankful you were. If there is some strange female madness in this, or wilfulness, the last thing I wish is that I make matters worse. If you believe that I serve my purpose better by caution, then so be it. I confess I am at a loss to know how to bring Elizabeth to her senses, only that I must.’ He drained his glass, placed it on the wine table between their tubs, and stood. ‘Come; let us go and find a chop house.’

Fairbrother finished his glass and rose without a word. He must be content enough that he had achieved his immediate object, even if his friend entirely mistook his purpose.

Next day, Hervey took Fairbrother to watch the changing of the guard, before going to see Lord John Howard. He felt most particularly well. The remittent fever, the last bout of which had laid him so low at the Cape, was now wholly expelled, and he had back his colour and constitution in full measure. And the iklwa wound to his leg was but a neat scar. He felt ready for the saddle again, and watching the Life Guards only increased that certainty.

The business of Elizabeth occupied him, but by no means exclusively. On the drive back to London the matter of the court of inquiry had returned once more to the forefront of his mind. He knew that he ought by rights to be dealing with the matter by first applying to the Sixth’s orderly room, and they in turn to the headquarters of the London District, but the disadvantages of following the ‘chain of command’ were all too obvious. Besides, who with a friend at court – the commander-in-chief ’s headquarters – would apply, so to speak, at the palace’s back door? He was, indeed, almost shameless in this now. Where once he would have thought it beneath the dignity of a regimental officer to concern himself with anything but the regiment, he now knew otherwise: an officer must keep himself as much posted of affairs in Whitehall, in both military headquarters and civil ministries, as of events in the field. He despised the necessity, of course; but it did not follow that he must despise himself in the exercise of that necessity. Why should he leave the race open to lesser men who would not balk at chicanery? Even the Duke of Wellington had not risen by merit alone.

And with each chicane he found the business a little easier. Sometimes he did not at first recognize what he did. He wondered, indeed, if there were occasions when he did not later recognize it. And it troubled him. While he had been a prisoner in Badajoz – not eighteen months past – he had resolved to lead a new life, as the Prayer Book had it. His coming marriage had sprung from that very resolution. But soon the muddy business of the army in peacetime (what other way was there to describe the business of obtaining command?), and, he had to admit, his own weakness of will, had recalled him to the ways he had forsworn. It did indeed trouble him. But he took comfort in knowing in what cause it was: he wished only for a peaceful and settled state of matrimony, as once he had enjoyed (albeit briefly, and not without tempest, although passionate to a degree which the recollection of could discomfit him still). He wished above all for a proper and settled state of family for Georgiana. And he wished, and confided that the wish were not inimical to that cause, for command of the Sixth.

This latter he was never more sure of than now. The time at the Cape Colony with his troop, and with a half-colonel’s brevet and command of the Cape Mounted Rifles, had convinced him that only the lieutenant-colonelcy of his own regiment, the regiment he had joined as a seventeen-year-old cornet and which had become his true family, could satisfy what it was inside him that remained after the death of Henrietta. It defied logic: he would be full colonel today if only he had accepted other offers (he chided himself for false modesty: he might be major general). It was not logic but something visceral. It began at Corunna, when the Sixth had stayed together and come through it together, where others had fallen apart. And in the years of Peninsular endurance that followed – the long, wearying years through Portugal and Spain, siege after siege, battle after battle: so many comradely friendships forged, so many of those friends lost. And Waterloo, battle of battles, a day like no other, longer than any he could recall, where he had watched a serjeant go knowingly to his death so that he, Hervey, might escape to do his duty, and the good name of the Sixth be burnished ever the brighter. And the Armstrongs and the Collinses, the Wainwrights and the Johnsons, and the countless others – faithful witnesses, all; how could he rest as long as there was the possibility of holding the reins of His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons?

He had sent a note in advance to Lord John Howard and was therefore admitted quickly, the assistant quartermaster-general receiving him with his customary warmth. Hervey marvelled as ever at his friend’s ability to give the impression of having all the time in the world, though the business of the army came across his desk. It did not trouble him that Howard, by his own admission, had never heard a shot fired in anger: he knew how the army worked, and how to work it. But not only that: he had enjoyed the confidence of two very different commanders-in- chief – the Duke of Wellington and his predecessor, the Duke of York – and it looked very much as if he would gain that of a third. Hervey knew that whatever his own superiority at arms might be, he could never have filled his friend’s boots. Lord John Howard was no mere military courtier, as once he had supposed him to be; he was a staff officer, and one with a rare imagination for the consequences for those at the disposal of his pen – and for those at whose disposal that pen was.

‘My dear fellow, how very good it is to see you,’ said his friend, smiling, shaking Hervey’s hand almost boyishly, and indicating a chair. ‘I have just learned the deucedest piece of news, which I would have sent to you at once had you not so felicitously presented yourself.’

A messenger brought in coffee. Hervey had to wait while the coffee was poured before learning what it was that so animated his friend (it was evidently of a sensitive nature, not merely confidential). He took the opportunity to thank him for sending the reassurance of Peto’s absence from the Navarino casualty lists. As soon as the messenger was gone, he returned eagerly to the promised news. ‘Deucedest?’

Howard nodded, leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘Have you heard of a place called Retford, in Nottinghamshire?’

Hervey recalled it well, and smiled ruefully. ‘I do believe I led a cavalry charge there, or very close, these ten years past.’

His friend caught the smile. ‘Ah yes; so you did. Rather like Waltham Abbey, was it not?’

It had been an affair of Luddites, ‘blanketeers’ or whatever banner they marched under. In any case, it had been machine-breaking and worse on a grand scale. ‘I don’t recall that we had cause to shoot so many.’ Hervey’s tone was decidedly sardonic.

Howard took note of the signal. ‘Well, Retford – East Retford to be precise – returns a member of parliament, and since the place is no more now than a few farmhouses, there’s a move to give the seat to a city; Birmingham, I think.’

Hervey evidently strained at the less-than-momentous news.

‘Oh, it’s no very great business, of course, but Palmerston believes it to be his opportunity for principle. There are other seats too for “reform”. And all rather closer to home than the vexing affairs of Catholic voters in Ireland. He told me the other evening at White’s that he was giving it his gravest consideration, that he could not rest until he had persuaded the cabinet of the urgent need of redistributing a great number of seats.’

‘Is one of them Waltham Abbey?’ asked Hervey caustically. ‘If reform of parliament is truly to be had, I think it a pity that East Retford did not engage Palmerston sooner. I confess a growing detestation of such places!’

Howard raised an eyebrow sympathetically. ‘What are we come to if such men as you speak thus? Well, the duke has the reins now, so we may hope for better times.’

Hervey finished his coffee and laid down the cup. ‘But I don’t see the import of East Retford. Frankly, my dear Howard, I am interested in but one thing at present, and that is the progress of the inquiry.’

‘Of course, forgive me; I should have made it plain. Palmerston has asked that the inquiry be postponed until the question of East Retford is settled.’

Postponement was in some ways to Hervey’s advantage (especially if it were to be until after the wedding), but he was uncertain. ‘Why? I don’t see the connection.’

‘A public hearing on Waltham Abbey, with all the business of Irishmen and gunpowder, would serve only to