Man Of War

Howard rang for a messenger to bring tea. ‘By the by, your last letter was most welcome. It gave the official account a little colour, shall we say.’

‘Somerset’s account? I fancy it was accurate, but . . . incomplete.’

Howard smiled. ‘The duke was of the same opinion.’

Hervey was content again. He held that virtue, if not entirely its own reward, would certainly speak for itself, but he was ever grateful to have such a friend at court as John Howard. They had known each other these dozen years and more, never intimately but with the highest mutual regard. ‘Rather a wild place, the Cape Colony. At least, that is, the eastern frontier; the Cape itself is a most delightful place. The east will increasingly be like trying to erect defences against the sea, for I can’t suppose there can be a settled frontier for as long as there are untold millions wandering the interior.’

Howard looked not exactly sceptical, but his enquiry suggested he had supposed it otherwise. ‘Do you believe it of any greater order of apprehension than was, say, India, or the Americas?’

Hervey nodded slowly. ‘You have to stand in that country to get a true sense of it. I never had so powerful a feeling of being in deep waters – never in America, nor India. I mean . . . of waters that ran so deep.’ Lord John Howard could only imagine. He had rarely served beyond Whitehall and had never heard a shot fired in anger except very distantly. But Hervey both liked and respected him for his diligence as a staff officer and his absence of pretentiousness and conceit.

‘Is that the lieutenant-governor’s opinion too?’

‘It is. I sent on Sir Eyre’s opinion and the estimates to the Colonies Office this morning.’

The messenger returned with tea.

Howard let him pour two cups and withdraw before cutting to the subject that he knew must preoccupy his friend. ‘The court of inquiry for Waltham Abbey: you will not know what is decided as to the evidence, I imagine?’

Hervey shook his head: he had heard nothing; but this was not in truth his preoccupation. ‘Howard, if we may, before the inquiry, I should very much like to ask you of this affair at Navarino. You know that Peto was under orders to join Codrington’s fleet: it would be good to hear confirmation that he’s well.’

Howard looked surprised: the battle had been six months ago (although its consequences were almost daily a matter of speculation). And then he nodded. ‘I have to remind myself of the distance you have been from the centre of affairs. Do you not, though, receive the Gazette regularly?’

‘We were several in arrears when I left the Cape.’

‘Well, Peto’s name was not on the list. That, I may assure you. I would most certainly have noticed – and, indeed, have remarked on it at once on seeing you, for I know what a friend he is. I myself would count him so. When my clerk is returned this evening I shall have him hunt out the relevant Gazette with Codrington’s despatch and all. I confess I read its detail but cursorily. It was an affair of much pounding, as far as I could tell.’

‘I’m relieved to hear he’s not on the list at any rate. I’d be indeed obliged if your man could hunt out the despatch. There ought to be copies in the United Service, but the imminent move seems to have disordered things somewhat.’

Howard nodded, wrote a short memorandum and placed it in his tray.

Hervey could now turn with a clearer mind to his own concerns. ‘I saw Sir Francis Evans in the United Service this morning. He said the new commander-in-chief is unhappy with the inquiry.’

‘Well, it vexes Lord Hill, certainly,’ said Howard, pouring them both more tea. ‘Though it’s not a matter of pre-eminent urgency exactly. What to do with the Militia is the question of the moment – and, of course, where to find troops for every scheme the government has dreamed up. That, though, is a good deal less of a business now with the duke in the saddle. No, Lord Hill is of the opinion that the court of inquiry will end up all of a piece with the others we’ve been suffering these several past years, principally that we’re bound to have the radicals calling for even more retrenchment. But that is beside the point. The inquiry’s to take written evidence to begin with and then assemble to decide what they will. Your returning now is most apt: they make a beginning towards the end of May.’

Hervey sighed ruefully. ‘Who is to be president?’

‘It is not yet decided.’

There was just a note of evasion in the reply. Hervey narrowed his eyes and inclined his head.

Howard in turn sighed. ‘See, I may as well tell you as not. Hill wants Sir Peregrine Greville to do it.’

‘What?’

Howard looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘It is not decided absolutely.’

‘But why Greville? The old fool’s—’

Howard held up a hand. ‘Lord Hill believes that it is Sir Peregrine’s very . . . seclusion in the Channel Islands, his immunity from the condition of affairs here, that makes it apt for him to preside.’

Hervey struggled to suppress his rising panic. His indiscretions so far with Lady Katherine Greville had gone unremarked publicly, but such a state could not survive long once a court of inquiry were convened: every tattler and budding Gillray in London would be peddling the connection. ‘When will it be decided?’

‘Soon, I hope. The War Office has asked for a convening order by the month’s end.’ Howard rose. ‘I know it’s the very devil, but . . . Stay if you will for the moment; I must have words with Lord Hill.’

Hervey tried to compose himself. He exaggerated the danger, no doubt. But try as he might, he could not dismiss the image of exposure – and all that would follow: breaking-off of the engagement, an end to his hopes for command, perhaps even resignation of his commission. In truth, oblivion.

In a minute or so his friend returned. ‘Lord Hill wishes to see you.’

Hervey looked astonished. ‘Wishes to see me?’

‘I told him you were here, and he wishes you to tell him at first hand of the affair with the Zulu.’

Hervey breathed a sigh of profound relief, for he had supposed the worst, that the commander-in-chief wished to interrogate him on the business at Waltham Abbey – and by extension, though it were no logical progression, nor even likely that Lord Hill knew, about his connection with the wife of the Governor of Alderney and Sark.

‘He recalls you very well from Talavera, you know.’ Howard said it in just such a manner as gave away his admiration for a record of service as active as his own had been desk-bound.

‘Upon my word . . . It will not matter that I wear a plain coat?’

‘Not in the least.’ Howard smiled. ‘If you cannot wear scarlet it is infinitely better that you wear plain!’

Hervey rallied. ‘Nulli secundus, Howard. Don’t I recall that right?’

‘So say the Coldstream.’

Hervey’s interview with Lord Hill lasted a full half-hour. It was entirely agreeable. The general was not called ‘Daddy’ Hill by the army for nothing, and his appreciation of Hervey’s service that day at Talavera had not diminished with the years. At the close the commander-in-chief said simply that he, Hervey, was not to worry over the business of Waltham Abbey: he felt certain the Sixth had acted with all proper and unavoidable severity. ‘Indeed, I may go as far as to say that as soon as the consequences of inaction that night are understood by the more radical sections of parliament and the press your gallant regiment’s standing will be even greater. Make no mistake, though, Hervey: the inquiry’ll be a deuced tiresome thing. There’ll be mischief.’

Afterwards, Hervey took his leave of the Horse Guards without ceremony, conscious that Lord John Howard had pressing business to be about (the sooner the Lisbon five thousand were back on these shores, or at Gibraltar, the sooner, quite evidently, would the new commander-in-chief and the new prime minister be content). The two friends made an appointment to dine at Howard’s club – White’s – later in the week, and Howard assured Hervey that he would send any news of the inquiry to the United Service with the greatest promptness.

Hervey now hurried to Westminster Abbey. He had never been inside before, an admission which Fairbrother had found at once extraordinary and engaging. He wondered if indeed Fairbrother would still be at the abbey, for he had stayed twice as long at the Horse Guards as expected. The abbey had been their rendezvous, however, and it being empty of any other life save a candle trimmer, Hervey found his friend easily enough, by a marble monument to naval prowess, though not to ‘the immortal memory’.

‘Lord Nelson’s was as fine, I trust?’

Fairbrother looked resigned. ‘It is not here, but in the cathedral.’

Hervey frowned. ‘I should have known that. I don’t believe I did.’