Warrior

manner of system do we have?'

He did not expect an answer of his friend, save perhaps, as the old saying went, that hard cases made bad law. The Duke of Wellington was the strongest supporter of purchase. Even Hervey was not so much opposed to the principle of purchase (he had seen its beneficent results), as to the abuses. Was it so very difficult to root these out?

He shifted awkwardly in his chair. 'Might . . . d'ye suppose . . . Lord Hill see me?'

Lord John Howard shifted in his own chair as awkwardly. 'My dear friend, you know that I am ever willing to advance your cause, but to arrange an interview with the commander-in-chief, I—'

Hervey stayed his embarrassment with a hand. The notion of an interview on such a matter was preposterous, for an officer could not recommend himself thus. 'I'm sorry.'

His friend sighed. 'See, it would be impossible that you call on him here. But he dines at the United Service this evening, with Lord Hardinge. Were you to encounter him in the hall . . .'

Hervey rose and made to leave. 'Thank you, Howard. You are ever good.'

They exchanged a little general news, before Howard seemed to remember something more pertinent.

'You do know, by the way, there's a new governor for the Cape? Lowry Cole.'

Hervey shook his head, though he knew that Somervile's appointment as lieutenant-governor was ipso facto of a temporary nature.

'He goes out in the autumn. Another friendly face for you.'

It was true. Sir Lowry Cole had a fine reputation from the Peninsula. He had commanded the 4th Division for much of it, and had almost certainly saved the day at Albuera. And he was a cavalryman. But with Somervile recalled . . . 'Well, no doubt there could be not a better man for the Cape, though I confess it will mean a good deal shorter rein for me.'

Lord John Howard smiled. 'The bit can still remain between your teeth, my friend. But see, I did not ask: how was Brighton?'

Hervey left the Horse Guards and turned right into Whitehall, thinking to make for the abbey, where he supposed there would be someone who knew where was the Roman bishop's house – or rather, as his father would have reminded him (since 'bishop', for a Catholic, could be but colloquial), the vicar apostolic. It was then it occurred to him that a hackney driver might know.

There were several cabs near the Houses of Parliament. He walked to the front of the rank, and enquired.

'I can't say I knows, sir,' replied the first. 'There not being the trade, so to speak. But I does know a Catholic shop, close on Grosvenor-square.'

Hervey was unsure what exactly the cabman meant by 'Catholic' shop – whether it was owned by a Catholic, or was like the shops in Rome which sold abominable articoli religiosi to the gullible pellegrini. Either way he would be making a first footing towards his objective. 'Very well, would you kindly convey me there?'

They drove by the pleasant way of parks – St James's, the Green and then Hyde Park. Ordinarily Hervey would have been much diverted by the sights and sounds, but the mission on which he was embarked was beginning to oppress him. At first he had thought it a fine thing: the Sixth would show everyone how they buried a 'daughter of the regiment'. Now, though, he could think only of Armstrong, and of the devastation the news would bring; and, indeed, the distress of the children. He himself had borne such a loss, of course, but Georgiana had known nothing of it. His serjeant-major's children, all but the very youngest, would know they had lost a mother. And he, Hervey, had had a loving family – still had – in which to contain his grief; Armstrong had none, his people long perished. How might he therefore enjoy such a drive as this, for all its sun and sylvan parks?

But even had he not been bent on his unhappy mission, the business of regimental command overcast the scene like a dark cloud. Was it really come to this: men from nowhere but the vast wealth of their estates, paying fortunes for the mere conceit of a smart uniform and having a regiment wheel about at their command? For the vanity of five hundred men saluting them, officers at their beck and call, the power to make and break any man? How could it come about that a man like Anthony Bacon was passed over for the likes of Lord Bingham, not yet thirty, never having heard a shot fired in anger? Why in God's name did the Duke of Wellington connive at it? And Lord Hill, for that matter?

What was he to do? What could he do?

They turned off Park Lane, rolled on through Grosvenor Square and into Duke Street, pulling up outside a bay-windowed shop bearing the sign Geo Keating, Printer of Religious Books. Hervey got down from the cab, bid the driver wait, and entered.

The interior was as any bookshop, save for several glass cases in which there were rosaries, crucifixes and other articoli, which were somehow less troubling than in Rome for their being rather more discreetly displayed.

The proprietor, an amiable man, received his questions with wellmannered evasion, until an explanation of the purpose in discovering the whereabouts of the 'bishop' set his mind at rest. Indeed, so animated was Mr Keating by (as he put it) the nobility of what Hervey undertook, that he at once volunteered to accompany him to the residence of the vicar apostolic. 'For without a sponsor, His Lordship might feel unable to receive you, and since my business is as printer to the London district I am confident of securing an audience.'

Hervey, amused by the coincidence of episcopal and military terms in 'London district', was pleased to accept the offer, which was not without a trysting feel, as in the dark days when recusants lived in fear of their liberty if not their lives.

They left the shop to the care of an assistant.

'To Holborn, please, driver,' said Mr Keating, as they got into the cab. 'Number four, Castle-street.'

Hervey nodded to him, obliged.

'We amuse ourselves by calling the residence 'the Castle',' said his guide, at last allowing himself a little smile.