A Close Run Thing (32 page)

‘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).

‘Why in heaven’s name would Bonaparte have left Elba otherwise? I doubt it was to pay a call on a mistress,’ Edmonds replied tartly. ‘Believe me, if they let him get to Paris the Bourbons will run like hares and the Old Guard will rally straight to him. There aren’t but fifty thousand of our troops and Prussians in the Low Countries, and he’ll have three times that number in the field within two months. Do you think the Austrians have any more stomach for a fight? The Dutch are treacherous, and the Brunswickers are finished. I doubt even the Prussians’ resolve.’

Hervey was unabashed still. ‘But we broke what remained of their southern army at Toulouse, and the other allies had crippled the northern ones. What can he achieve?’

‘He can put the wind up that congress in Vienna, that’s what – make them give better terms, a republic perhaps. They should have seen it coming. Elba was too close to home for him, in both senses. You remember the
Agonistes
– Samson’s despair in his incarceration, of living “a life half dead, a living
death
”? How did they think they could cage such a beast as Bonaparte within scent of his old prey?’

Hervey decided on a prudent withdrawal: ‘How indeed, sir! Shall there be any message in reply for the adjutant?’

‘Doubtless Mr Barrow is at this instant relaying the tidings to the outlying stations. Be so good, Hervey, as to give him my compliments and send a recall to officers on furlough. But why we must receive this evil news from
The Times
and from some travelling man, rather than from Dublin, I truly despair. We may surmise that the Government has paid off all the telegraph-station lieutenants in their search for economies!’

One question alone exercised Hervey, however, one for which the officers’ recall augured well. But he would put it to the adjutant, for he judged that Edmonds’s melancholic humour would not admit of reason. ‘What do you think be our chances of joining the duke’s army, Barrow?’ he asked after returning to the orderly room.

‘As little chance as you have of no more picket duties this year!’ was the perfunctory reply, though delivered with a smile.

And for a whole month it looked as though Barrow would be right, until on 20 April orders were received from Dublin to prepare six troops for immediate service in Belgium. Edmonds was at once transformed, throwing himself into the preparations, working with the punishing energy of a steam hammer. One morning
he
sat down after muster and wrote, without drawing breath except to dip his pen, ‘Directions for Carrying Camp Equipment,’ specifying the means of securing every item a dragoon would carry: ‘Mallets, tents, pins and hatchets to be carried in water buckets fixed to the near ring of the saddle behind. The powder bag to be carried by the Orderly Corporal. Kettles to be fixed with strings upon the baggage, till straps can be provided. Canteens to be slung on the right side, haversacks on the left side. Picket posts strapped to firelocks. Corn sacks with corn divided between the ends, across the saddle. Hay twisted in ropes and fixed upon the necessary bags. Water-decks neatly folded and placed upon the hay. Nosebags fixed to the off-ring of the saddle behind. Forage cords upon the baggage. Scythes wrapped with hay-bands and strapped with the handles to the firelocks. Sneeds, stores, &c, to be carried by the same men. Old clothing, hats and spare things not wanted at present to be properly packed and lodged at the regimental store …’ And so on and so on, until every last detail had been arranged.

‘Really, Hervey, there is no need of an adjutant with the major so,’ rued Barrow one morning as he gave him his orders for picket. ‘He is riding to each and every outstation to inspect for himself every horse! Heaven alone knows when he sleeps.’

On the 27th, Lord George Irvine arrived from Dublin to take command, which Edmonds relinquished with
not
a sign of the intense disappointment that he must have felt, and on the 29th ‘A’ and ‘B’ Troops marched from the barracks to the Cove to begin embarkation. Nine days later, including re-shipping at Ramsgate, they landed at Ostend. Or, rather, the officers and men landed – by lighter: the horses were pushed overboard to swim for the shore. This not unusual method of disembarking always meant delay while the two groups were reunited, and almost invariably occasioned injury to both parties. On this morning, however, Lieutenant Hervey was able to hand over ‘A’ Troop to Captain Lankester, who had rejoined them at Ramsgate, at exactly the Irish establishment of 66 horses, less chargers, and 71 other ranks – and all fit for duty.

Ostend harbour itself was all activity. Officers on home leave who had made their own way to Belgium were hailing comrades as their regiments disembarked, or greeting old friends in others, and the scene resembled – as one India hand put it – a Calcutta durbar. Laming, now the Sixth’s senior cornet, who had been in Ostend for over a week, grasped Hervey with unrestrained enthusiasm. ‘D’ye know, it’s like the first day of the summer half at Eton. I have not seen so many old friends in years! What a turn-up, eh? And we all believed that half-pay or selling out was all that beckoned! Have you heard that Lord George is to get a brigade? Dutchmen mostly, though – he’ll have no brigade after the first shot is fired!’

‘Who is to command us, then?’ asked Hervey, warily.

‘Edmonds, of course. And right glad of it I am, too –
you’ll
see soon enough that things here are not as they should be. Now’s not the time to be foisted with an extract.’ He paused and then frowned. ‘Why are you looking so?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all. It is just that the major has not been himself these past few months, although he has worked like a black since orders for here came. Whose brigade are we to be in?’

‘Grant’s for the time being, with the Seventh, Thirteenth and Fifteenth, so I understand. They arrive only now. But have you heard who is to command the cavalry?’

‘You mean it is not to be General Cotton?’

‘Uxbridge!’

‘Great heavens,’ replied Hervey, reflecting Laming’s smile of satisfaction. ‘But I thought that he and the duke could not speak with each other – after that business with his sister-in-law, I mean?’

‘That is as maybe, but I hear tell the Duke of York himself was adamant, and that Wellington has accepted with good grace. And so he deuced well should – Uxbridge is the only general with cavalry genius!’

Hervey smiled. But then, why should not Laming make so precocious a judgement? He himself would not hesitate to voice such an opinion, especially in respect of Uxbridge. ‘On that we can all be agreed, and yet had not Le Marchant fallen at Salamanca—’

‘Floreat Etona, Laming!’ came a call from the press behind him. Hervey would have walked away, leaving
Laming
to yet another Fourth-of-June encounter, but something in the voice made him turn instead. ‘By heavens,
Jessope
!’ he exclaimed, and there followed much vigorous handshaking and mutual expressions of delight.

‘But why, my dear Hervey, do you sound so surprised on seeing me thus? You do not suppose Lord Fitzroy Somerset would have sallied hence without me?’ said the ADC, with the same solemn self-mocking that had so endeared him to Hervey in Spain.

‘No, I did not suppose it for one minute. You are quite charming enough to flatter any assignment out of the Horse Guards, of that I am sure! To tell the truth, my dear Jessope, I had not given it a moment’s thought: we have been uncommonly busy in the Line, you know! But now that I see you here I am full of confidence at last in this campaign! Shall I suppose that Lord Fitzroy is to be military secretary again?’

‘Verily he is,’ began Jessope, ignoring Hervey’s earlier irony. ‘But listen, my dear fellow, this campaign ought to be a very fine summer’s sport indeed! Hardly anyone believes that Bonaparte will survive long: his marshals and generals will throw him over now that he has been declared an outlaw. Brussels has become quite like London – so many of Mayfair’s hostesses have set themselves up here. And we are hunting in the forests just outside. I tell you, it is capital, sir, capital!’

‘I think it will come to a fight,’ replied Hervey, refusing to endorse Jessope’s dismissiveness.

‘My dear fellow, so do I, so do I. And so does
the
duke. But there will still be plenty of sport!’

‘Then, who is it that does not suppose there will be war?’

‘Those fools in Whitehall, to begin with. I tell you, they think this thing so trivial that Slender Billy was at first to be made commander-in-chief.’

‘Who is Slender Billy?’ asked Hervey with a frown.

‘In heaven’s name, where have you been these past months? The crown prince of Orange, that is who!’

‘But was he not one of the duke’s own ADCs in the Peninsula –
surely
he was?’

‘The same, the same! In any event, I am given to understand that some arrangement has been concluded. I think the young Dutchman is to be given command of a corps. Your esteemed Lord George is to be a liaison officer at his headquarters.’

‘Lord George? But I thought he was to command one of their brigades,’ said Hervey, intrigued by this turn of news.

‘Lawks, no! They will not even give the duke direct command of Dutch troops in action, let alone make one of our officers a brigade commander. No, he is to go and keep an eye on Slender Billy! But look, we’ve been here nearly a month and the duke rides out each morning with Lord Fitzroy. You may accompany if you wish – he is the most engaging of company on a good day.’

‘I am very pleased to hear it!’ said Hervey with a smile, amused at Jessope’s familiarity. ‘But it does not
sound
as if the duke is having too many good days by your accounts.’

‘Nought without his capability, I assure you, my dear friend. But how say you to riding with us?’

Hervey smiled again. ‘I should be honoured to ride with you – both!’

‘Capital! Then, I shall send word as soon as is expedient. Now, I must go and collect the dispatches which that frigate yonder should have aboard,’ Jessope said, nodding to the single-decker about to drop anchor in the outer harbour.

No sooner had he gone but that Hervey was confronted by a figure who excited every contrary emotion to those inspired by Jessope’s unexpected company. Under a helmet resembling that of an ancient Greek hoplite was the face of Hugo Styles, the flesh more than usually loose but the complexion now florid. The broad gold braid down the front of his scarlet jacket shone as if new from his tailor that morning. ‘Well, Hervey, a far cry this from Wiltshire. And by the look of ye y’ve come even further than from there.’

Hervey chose to ignore the reference to his well-worn field dress and instead returned the greeting – such as it had been – formally but briefly: ‘Good morning, Styles.’

‘I am given to understand that I should congratulate you on winning the esteem of Lady Henrietta Lindsay,’ continued Styles with disdain.

‘I cannot say what you should or should not do.’

‘You are an extraordinarily favoured man, Mr Hervey, extraordinarily favoured,’ he went on, his tone changing to one of reproach.

‘I count myself so,’ replied Hervey, holding to the clipped speech that betrayed his impatience.

Styles, sensing perhaps that he would force no change in Hervey’s humour, reverted to his former condescension. ‘I understand this business here might be tedious in the extreme. The talk in London is of peace. I do hope we may be allowed a little recreation – they say Brussels is a tolerably fine city, not at all provincial. How many horses have you brought?’

‘Two.’

‘My dear fellow, do you think that two will be enough?’

‘I managed in the Peninsula well enough.’

‘Yes, yes, but if we are to race and hunt every day you will need more than two.’

‘I would not gainsay your logic, only your supposition.’

‘Well, we shall see. I fancy that you in the light cavalry will all be sent on picket to the frontier in any case.’

Hervey thought this the only sense Styles had spoken throughout the exchange. The heir to Leighton Park – lieutenant of yeomanry and now cornet of Life Guards – seemed more than usually gifted with foolery. ‘Very possibly, Styles,’ he sighed. ‘And it would be a most welcome duty, too, shaking off the flotsam hereabouts! Now, you must excuse me – I have work to
do
.’ And he strode off towards the corralling area.

The effects of this unwelcome encounter did not last long, however, for in the corralling area, the park-like gardens in front of the harbourmaster’s house, he found the perfect antidote: Joseph Edmonds, positively transfigured by the news of his command.