Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears (7 page)

Archdeacon Hervey now climbed the steps of the pulpit. He did not intend detaining his congregation long: the office of the Burial of the Dead was an occasion to commend the soul of the departed to God, not his reputation to man. Yet there were things he would say.

‘“O
spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”’
He looked up from his pulpit prayer book. ‘The Lord in his infinite wisdom did indeed spare Daniel Coates beyond his span of three-score and ten…’

Archdeacon Hervey went on to recount the story of Daniel Coates’s rise from indigency to prosperity and respectability, and to praise the wisdom and generosity he displayed in both public office and private affairs. The silence in the church was remarkable, a reverencing not so much of Archdeacon Hervey’s eloquence, adequate though that was, but of Daniel Coates’s memory – before, as Mr Hervey at length recalled, drawing his homily to a close, ‘“I go hence, and be no more seen.”’

There was at this applause by nodding heads and, if not quite ‘hear, hear’, then from a sort of buzzing in the pews, which told Archdeacon Hervey that the unusual effort had been worthwhile. He glanced at the foreman and bowed his head – the signal – and then the foreman, with a simple beckoning nod, reassembled his bearers. They took up the coffin with all solemnity, the tools of Daniel Coates’s two trades – and loves – still in place, turned slowly about and began the measured march from the chancel steps, their charge to be ‘no more seen’.

The congregation rose and turned to follow as Archdeacon Hervey led the procession out of the church to the grave on the sunny south side, which Coates’s own men had dug the day before.

Hervey accompanied his mother to the graveside, close behind Lord Bath, the principal mourner. And then came the words which he himself had had too frequent occasion to read when there had not been a chaplain to bury the dead.
Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the
midst of life we are in death
… More than ever they seemed to him a perfect if unhappy rendering of the condition of so many men who had worn the Sixth’s badge. Indeed, they were apt, too, regarding his own condition, and for more time than he would have thought he could bear but for the company of regimental friends – and of two women who demanded nothing from him in return for that which they had so freely given.

Lord Bath declined the trowel, bending instead to take a handful of earth from the fresh-dug mound. Old General Tarleton, cocked hat set firm as if he were in uniform, raised his hand in salute, making no attempt to hide the missing fingers (exactly as Daniel Coates had told Hervey of long years ago).

‘“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life…”’

When Lord Bath had sprinkled the earth on the coffin, Archdeacon Hervey began the closing prayers. It was a fine, sunny day. Somehow, Hervey thought, it assisted with the promise of eternal life. Many a time he had stood at the graveside when the rain had drummed on oak, or on simple shroud, and then the promises had seemed corrupt.

‘“O Merciful God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the Resurrection and the life … who also hath taught us (by his holy apostle Saint Paul) not to be sorry, as men without hope…”’

He had never been a man without hope, had he? The trials of late years had brought him despair, but never quite that utter loss of hope of which St Paul warned. Or did he deceive himself in that? He picked up a handful of earth and cast it into the grave, then turned to walk after his mother.

‘Major Hervey?’ The voice was commanding.

He glanced to his right. The distinguished mourner was advancing on him. ‘Yes, General?’

‘I imagined it to be you,’ said General Tarleton, jabbing his stick into the grass as he walked. ‘Coates spoke much of you in his letters.’

‘I’m very honoured, sir; I had no idea.’

General Sir Banastre Tarleton replaced his hat as they approached the lych gate. ‘Read about the business in Portugal. Glad the Horse Guards have seen sense. Absurd notion, a court martial! When do you return to London?’

‘Tomorrow or the day after, General.’

The grand old man nodded appreciatively. ‘Good. I go to St James’s this Thursday seven days. I would have you dine with me. Where do you stay?’

‘We are quartered in Hounslow, General.’

He nodded again. ‘Very well. I bid you good day then.’

Hervey bowed and let the general walk on to take leave of Lord Bath, before rejoining his mother, who had by now been joined by his sister.

‘Matthew,’ said Mrs Hervey uncomfortably. ‘I would that we take your father home as soon as may be. The air is altogether too chill.’

‘As you please, Mother, but aren’t we meant to attend first on the attorney in Warminster?’

Mrs Hervey had forgotten. She looked vexed, but then composed herself, for it was understood that Daniel Coates had left in his will some appreciation of her husband’s early kindness towards him. Why otherwise should he have been summoned to attend its reading? Her son too: Coates had always spoken of his intention to bequeath him his horses; and, no doubt, there would be other tokens of their friendship… ‘Yes, of course, my dear; it is remiss of me.’ She turned to Elizabeth. ‘You are not summoned, are you?’

Elizabeth smiled patiently. ‘No, Mama, not I.’

‘You travel home in my carriage, Mother,’ said Hervey, replacing his hat. ‘I will go with father in his.’

The reading of Daniel Coates’s will was to be at two o’clock in the offices of Mr Simeon Tegg and Partners in the high-street, but when Hervey and his father arrived they were greeted by the clerk with instructions to repair across the road to the upper room of the Bell inn since a larger number than hitherto was now expected.

Archdeacon Hervey nodded benignly at the intelligence. ‘He had favoured a great many during his life. I imagine that it will be so in death.’

His son thought him probably right, although he was of a mind that Daniel Coates’s charity had never been of the sentimental kind. Coates had brought the Speenhamland system to this corner of West Wiltshire, but he had been a vigorous advocate of public works on which the destitute might labour in return for parish relief, and not everyone of the needy or the poor-ratepayers thought him laudable.

But when they entered the upper room they were taken aback by the number already gathered – four dozen by Hervey’s rapid reckoning, and more still arriving.

‘The entire board of guardians, I think,’ said Archdeacon Hervey, taking a glass of warm punch from another of Mr Tegg’s clerks.

That much did not surprise his son; Elizabeth had told him often enough of Daniel Coates’s generosity to the workhouse.

Before they were too much drawn into greetings and further speculation on the prospects of those assembled, the attorney called the proceedings to order.

‘Gentlemen, I would beg your indulgence: there is a deal to attend to this afternoon. I propose to move at once to a formal reading of the will, thereafter to make some supplementary remarks arising from the late Mr Daniel Coates’s instructions to me, whereupon I shall be at liberty to answer any questions. I should add that as soon as the will is read a copy shall be taken to the offices of the
Warminster Miscellany
for publication in tomorrow’s edition.’

There were now, by Hervey’s more considered reckoning, upwards of five dozen people in the room, of various degrees and of both sexes. He found himself wondering if Daniel Coates’s estate could truly bear the evident expectations.

‘Very well.’ The attorney opened his portfolio and took out a single sheet of foolscap. ‘“I, Daniel Peter Coates of the Parish of Upton Scudamore, do by this my last Will and Testament give and bequeath to each man and woman in my employ the sum of twenty-five pounds, to my foreman William Costessey three hundred pounds and also to my housekeeper Anne Evans the same sum of three hundred pounds.”’

There was a considerable buzz of surprise and appreciation. Hervey calculated that this munificence towards Daniel Coates’s labourers, servants and two most trusted employees amounted to at least two thousand pounds.

‘“The remainder of my estate, saving the items specified hereunder, and subject to the payment of my funeral expenses, and to fees for the due management of said estate, I leave in trust to the principal benefit of the Warminster workhouse, with the urgent wish that a proper school and infirmary be established therein.”’

The acclamation was loud and long.

At length Mr Simeon Tegg held up a hand. ‘“And I do further leave under the terms of said trust an annuity of five hundred pounds to the Reverend Mr Thomas Hervey and Mrs Hervey of Horningsham, for as long as one or other of them shall live.”’

The buzz of surprise returned, but respectful.

Mr Tegg paused only a moment. ‘“And to Major Matthew Hervey of His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons I leave the sum of ten thousand pounds in trust for the purchase of a lieutenant-colonelcy in any of His Majesty’s corps, and to him also my horses and all their appurtenances, and all military chattels of which I die possessed, this being my most certain act of service to His Majesty, so confident as I am in the loyalty and capability of this officer.”’

The noise in the room was as great as for the bequest to the workhouse. Hervey, though both astonished and exhilarated by the scale of the generosity, was nevertheless equally discomfited by its proclamation.

His father laid a hand to his arm.

The attorney again had to hold up a hand to restore silence. ‘“And I appoint the aforesaid Mr Thomas Hervey the executor of this my last Will and Testament, and to him the appointment of said trustees. Signed Daniel Coates, November 27, 1826.”’

IV

IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

Later

The shivering began on their way back to Horningsham. Hervey pulled his coat tighter about him, turning up the collar.

‘You are unwell, Matthew? It is not so cold.’

Hervey knew it was not cold. ‘It will be nothing, Father. The beginnings of a spring chill, perhaps.’

‘I wonder you are scarce able to reason. I confess I am not. I had never imagined Daniel Coates planned such beneficence towards us. Indeed, I am wholly astonished that his fortune should permit of what we heard.’

Hervey hid his hands in his pockets to conceal the trembling. ‘The attorney said there was twenty thousand in bonds alone.’

‘He asked me, of course, if I would be his executor, but I had no idea it might require so much in judgement.’

‘He evidently trusted you more than any man, Father, and with reason, I might say.’ He braced himself to master a vigorous spasm. ‘But you had best appoint the trustees and let the board of guardians propose their plans for the workhouse. If I were you I’d make Elizabeth their chairman!’

Archdeacon Hervey looked at his son warily. ‘That is by no means an idle suggestion.’

‘I did not intend it to be so, Father, I assure you.’

‘But I may remind you, Matthew, that Elizabeth’s duties in regard to Georgiana allow her little time already for her charity. You would not see her neglect the one for the other.’

Hervey, huddled in the corner of the hack barouche as if it were midwinter, though he could feel his temperature rising by the minute, was certain of his reply. ‘I do not intend that Elizabeth has those duties for much longer, Father.’

Archdeacon Hervey did not seem to hear; or if he did he did not question the intriguing notion that someone other than Elizabeth should have charge of Georgiana. ‘Matthew, are you sure you are not sickening for something? Perhaps we should see Dr Birch?’

‘No, Father; it will not be necessary. A chill, that is all. I’ll take a powder when we’re home.’

By the time they reached Horningsham, however, the ‘chill’ had revealed itself unequivocally: fever, violent headache and muscular tiredness which, even transplanted from their tropical origins, were quite unmistakable. Hervey excused himself, explained that he would have to take his ease for several hours, and went to his room. There he scrambled in his small-pack, though he was sure there would be no quinine, for he had become careless of late since the remittent fever had not visited him these six months and more. There was not even any powder. He did not suffer from headaches as a rule, unless the wine had been bad, and he had become careless of this too. He took off his shoes, then his coat; he loosened his stock but took off no more, wrapped a travelling blanket around himself and got into his bed.

The old long-case clock in the hall was striking six as he came to. He heard each chime distinctly, and then counted them back to be sure of the hour. But was it morning or evening? There was no other noise. He felt better, much better. The headache was gone, he was no longer shivering, and the pain in his chest was no more. He felt the sheets either side of him and thought it odd, for he did not remember … They were damp, as they had been in India. He did not mind, beyond the inconvenience to the household, for he had evidently sweated out the fever and what caused it. And the recurrence was by no means as frequent as that first year, when the foul air of the Avan jungle had poisoned his blood, and the bouts themselves were not as long (though they were little less violent). Perhaps his restoration to full health would be faster than the doctors in Calcutta had told him? He had always believed it would be.