Man Of War

‘Kat . . . Truly, I am all astonishment. It is the most perfect thing imaginable. And come at such a time, on this day: it makes me so very happy. How shall I ever thank you? I am ever in your debt.’ He kissed her hand, smiled with such gratitude as he never imagined to possess, and took his leave of her utterly content.

At the Horse Guards, the windows full open to admit the music of the band of the Grenadiers on the parade ground, crescendo and decrescendo as they marched and counter-marched, Lord Hill was considering the military secretary’s memorandum of the bi-annual Board of General Officers. From the list marked ‘Majors certified willing and qualified to purchase’, the board had selected seventeen of the forty-three names, a process in the main derived from seniority, but some by recommendation of especial merit. The commander-in-chief nodded as he saw and approved each one, and the regiment of which they were to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy.

Now came the happy strains of ‘Shrewsbury Lasses’, Lord Hill’s favourite (as the bandmaster knew full well). He rose and went to the window, his eyes becoming quite misty at the thought of his Shropshire childhood, of his fifteen siblings, five of whom had fought, as he, throughout the French wars. ‘Daddy’ Hill, as the army knew him (his paternal regard for the men under his command had been proverbial in the Peninsula), was now fifty-six years old, though by his round face and ungainly frame he might have been a country squire of seventy and more. But his mind was still active, young.

He returned to his desk. ‘The Cape Mounted Rifles: that is the decided opinion, is it, that they be reconstituted as separate companies, and no regimental staff?’

‘It is, my lord: the express recommendation of the War Office. The lieutenant-governor at the Cape accepts it as a retrenchment measure, and that the penalty is bearable.’

‘And Hervey thereby relinquishes lieutenant-colonel’s rank.’

‘Just so. With effect from the first of January proximo. The appointment was always to be provisional, though I understand that Colonel Hervey was originally gazetted to the following December.’

‘And so the board recommends he has a brevet.’

‘Yes, my lord. The general officer commanding the London District has made a very particular recommendation, as too has the lieutenant-governor at the Cape.’

Lord Hill frowned. ‘Why has the GOC made a recommendation?’

‘In part because he believes Hervey to have been ill used over the affair at Waltham Abbey, in which, after all, the regiment under his orders acted in the most trying circumstances, and to advantage. And also on account of a letter he received from Lord Holderness.’

‘How old is Hervey now?’ (Lord Hill searched for the detail.) ‘Thirty . . .’

‘Thirty-seven, my lord.’

Lord Hill shook his head. ‘And the board recommends that he has a brevet and not substantive promotion.’

The military secretary nodded.

The commander-in-chief shook his head once more. ‘I was major general near five years when I was his age. It won’t serve, I tell you. I know Hervey from the Peninsula – he galloped for me at Talavera – and I differ from the board’s recommendation.’ Lord Hill recollected young Cornet Hervey’s service very well indeed, and with a warmth that his present frown utterly belied.

The military secretary saw only a disapproving look, and heard only dissent at the recommendation of promotion. He made to speak, but then thought better of it. It was, after all, the commander-in-chief’s prerogative to countermand the board’s findings.

Lord Hill continued studying the list for another minute or so, before laying it down and taking up a pen. He dipped it in the silver inkwell in the middle of his desk, and struck through the nomination to a brevet.

‘Sir, may I beg you to give a reason for disallowing Major Hervey’s brevet?’

‘You may. It is insufficient.’

‘My lord?’

‘He is to have command, Harry. And he is to advance without purchase.’

THE END

HISTORICAL AFTERWORD

Le vieux colosse turc sur l’Orient retombe.

La Grèce est libre et dans la tombe

Byron applaudit Navarin.Victor Hugo