Man Of War

This latter he was never more sure of than now. The time at the Cape Colony with his troop, and with a half-colonel’s brevet and command of the Cape Mounted Rifles, had convinced him that only the lieutenant-colonelcy of his own regiment, the regiment he had joined as a seventeen-year-old cornet and which had become his true family, could satisfy what it was inside him that remained after the death of Henrietta. It defied logic: he would be full colonel today if only he had accepted other offers (he chided himself for false modesty: he might be major general). It was not logic but something visceral. It began at Corunna, when the Sixth had stayed together and come through it together, where others had fallen apart. And in the years of Peninsular endurance that followed – the long, wearying years through Portugal and Spain, siege after siege, battle after battle: so many comradely friendships forged, so many of those friends lost. And Waterloo, battle of battles, a day like no other, longer than any he could recall, where he had watched a serjeant go knowingly to his death so that he, Hervey, might escape to do his duty, and the good name of the Sixth be burnished ever the brighter. And the Armstrongs and the Collinses, the Wainwrights and the Johnsons, and the countless others – faithful witnesses, all; how could he rest as long as there was the possibility of holding the reins of His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons?

He had sent a note in advance to Lord John Howard and was therefore admitted quickly, the assistant quartermaster-general receiving him with his customary warmth. Hervey marvelled as ever at his friend’s ability to give the impression of having all the time in the world, though the business of the army came across his desk. It did not trouble him that Howard, by his own admission, had never heard a shot fired in anger: he knew how the army worked, and how to work it. But not only that: he had enjoyed the confidence of two very different commanders-in-chief – the Duke of Wellington and his predecessor, the Duke of York – and it looked very much as if he would gain that of a third. Hervey knew that whatever his own superiority at arms might be, he could never have filled his friend’s boots. Lord John Howard was no mere military courtier, as once he had supposed him to be; he was a staff officer, and one with a rare imagination for the consequences for those at the disposal of his pen – and for those at whose disposal that pen was.

‘My dear fellow, how very good it is to see you,’ said his friend, smiling, shaking Hervey’s hand almost boyishly, and indicating a chair. ‘I have just learned the deucedest piece of news, which I would have sent to you at once had you not so felicitously presented yourself.’

A messenger brought in coffee. Hervey had to wait while the coffee was poured before learning what it was that so animated his friend (it was evidently of a sensitive nature, not merely confidential). He took the opportunity to thank him for sending the reassurance of Peto’s absence from the Navarino casualty lists. As soon as the messenger was gone, he returned eagerly to the promised news. ‘Deucedest?’

Howard nodded, leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘Have you heard of a place called Retford, in Nottinghamshire?’

Hervey recalled it well, and smiled ruefully. ‘I do believe I led a cavalry charge there, or very close, these ten years past.’

His friend caught the smile. ‘Ah yes; so you did. Rather like Waltham Abbey, was it not?’

It had been an affair of Luddites, ‘blanketeers’ or whatever banner they marched under. In any case, it had been machine-breaking and worse on a grand scale. ‘I don’t recall that we had cause to shoot so many.’ Hervey’s tone was decidedly sardonic.

Howard took note of the signal. ‘Well, Retford – East Retford to be precise – returns a member of parliament, and since the place is no more now than a few farmhouses, there’s a move to give the seat to a city; Birmingham, I think.’

Hervey evidently strained at the less-than-momentous news.

‘Oh, it’s no very great business, of course, but Palmerston believes it to be his opportunity for principle. There are other seats too for “reform”. And all rather closer to home than the vexing affairs of Catholic voters in Ireland. He told me the other evening at White’s that he was giving it his gravest consideration, that he could not rest until he had persuaded the cabinet of the urgent need of redistributing a great number of seats.’

‘Is one of them Waltham Abbey?’ asked Hervey caustically. ‘If reform of parliament is truly to be had, I think it a pity that East Retford did not engage Palmerston sooner. I confess a growing detestation of such places!’

Howard raised an eyebrow sympathetically. ‘What are we come to if such men as you speak thus? Well, the duke has the reins now, so we may hope for better times.’