A Regimental Affair (32 page)

Hervey said that he understood.

‘Now, billeting. It’s the very devil of a business always. You must keep your troops together. These towns have big enough places of one sort or another. In one or two there are barracks, even, or else farms nearby.’

Hervey took careful note.

‘And the yeomanry: have a care. To my mind they’re overzealous for cutting and slashing. And they’re tired, too. They’ve been out the best part of the spring and summer. As for the militia, I pray God we never become so desperate as to have to call
them
out, for I could never count on them. They’d throw in their lot with the mob too easily. You won’t remember Devizes – it was hushed up right and proper.’

‘I am from those parts, sir. I heard of it.’

‘Well and good, then. The last thing we need is a battalion of militia mutinying.’

Hervey made a note in his pocketbook to learn the whereabouts of the militia armouries.

The DAAG came in. ‘Excuse me, Sir Francis, but you have your call on the lord lieutenant at eleven-thirty.’

The GOC looked at his watch and made to leave. ‘Very well, Captain Hervey, you have my general intention. My staff will give
you the details. Be so good as to inform your colonel of it when he resumes command, and ask him to call on me at the first opportunity.’ He held out his hand. ‘I have enjoyed making your acquaintance, sir. Good-day to you.’

Hervey took his hand before replacing his forage cap and saluting. The general’s company had been an uncommon stimulant.

It was agreed that the regiment would rest for the day and that night in Nottingham before dispersing to their appointed towns. B Troop would march thence to Newark, fifteen miles to the northeast, C to Mansfield, about the same distance to the north, D to Worksop, ten miles further on, E to Retford, some eight miles to the east of Worksop, and F would be the reserve at Ollerton, centrally placed between the others. A would remain in Nottingham, so that Hervey might have its command as well as the regiment’s for the day or so before he expected Lord Towcester to arrive. This was not an easy decision. Hervey had no qualms about continuing to stand duty for the lieutenant colonel, and, indeed, without his lordship’s intemperance the regiment was very much the happier, but it meant that he would then remain in his closest proximity, and that could only bring greater distress. But Hervey had also to hope for Lord Towcester’s early return, for Sir Francis Evans’s notorious temper would be sorely provoked by the prolonged absence of the Sixth’s commanding officer. He called a meeting of the troop leaders at three o’clock in the White Hart Hotel, where the officers would mess for the night, and then went to see how were his chargers.

Gilbert had been warranted a good doer by the Trowbridge coper, and so he had proved to be in the weeks at Hounslow and Brighton. All the same, Hervey was surprised by how well he looked: better than many a horse he’d seen after a day’s hard hunting. The big grey turned from the hay rack as Hervey came into the White Hart’s stables, and began to stale. The urine’s colour was no different from usual, and Hervey’s nose smarted at the pungent smell, the same sal ammoniac as his old governess’s reviving salts. He could leave the gelding to himself in that big stall, where, no doubt, he would be stretched out on the fine straw bed before the hour was out.

Harkaway, however, had lost condition. He stood tucked up,
ignoring the hay – a sorry sight, indeed. Perhaps he had not had enough time to become fit again after being turned away for so long, although he had had slow, progressive work of late, and had seemed as fit as any trooper before the march. ‘What do you think, Johnson?’ asked Hervey.

Evidently Johnson had already been thinking. ‘I reckon we’d better physic ’im.’

Hervey sighed. He was probably right, and yet Selden, their former veterinarian, whose opinions were held in high regard still, had forsworn routine physicking as much as bleeding. ‘Leave him another hour or so, but keep a sharp eye out, and if he’s any worse get Mr Gascoyne to look at him, and call me.’

‘Right, sir. I’ll try and tempt ’im with a mash meantime.’

Hervey nodded, as Johnson put the blanket back on Harkaway. The gelding scarcely moved as he fastened the surcingle.

‘We can’t be very far from your parts now, can we?’ said Hervey, as Johnson ducked under the stall bar. ‘A day’s march?’

‘Ay, easy.’

‘Would you like leave to go there if things quieten down?’

Johnson shook his head. ‘I’ve no crave to go to Sheffield again, Cap’n ’Ervey. It’s a mucky place.’

‘You wouldn’t want to see anyone?’

‘Who? They were decent enough folk, them as ran t’work’ouse, but they’d be long gone. An’ I can’t very well walk t’streets all day on t’off chance o’ seein’ somebody.’

Hervey thought it better to let the matter rest.

At three o’clock the troop leaders assembled in the dining room of the White Hart. It was a room of some refinement, with a woven carpet and little oak, but the White Hart was undoubtedly a provincial hotel, only a fraction more elegant than a posting inn. It was, however, as serviceable a headquarters as they might find. The orderly room serjeant began distributing maps – a good start, they all agreed, for the absence of maps was the normal feature of the commencement of a campaign. And what maps these were! Not the old county charts, or the coach-cards which showed only the landmarks along a road, but the new inch-to-a-mile Ordnance Survey: detailed, accurate, and with the novel system of contour lines which gave a picture of the lie of the land. Hervey had asked
for enough to give each troop a full set for the county, and a local sheet for every officer. From these he expected the NCOs to make sketches so they could familiarize themselves with the neighbourhoods as quickly as possible. It was a promising start indeed.

At the end of the conference, too, there seemed to be a very fair degree of contentment. Barrow went so far as to say that if this were foreign service he wished they might see it more often, though Rose declared that, for his part, the weather in these latitudes was already taking its toll of his humours. But it was happy banter, and the captains fell out to their troops in good spirits, and looking forward to their meeting together again to dine that evening.

Shortly before midnight, when the contented diners were dispersed, if not actually retired, Lord Towcester arrived from London. The adjutant told him of the plans that had been put in hand, and the lieutenant colonel at once exploded with rage. Why was his regiment broken up in this way, he demanded? Why had the dispositions been made so? Who had presumed to choose which troop would go where? He sent for Hervey.

‘What in the name of God do you think you do, sir?’ bawled Lord Towcester as Hervey came to his quarters – so loud indeed, that the whole of the White Hart must have heard.

Hervey explained, in the most composed manner imaginable, that the GOC had stated his intention, and that the consequent troop dispositions were all approved by him.

‘Then you should have represented to the general officer commanding, in the strongest terms, that the dispersal of cavalry is contrary to the practice of war!’

Hervey was now thoroughly on the alert, for the lieutenant colonel’s response was as irrational as it was hostile. They were no more at war than they had been in Ireland. ‘Your lordship, the general believes that the deployment of a troop to each town will of itself discourage trouble, and at the same time permit rapid reinforcement.’

‘Well, I do not, sir! It will inflame the population, that is all. And then we shall have trouble everywhere. Who decided which troop should go where?’

‘I did, sir. There is little to choose between the towns, so far as the general is aware.’

‘And you placed yourself here in Nottingham?’

‘Yes, your lordship.’ The inflection suggested he was puzzled.

‘You chose to remain close to the general, when the other troops are expected to face the trouble alone? And with your wife here, too!’

Hervey boiled inside. He wanted to treat the insult as a matter of honour, to have it out once and for all, with pistols, swords – whatever the Earl of Towcester chose. He fought the urge for all he was worth, however, for the voices in his head – Henrietta’s, Armstrong’s, Strickland’s – all begged him not to call out Lord Towcester.

He told himself that the hour was late, and the lieutenant colonel’s journey had been long and tiring. In any case, the adjutant as the sole witness was not worth the trouble. ‘Your lordship, in your absence I was required to—’

‘I think you take upon yourself a very great deal, Captain Hervey! You must have known that I was to arrive this evening.’

‘No, sir, I did not. I received no communication whatever.’ He managed, he hoped, to keep the simple statement from sounding like a complaint.

‘Well, I tell you, sir’ – Lord Towcester’s voice had risen substantially in both volume and pitch – ‘that
I
command this regiment, and
I
say where the troops shall go. The adjutant shall countermand the orders at once and shall issue new ones at first parade. You may dismiss.’

Hervey replaced his cap, saluted and left. He was tired, confounded, and above all angry at the additional labour which would now fall to the troops – and the inevitable delay and confusion it must cause, so that what might have been the appearance of a regiment under good order would like as not be quite the opposite. Perhaps he overestimated the difficulties they faced with these Luddites; perhaps Lord Towcester’s arrogant disregard of them was more apt. But that was not Sir Francis Evans’s opinion. Hervey stood for several minutes in the White Hart’s empty smoking room wondering how much longer he could tolerate a martinet whose actions seemed calculated to bring the regiment to calamity.

There seemed no point sending any orders to his troop at that hour. Without knowing what was to be done, nothing could be gained by even a preliminary order cancelling the previous one. He
had to know first what was nugatory before he might halt it. The smoking-room clock showed that it was well past watch-setting; his dragoons would be asleep. He decided to let them sleep on.

The night light was still burning when he went back to his room. Henrietta was sleeping peacefully, her tresses spread on the pillow as if just arranged by her lady’s maid. He stood long looking at her, contemplating – indeed marvelling at – the changes which nature was working within. Henrietta was changed for ever from the girl he had known. She was changed the night of their wedding, as was he, though in different measure. And the quality of his love for her was changed now by what nature was accomplishing. Perhaps he began only now to comprehend truly what John Keble had meant when he spoke of their becoming one flesh.

He looked about the room. It was a mean lodging compared with Longleat – compared with the vicarage at Horningsham, even. He had brought her to a place no better than a corn merchant might use, although she did not complain. She had made light, indeed, of his concern at the meagre furnishings, and his disdain of the boiled fowl that passed for partridge at the supper brought to her. Caithlin Armstrong might find contentment in such surroundings when she arrived with the sutler’s wagons, and Serjeant Armstrong could have the satisfaction of knowing that his outlay gave her unaccustomed comfort; but
he
, Captain Matthew Hervey, had failed to honour his wife as her guardian would have expected, and he himself wanted. Would it be ever thus if she followed the trumpet?

Mansfield, next day

A Troop reached Mansfield towards the middle of the morning. Hervey had taken his amusement at this substitution silently, for Lord Towcester evidently had great satisfaction in sending him from Nottingham, not realizing that Hervey would be a full three hours closer thereby to Chatsworth, whither Henrietta was driving even now. Indeed, he was a little surprised that the lieutenant colonel had not sent him even further afield, to Worksop for instance, though he supposed that Towcester feared having him at too distant an arm’s length.

Mansfield seemed a pleasant enough town, its population not especially hostile as the troop rode in. There was a fine church – Norman towers were not a common sight in Hervey’s part of England – and a handsome moot hall. There were curious dwellings carved out of the sandstone cliffs along the Southwell road, where, he was informed by his guide, there were many families still, and there were extensive Roman remains, though only partially excavated. A more peaceful place than Mansfield, in the heart of the once great Sherwood forest, it would have been
difficult to imagine. Yet only two weeks ago, an armed mob had attacked one of the new steam-loom factories on the edge of the town, the owner and his night watch only managing to drive off the assailants after killing five of their number and wounding a dozen more. The mob had returned the following night and, after a gun battle in which there were more casualties, succeeded in demolishing the factory. The scarred remains now stood as a stark reminder to the authorities that beneath the tranquil canopy of Sherwood there lurked, as there had so many years ago, predatory bands.