A Call To Arms (17 page)

‘Matthew?’

‘I’m sorry, Dan; what—?’

‘How shall you raise the men? And where shall the horses come from?’

Hervey sighed. ‘Well, the second question’s a sight easier to answer than the first. There’ll be no remounts until India. And as for recruits, I’m very much afraid it will be the usual fashion. The colonel’s made a start sending out parties under the more active serjeants, and he’s offered a special bounty to any man who’ll enlist his own brother. He’s very much of the opinion that brothers exercise a beneficent effect on each other.’

‘I only ever saw one lot myself, and they was the biggest pair of rogues in the regiment. They were both in chokey at the same time at one point. But I think they ’listed as a pair, though; nobody was to know.’

Hervey had no cause to dispute it, but he supposed the colonel was a discerning man when it came to brothers. ‘Well, he’s confident of filling the ranks ere the summer’s out. He told me he believed my concern would be drill and not recruiting.’

Coates looked puzzled. ‘How are you to drill dragoons without troopers?’

Hervey raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose the riding master must have sufficient to introduce them to the saddle, but there’ll be no jockeys this side of India, that’s for sure. It doesn’t much matter, says the colonel, for we’re hardly going to the seat of war. Hindoostan has been quiet these past three years since the Pindarees were seen to.’

Coates did not look entirely convinced. ‘It’s always a business taking over another regiment’s horses. You’re better off with roughs nine times out of ten.’

‘And I think roughs are what we’ll get, for I gather the regiment there has been on a much reduced establishment.’

‘Ay, well, your work’ll be cut out, Matthew.’ He took a match and relit his pipe, letting the smoke rise a while before breaking the comfortable silence. ‘And how’s that yearling of yours? Haven’t seen him in months.’

‘He’s as fine as you could want. He’ll make a charger all right.’

‘And Jessye: have you had her under the saddle yet?’

‘We hackneyed through Longleat park yesterday. And she
would have had a good run if I’d let her.’

‘I should put the stallion to her again, Matthew. Never has the demand for roadsters been greater. The mails are running up and down the turnpikes like quicksilver these days. She’d make you a pretty penny.’

Hervey nodded. ‘Perhaps if I were staying …’

‘That groom of yours going to India too, then?’

‘He is indeed.’ Private Johnson would have preferred to keep his cosy billet in Horningsham, of that Hervey was sure, but as Johnson himself had said when first Hervey had told him of his intentions, beggars could not be choosers. Johnson’s only fear, which was his only secret too, was the workhouse. ‘I thought of attaching him to my father, but …’

‘
I
would take him, if you like.’

Hervey smiled. ‘Now you’re gainsaying your earlier counsel, Dan. I gave him the choice, and he made up his own mind, though it was probably Hobson’s choice.’

Coates inclined his head, as much as to say there was more to Hervey’s observation than perhaps he thought. ‘Hobson’s was not a
bad
choice, Matthew. It was to spare his horses, if you remember.’

‘Yes, I do remember, now.’

Both of them knew also that Johnson had been as devoted to Henrietta as a groom might be. Coates, at least, knew that this bound him more fast to his master now than ever. ‘Shall you stay for a bite of dinner?’

‘I thank you, Dan, but no. We have Mr Keble calling on his way back to Oxford. You remember him?’

‘I do. He made that pleasing sermon at your wedding. I shouldn’t forget ’im.’

Hervey looked forward keenly to seeing John Keble again, but he knew that wounds would probably reopen thereby. ‘It will be the first time since the wedding that we have met.’

Daniel Coates was not for treading lightly about the subject. ‘And how are things at the big house, Matthew?’

‘You mean with Lord Bath?’

‘Ay. It can’t help, that son of ’is running off with yon Harriet Robbins.’

The elopement of the Marquess of Bath’s son and heir with the
daughter of the turnpike-keeper was the talk of west Wiltshire, and it had indeed made for greater strain in Hervey’s own intercourse at Longleat. He was certain that Lord and Lady Bath, despite their solicitude when first he had come home from Canada, must hold him to blame to some degree for Henrietta’s death. ‘She was a deuced pretty girl, Harriet, as I recall. And old Robbins was an honest man. There’s every reason to suppose—’

‘There’s none at all, Matthew, as very well you know. I’ve a lot of time for Bath. He’s as good a man as you might want in that house. But he’s proud, too.’

Hervey could not gainsay it. He had always supposed that his own connection with Longleat had been viewed by the marquess more with resignation than approval, even though Henrietta had been his ward, not blood. ‘You’re right, Dan.’

‘You go there every day, I trust?’

‘To the nursery, yes, but I don’t always see the family.’

Coates nodded. ‘Keep with them, Matthew.’

Hervey knew that he must.

‘And our prayers should be with his lordship, for never was there a steadier hand at such a troubled time. Oh yes, the troubles there have been these last months, Matthew! But he is still of a mind to have a proper police in this country, and speaks of it in parliament often. He brought all the magistrates together a week ago. These reformers are playing a merry dance about the country. A lot of what they say is only right and proper – his lordship himself agrees with much of it – but the manner of it is very ill. It leads only to trouble. That Hunt as I knew, when the family was across the plain at Upavon, he’s nothing more now than a rabble-rouser. He conceals it just sufficient to keep from arrest, but his lieutenants do the dirty work. His name draws the crowds now. Did you read of that meeting in London three days ago?’

Hervey nodded. ‘They won’t recognize any laws passed from now on.’

‘Ay. Thousands there were at that meeting by all accounts. Hunt was waving a tricolour, they say. Did you ever hear anything so damnable? Lord Bath has the yeomanry prompt at hand, for that sort of thing travels all too easily, and there’s too much distress in the county.’

‘Well, I for one should never want a part in aiding the
magistrates again,’ said Hervey, very decidedly. ‘The yeomen are most welcome to it!’

The dining room of the vicarage in Horningsham was not large, but neither was the party that evening, consisting of, besides the family, the incumbent of Upton Scudamore, his wife and the Reverend Mr Keble. It was, however, an occasion for the best china and glass, as well as Mrs Hervey’s family table linen. She had fretted that there had been no fish to be had in Warminster, save common trout, and that the beef, fresh-slaughtered off the high street the day before, was not as tender as ought to have been. But cook had done her usual best, and there could be no cause now for fearing that her guests would be affronted.

And the candles were of the best quality, too – not the everyday ones that could whistle and spit at inopportune moments. Not that their light was needed at this hour of a summer evening, but fashion required that they be lit, and if the conversation detained the party more than a couple of hours – which, with Mr Keble
and
the vicar of Upton Scudamore present, it might – there would certainly be the want of it. Perhaps at this hour, though, the candlelight might have been better employed in illuminating the family portraits, thought Hervey, for these, being of clergymen, were so colourless as to make them disappear. He himself had no need of a candle, of course, for he knew each feature and fold of them. Their presiding presence had been both a comfort and a caution all his life – like his parents indeed, his father especially, who had of late become as venerable-looking as the portraits.

Canon Hervey had joined the party last, having returned late from the bishop’s palace. He was eager to tell them of it. ‘I should have been very much later without that curricle. It fair flies,’ he explained, with a distinct twinkle in his eye.

‘Father bought the former archdeacon’s equipage, Mr Keble,’ explained Elizabeth.

‘I wonder the former archdeacon didn’t have a sulky,’ declared Mrs Hervey. ‘For who would wish to drive with such a disagreeable man as he!’

‘It is a very elegant carriage, Archdeacon,’ said John Keble. ‘I own to having but a very modest gig in my new parish.’

Hervey was as ever pleased that John Keble found the
opportunity to stay a night in Horningsham. Keble had become a friend, albeit for the most part in adversity. If he did not yet freely confide in Mr Keble, he had nevertheless a sense that if ever there came the time to do so, he would find an uncommon understanding of the human condition – far in excess of what might be imagined of a donnish young man in his first parish.

‘I never knew that our roads and carriages were so much better than any on the continent until our visit to Rome,’ said Elizabeth, hoping to draw her mother further from the subject of the former Archdeacon of Sarum. ‘We scarcely ever seemed to go at even a moderate trot.’

‘By all your brother has told me, Miss Hervey,’ replied Keble, looking particularly earnest, ‘the continent is inferior in many respects of human endeavour. And for that I believe we must be thankful for having seen nothing of an invading army these many years past.’

‘Just so, Keble,’ agreed Canon Hervey, laying down his glass. ‘It is a terrible thing to have to bury one’s silver every other year.’ There was an empty place at table. Mrs Hervey explained that the new incumbent of Upton Scudamore was to have joined them, but he had sent word only this last hour that he had a chill which had gone to his head and did not wish to share it with the family.

‘You would have liked Harrison, Keble,’ opined Canon Hervey. ‘He is lately chaplain at Christ’s College in Cambridge, and a strong member of the “intellectual party” there. I am very pleased to have him in the archdeaconry, I may tell you.’

Hervey smiled at his father. ‘So now there is high ground, to be of mutual support, on
both
roads between Salisbury and Wells.’

The table enjoyed the joke. ‘Just so, Matthew. Just so,’ agreed his father.

‘And you can signal to each other with incense smoke.’

‘You see, Mr Keble?’ said Elizabeth, feigning despair. ‘My brother cannot speak but in military metaphors.’

Keble replied with equal gravity. ‘Of course, Miss Hervey. Your brother is a soldier to his fingertips. How else must he be expected to speak?’

‘Matthew,’ she replied, with a note of challenge, ‘is not signalling with smoke dangerous? Can it not be seen by an enemy, too?’

‘Yes,’ he conceded at once. ‘But if the enemy already know you
are there, then nothing will be revealed so long as you employ a code.’

Mrs Hervey looked alarmed. ‘No message can be concealed with incense. We have had
quite
enough trouble with the diocesan to last a lifetime. I beg you would not mention incense ever again. It is an abomination unto me!’

The late charges of ‘Romish practice’ against his father being evidently of present memory to his mother, Hervey felt obliged to deflect the conversation. ‘How does your work on Archbishop Laud stand, father? Is it near ready for the publisher?’

Canon Hervey sighed. ‘Not in its complete form, I fear, for there is still too much to be done with it. But I am preparing a monography on Laudian decorum for the
British Critic
.’

Hervey had deflected the conversation insufficiently, however, and Mrs Hervey needed further reassurance that her husband’s scholarship would not lead to a recurrence of activity in the consistory court.

John Keble was able to allay her worst fears. ‘I heard a sermon at Oriel only last month on like matters. There is little appetite, I think, for troubling over what is said or written if it is in the manner of scholarship.’

‘Oh, I am very pleased to hear it, Mr Keble,’ declared Mrs Hervey earnestly. ‘And now, if you please, let us have no more talk of these things. Matthew, tell us some more of Italy. What of its art?’

‘And its music, if you will,’ added Keble, equally anxious to avoid further disputation on the Church of England and its tangled rubrics. ‘Did you see the opera?’

Elizabeth giggled. ‘Mr Keble, you must know that Matthew has no music in him save the drum and the bugle!’

‘That is unfair
and
inaccurate. We do not have drums in the cavalry.’

‘Not even kettledrums?’ challenged Elizabeth.

‘Oh, well, yes. But not drums as I supposed you meant them.’

‘And I thought the bugle was what the infantry played?’ added Mrs Hervey.

‘No, the cavalry too, for mounted calls. It is pitched an octave higher than the trumpet, so the call carries further.’

‘We did go to the opera, Mr Keble,’ Elizabeth assured him. ‘In Rome. And Matthew sniggered the while!’

Hervey looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it
was
a very singular business. And I was not the first to laugh.’

‘How so?’ asked his father.

Hervey looked at his sister and raised his eyebrows as if censuring her for what would be revealed. ‘It was an opera by an Italian called Rossini: he is very famous there. And he himself directed it from the piano. He came into the orchestra wearing the strangest coat the colour of cream, and it caused great hilarity. Then after the overture – which was, I must say, very lively – a tenor came on stage with a guitar to serenade his love, and all the strings broke at the first chord. The audience hooted with laughter, and very many of them clericals.’