A Call To Arms (7 page)

But Hervey scarcely noticed. ‘I do believe it to be from a most gallant acquaintance of mine. It is sent from Naples only three days ago.’ He opened it and read the contents quickly. ‘It is indeed from him. And it appears he is made commodore. He says he will be in Naples for a month and more, and would see me in Rome as soon as I am able to receive him.’

‘And who is this gallant commodore? You have not told me of him.’

‘I would need many an evening to do him justice. I sailed to India and home in his frigate. He is uncommonly good company.’

‘An officer of the wooden walls, another high Tory!’

‘In that you suppose wrongly. There’s a radical heart beating in Commodore Peto’s breast – as well as one of oak. And you would not deride the latter, I’m sure?’

‘No, no; I should not deride a brave heart wherever it beat. How did he know you were here?’

Hervey put the letter in his pocket and stood up. ‘I knew his station was the Mediterranean, and so sent word to the embassy in Naples asking that the letter be forwarded when there was intelligence of his ship. I shall go to the post office at once and send him word to come at his pleasure. You will like him.’

‘A radical, you say?’

‘I did not quite say that. He has a radical bent. I would hardly think him a subscriber to the
Black Hand
, or whatever it is you revolutionaries read.’

‘
Dwarf
, Hervey,
Black Dwarf
.’

‘Just so. Shall you come with me to the college then?’

‘No; on second thoughts I’m a little weary. My eyes are aching again. I have not slept well these past nights. And I want to engage someone at once to find other lodgings. You do not forget Signora Dionigi’s party tomorrow evening?’

‘No, indeed.’ Hervey brushed the dust from his hat and placed it on his head a shade more carelessly than usual.

Shelley looked at him quizzically. ‘I perceive a sudden spring to your step – at last.’

Hervey failed to hear more than an easy remark. ‘Very well, then. Do we meet at the same time tomorrow?’

Shelley nodded, and with a wry grin. He had no words. And as he watched Hervey walk from the Caffè Greco, he wondered at the comradeship which black powder so evidently made.

There had been a night of rain and the Tiber had risen, so that the sewers were stagnant again and enterprising hawkers were doing a brisk trade in nosegays. Hervey made do without, though now the stench was so bad that he clutched a handkerchief to his face, and consoled himself with the thought that there would be incense enough to cover this rankness at the college. He quickened his pace, too, almost to double time, so that it was not long before he was pulling the bell handle at the ironclad doors of
the English College, the Venerable College of St Thomas
de urbe
.

The
portiere
opened them, but he spoke no English, much to Hervey’s surprise – disappointment even – for John Keble had said the place was truly a piece of England in the heart of the old city, though he had not himself been to Rome. At length there came a tall man in a black cassock, and by the
portiere
’s manner, and a few of his words, Hervey supposed this must be the rector, which indeed the man confirmed as he held out a hand in welcome.

Father Robert Gradwell was striking in both appearance and bearing. Eyes that felt as if they pierced to the soul, albeit with gentleness, at once engaged the visitor; and when Hervey had detached himself from their hold he saw a face that might have been the Duke of Wellington’s own, for the features were spare, hawklike, fervent. Indeed, so arresting was the comparison that Hervey made a very faltering introduction for himself, and took a little time to explain that he would deem it a great privilege if he might see inside the seminary. He half expected to be asked for what purpose, but Father Gradwell did not enquire; he simply welcomed him, warmly and without condition.

Although it seemed otherwise, Hervey knew that the rector could not have had long experience of showing the college to chance visitors such as he. The house had only lately reopened following Bonaparte’s long occupation of what had variously been described as the Roman republic or the vassal kingdom of France’s. But mercifully, the evidence was not as great as it might have been, although horses had been stabled where the
venerabili
prayed, and the tombs had been opened for their imagined treasure. Least spoiled of all was the little garden, a very singular feature according to the rector, for where in other
palazzi
there would be a
cortile
, with pots and running water perhaps, here was a place where in but a few moments an Englishman might think himself at home. Hervey, certainly, was able to cast his mind to Horningsham and to conjure an image of his parents, his father especially, for in no man could there be a closer unity of chancel and garden than in the Reverend, indeed now the Venerable, Thomas Hervey.

When the garden had pleased enough, the rector showed him some of the college’s treasures – memorials rather than fine plate – and then conducted him to what he called the chapel of the Martyrs. ‘I expect you shall wish to be in peace here. It is our
custom to offer hospitality to any visitor. Please come to the refectory when you are quite ready.’

Hervey murmured his thanks, and the rector took his leave. He stood at the chapel door for some time before he felt ready to enter, for here was a place where the remembrance of English blood was as real as in the chapels-turned-dressing-posts he had seen too often in the ‘never-ending war’. At length he went inside, got to his knees and closed his eyes. A quarter of an hour he remained thus, his prayers a ramble of pleas for the living and the dead – and for himself above all, for he could not in his heart believe that Henrietta needed his oration, nor yet that the living had more need of divine help than he. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of Henrietta before him. It was a picture that no other had seen. Even in this most sacred place he had no scruple in conjuring the picture of passion which had transformed her face.

And then when he could no longer bear it, he opened his eyes and fixed them instead on Alberti’s commanding allegory of persecution, so vivid a reredos, so prized a survivor of Bonaparte’s occupation, Father Gradwell had said. So vivid, indeed, as to overpower. Hervey transferred his gaze to the crucifix on the high altar, wanting all the strength it could give. But he was not practised enough, and tears began to flow, gently at first, and then almost with convulsions, so that he had to take out a handkerchief and clutch it to his eyes. He sat back and picked up one of the cards from the pew. On it were the names of the
venerabili
, for whom a
Te Deum
was sung periodically. Such ordinary names they were, so very English, unlikely-sounding martyrs: Ralph Sherwin, John Wall, Thomas Cottam, Edward James – too long a list to contemplate without wondering what guilt for their deaths remained.

Perhaps he should not have come. He had wanted to see if a place of so much willing sacrifice might have some secret message, some hidden power to ease the pain which every day visited him no matter how determinedly he sought diversions. But there was no message, nor any power to dull the pain. Those who might know of these things – John Keble, Daniel Coates, his father even – had said that only time could ease, that a search for an opiate was at best futile and at worst destructive, and that what would see him through time was God, and his own strength of character.

The trouble was that God did not come to his aid, and that his own strength looked increasingly ill-matched with the trial. Hervey closed his eyes once more, and sought the simplicity of St Mark. ‘Lord, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘Help thou mine unbelief.’

A week later

When Commodore Peto arrived, Elizabeth recorded in her journal a distinct and immediate rise in her brother’s spirits. Shelley noted it too, and was at first discouraged that his own company had evidently been deficient. But Shelley could not – even if he had been so minded – hold any part of that against the commodore, whose direct manner and decidedly radical sentiments he found altogether engaging. Their company in the first days was delightful to each.

The evening Peto arrived had been a private affair between the two old friends, however. Not even Elizabeth joined them for supper, for she knew her brother would only speak were she elsewhere.

‘Tell me, then,’ Peto had demanded when they took their table at his lodgings, the Albergo d’Inghilterra. ‘What was done with Towcester? For you were silent on the matter in your letters.’

Perhaps most men would first have expressed sadness at the loss of a wife, even at the semi-orphaning of an infant, for the two had not met since the day of Hervey’s wedding; but Peto knew he did
not have to speak of it. Long days, weeks, months together in those close quarters of the frigate
Nisus
had made for an understanding between the two men, and mere sentiment would have been repugnant to them both.

‘I sent you the report in the
London Gazette
,’ Hervey replied.

‘A very dry account. I want to know how things went.’

The
cameriere
had come to the table again, and asked them in English what they wished to order.

Peto did not hesitate. Indeed, he had not even consulted the blackboard which the
cameriere
had previously brought. ‘
Trippa!
’

Hervey looked surprised. Peto’s taste he knew to be choice, almost fastidious.

‘Three months at sea gives a man a powerful taste for the byre!’ was the commodore’s explanation.

Other occupants of the dining room were now looking towards their table, though only Hervey noticed. He thought he had better share Peto’s taste.

The
cameriere
began speaking excitedly, and in Italian. Hervey caught the word
Trastevere
, but little else. Eventually, one of the
albergo
’s men in authority came. He spoke with the
cameriere
, and then explained, in English and with great politeness, that it was not the practice of the Albergo d’Inghilterra to prepare dishes from the ‘fifth quarter’, as the Romans called it, but that if they were to cross the river to the Trastevere they could indulge their pleasure at liberty.

Peto looked at Hervey, as if his longer time in Rome might effect a change of practice. Hervey sought to accommodate both sides. ‘What do you recommend in its place, signor?’

The man in authority was certain. ‘
Vitello
, signori. You will not taste finer in this city!’

Peto looked at him blankly.

‘Capital,’ said Hervey, keen to close the dispute. ‘The fatted calf. Is that not appropriate, Peto?’

Peto might have wondered who was the prodigal, but his hunger got the better of his curiosity. ‘Ay. It will do nicely.’

Hervey thought to distance matters further from the affront to the commodore’s culinary discernment. ‘And to begin with, I believe we should try the little marrow flowers which they do here in a light batter. They are very fine.’

‘Good, good, but not
too
insubstantial, I hope. I’m fair famished.’

The problem was that Peto’s voice was cast permanently to overcome the roar of the waves, the shrill of the wind, the groaning of canvas and the creaking of timber. He lowered it in company such as this, naturally, but from so high a volume that he never quite judged the decrescendo aptly. More heads turned towards their table, but Peto was still wholly oblivious to them – by design or not Hervey was unable to say. All he could do was pipe his own voice down still lower in an effort to have Peto follow him. ‘Wine?’

‘Barolo!’

The whole room turned.

Peto at last noticed. He nodded in turn to each table with an indulgent smile. ‘They love a blue coat,’ he said, turning back to Hervey, his voice now lowered to below the level of the wind and waves and canvas, as if he were at table in his own steerage, indeed – and at anchor. ‘Now, the court martial: I want to know all of it.’

‘Where should I begin?’ replied Hervey, raising an eyebrow. ‘It was a sorry business.’

‘Where was it held? Who were the members?’

‘At the Royal Hospital. It seems that the commander-in-chief wished to have it within London District, but not too close to the Horse Guards.’