CHAPTER TWELVE
TO THE AID OF THE CIVIL POWERS

Brighton, three days later

Major Eustace Joynson had a sick headache. He had sick headaches often, and his doctors’ prescription was always the same. He emptied a small envelope of calomel into a glass of water, watched it dissolve and then drank it in one go. As a purgative it was admirable. As a counter to pain he could not tell, for although it had no immediate effect, the pain always passed, and so he could never be sure whether it was the white powder or simply time that was efficacious. He recoiled from taking laudanum, since that had rendered his wife to all intents and purposes an invalid – at least, she was no longer fit to be about society. One of his doctors said they might try the new morphium from Leipzig, but he was as yet wary of that. His sick headaches were invariably coincident with periods of demanding activity of the cerebral kind. Indeed, if the major were faced with a disagreeable decision, a sick headache could come on almost at once.

The past three days had not required of him any decision, but it had required unprecedented cerebral activity. First there were the courts martial. Strickland’s was a relatively straightforward affair to arrange, for the evidence was before them all in the shape, or rather the absence of shape – and colour – of his troop’s best jackets. But in the case of Hervey’s court martial there was the report of the revenue commissioner to await, and so the arrangements could only be tentative. And then had come The Times’s resounding praise, and with it a sea change in the lieutenant colonel’s disposition, so that all the arrangements for the courts martial had had to be undone, and hastily. The invitation from the Prince Regent for Lord Towcester to attend on him at once at Carlton House, which had followed within a day of The Times’s report, had further lifted the lieutenant colonel’s spirits; but it also placed the major in a position of temporary command, and this was not conducive to freedom from headaches. So when, this very morning, orders arrived from the Horse Guards to proceed to the north within twenty-four hours, the cerebral consequences for Joynson were unhappy.

‘Hervey, I must go and rest – a darkened room. Please would you be so good as to see these orders are put in hand?’ He gave him a sheaf of foolscap.

Hervey sat in the major’s chair once he was gone, and read over the orders quickly to gain a feel for their substance: general insurrection is feared in Nottinghamshire and south Yorkshire . . . seditious meetings . . . serious outbreak of violence against machines and property . . . threats made to magistrates and constables . . . informers suggest traitorous conspiracy . . . six troops to reinforce Northern District . . . under direct command of Major-General Sir Francis Evans.

He could hardly be surprised, for there had been reports in the broadsheets for the past month, though heavily censored. And, as Daniel Coates had said in his last letter, with habeas corpus still suspended, not even the bountiful harvest they were enjoying was likely to quell the discontent. Six months ago, the Yeomanry had been issued with a general order to respond to calls for assistance from the civil authorities, and so Hervey supposed that the yeomen must be exhausted, for to order the ‘pavilion regiment’ north was no small thing.

He turned to the sheet headed ‘Regimental Orders’. It was blank. What the major had meant when he said ‘See these orders are put in hand’ was ‘Write the orders and then put them in hand.’ He sighed. ‘Where is the adjutant, Serjeant Short?’

The orderly room serjeant said he was in Lewes for the assize dinner.

‘Please bring me the standing orders for forced marching, then,’ said Hervey briskly, beginning to read over the papers again.

‘There are none, sir.’

‘What?’

‘None, sir.’

‘What about the orders that Major Edmonds wrote as we left for Belgium? They were printed and bound when we got to France, were they not?’

‘Yes, sir, but his lordship ordered them all destroyed a month ago and said that there was to be a new edition.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, sir. In red morocco.’

‘Red morocco?’ Hervey was about to ask why the old orders should be destroyed before the new ones were ready, but then realized it was not the orderly room serjeant’s place to answer. ‘Very well, then, Serjeant Short – pen and ink please. And a large pot of coffee.’

Hervey issued a preliminary order at once, but it took him the better part of two hours to complete those for the march itself. The rate of progress shall be fifty miles per diem (a fair compromise between speed and handiness on arriving, he reckoned, for they would have to cover a little short of a hundred and fifty miles). The first ten miles shall be at the walk, led, a full half-hour, then at a steady trot. There shall be a halt of 15 mins . . . Each horse shall be given water to wash the mouth only and wisp of hay . . . The next six miles shall be at a fast trot and afterwards a halt of half an hour . . . horses to be unsaddled and rubbed down, and one peck of corn given, and water . . . A second ten miles, first walk, led, then brisk trot . . . with halt as after first . . . After next six miles at fast trot shall be a rest of two hours . . . horses to be given hay and feed of corn (they carried this themselves, and Hervey knew he hardly need detail that the men should eat their haversack rations) . . . then ten miles and halt as the first, followed by last eight without halt . . . At night billets a warm mash, with beans if weather foul, before evening feed . . . allowance per diem fourteen pounds of hay and twelve of oats, barley or Indian corn . . . He made a separate schedule for the order of march, the times of departure, and the night stops – Uxbridge, Northampton, Nottingham itself. And then he made a start on the ‘Directions for Carrying Camp Equipment’ . . .

At length, pleased with his improvisation, he gave the sheaf of papers to the orderly room serjeant for copying and went to find his groom. It was now close on midday and the stables were quiet, Harkaway and Gilbert contentedly grinding corn in their loose boxes; but there was no sign of Private Johnson. His troop lieutenant’s groom emerged from the hay loft. ‘Oh, good morning, Lingard,’ said Hervey, a little surprised, for he knew Seton Canning to be away to Lewes with the assizes still. ‘Have you seen Johnson?’

Private Lingard looked puzzled. ‘He’s not here, sir.’

‘Yes,’ scowled Hervey. ‘I can see that. Do you know where he is?’

Lingard now looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t, rightly, sir.’

Hervey sighed. ‘Lingard, what is the matter?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

This was evasion, by any measure. ‘Come, man! I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re not saying all.’

Lingard had no option but to comply. ‘Sir, he’s at riding school.’

‘Riding school?’ Johnson had been dismissed riding school for many a year. ‘Would you explain, Lingard? This is becoming a little tedious.’

Lingard seemed embarrassed. ‘Sir, he’s learning how to ride sidesaddle.’

Hervey made a chortling noise.

‘Exactly, sir.’

Johnson’s devotion to Henrietta had plainly taken an unusual turn. ‘Very well, Lingard,’ sighed Hervey, struggling hard not to laugh. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to ask Private Johnson to come to my quarters after evening stables – if by then he is still of a mind for soldiery. There are things to do. You’ve heard we’re for the north?’

‘No I hadn’t, sir. I’m only just back from Lewes. You mean you are going north, sir?’

‘The whole regiment.’

‘We’re leaving Brighton, sir?’ Lingard sounded pleased.

‘For a while, yes.’ Hervey gave Harkaway another favour, and then Gilbert. ‘Isn’t Brighton to your liking?’

‘Too much spit and polishing, sir. The best of it was the other night against the French. I wish I’d been there.’

It was a strange thing with dragoons, Hervey marvelled. They were like their horses: they spent their hours in the stable wishing to be out, and then once they were out they were only too keen to make straight back in. He only hoped the news would be greeted as well in the officers’ mess, though in truth he knew it would not. George ‘Beau’ Brummell may have been striking a pose when, the Tenth having been ordered to Manchester all those years ago, he protested that he had not enlisted for foreign service, but Brummell’s sentiments were prevalent in the cavalry still.

Outside the stables he found Serjeant Armstrong in heated contest with the farrier-corporal, except that the corporal was now silent. ‘I don’t care which one of your men did this,’ came the raw Tyneside. ‘If ever I find a dumped foot in this troop again, I’ll charge you – with negligence.’

Armstrong was evidently relishing his duty as serjeant-major during Kendall’s convalescence (Kendall’s dyspeptic ulcer was almost as troublesome as Joynson’s sick headaches). And why should he not, thought Hervey, for Armstrong had been fitted enough for it innumerable times in the Peninsula? ‘Do you know where Johnson is?’ he asked, when the farrier-corporal had gone.

‘He wasn’t at watering parade, so I thought he was with you, sir.’

‘No.’

Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, suggesting a frown beneath his shako. ‘That’s rum. He’s never slipped his collar before now.’

‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ Hervey suddenly thought better of revealing Johnson’s change of seat, for the need to school Henrietta’s little mare was something whose announcement wanted careful judging. ‘What do you make of the orders?’

‘Glad of ’em. This place is getting stale. But I’m not much taken with police work, especially after the other night. I just hope we’re not going to be buggered about by a lot of fuzzled justices!’

‘I know, I know.’ Hervey paused to return the orderly corporal’s salute, on his way to guard mounting. ‘How are things going?’

‘Fine. We’ll be ready all right. Just another half-dozen to shoe.’

‘Any news of the serjeant-major?’

‘Still on gruel. Not even light duties for another week.’ Armstrong sounded content enough.

Hervey huffed, and looked embarrassed. ‘It’s an ill wind . . .’

‘I didn’t join the Sixth for foreign service either, Hervey!’ Captain Rose blew cigar smoke ceilingwards. There were muttered ‘hear, hears’ all about the ante-room.

‘Leicestershire is adjoining country, Rose; look at it that way!’

‘The place is full of mine shafts isn’t it? And forest? Trappy country to follow hounds in, I’d say.’

The slight inclination of F Troop leader’s eyebrows told Hervey that his objections were not entirely flippant. ‘It might make for interesting sport, though,’ he countered, warming to the imagery. ‘We should see hounds working, rather than just galloping with a big field.’

Rose shook his head doubtfully. ‘But these northern foxes’ll bolt straight back to the woods, or wherever. You’ll lose hounds left, right and centre going in after ’em.’

‘I grant you we’ll not have anything like the runs we’d have in Leicestershire, but we’ll just have to go at our fox a different way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Stop up the earths, for sure. And terriers for if they do manage to run to earth. Perhaps we’ll have to hunt as we do for cubs – drive Charles back onto hounds.’

Rose smiled, still sceptical. ‘We’ll see, Hervey. But I still say I haven’t paid good money to hunt poor country!’

During this somewhat recondite exchange, Hervey had begun to realize that his authority as the senior troop leader, although a matter only of days and pounds, was being accepted with some grace by the other officers. Hervey had already learned that no one expected the report from the revenue officer, when it came, to point a single finger of blame at his handling of events. In the passage of remarkably little time he had gone from dejection to . . . if hardly triumph, then certainly encouragement. The vexation was that the bubble reputation was not to be had in the cannon’s mouth any longer, but in the columns of The Times – and not by his own feats, but by the guile of his wife.

Henrietta was surprised to see him return so early, and dismayed to learn the reason why. ‘I will not stay here in Brighton,’ she declared.

‘My love, the very last thing I would wish is to be parted from you another night, but my father would welcome some encouragement at this time, and—’

She looked even more unhappy. ‘Matthew, if you say that I am to go to Wiltshire, then I will. Of course I will. But my thought was to come with you.’

He could not have been happier with any notion. ‘But how shall you stand the journey? And it is not London. What lodgings shall we be able to find?’

‘Oh,’ she laughed, ‘I can stand the journey perfectly well. And we can stay at Chatsworth. William Devonshire has said often enough that he hoped to meet you again.’

‘I shan’t be able to stay there, not with my troop elsewhere,’ he cautioned. Then he brightened. ‘But I’m sure there will be opportunities to visit. It can’t be many miles.’

‘May we travel together, then?’

The prospect of her company, and one of the best-sprung chaises he had known, was a great temptation. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid, my love. Nor is it just the troop. Joynson will have a sick headache, like as not, and Lord Towcester won’t join until Nottingham. The responsibility will be mine to see the regiment there.’

‘But I may travel with you, may I not?’

‘Yes, of course. Though we shall be a little slow. You are sure you are up to so long a drive?’

‘Yes, Matthew. I should be able to ride to Chatsworth if I really wanted to!’

It minded him to tease her about Johnson, but he was so full of admiration for her spirit that he could only sit and enjoy her delighted expression. He knew how much the trials of Princess Charlotte’s confinement were troubling her, for the newspaper reports were more lurid by the day; she must inevitably make comparisons with her own condition, however inapt that might be.

Three days later they were in Nottingham, and the troop returns were better than any of the captains could remember after such a distance – testimony to a sound march plan, good discipline on the part of the NCOs, and the quality of the regiment’s horses. This latter was freely acknowledged by all ranks, and Lord Towcester’s name was heard spoken of with increasing respect again. They had gone 157 miles in three days at a cost of only two horses dead – both from colic on the first night – and nine lame. As remarkably, there were no horses off the road with sore backs, an admirable pointer to both discipline and skill. The price was a fair number of limping dragoons, but, as their corporals were only too happy to point out, blisters on the feet were no hindrance in the saddle.

And still the regiment was Hervey’s, for Major Joynson would not be fit to travel for some days yet, it seemed, and Lord Towcester had yet to arrive. They had had word from Carlton House that he would set out as soon as the Prince Regent decided to detain him no longer. Meanwhile, therefore, Hervey had to present himself to the general officer commanding.

Major-General Sir Francis Evans, GOC Northern District, had established his temporary headquarters in Nottingham Castle. Of all the country’s military districts, the northern was the most exigent. It had been so indeed since Trafalgar, after which there had been no longer any threat of invasion. The district ran from the Scottish border, through the north-eastern coalfields, and took in the counties of Yorkshire, Lancashire, Nottinghamshire and Leicestershire. The headquarters were at York as a rule; but the hotbed of trouble in his district at this time was undoubtedly Nottinghamshire, and General Evans was not a man to sit distant and aloof. But he was as crabbed as his reputation had it, and this morning he was belabouring a clerk for the scratchy signatures the man’s pen was making, as Hervey entered his office. His right ear, turned forward so much that the troops called him ‘General Tab’, was almost as red as his tunic, and the redness of Sir Francis Evans’s ear, Hervey had been warned, was a sure indicator of his temper.

‘Captain Hervey, Sir Francis,’ said the DAAG, beckoning the clerk away. ‘Sixth Light Dragoons.’

Hervey stepped quickly to the general’s desk, halted and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Are you the adjutant? When does the regiment arrive?’ said Sir Francis gruffly.

‘I am not the adjutant, sir. I am the senior troop leader, and I am pleased to report the arrival of six troops: three hundred and eighty-one effectives.’

Sir Francis’s ear grew even redder. ‘Where in hell’s name is your colonel?’

Hervey was pleased to have been warned of Sir Francis’s choler, though the warning did not entirely ease its sting. ‘He was summoned by the Prince Regent, Sir Francis. I am given to understand that he will be making his way here at any time.’ He hoped this was not too blatant a distortion of his latest intelligence.

‘And where is the major, then?’

‘He is sick, sir. He will follow from Brighton in a very few days, I am sure.’

‘Mm. I see. This is not a very satisfactory beginning.’

‘The troops are all well-found and officered, sir.’ Hervey felt he was speaking up as much for the Sixth as for his colonel.

‘Yes, but that is all very well, Captain Hervey. I must have a field officer here in Nottingham. The troops themselves I intend disposing throughout the county at the immediate call of the bench.’

‘Very well, sir. I shall take the orders from your DAAG, and hold myself here until Lord Towcester arrives. I trust that he will not be long.’ He braced up for the dismissal. It did not come.

Sir Francis Evans seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Hervey . . . I have some recollection of that name.’

Hervey could not think how, for they had never, so far as he knew, seen the same campaign. ‘I have always been with the Sixth, sir, except last year in India.’

Sir Francis nodded. ‘I thought as much. You are brevet major, are you not?’

Hervey was as flattered by the recognition as he was astounded, and tried hard to hide both. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mm. Sit yourself down.’ He turned to his DAAG. ‘Bring us some coffee, Harry, there’s a good fellow.’ Sir Francis’s ear had regained its normal colour. He leaned back in his chair, studying his temporary commander of cavalry, his chin disappearing beneath the standing collar of his tunic. ‘The duke thinks highly of you, as I recall.’

Hervey was not sure if this was meant to be rhetorical, but the silence demanded some response. ‘Thank you, sir. I was in India on his bidding.’

There was just the suggestion of a smile on Sir Francis’s lips. ‘Then I fancy I might repose in you myself.’

Hervey was not going to presume to sport with the general, even with such an invitation. The arrival of coffee was opportune. ‘Sir.’

‘To begin with, Hervey – and let it be rightly understood – there is no glory for you or your dragoons in aid of the civil power. There’ll be no charging hither and thither, no flashy sword work.’

Hervey had little enough experience of the application of that duty, beyond the squalid business of West Cork, yet he knew enough to be in no doubt as to its nature. ‘Indeed, sir. And I know I may speak for the whole regiment in this. The dragoons are glad of the change from Hounslow and Brighton, but they have a great repugnance for riot duty. We lost an officer killed last March in London.’

Sir Francis nodded. ‘It is the most terrible thing to fire on one’s own countrymen, however grave the provocation.’

Hervey assented silently.

Sir Francis narrowed his eyes and looked keenly at him. ‘Yet there can be no shirking from duty, Captain Hervey. It will have to be done at all hazards.’

‘I know it, sir,’ replied Hervey, with a tone of both regret and resolve which together seemed to reassure the GOC.

Sir Francis now appeared to take his ease entirely. He poured himself and Hervey more coffee, offered him a cheroot, which Hervey declined, though he would ordinarily have enjoyed its taste with his araba, and lit one for himself. It seemed that Sir Francis rather liked this young cavalryman: perhaps because Hervey had shown no trepidation in facing him (he knew his own reputation well enough), and for his general air of assurance. It was not every captain, in his experience, who would look forward to his duties – overmatched as they were for his rank – and with such equanimity. Sir Francis now recalled the brevet committee better. He had opposed Hervey’s cause in the first instance, thinking him nothing more than another Waterloo hand. He recalled how Sir Horace Shawcross had pressed his case admirably, believing him to have special merit, and it was looking as though Sir Horace had been right. It was not the portion of a GOC to be able to talk confidingly with many men – sadly – and Sir Francis Evans did not intend letting an opportunity pass. ‘Let me tell you something of the genesis of all this, Hervey, and then you might be set more favourably to do the King’s business. What do you know of the secret parliamentary committees – the January committees?’

Hervey was perplexed. If they were secret, how should he know anything of them? ‘I was not in England in January, sir, and I have not heard of them since.’

‘Too many have,’ tutted Sir Francis. ‘And what they reported. You know, of course, that habeas corpus is suspended?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And that special legislation has been enacted to prevent the holding of what are deemed seditious meetings?’

‘I did not know that, sir.’

‘The committees found there to be overwhelming evidence of a traitorous conspiracy to overthrow the government – a general insurrection, indeed. And these two measures are the fruits of that inquiry. Bitter fruits they are, too.’

Hervey intended making the most of the intimacy. ‘Do the magistrates exercise the powers aptly, sir?’ His memory of the Cork magistracy was still painful.

‘Depends whether they’re Whig or Tory, or, for that matter, town or county. The Tory bench is a violent one on the whole – uncompromising . . . and damned irritating. But I will say they are bold. The Whigs on the other hand are a sneaking, base lot – always quick to call for troops, yet trucking with the mob. The county magistrates are a miserable set generally. They insult the people and grow frightened at every alarm. Those of the towns have a little more pluck, but the county ones bully them, inoculate them with their own fears, and then they pour in calls for troops. You’ll have no very great love of them. But remember this: when you have gone back to Brighton, they must remain here, and with no protection but the parish constable and the shutters on their windows.’

‘No, of course, sir.’ Hervey had never envied the magistrates. He was just dismayed at their want of understanding and, it might be said, often enough their cold-heartedness.

‘Well now, understand that my object in all this is to tranquillize the situation as much as possible. It has been my habit to meet with the magistrates weekly in the most troubled areas to impress on them, more than anything, that they must not interfere with the basic rights of the crowds to assemble, for not every such assembly is by any means seditious. If, of course, the orator is preaching arson, murder or treason then he must be arrested as soon as the crowd is dispersed. But galling though it may be, I am very much afraid that it is better to let him finish his tirade than try to get to arrest him by pushing through the crowd, for that way spells only misadventure.’

Hervey nodded. The affair of Skinner Street had been a salutary lesson.

‘I am myself, as a rule, chary of using cavalry, for they cannot do much other than bully a crowd – though I’d rather have a crowd chopped a little than destroyed with firearms. The trouble is, in a town they’re too easily assailed from above, and with impunity. Slates, coping stones – they’ll hurl anything. You shall have to drill your dragoons to dismount as infantry, Hervey, else they’ll be no use in some of these places. They’ll have to be able to get aloft.’

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?