Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (11 page)

Delights every morn to get up with the lark

To pester His Majesty’s troops in the Park …

(and so on for a dozen verses).

But that was all an age ago, and Hervey was thankful of it (and trusted that he himself did not pester B Troop in
this
park). The present commander-in-chief, Lord Hill, he held of course in the highest regard – most affectionate regard; but ‘Daddy’ Hill’s days were spent in the business of retrenchment, so he understood, doing battle every bit as bitter with the Treasury as that he had done with the French. What the army – what Lord Hill – needed now therefore, reckoned Hervey, was a quartermaster-general with the wisdom of Sir John Moore, and one whose opinion counted. Then the cavalry would see a change – and (who knew?) even the red-coated Line, for there were enough men in green to show them how …

‘Have you seen the great plinth that is built for the statue of His late Majesty, atop Snow Hill?’ asked Worsley.

‘I have not,’ replied Hervey, recollecting himself. ‘What statue is this? I have not heard of it.’

‘Oh, a very fine one – an equestrian statue, all of copper. I’ve seen the clay model it’s to be cast from – Marcus Aurelius on the Capitoline.’

‘Indeed? I’d have thought His late Majesty more likely to prefer the image of a ploughman.’

There was the polite laughter customary for a superior officer’s jest, but in truth the notion of the poor old King – ‘Farmer George’ – mounted in triumph as a Roman emperor seemed incongruous to say the least. Yes, he had gained a few spice islands and the Cape of Good Hope in the war with France, but he had lost the American colonies twenty years before, and to the mind of many that was all there was to be said.

‘But we’ll take a look at Windsor’s new Capitoline, by all means. Carry on, then, please, Captain Worsley – but ride with us if you will.’

The officer commanding B Troop saluted and turned away to give his orders, while Hervey reined about to give him the privacy to do so in the manner he saw fit, for it was Worsley’s parade not his.

‘Did not Marcus Aurelius see himself as the bringer of peace rather than as conqueror?’ asked Fairbrother when they were out of earshot. ‘I’ve never been to Rome, of course, but I’ve read of the statue and seen images of it. He bears no sword, if I recall it rightly. Perhaps it’s more apt than at first seems.’

Hervey had both seen the statue and listened carefully in his lessons at Shrewsbury. And he did now recall that his friend might be right. ‘We need Agar to tell us definitively, of course, though I suspect Jenkinson could offer an opinion. Indeed, I am rather surprised he didn’t … But you are the most valuable fellow. What error I might fall into without your counsel!’

‘I liked the way Jenkinson spoke freely,’ said Fairbrother, tightening his girth strap again in anticipation of a gallop, having eased it while they stood watching. ‘It pays you a compliment – and, of course, Worsley.’

‘Just so. By the bye, I’ll be interested to see what post the duke does give the new Liverpool, Jenkinson
père
, for he was conspicuously without one throughout his brother’s time.’

Fairbrother inclined his head in a knowing way. ‘Ah, the sibling rival, the stock trade of drama – and sibling loyalty too: “Is there no voice more worthy than my own / To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear / For the repealing of my banished brother?”’

‘I think that is enough of the Ancients, Fairbrother. Let us get ourselves across the bourne yonder and then give these horses their head up Snow Hill.’

Fairbrother gave him a somewhat rueful look. ‘A hill aptly called. A gallop on snow will be entirely novel to me. I may well be down the other side faster than the grand old Duke of York.’

The chimneys of Windsor in winter, and all about, were at their labours. In the still, cold air the smoke rose but a few feet before spreading edgewise, joining with that of adjacent chimneys in a great, grey canopy. But one column rose higher – far higher; bigger too, and darker.

From the top of Snow Hill they could see for miles.

‘Something well alight to the west,’ said Hervey, pulling off a glove to get his telescope from its holster.

Worsley was doing the same. ‘Towards Winkfield, I reckon,’ he replied, getting the glass to his eye; ‘and flames, distinctly.’

‘Well, no smoke without the proverbial fire, but what’s the cause of it? And a prodigious blaze, by the look of it. I think it worth your inquiry.’

‘I was about to ask leave to explore, Colonel. Innocent or not they’ll have need of hands to extinguish it. I’ll save the pivot drill for another day and take the troop whole, for it’s on route back to Maidenhead. They’ll enjoy the gallop.’

‘Go to it, then,’ said Hervey, lowering his ’scope. ‘And write me word of what you find. And my compliments on your field day. Dine with me when you’re returned.’

‘Very good, Colonel.’

Worsley saluted, visibly encouraged, then, reining round, set off down the slope at a bold pace.

Words of praise; words of encouragement, and an invitation to hospitality – words of command. Hervey was ever mindful of those his own captain had spoken when first he had joined: some officers need driving, most need encouraging, very few need restraining. Words in command were mightier than the sword.

Fairbrother smiled to himself. ‘“An eye like Mars to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill”.’

Hervey turned. ‘What is that you say? Speak plainly, for my ears are as numb as my toes.’

Fairbrother shook his head. ‘I was merely recalling something I read.’

Hervey frowned; his friend could be extraordinarily arch. He turned instead to the adjutant. ‘Well, Malet, what think you now: shall we pay a call on the orderlies at the castle? We might at least find a cup of something hot.’

Windsor Castle was the furthest of the War Office party’s stations, with an NCO and two dragoons. There was not the least necessity of inspecting them, their being under such constant supervision as obtained at the Crown’s principal residence, but Malet agreed it would be diverting, especially on so cold a day.

‘Capital idea, Colonel.’ He turned to the serjeant-major. ‘D Troop furnishes the War Office party: who will be the NCO there at the present, Mr Rennie? Would you know?’

‘I believe it will be Corporal Fagan, sir.’

It was not the business of the RSM to know every last detail of a troop’s duty roster. Rennie’s recall was impressive, and Hervey’s nod said as much. ‘Then let us go and see him.’

As they turned north to descend to the Long Walk, Hervey thought it apt to draw in his friend again, who was so evidently weary of mock battle. ‘The straightest two and a half miles, I’d venture, this side of the Appian Way. Is it not a fair prospect, the castle?’

‘It is,’ replied Fairbrother. He had been contemplating it for some minutes.

‘Charles the Second began it, and then William of Orange planted the elms, and the Georges added to it. The late King had a good many stones brought from Leptis Magna, though I don’t recall—’

He pulled up suddenly, as if someone had plucked at his coat. He looked again towards the ever-darkening column of smoke. ‘Damn it, it can’t be a hapless thing. Not on such a day … Come, Malet!’ he snapped, reining sharp about and spurring his charger awake: ‘Let’s pay B Troop a second visit.’

The little party sprang to life like the field after a bolting fox, swinging as one west down the hill in pursuit, though the RSM kept a stricter hold on his followers than any field master. They steadied at the bottom to a canter across the parkland towards the Battle Bourne ponds, and then a straight line through the South Forest, putting deer to flight in all directions before bursting onto the Windsor road, narrowly missing the Ascot stage bowling south, then scrambling across the ditches alongside, and back into a gallop due west across the parkland of Cranbourne Court.

Hervey was relishing it – like a fast run with the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds on a good scenting day. He’d been so much abroad of late that he’d forgotten the pleasure of an English chase. ‘I’ve rarely hunted a cleaner line,’ he called to Fairbrother, checking just an instant to cross the Hatchett lane at the far end of the park, his gelding responding admirably to the merest flexing of the reins – and tiring almost not at all. They’d galloped true on the smoke even through the forest (though ‘forest’ did always seem to him overwrought) and strayed not fifty yards either side of dead straight. The park itself was not unlike the country of the Zulu, but without the thorn – except he was sure no Zulu ever saw the snow. What a life was this: India, the Cape, the western Levant, and all in the space of four years – only the time it took (decently) to back a foal. Would that it could be ever thus!

Ten minutes, and only a few furlongs to run – yet no sign of B Troop. How could they be so far behind Worsley’s men?

Back now into a hand-gallop across empty pasture, skirting the frozen fishponds, taking the hedges apace – and with not a faller – on up a steady rise, across the Winkfield road … and then, atop, with just a furlong more, a clear view at last of the blaze.

‘Is that B Troop?’ he called to Malet. He could scarce believe they’d got there before him without his crossing their line.

‘I think it must be, Colonel. There are no other.’

They galloped on.

Down the slope, uneven old plough, one more hedge and a half-hidden ditch, across some empty pasture – and they were at the fiery barn.

Worsley saw them and cantered over. ‘A dozen men, by all accounts, Colonel, and rough with it too. They set about the farmer, and his men, broke up a threshing machine and set light to the barn. He reckons they made off northwards and west, not half an hour ago. I’ve sent the sar’nt-major to look for tracks, and Kennett with the rest of the troop towards Maiden’s Green to head them off – and a couple of NCOs to ride the roads either side. Unless these devils have horses I can’t see how they can have got very far by any route.’

‘No indeed. They’ll be more footpad than highwayman, though if they’ve gone to earth they’ll take some finding here – so many coverts, though I suppose there’ll be tracks in the snow. Did the farmer see pistols?’

‘No.’

‘It doesn’t mean they’re
not
armed, of course. There’s every reason to conceal them … But tell me, how did you come here so quickly?’

‘I took a line through Cranbourne Park to the Winkfield road and turned south – I know it well. The troop had just begun moving towards the park and I sent my trumpeter to have them do the same.’

‘Action is eloquence,’ said Fairbrother, just audibly enough for Hervey to wish he’d used the words himself.

Instead he contented himself (and Worsley) with another ‘admirable’, and then: ‘We may well have gained a march on them. They
must
be in the bag hereabouts. The trick now is to close it.’

‘That I’m sure of, Colonel, but it’ll be dark in a couple of hours, and rummaging in the bag will be deuced difficult. Another troop would make all the difference.’

Hervey looked at Malet.

‘C’s the only one not at London duties, Colonel, but their parade state this morning was fewer than fifty.’

‘And we couldn’t get them here before last light,’ Hervey replied. And then a thought occurred. ‘The battalion at Windsor … We’d not be able to get them much before dark, but they could search through the night.’

‘Better, I think, in daylight, Colonel. So many cottages and field barns,’ said Worsley.

‘You’d have a damned cold picket of it the while.’

Worsley did not answer, for the proposition was irrefutable.

‘But it would have the merit of allowing us an hour or so to secure the bag, so to speak, before calling out the Guards. Then at least I might have some purchase with their commanding officer. What may we do to assist you?’

‘Feed and rations, I think, Colonel.’

Hervey turned in the saddle. ‘Mr Rennie?’

‘At once, Colonel,’ and the RSM had saluted and reined about before Hervey could say more – not that it was in the least necessary to say more.

Hervey surveyed the farm and the nearby cottages. ‘I suppose there’s nothing to be done to put out the flames. There’s no wind, which is a mercy, so it ought to burn itself out without further harm. I think you had better carry on, Worsley. Let’s meet at the church in an hour … which minds me: I wonder if there’s aught to be seen from the tower?’

‘Jenkinson’s taking a look.’

‘Capital. Then we’ll take a turn for ourselves towards Maiden’s Green. There may be a sign or two.’

The day was already darkening. Spirits were not lowered, however; not in the least. Indeed, Hervey himself was thoroughly brightened by the gallop and the prospect of apprehending such brutish breachers of the King’s peace.

Warmed by the blaze and enlivened by the task, they made a line south to the Ascot road at the trot, turning west onto it and keeping the same pace for half a mile or so before reaching the church, where they found Jenkinson on the battlemented tower but with nothing to report, so continued on, up the road but seeing next to no one save Worsley’s videttes, despite the hue and cry, until they came on Lieutenant Kennett at the junction with the road that was to be the line of the cordon.