Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service (11 page)

‘Captain Fairbrother said that Trimalchio could not have served better mutton than he had just enjoyed.’ Malet wore just the suspicion of a complicit smile; he knew the cornets well, and intended letting them have a little rein.

Hervey was tempted to be grave, but he too could not entirely keep a smile from his face. ‘Why say you otherwise than Mr Agar, Mr Jenkinson?’

Cornet Jenkinson, new joined from Oxford in the year just gone, had the air of a questioning, even puzzled curate. ‘I recall, sir, that Plato spoke of but one Sybil, and she at Delphi. And since the Delphian oracle was the best known to all, why should Trimalchio boast of another?’

Hervey inclined his head in a way that acknowledged the proposition. ‘Mr Agar?’

Cornet Agar, new joined in the same month as Jenkinson, and also from Christ Church, had an altogether acuter air, though not lacking in warmth. He and Jenkinson had lived cordially on the same staircase for several terms despite the difference of their families’ politics (the Jenkinsons were Tories of a most unbending sort – Lord Liverpool, the prime minister, had opposed Catholic relief to the last day of his administration; while Agar’s family stood prominently among the Whigs). ‘There is no doubt of it, sir. Petronius writes of the Sibyl of
Cumae
, who because of her great age was suspended in a pot –
ampulla
– for eternity. And since Trimalchio’s estate was at Cumae, why indeed would the Sybil be the Delphian?’

Hervey raised an eyebrow, and turned to Cornet Jenkinson for his response.

‘I cannot dispute it further, sir. Agar’s memory serves him better than does mine.’

‘You are well that it did not come to the wagers book,’ concluded Malet, signalling that the conversation could resume its former dimensions.

Hervey turned a little in his chair to where Fairbrother sat with a fathoming look. ‘It’s as if I were a cornet again and Laming were here, sporting. I’m quite transported. You would have found his company most engaging. A considerable scholar … Something troubles you?’

Fairbrother shook his head. ‘Not
troubles
me, no. But I had thought that a
Sybil
spoke her own prophecies, not those of an oracle.’

‘A very apt observation. You should put it to Jenkinson.’

Instead he put it to Agar, quietly, as they rose from the table.

Agar nodded confidentially. ‘Just so. It was the
Pythia
who spoke for Apollo at Delphi. The Delphian
Sybil
spoke for herself. But it wasn’t necessary to make a show of that too. Jenkinson’s an excellent fellow.’

Hervey heard the exchange, and he warmed to Agar for it.

In the ante-room, to which they returned to take more coffee, Jenkinson took his leave for picket duties, while Malet engaged Fairbrother in an examination of the wagers book (always a diverting pastime). Hervey chatted dutifully to the new paymaster, but after a few minutes that officer excused himself, for the imprest account was due its monthly reconciliation.

Agar saw, and detached himself from the little knot of other regimental staff hugging the fire. ‘Colonel Hervey, sir, I understand you are to observe the war in the East.’

‘That is so.’

‘Sir, I should like very much to accompany you.’

Hervey, slightly taken aback – not so much by the desire as the directness of the request – made an expression that suggested the notion was impractical.

But for a new cornet, Agar was singularly undaunted. ‘Sir, if I might add, I have travelled throughout Greece and a good part of Macedonia and those places close to the seat of the war, and I speak a little Persian.’

Hervey nodded appreciatively, though he feared Agar misjudged the nature of the business. ‘It is not a
dragoman
I need but a coverman.’

Agar looked earnest. ‘I should be honoured to serve as your coverman, sir.’

Hervey suppressed an instinct to smile (for pluck was not to be derided); but a greenhorn cornet was no substitute for a winner of ‘Sabre and Carbine’. He shook his head. ‘The place is taken, though I take note of your zeal.’

Agar stood his ground, however. ‘Sir, there is no pressing need of me here – and I might add, no useful work – and since there is so little action to be seen other than scattering riotous assemblers, I must seek it out.’

Hervey frowned. ‘I wonder you did not choose an India regiment then,’ he said, suddenly inclined to be a little severe.

‘My mother’s people – cousins – served with the regiment, sir. That was my reason for wishing to join, rather than an India one.’

‘Indeed? Their name?’

Agar cleared his throat. ‘Lankester, sir.’

Hervey was too practised to betray emotion, but no mention of the name Lankester could be without effect. Both brothers had died at the head of the regiment; and, not least, Kezia had briefly borne the name – of which Agar must be aware. ‘Your mother’s people, you say?’

‘Cousins, sir.’

It guaranteed nothing, of course – only that his reason for joining was copper-bottomed – and yet here was a man of evident learning and eagerness, and there was no reason why he should not come with him to the war. Hervey supposed that the Horse Guards would have no objection (Agar could surely pay his own way), and nor in the circumstances could Lord Holderness. Malet would anyway be able to say how needful they were of a cornet not long passed-out of riding school and skill-at-arms – which, he imagined, was not at all.

He nodded several times, thoughtful. ‘Very well. I shall have Malet speak with Lord Hol’ness.’

‘Thank you, Colonel Hervey.’ Agar bowed, and made to withdraw.

‘One more thing.’

Agar looked wary, as if Hervey might have second thoughts. ‘Sir?’

He wanted to be absolutely sure that this ‘cornet of letters’ was no chancer. ‘You were very decided in your opinion on the Sybil.
Ampulla
… You are certain it was the word? Or is it what you suppose it would have been, were you correct?’

Agar seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘
Nam Sibyllam quidem, Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi, in ampulla pendere
.
¹
Petronius, sir.’

Hervey was reassured. He was also doubly impressed, and not a little intrigued. ‘I don’t know of these things, yet I don’t suppose Petronius was a standard text at Oxford?’

Agar smiled (he had never dared tell his tutor what he was reading). ‘No, indeed not. But in truth, the prescribed texts were lofty in their subject and language; I wanted to learn also how and of what the
un
heroic Roman spoke.’

Hervey raised an eyebrow. ‘That is singular, Mr Agar. My compliments to you.’ But he wondered if this cornet took interest in the world other than from a scholarly perspective; he would not be at all surprised if his enthusiasm waned with the miles from Oxford.

Agar bowed and took his leave, and Malet and Fairbrother rejoined him.

‘What amusement your wagers book affords,’ said Fairbrother, smiling as if about to reveal a confidence. ‘Mr So-and-so wagers Mr So-and-so that the latter’s first charger cannot beat his first charger over a quarter of a mile on the flat. Mr Someone-else wagers Mr Likewise that the first issue of Caleb’s concubine Ephah was called Haran. Mr Black wagers Captain White that the Duke of Wellington will not be prime minister beyond Lady Day.’

Hervey returned the smile. ‘The hours can sometimes pass excessively slowly.’

‘I’m not sure the latter wager should have been allowed,’ said Malet, suddenly looking stern.

‘Probably not,’ agreed Hervey. ‘In any case, I think “White” is safe. There was talk at the United Service last night: even Peel’s now an emancipator. The duke will have his majority.’

‘And what a conversion that was,’ said Malet, in a tone not altogether approving (which was why ‘politics’ was a subject disallowed at mess): ‘“Orange Peel” himself prepared to sit next to a Catholic in parliament!’

Hervey nodded, equally diverted by the notion.

‘You know,’ continued Malet, his brow furrowing in a sign of more sincere wonder, ‘since Mrs Armstrong’s funeral, several dragoons have been taking instruction of the priest here.’

‘The
Catholic
priest?’

‘Ye-es. You don’t have objection, do you, sir?’

‘No objection, no. Merely am I taken aback by my own astonishment – if such it is. The funeral was a very singular occasion.’

‘And there’s an officer, too. Takes his instruction quite openly.’

That, perhaps, was of rather less note, if greater consequence, for there had been Catholic officers in the regiment since Hervey had been cornet (if only a couple) – and Strickland had been a most exemplary officer, too. His death had gone hard with the mess. ‘Who is he?’

‘Rennell.’

Hervey looked surprised. ‘That will go hard with his people. His father’s dean of Winchester.’

‘What a compendious knowledge you possess,’ said Fairbrother, in as much astonishment.

‘My father and he received their ordination at the same time. They visit together, in London, still.’

‘I meant of cornets not clergy.’

Hervey was momentarily abashed, but the clock on the chimney piece began chiming the half-hour. He put down his cup. ‘We must go.’

Fairbrother slept during the journey back. Hervey, for once, would have preferred to think aloud, but he could hardly chide his friend for assuming otherwise. He made himself think with system, therefore, rather than allow thoughts to come as they pleased.

Above all, there was the good news that Armstrong was set on the road to restoration. Command without his old NCO-friend would be wanting indeed; and the thought of Armstrong and his children in some orphan household would have been truly dispiriting. But the prospect was blighted by, as it were, the farrier’s axe. How could the Horse Guards – he could not bear to think that Lord Hill was himself responsible (in truth was it not the Secretary at War?) – contemplate the reduction of a regiment such as the Sixth, a regiment whose officers wagered on the prowess of their horses and discoursed on classical texts? They had stood in the order of battle since 1759; the experience of the French wars and lately of India (and his own troop at the Cape), hard won, made of them a regiment that knew its business second to none. Not one in ten of those dragoons ’listed now had heard a French cannon, he supposed, but the understanding of all who had gone before them, whether to the grave or discharge, was in some way communicated to the newest recruit, so that in but a few months a man believed himself to be not just a member of a body of veterans but a veteran himself. It did not matter if he had been but a boy at the time of Waterloo; he somehow thought of himself as truly having been there. The quill-drivers in the Treasury might scoff at it, but how otherwise to explain whence came a regiment’s élan?

Waterloo was of diminishing memory, however, Bengal and the Cape a long way away. Hervey sighed. England, he must conclude, was overgrown with peace. Had he the stomach for such a place?

¹
For with my own eyes I saw the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a bottle.

VI

TOUCHES OF SWEET HARMONY

Hertfordshire, the next day

The sound of Kezia’s distant piano commanded silence as Hervey entered the panelled hall of Walden Park. The servant holding open the door bowed mutely and, taking his coat, made no enquiry after his post-horses and boy (they were, however, being attended to efficiently, he saw with a backward glance); there was no eruption of butler, housekeeper, or of any one of the family, in welcome. It was as if the morning hour – hours – of practice at the keyboard required the Great Silence of a monastery.

Hervey could not call himself a music lover. He loved the sound a band made, he enjoyed a song, and he could be entertained by an opera if its absurdity did not overcome the melody. He had never learned the fortepiano, as his sister had (and as Georgiana was learning). He would admit he knew very little; but he had recognized that Kezia’s talent both with hands and voice was of an unusual order – much greater than that of Elizabeth; much much greater. Whether or not it compared to those who earned their living thus, he could not know; but he did not suppose that Signora Colbran, whom he had heard sing in Rome, or Herr Moscheles, who played one evening at Apsley House when he dined there, could practise more.