‘Hah! That is not the half of it. The Duke of York is resigned. There’s a fearful scandal about his mistress selling promotions.’
Hervey shook his head. He knew little of affairs, though he knew that the Duke of York was held in some regard for his efforts in respect of the soldier’s welfare. But a mistress selling promotions? Was that how so many men of evident incapability obtained their advancement? He sickened at the thought. The commander-in-chief with feet of clay: it did not serve.
Hervey retired to his quarters as soon as he could. As picket-officer of the day before, he had been up half the night, but, also, he knew he must order his accounts quickly now that Lord George had put them on notice for Portugal. There would be the devil of an extra expense equipping himself, for his losses at Corunna had been more than he had first supposed, and his uniform had seen such hard service that he knew he must replace the better part of it. The regimental tailor had come down from London the month before, and then again a fortnight ago, and the account would be due rendering at the month’s end. He looked at the list, dolefully:
Pelisse
£32
5s
0dUndress
19
0s
0dFull-dress jacket
25
0s
0dUndress
15
0s
0dDress pantaloons
7
18s
6dDress vest
13
0s
0dUndress
3
18s
0dGreatcoat
12
12s
0d
£128
13s
6d
To this he would have to add, perhaps, another seven pounds for a Tarleton helmet. His boots would serve, but for other necessaries he calculated he would need to lay aside a further ten. He had already paid fifty pounds for a second charger, and its appointments.
He had no idea what government would finally allow to make good his losses; there was much speculation, none of it optimistic. His year’s pay did not amount to a hundred and twenty pounds, and he had laid out four hundred on commissioning. His father allowed him three hundred a year; how, he had no idea, for the living of Horningsham was a poor one by any standard. The proceeds of the Mameluke he had taken from the French general at Benavente had been mortgaged to Messrs Greenwood and Cox, the regimental agents, in the interest of Etoile du Soir – ‘Stella’. The mare had been, perhaps, a prodigal buy, but Hervey reckoned she had saved General Craufurd’s brigade two hours’ marching when he had galloped after them with Sir John Moore’s order for the recall, such was her speed and handiness. Jessye would have done as well if she had not stood quarantined in England; but not his others. Two hundred guineas to save the Light Brigade two hours’ marching! He smiled wryly: if he had taken up a subscription from the ranks that night he would have had ten times the sum. And then to be parted with her for a few dollars at Corunna . . .
No, all that he must put down to experience. Heavy outlay on blood was best left to the blades who wore aiglets. His priority must be to replace his camp stores – tent, bedding, canteens and all the rest. He had come away from Corunna with next to nothing, not much more than Private Sykes could carry, and what he himself had stood up in at the end of the day’s galloping for Colonel Long (which was in truth not very much). He dare not ask his father for a farthing more, and he had no other expectations. At least his living expenses would be reduced once they were in the field. And this time there would surely be prize money? Greenwood and Cox were very obliging, of that there was no doubt, but for how much must he prevail on them for Portugal, and with what security? What of his bills hereabouts, too?
He resolved to take the subaltern’s course. He closed the book and pushed it to one side. He would honour all his debts – that went without saying – but it would have to be when fortune allowed. He had the King’s business to be about, after all. He opened his journal and picked up a pen.It is a fine thing to be in a well-found regiment when so much without is uncertain, and well to know the men on whom one must depend, and to know them true rather than by mere reputation. I have seen enough in my short months in His Majesty’s service to know the nature of some men, and I think it our greatest good fortune to be so strong set-up a corps. I have heard some of the old Indiamen speak of Sir Arthur Wellesley, and they say he is the man to beat the French, but there are many among my fellows who deride him for a placeman. We shall have ample of opportunity to judge it however, since Lord George has by his exertions got us with his army. God grant that this time we may be set fairly to the task, for it would never serve to make such a retreat as Corunna again.
CHAPTER FIVE
GHOSTLY COUNSEL
The British Legation, Lisbon, Christmas Day, 1826
If Cornet Laming had once complained of ‘the mummery of a Catholic Lent’ at Lisbon, the Feast of the Nativity could not offend him now, for the clanging joy of the city on Christmas morning was only what the streets of London might be hearing on its own midwinter holyday.
‘Colonel Laming, sir?’
He stopped mid-stride at the gates of the British legation, and turned to see a smart-looking NCO of the regiment that for so many years had been his own – as astonished to see him there as he was that the man should recognize him. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, it’s Corporal Wainwright, sir,’ said the NCO, saluting. ‘Major Hervey’s coverman.’
Laming half smiled. ‘Indeed! Do you seek me out? How is Major Hervey?’
‘He’s in trouble, sir,’ replied Wainwright, lowering his voice. ‘I came here to tell, sir, but I don’t know who.’
‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’ Laming glanced about. There was no one within earshot, but it was perishing cold, and the street was no place to hear of it. ‘Come inside.’
Wainwright removed his shako as they entered the legation, a fine palácio not many minutes’ walk from where Hervey was meant to be lodged at Reeves’s Hotel in the Rua do Prior. Laming removed his forage cap after announcing himself to a footman, who showed them to a small ante-room.
‘How do you know me, Corporal?’
‘Major Hervey spoke of you, sir, and you came to the barracks at Hounslow once.’
Laming’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you the man who carried Major Hervey to that ship at Rangoon?’
‘Sir, yes, sir.’
‘Very well,’ said Laming, thoughtful. This was the man who had saved both Hervey’s life and his rein-arm, and by holding a pistol to an army surgeon. Laming was at once disposed to hear him carefully. ‘Tell me what is Major Hervey’s “trouble”.’
‘Sir, the Spaniards have got him prisoner. He’s in Badajoz.’
Laming’s aspect changed in an instant. He scowled like an affronted hawk. ‘How? When? What’s to do?’
‘Sir, it’s a bit of a long story, but—’
‘Sit you down, Corporal,’ said Laming, and warmly, man to man, throwing his cloak roughly over a damask settee and settling in a big armchair. ‘But first, tell me: who else knows this?’