III
FRIENDS AT COURT
Later
After a lunch of veal pie and hock, Hervey set out for the Horse Guards with Fairbrother, leaving him at the arch to walk to Westminster Abbey to see Nelson’s tomb. At the commander-in-chief ’s headquarters he found the assistant quartermaster-general writing with particular concentration.
‘I trust I do not disturb urgent business?’
Lord John Howard looked up with some surprise. ‘My dear fellow!’
They shook hands.
‘I said I trust I don’t disturb urgent business.’
Howard shook his head. ‘Not so urgent as to detain me on such an occasion – the arrangements for Clinton’s force: the duke’s recalled them.’
‘I did not know it,’ said Hervey, with some caution: mention of the expeditionary force in Portugal, which was supposed to keep the peace between the rival factions for the throne, made him feel awkward still, for his own sojourn there in advance of the force’s arrival had almost been the end of him – the death of him, even. ‘Affairs there have evidently quietened?’
‘A reasonable deduction, but not necessarily true. The duke believes we should not be entangled, especially since now the Spaniards show no appetite to intervene. The duke is of the opinion that these matters are best settled by the Portuguese themselves.’
Hervey was not surprised to hear it: the Duke of Wellington had been opposed to the expedition in the first place, believing it to be another of Mr Canning’s wild adventures in what was the business of other states. He wondered now if his own tribulations – notably his incarceration at Badajoz – had been without point, for withdrawing the force only sixteen months from sending it seemed hardly propitious as far as peace in Portugal was concerned. Except, of course, that at Badajoz he had forced himself to consider his condition, and thence to amend it. Without Badajoz there was no betrothal to Lady Lankester, no mother for his daughter.
Howard rang for a messenger to bring tea. ‘By the by, your last letter was most welcome. It gave the official account a little colour, shall we say.’
‘Somerset’s account? I fancy it was accurate, but . . . incomplete.’
Howard smiled. ‘The duke was of the same opinion.’
Hervey was content again. He held that virtue, if not entirely its own reward, would certainly speak for itself, but he was ever grateful to have such a friend at court as John Howard. They had known each other these dozen years and more, never intimately but with the highest mutual regard. ‘Rather a wild place, the Cape Colony. At least, that is, the eastern frontier; the Cape itself is a most delightful place. The east will increasingly be like trying to erect defences against the sea, for I can’t suppose there can be a settled frontier for as long as there are untold millions wandering the interior.’
Howard looked not exactly sceptical, but his enquiry suggested he had supposed it otherwise. ‘Do you believe it of any greater order of apprehension than was, say, India, or the Americas?’
Hervey nodded slowly. ‘You have to stand in that country to get a true sense of it. I never had so powerful a feeling of being in deep waters – never in America, nor India. I mean . . . of waters that ran so deep.’ Lord John Howard could only imagine. He had rarely served beyond Whitehall and had never heard a shot fired in anger except very distantly. But Hervey both liked and respected him for his diligence as a staff officer and his absence of pretentiousness and conceit.
‘Is that the lieutenant-governor’s opinion too?’
‘It is. I sent on Sir Eyre’s opinion and the estimates to the Colonies Office this morning.’
The messenger returned with tea.
Howard let him pour two cups and withdraw before cutting to the subject that he knew must preoccupy his friend. ‘The court of inquiry for Waltham Abbey: you will not know what is decided as to the evidence, I imagine?’
Hervey shook his head: he had heard nothing; but this was not in truth his preoccupation. ‘Howard, if we may, before the inquiry, I should very much like to ask you of this affair at Navarino. You know that Peto was under orders to join Codrington’s fleet: it would be good to hear confirmation that he’s well.’
Howard looked surprised: the battle had been six months ago (although its consequences were almost daily a matter of speculation). And then he nodded. ‘I have to remind myself of the distance you have been from the centre of affairs. Do you not, though, receive the Gazette regularly?’
‘We were several in arrears when I left the Cape.’
‘Well, Peto’s name was not on the list. That, I may assure you. I would most certainly have noticed – and, indeed, have remarked on it at once on seeing you, for I know what a friend he is. I myself would count him so. When my clerk is returned this evening I shall have him hunt out the relevant Gazette with Codrington’s despatch and all. I confess I read its detail but cursorily. It was an affair of much pounding, as far as I could tell.’
‘I’m relieved to hear he’s not on the list at any rate. I’d be indeed obliged if your man could hunt out the despatch. There ought to be copies in the United Service, but the imminent move seems to have disordered things somewhat.’
Howard nodded, wrote a short memorandum and placed it in his tray.
Hervey could now turn with a clearer mind to his own concerns. ‘I saw Sir Francis Evans in the United Service this morning. He said the new commander-in-chief is unhappy with the inquiry.’
‘Well, it vexes Lord Hill, certainly,’ said Howard, pouring them both more tea. ‘Though it’s not a matter of pre-eminent urgency exactly. What to do with the Militia is the question of the moment – and, of course, where to find troops for every scheme the government has dreamed up. That, though, is a good deal less of a business now with the duke in the saddle. No, Lord Hill is of the opinion that the court of inquiry will end up all of a piece with the others we’ve been suffering these several past years, principally that we’re bound to have the radicals calling for even more retrenchment. But that is beside the point. The inquiry’s to take written evidence to begin with and then assemble to decide what they will. Your returning now is most apt: they make a beginning towards the end of May.’
Hervey sighed ruefully. ‘Who is to be president?’
‘It is not yet decided.’
There was just a note of evasion in the reply. Hervey narrowed his eyes and inclined his head.
Howard in turn sighed. ‘See, I may as well tell you as not. Hill wants Sir Peregrine Greville to do it.’
‘What?’
Howard looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘It is not decided absolutely.’
‘But why Greville? The old fool’s—’
Howard held up a hand. ‘Lord Hill believes that it is Sir Peregrine’s very . . . seclusion in the Channel Islands, his immunity from the condition of affairs here, that makes it apt for him to preside.’
Hervey struggled to suppress his rising panic. His indiscretions so far with Lady Katherine Greville had gone unremarked publicly, but such a state could not survive long once a court of inquiry were convened: every tattler and budding Gillray in London would be peddling the connection. ‘When will it be decided?’
‘Soon, I hope. The War Office has asked for a convening order by the month’s end.’ Howard rose. ‘I know it’s the very devil, but . . . Stay if you will for the moment; I must have words with Lord Hill.’
Hervey tried to compose himself. He exaggerated the danger, no doubt. But try as he might, he could not dismiss the image of exposure – and all that would follow: breaking-off of the engagement, an end to his hopes for command, perhaps even resignation of his commission. In truth, oblivion.