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Authors: Allan Mallinson
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quartermasters came in with two waggon-loads of good hay soon afterwards and, though it meant turning out the troopers again to replace the dusty stuff in the lines, the work was done quickly and Hervey was able to have the orderly trumpeter sound the mess call by six o’clock. A jaunty little tune, it put a skip into his spirits, if not into his step, as he left:
An officer’s wife has puddings and pies,
A serjeant’s wife has skilleee …
But a soldier’s wife has nothing at all
To fill her empty belleee … E, E, E
Thank heaven there were no soldiers’ wives with them this time, nor any others for that matter. He knew their worth on campaign, for sure, but he knew their trouble, too; and the balance lay heavily, in his judgement, with the latter. In any event, all that might soon be behind them: no one at the stables parade had said as much, but there had been a distinct air of anticipation, a sensing that the end of their long ordeal, this seemingly unending war with Bonaparte, was near.
But even these comparatively light duties were telling on him, and he was glad of the opportunity to get to his own mess. However, his hopes of any immediate rest were dashed as soon as he entered the noisy and smoke-filled refectory. Cries of ‘The child Samuel!’ greeted him, though he was at a loss to know why.
‘First book of Samuel,’ called Harding, the senior lieutenant, in mock despair. ‘“And the child Samuel grew on, and was in favour both with the Lord, and also with men”!’
Hervey smiled as he tumbled to the reference. The intelligence of Lord Wellington’s pleasure had, it seemed, reached the mess before him, though he hardly expected that he was in favour with the stable details after calling them out a second time. A press of officers formed to shake his hand, and the steward, trying manfully to find some ingress, was jostled this way and that before being able to proffer a silver tray on which there was a letter for him.
‘It has been some time in reaching us, sir,’ he said apologetically, though the delay was none of his making.
Hervey was pleased with the excuse to seek out a quiet corner, but as he did so the sight of the envelope at once discomfited him. Though he had never been given to too much introspection – nor, indeed, had there been any great opportunity for it during this campaign – there was something in the three short lines of the address which brought him up short, made him abruptly aware of just how much his life belonged to the Army. That would not ordinarily have discomposed him, for this
was
his life and he held no other to be more honourable, but the sudden notion that his soul might have been taken by the drum, too, disturbed him more. Perhaps it was the terseness of the address:
Cornet M. P. Hervey
,
6th Lt. Dgns
.,
Spain
Three lines – name, regiment, country – the very essence of his being in so short a space. And then another chill, a portent of the contents: he stared for some time before he could bring himself to open it, for the hand was unmistakable, though months had passed since any word from Wiltshire, and it was a hand conspicuously more restrained than he had seen before.
Horningsham
,
17 January 1814
Dearest Matthew
,
I am afraid that this letter bears the saddest news. Our John has died in Oxford on this 12th instant. According to Mr Heywood, his vicar, this hard winter we are enduring was taking its toll most cruelly on his parish and he was much about the poorest parts trying to bring relief. He became ill a fortnight ago and then succumbed to pneumonia
.
There were three more pages in his sister’s round script, but he could not read on. Though his expression must have reflected the news, and little to his mind could have been worse, he was able nevertheless to slip the letter into his tunic and escape without giving away his anguish. In the quiet of his cell he sat with his head in his hands for what seemed an age. The irony, that
An officer’s wife has puddings and pies,
A serjeant’s wife has skilleee …
But a soldier’s wife has nothing at all
To fill her empty belleee … E, E, E
Thank heaven there were no soldiers’ wives with them this time, nor any others for that matter. He knew their worth on campaign, for sure, but he knew their trouble, too; and the balance lay heavily, in his judgement, with the latter. In any event, all that might soon be behind them: no one at the stables parade had said as much, but there had been a distinct air of anticipation, a sensing that the end of their long ordeal, this seemingly unending war with Bonaparte, was near.
But even these comparatively light duties were telling on him, and he was glad of the opportunity to get to his own mess. However, his hopes of any immediate rest were dashed as soon as he entered the noisy and smoke-filled refectory. Cries of ‘The child Samuel!’ greeted him, though he was at a loss to know why.
‘First book of Samuel,’ called Harding, the senior lieutenant, in mock despair. ‘“And the child Samuel grew on, and was in favour both with the Lord, and also with men”!’
Hervey smiled as he tumbled to the reference. The intelligence of Lord Wellington’s pleasure had, it seemed, reached the mess before him, though he hardly expected that he was in favour with the stable details after calling them out a second time. A press of officers formed to shake his hand, and the steward, trying manfully to find some ingress, was jostled this way and that before being able to proffer a silver tray on which there was a letter for him.
‘It has been some time in reaching us, sir,’ he said apologetically, though the delay was none of his making.
Hervey was pleased with the excuse to seek out a quiet corner, but as he did so the sight of the envelope at once discomfited him. Though he had never been given to too much introspection – nor, indeed, had there been any great opportunity for it during this campaign – there was something in the three short lines of the address which brought him up short, made him abruptly aware of just how much his life belonged to the Army. That would not ordinarily have discomposed him, for this
was
his life and he held no other to be more honourable, but the sudden notion that his soul might have been taken by the drum, too, disturbed him more. Perhaps it was the terseness of the address:
Cornet M. P. Hervey
,
6th Lt. Dgns
.,
Spain
Three lines – name, regiment, country – the very essence of his being in so short a space. And then another chill, a portent of the contents: he stared for some time before he could bring himself to open it, for the hand was unmistakable, though months had passed since any word from Wiltshire, and it was a hand conspicuously more restrained than he had seen before.
Horningsham
,
17 January 1814
Dearest Matthew
,
I am afraid that this letter bears the saddest news. Our John has died in Oxford on this 12th instant. According to Mr Heywood, his vicar, this hard winter we are enduring was taking its toll most cruelly on his parish and he was much about the poorest parts trying to bring relief. He became ill a fortnight ago and then succumbed to pneumonia
.
There were three more pages in his sister’s round script, but he could not read on. Though his expression must have reflected the news, and little to his mind could have been worse, he was able nevertheless to slip the letter into his tunic and escape without giving away his anguish. In the quiet of his cell he sat with his head in his hands for what seemed an age. The irony, that
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