Allan Mallinson - A Call to Arms

And then when he could no longer bear it, he opened his eyes and fixed them instead on Alberti’s commanding allegory of persecution, so vivid a reredos, so prized a survivor of Bonaparte’s occupation, Father Gradwell had said. So vivid, indeed, as to overpower. Hervey transferred his gaze to the crucifix on the high altar, wanting all the strength it could give. But he was not practised enough, and tears began to flow, gently at first, and then almost with convulsions, so that he had to take out a handkerchief and clutch it to his eyes. He sat back and picked up one of the cards from the pew. On it were the names of the venerabili , for whom a Te Deum was sung periodically. Such ordinary names they were, so very English, unlikely-sounding martyrs: Ralph Sherwin, John Wall, Thomas Cottam, Edward James — too long a list to contemplate without wondering what guilt for their deaths remained.

Perhaps he should not have come. He had wanted to see if a place of so much willing sacrifice might have some secret message, some hidden power to ease the pain which every day visited him no matter how determinedly he sought diversions. But there was no message, nor any power to dull the pain. Those who might know of these things — John Keble, Daniel Coates, his father even — had said that only time could ease, that a search for an opiate was at best futile and at worst destructive, and that what would see him through time was God, and his own strength of character.

The trouble was that God did not come to his aid, and that his own strength looked increasingly ill-matched with the trial. Hervey closed his eyes once more, and sought the simplicity of St Mark. ‘Lord, I believe,’ he murmured. ‘Help thou mine unbelief.’

A week later

When Commodore Peto arrived, Elizabeth recorded in her journal a distinct and immediate rise in her brother’s spirits. Shelley noted it too, and was at first discouraged that his own company had evidently been deficient. But Shelley could not — even if he had been so minded — hold any part of that against the commodore, whose direct manner and decidedly radical sentiments he found altogether engaging. Their company in the first days was delightful to each.

The evening Peto arrived had been a private affair between the two old friends, however. Not even Elizabeth joined them for supper, for she knew her brother would only speak were she elsewhere.

‘Tell me, then,’ Peto had demanded when they took their table at his lodgings, the Albergo d’Inghilterra. ‘What was done with Towcester? For you were silent on the matter in your letters.’

Perhaps most men would first have expressed sadness at the loss of a wife, even at the semi-orphaning of an infant, for the two had not met since the day of Hervey’s wedding; but Peto knew he did not have to speak of it. Long days, weeks, months together in those close quarters of the frigate Nisus had made for an understanding between the two men, and mere sentiment would have been repugnant to them both.

‘I sent you the report in the London Gazette ,’ Hervey replied.

‘A very dry account. I want to know how things went.’

The cameriere had come to the table again, and asked them in English what they wished to order.

Peto did not hesitate. Indeed, he had not even consulted the blackboard which the cameriere had previously brought. ‘ Trippa! ’

Hervey looked surprised. Peto’s taste he knew to be choice, almost fastidious.

‘Three months at sea gives a man a powerful taste for the byre!’ was the commodore’s explanation.

Other occupants of the dining room were now looking towards their table, though only Hervey noticed. He thought he had better share Peto’s taste.

The cameriere began speaking excitedly, and in Italian. Hervey caught the word Trastevere , but little else. Eventually, one of the albergo ’s men in authority came. He spoke with the cameriere , and then explained, in English and with great politeness, that it was not the practice of the Albergo d’Inghilterra to prepare dishes from the ‘fifth quarter’, as the Romans called it, but that if they were to cross the river to the Trastevere they could indulge their pleasure at liberty.

Peto looked at Hervey, as if his longer time in Rome might effect a change of practice. Hervey sought to accommodate both sides. ‘What do you recommend in its place, signor?’

The man in authority was certain. ‘ Vitello , signori. You will not taste finer in this city!’

Peto looked at him blankly.

‘Capital,’ said Hervey, keen to close the dispute. ‘The fatted calf. Is that not appropriate, Peto?’

Peto might have wondered who was the prodigal, but his hunger got the better of his curiosity. ‘Ay. It will do nicely.’

Hervey thought to distance matters further from the affront to the commodore’s culinary discernment. ‘And to begin with, I believe we should try the little marrow flowers which they do here in a light batter. They are very fine.’

‘Good, good, but not too insubstantial, I hope. I’m fair famished.’

The problem was that Peto’s voice was cast permanently to overcome the roar of the waves, the shrill of the wind, the groaning of canvas and the creaking of timber. He lowered it in company such as this, naturally, but from so high a volume that he never quite judged the decrescendo aptly. More heads turned towards their table, but Peto was still wholly oblivious to them — by design or not Hervey was unable to say. All he could do was pipe his own voice down still lower in an effort to have Peto follow him. ‘Wine?’

‘Barolo!’

The whole room turned.

Peto at last noticed. He nodded in turn to each table with an indulgent smile. ‘They love a blue coat,’ he said, turning back to Hervey, his voice now lowered to below the level of the wind and waves and canvas, as if he were at table in his own steerage, indeed — and at anchor. ‘Now, the court martial: I want to know all of it.’

‘Where should I begin?’ replied Hervey, raising an eyebrow. ‘It was a sorry business.’

‘Where was it held? Who were the members?’

‘At the Royal Hospital. It seems that the commander-in-chief wished to have it within London District, but not too close to the Horse Guards.’

‘I would suppose it afforded the pensioners good sport.’

Hervey raised both eyebrows. ‘They packed one of the galleries. Some of them had been in Holland when his lordship had first taken French leave. They tut-tutted throughout, and jeered terribly when it was revealed.’

‘Good! In circumstances such as this an officer should be left in no doubt as to what his inferiors think of him. What did the president do? Who was it?’

‘The Earl of Rotheram, the senior major-general. It was extraordinary: he merely asked them, very politely, if they would not make comment until after the proceedings were finished.’

‘Wise move making one earl the president of another’s court martial. Who were the others?’

‘General Sir Horace Shawcross, a very choleric man indeed, from Lancashire I think, with one arm. He glowered at Towcester so ill throughout the trial that I could almost feel sorry for him.’

‘The others?’

‘Three colonels, none of whom I’d set eyes on, as I suppose was right.’

‘And so how was he charged?’

Hervey took a large gulp of the Barolo, as if to fortify himself. ‘I remember the words as if they were only just spoken: “Lieutenant-Colonel the Earl of Towcester is charged with the unnecessary hazarding of his command in the Americas, and for conduct unbecoming an officer, contrary to the Articles of War.” ’