Company Of Spears

Archdeacon Hervey now climbed the steps of the pulpit. He did not intend detaining his congregation long: the office of the Burial of the Dead was an occasion to commend the soul of the departed to God, not his reputation to man. Yet there were things he would say.

‘“O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”’ He looked up from his pulpit prayer book. ‘The Lord in his infinite wisdom did indeed spare Daniel Coates beyond his span of three-score and ten…’

Archdeacon Hervey went on to recount the story of Daniel Coates’s rise from indigency to prosperity and respectability, and to praise the wisdom and generosity he displayed in both public office and private affairs. The silence in the church was remarkable, a reverencing not so much of Archdeacon Hervey’s eloquence, adequate though that was, but of Daniel Coates’s memory – before, as Mr Hervey at length recalled, drawing his homily to a close, ‘“I go hence, and be no more seen.”’

There was at this applause by nodding heads and, if not quite ‘hear, hear’, then from a sort of buzzing in the pews, which told Archdeacon Hervey that the unusual effort had been worthwhile. He glanced at the foreman and bowed his head – the signal – and then the foreman, with a simple beckoning nod, reassembled his bearers. They took up the coffin with all solemnity, the tools of Daniel Coates’s two trades – and loves – still in place, turned slowly about and began the measured march from the chancel steps, their charge to be ‘no more seen’.

The congregation rose and turned to follow as Archdeacon Hervey led the procession out of the church to the grave on the sunny south side, which Coates’s own men had dug the day before.

Hervey accompanied his mother to the graveside, close behind Lord Bath, the principal mourner. And then came the words which he himself had had too frequent occasion to read when there had not been a chaplain to bury the dead. Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death … More than ever they seemed to him a perfect if unhappy rendering of the condition of so many men who had worn the Sixth’s badge. Indeed, they were apt, too, regarding his own condition, and for more time than he would have thought he could bear but for the company of regimental friends – and of two women who demanded nothing from him in return for that which they had so freely given.

Lord Bath declined the trowel, bending instead to take a handful of earth from the fresh-dug mound. Old General Tarleton, cocked hat set firm as if he were in uniform, raised his hand in salute, making no attempt to hide the missing fingers (exactly as Daniel Coates had told Hervey of long years ago).

‘“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life…”’

When Lord Bath had sprinkled the earth on the coffin, Archdeacon Hervey began the closing prayers. It was a fine, sunny day. Somehow, Hervey thought, it assisted with the promise of eternal life. Many a time he had stood at the graveside when the rain had drummed on oak, or on simple shroud, and then the promises had seemed corrupt.

‘“O Merciful God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the Resurrection and the life … who also hath taught us (by his holy apostle Saint Paul) not to be sorry, as men without hope…”’

He had never been a man without hope, had he? The trials of late years had brought him despair, but never quite that utter loss of hope of which St Paul warned. Or did he deceive himself in that? He picked up a handful of earth and cast it into the grave, then turned to walk after his mother.

‘Major Hervey?’ The voice was commanding.

He glanced to his right. The distinguished mourner was advancing on him. ‘Yes, General?’

‘I imagined it to be you,’ said General Tarleton, jabbing his stick into the grass as he walked. ‘Coates spoke much of you in his letters.’

‘I’m very honoured, sir; I had no idea.’

General Sir Banastre Tarleton replaced his hat as they approached the lych gate. ‘Read about the business in Portugal. Glad the Horse Guards have seen sense. Absurd notion, a court martial! When do you return to London?’

‘Tomorrow or the day after, General.’

The grand old man nodded appreciatively. ‘Good. I go to St James’s this Thursday seven days. I would have you dine with me. Where do you stay?’