Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service by Allan Mallinson Page B

trade?’
    ‘Upon my word, you are reading London keenly!’
    ‘Not London, not especially. I observe it as universal nature.’
    ‘Well, she was bold and it was nicely done by both sides.’
    ‘None but the fair deserve the bold!’
    ‘That is very droll. The cold evidently neither dulls your brain nor cools your heart. I am all envy. Or is it the burgundy again?’
    Fairbrother smiled. ‘You make matters easy for me. Recall the rhyme? – “Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure/ Rich the treasure/ Sweet the pleasure/ Sweet is pleasure after pain.”’
    Hervey nodded. ‘I allow that you are in excellent form. London agrees with you.’
    ‘Oh, indeed,’ his friend assured him, as if the contrary notion were impossible. ‘My heart swelled as soon as we landed and began posting for here. Did not you see?’
    Hervey had not seen. He had been far too preoccupied with his own thoughts. It was not London that swelled his heart, but what bounties London could bestow – at least, what the Horse Guards could bestow. For the rest … too much was changed for him to throw himself into the arms of the city as readily as Fairbrother seemed able.
    And not a minute later they were reminded of the welcome those arms could take.
    ‘Would yer like a nice time, dearies?’ came the familiar invitation from beneath a gaslight as they turned into (of all places) Bow Street.
    Hervey glanced across the road at the two swaddled doxies, and felt emboldened to sport. ‘Oh, girls, desist; I am a married man!’
    But they were not to be played with by a couple of tipsy officers. ‘Begging yer pardon, I’m sure, but we’re only after yer money!’
    In Leicester Street, which they found quicker than Hervey thought they might, the cold air sobering them, Forsyth’s was barred and bolted, though otherwise the shop was open for business. As they were let in, Hervey expressed himself surprised by the precaution. The presiding gunsmith, a corn-fed man with beady eyes, was in no doubt of the necessity, however: ‘Popery, sir! This popish Act of Parliament. Gordon, sir; riots!’
    Hervey was a deal taken aback. ‘The Gordon riots are fifty years gone!’
    ‘Ay, sir; but memories are long of these things!’
    Fairbrother was surveying the shop’s formidable contents, faintly bemused. ‘Might you not put your trade to use rather than barricade the premises?’
    The man looked offended. ‘That, I believe – the public order – is your business, gentlemen. I should not wish the occasion to fire on staunch Protestants, however misguided!’
    Hervey judged it better to withdraw. The sooner the Police bill was enacted, the better (although it was undeniably to the interests of the regiment that it was not). ‘Speaking of guns, we saw today a coachman with a very handy capped pistol. He said of it, we believe, that it was dirigé . I am not acquainted with the term; are you?’
    The gunsmith thought a while, then shook his head, until suddenly the furrows in his brow disappeared. ‘The cabman did not say, perhaps, that the pistol was made by Deringer ?’
    Hervey looked at Fairbrother, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he might have.
    ‘Deringer of Philadelphia, in the United States of America, sir. He has of late made an art of travelling pistols, but they have not so far been imported in any quantity. We have a pair of capped pistols by Hetherington of Nottingham, sir – a very capable maker.’
    ‘Might we see them?’
    The gunsmith pulled open a drawer beneath the counter and took out a polished case. Inside were two cap-lock pistols, the walnut fittings finely worked. ‘Handsome weapons, think you not, gentlemen?’
    ‘“Handsome is as handsome does”,’ said Hervey, taking one from the case and handing it to Fairbrother.
    ‘Quite so, sir. They are most do-able pistols, Birmingham-proofed, forty-bore.’
    Hervey weighed the other pistol in his hand. It was about eight inches from butt to muzzle, shorter than the barrel