Tom traveled by mail coach from Marlborough.
Late on the twentieth, he arrived in London.
On the twenty-first, General Wellesley was subjected to a lengthy examination, from which he came away as cross as a bear.
On the twenty-third, Tom gave his own evidence at the Royal College in Chelsea, in front of four generals and three lieutenant generals.
He told the truth: That after the victory at Vimeiro, Wellesley had been as mad as fire to pursue the French. That he’d urged an advance in no uncertain terms. That he’d protested against the conditions of the preliminary armistice. That he’d signed it unwillingly and only because a superior officer desired him to do so. That he’d had no part in negotiating the final convention.
Afterwards, he asked Wellesley if the general wished to rescind his leave.
“I’ve enough people under my feet,” Wellesley said sourly. “Don’t need you, too.” And then his face relaxed into something close to a smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for what you said in there. I appreciate your loyalty.”
On the twenty-fourth, Tom got drunk on cheap brandy. Halfway through the bottle, his rage fizzled out and he found himself weeping.
On the twenty-fifth, he woke with a sore head.
On the twenty-seventh, he departed for Yorkshire to visit his brother.