‘And Captain Jessope, who commands the Left Flank Company.’
Again he nodded; ‘Jessope,’ then added, ‘I knew a Jessope in the Second Guards. He was killed at Waterloo.’
‘A cousin, Colonel Hervey.’
He had been greatly fond of d’Arcey Jessope. The fleeting memory saddened and then warmed him. ‘Very well. Gentlemen, may I present Captain Worsley, who commands B Troop, and whose dragoons since dusk have been picketing the square mile or so which shall be our country, and who has the whereabouts of half a dozen of the blackguards. And Lord Thomas Malet, my adjutant, and Captain Fairbrother, on detachment from the Cape Mounted Rifles.’
There was general nodding, and repetition of surnames, and evident interest on mention of the Cape Rifles.
‘Mr Freely, your presence is assuring, though I trust ours is but a straightforward business this morning: there is no doubt that a felony has been committed. I would have you know it. I would wish no later ill consequences.’
‘Indeed so, Colonel Hervey. We are indebted to you for the prompt action of your regiment. Do I understand correctly, however, that you allude to the vexations of civil disorder?’
Hervey was not without experience of those exact vexations, and replied with some dryness, ‘You do, sir. An officer has but one decision to make, a simple choice of whether to be shot for his forbearances by a court martial, or hanged for his over-zeal by a jury. An odious business, the dispersing of a mob, though of course it must be done.’
‘I am a barrister-at-law also, Colonel, and much in sympathy with the difficulty you describe, but a decision made in the fair and honest execution of an officer’s duty cannot be doubted by a jury – and if it be so, then the justices of appeal would not hesitate to overturn the judgment.’
A Berkshire lane on such a morning seemed to Hervey to be ill suited to debating the practice of the law, and he was inclined therefore to concede to the sheriff and take his ease … except, as often, there was an antagonistic scruple at work in him, a troublesome companion, as sometimes he saw it. ‘That is as may be, Sheriff, but I am minded too of the fate of Captain Porteous.’
‘A wretched business, Colonel, I am agreed, though I venture to say that an English jury might not have acquitted in such a case in the first instance, the force being manifestly excessive.’
‘Judged from the peace of a jury bench, perhaps, but who is to tell? Temporization on such occasions might be said to be a dangerous and even cruel policy.’ But Hervey was content to have made his point, and besides, the Guards were in want of orders.
‘Let us adjourn, gentlemen,’ agreed Colonel Calthorp, turning to the commander of the Left Flank Company. ‘To your duties, then, Captain Jessope. Let the guardsmen take their ease for a quarter of an hour.’
‘Sir!’ snapped the captain, who then relayed his commanding officer’s wish to the company serjeant-major, and there followed what seemed to Hervey like the yapping of an irate terrier, which went on intermittently for the best part of a minute. But soon the guardsmen were evidently taking their ease, pipes lit the length of the column. They had formed line in two ranks from column of threes, ordered arms, stood at ease and then easy, piled arms and fallen out, but in place, and all without a single word of command that made sense to any but one practised in hearing it. The darkness might hide a multitude of sins, of course – not least the violence of the NCOs – but Hervey was impressed nonetheless by the handiness of this column of a hundred. Drawing the covert should at least be a prompt and easy affair.
‘One thing more, Hervey,’ said Colonel Calthorp when the words of command had ceased: ‘with the consent of the sheriff’s deputy, the non-commissioned officers will load muskets ere we begin. The guardsmen themselves will proceed with fixed bayonets.’
Hervey imagined he might himself have given the same order to Worsley – substituting sabres for bayonets – except that the troop had no cartridge with them (and bone in the firelocks instead of flint). ‘Eminently practical, Calthorp. Men who would set light to a barn in daylight would not hesitate to carry a firearm.’ He turned to Worsley: ‘I suggest Corporal Lynch accompanies the Guards and that you ride with Jessope.’ (Suggesting how B Troop’s captain make his dispositions, and thereby the Grenadiers, was hardly proper, but it saved Worsley the business of doing so himself.) ‘You would be in agreement, Calthorp?’
‘Indeed so,’ he replied, turning to the deputy sheriff, with whom he was determined there should be no misunderstanding. ‘But let me be rightly understood, Freely: I’ve no desire for blood. My non-commissioned officers have ball-cartridge for the preservation of life, not its extinction. Clean barrels and twelve captives would constitute the greatest success – any captives, in truth, for doubtless they’ll sing like canaries.’
‘Your sentiment is noted, Colonel Calthorp. I understand the order perfectly, and, insofar as it is not impertinent for me to say, entirely approve of it.’
‘We are of one accord, then, Calthorp,’ said Hervey. ‘Captains Jessope and Worsley to ride together, and you and I the same, I think?’
It was a shrewd and necessary move, for Calthorp was his senior (it was ever so with an officer of foot guards, whatever his date of promotion), and if Hervey was to exercise any influence on the proceedings it must be by suggestion – and suggestion, in his experience, was made all the more compelling by intimacy.
The lieutenant-colonel of Grenadiers was himself content: if there were to be any honours in the wretched business of apprehending incendiaries, he had no objection to sharing them. ‘Very well, Hervey. Allow me a moment to confer with Jessope, and then I propose we take post in the centre when the line advances.’
Hervey nodded and pulled away a little.
Fairbrother moved alongside him again. ‘A fine job of work, that – Collins’s poaching drill, as Worsley calls it.’
Hervey smiled, if unseen still. ‘I rather fancy he may have learned that from you at the Cape – the stuff of the veld?’
Fairbrother was ready enough to admit his superiority in ‘veldcraft’, as the Cape Rifles were wont to call it, but he’d seen enough of Hervey’s troop there – especially Collins – not to claim it exclusively. ‘You are too modest. No one could crawl unobserved into Shaka’s kraal, as you did, and be without resource in these things.’
Hervey frowned. In truth it was something he would be glad never to recall again. ‘I could not commend what I did that day to anyone. On reflection, it was imprudent. But in point of fact the observing officers in Spain were playing the poacher’s game long before. Collins showed exemplary address, however, and at his own instancing.’
Fairbrother now cut to the point. ‘Neither is he a man to do so out of any desire for the notice of his commanding officer.’
Hervey smiled again. ‘You are a worthy advocate. I confess it had occurred to me.’
‘Then I shall desist from further advocacy. Tell me, by the way, what was the affair of Captain Porteous that so presses on tender consciences?’
Hervey explained.
Indeed, the case of Captain John Porteous, though a century gone, was a cautionary tale for any man wearing the King’s coat. A smuggler by the name of Wilson was hanged in Edinburgh for robbing a customs officer. A riot ensued – whipped up, no doubt, by fellow villains – and Porteous, captain of the guard, ordered his men to fire on the crowd, killing or wounding several dozen of them. At the sessions that followed he was sentenced to death but then reprieved, whereupon the ‘mob’ dragged him from prison and hanged him from a dyer’s pole.
‘Ah, then I read of it in Scott. I hadn’t thought it was a true business. But his defence was that he’d never given the order, was it not?’
‘It was. The court did not believe it – but, more’s the point, neither did the mob.’
Fairbrother shook his head. ‘The rule of the mob: we are, I suppose, ever but a judicious cut of the sabre from its terrible prospect.’
‘That is uncommonly well put,’ repl
ied Hervey, reaching into his pocket for the flask of brandy that his host the magistrate had so generously provided. ‘Judicious – most apt. An injudicious cut and a street gallows beckons.’
Fairbrother took a draw on the flask and handed it back. ‘And you say your parliament had long opposed a standing constabulary, preferring the cut of the sabre, however injudicious – or indeed, unjudicial?’
Colonel Calthorp was evidently taking much care in his conference with Captain Jessope; a discourse on aid to the civil power was the last thing Hervey would have chosen at such a time, but as there was nothing else to do … ‘I told you: they equated a police force with Fouché’s spies. But let’s not trouble over it now, for mine and three other regiments were spared for the sole purpose of securing the King’s peace. And I mean to justify that decision.’
Besides, like any Tory – as a son of the gentry, even the minor gentry, must be – his first instinct was for order. He had long observed, from the violent inclination of so many in his native county of Wiltshire, that no one and nothing could prosper while in fear of the mob.
But first there were the matters at hand. The sun had seemed more sluggard this morning, but it was at last turning night into something that passed for day. Worsley’s trumpeter’s horse could now be discerned as grey, and the guardsmen’s greatcoats a bluish colour rather than black. Another quarter of an hour, he reckoned, and ‘types and shadows’ would have their ending. But men immobile in this frosty lane would be finding it a trial …
Moments later – to his relief – Colonel Calthorp rejoined them. ‘Light enough now for our purposes, Hervey? If we bolt any, your men should have ample sight of ’em – yes?’
Hervey was as sure as may be. ‘Depend on’t.’
‘Very well,’ said Calthorp, distinctly warming to his task. ‘It ain’t Waterloo, that’s certain, but it ain’t every day that His Majesty’s Grenadiers take to the field.’ He braced. ‘Stand up, Guards!’
The order would be found in no drill book, but it was hallowed by precedent, for the Duke of Wellington had brought his Guards Brigade to its feet at Waterloo with the same words. They had lain concealed behind the ridge – ‘in the alien corn’ – and the duke had sprung them in the face of the Garde Impériale just as they were about to force the line. That, indeed, was how His Majesty’s 1st Regiment of Guards had won their name (and bearskins) – throwing back the Grenadiers-à-Pied.
However, Colonel Calthorp’s intention could no more carry the length of Left Flank Company than could the duke’s have carried to the whole brigade at Waterloo. And so it would be translated into the terminology of the drill book and executed by degrees, the business of the non-commissioned officers – once the captain had given the word.
‘Left Flank to stand up, please, Com’ny Sar’-Major.’
‘Sah!’ The snow was unable entirely to deaden the stamp of his boot as he came to attention.
Then, stentor-like, came the word: ‘Company: Fall in!’
A hundred guardsmen rose from what comfort they’d managed, tapping out pipes, re-fitting equipment, adjusting chin-straps, getting into line in open order to a chorus of yapping corporals.
‘Stand properly at ease!’
The two ranks steadied and then braced. They were now under the canon of the drill book.
‘Company, att–e–en … shun!’
The earth seemed to tremble.
The company serjeant-major turned to his captain and saluted. ‘Sah, the company is on parade and awaiting your order, sah!’
‘Thank you, Com’ny Sar’-Major.’
Captain Jessope drew his sword, the signal – if only to himself in this half light – that he now took back formal command. Then he put his weight into the stirrups and braced to the task.
‘Officers: take post!’
The lieutenants and three ensigns drew swords and found their place as best they could.
‘Left Flank Company: stand fast the non-commissioned officers; remainder will fix bayonets; fix … bayonets!’
The clatter was like a mill-full of flying shuttles.
‘Shun!’
Eighty guardsmen snapped back to attention, their muskets topped with sharpened steel.
‘Non-commissioned officers: with ball-cartridge … load!’
More clattering – twenty-odd ramrods tamping down the charges.
Had it been full company drill the business would have required six further commands – Handle Cartridge, Prime, Cast About, Draw Ramrods, Ram Down Cartridge, Return Ramrods – but an NCO of Grenadiers might be relied upon to load his musket in his own time.
‘Left Flank Company: shoulde–e–r … arms!’
Hervey turned to Fairbrother. ‘Mark well, for I wager you’ll not see its like again in many a year.’ He said it in a voice just low enough to conceal the admiration, for it didn’t do to praise these fellows too much – especially in the hearing of his own.
Fairbrother replied that he could not discern if he spoke merely in fact or in sorrow. ‘Recall our wager at dinner, Hervey – action ere the year is out. Perhaps not with red coats, but …’
‘Rear rank will move to the right; ri–i–ght … turn!’
There was another earth tremble.
‘Rear rank will extend the front rank to the right: quick march!’
By what means this unusual movement was accomplished Hervey could not quite see, but the continued yapping of the corporals, and then ‘On, sah!’ told him that it was. More words of command turned the former rear rank to the front, brought their muskets to the order, and then dressed the whole line as if on the Horse-guards.
‘Can’t have them going off crooked,’ said Colonel Calthorp; ‘even if they do have to scramble across that ditch. Wouldn’t serve.’
Captain Jessope had taken post in front of the company. He now looked left and then right, ordered muskets to the port, and then ‘Advance!’
His horse took the ditch in one easy movement, landing cleanly and encouraging the guardsmen to try the same. When they were all across, Worsley put his to the ditch, Corporal Lynch alongside.
‘They’ll extend left and right the more to cover the ground,’ explained Calthorp. ‘A cricket pitch between each man, with a few non-commissioned officers as flankers. A mile-long skirmish line, in truth.’
‘The cover’s not too close,’ said Hervey. ‘They shouldn’t have a deal of trouble. Good hunting.’
Indeed, although the cover was next to nothing for the greater part of the first furlong, the guardsmen went to it with a will. Any half-likely-looking bush or burrow – and in went the bayonet. Here was fine sport for all.
Captain Jessope had decided not to send a party directly to the lair, believing it better to keep the line as a whole advancing at an even pace, for he wanted to spring or capture every one of them, wherever they’d gone to earth. But it was now a struggle to keep that dressing, for the ground was increasingly broken by ditches filled deceptively with snow, fences in various states of repair, and evil thorn hedges. Still, by half past seven, the light all but full day, they had managed to advance a quarter of a mile, with the ground swept clean in commendable silence (no beat of drum, and the voices of the NCOs having given way to hand signals), and at last Corporal Lynch could point out the fugitives’ hut – in clear sight another furlong ahead.
Jessope trotted behind the line of ‘beaters’ to the ensign nearest the objective. Supposing the occupants would have a lookout, he reckoned there was scant chance of surrounding it by stealth, hoping instead the appearance of so many troops would persuade them that flight was futile.
Another hundred yards and he told the ensign to have some NCOs close in – such a cramped affair the hut looked now – in case one of the fugitives should be so desperate as to discharge a firearm.
Three corporals doubled forward – skirmishing drill – the ensign just behind them, sword drawn.
Fifty yards to the hut and still not a sight or sound of anything but the beasts
of the field.
The ensign signalled them on.
Thirty yards, and the muskets came to the aim, ready.
Twenty yards … ten …
The ensign signalled one of them to the back of the hut and the other two to halt. Then he motioned them to cover him as he went forward, sword lowered to the engage.
The door burst open. Out dashed six men as one.
The first almost impaled himself on the sword but sidestepped in time, only to be caught by a swinging butt from the covering guardsman.
The flat of the sword felled the next, and the third went down to another savage butt.
Fourth and fifth met with the same fate – the fifth with both blade and butt – but the sixth, a ferret of a man, leapt the ditch at the side of the hut and took off west. Guardsmen scrambled after him, unable to clear the ditch in one. He’d gained fifty yards before they found their feet.
‘Stand fast!’ shouted the ensign. There was more cover to beat, and the man was running on to the line of dragoons: let the cavalry have their sport.
Hervey, seeing the bolting fox, could only trust that they would. The Guards had certainly had excellent sport themselves.
He need not have worried. Worsley had told Lieutenant Kennett to keep the dragoons in the lane, rather than try to get the longer view. There was a hedge running its length: better to make the fugitives, rather than his own men, tackle its thorns. He turned to his trumpeter. ‘Sound “Alarm”!’
C’s and E’s, the simplest of calls (and the quavers shortened) – as thrilling to a dragoon and his horse as ‘Gone Away’ to a hunting man.
The ‘fox’ had slipped into dead ground, however. Kennett’s men would just have to wait for him to break cover in the lane.
Hervey was glad that Worsley had sent Collins to keep an eye.
‘Draw swords!’ Kennett’s voice travelled well in the still air.
Nevertheless, NCOs repeated the order the length of the line, until a mile of steel stood ready for the next command.
The interval between dragoons was perhaps too great to allow the fox to be chopped at once, but none could slip across the lane unseen; and once through the hedge on the other side – shorter, thinner – in the open pasture beyond, it would be nothing to take him at a canter.
Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) Page 11