Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

  They were well drilled – of that no doubt – and Hervey could scarcely damn their eyes for long. They rode admirably. He looked forward to their manoeuvres together in the weeks to come – if only they’d admit that Frederick the Great was long dead.

  He’d done his duty, though – and more – bringing them up in such order that they might charge now as a brigade, tight enough to break a whole division. But it was the prince’s now to take them left or right of the cluster of buildings about L’Alliance, and to wherever beyond – to practise the rally perhaps, or pursuit?

  Instead the prince thrust his sword high and his trumpeter blew ‘Halt’.

  The Sixth checked at once and without repeats, for every man and horse knew the call – C, G, octave C. In fifty yards Hervey had them back in a trot, and halted in another ten. He’d lost not a single bolter – as good as the best field day, and better than most (how right to insist they brought their own troopers).

  But the Prussians, unused to the Dutch-English calls, nor their oberst evidently to the rules of the game, were slower, and had begun overrunning the prince before getting back in-hand (in truth, ‘Halt’ was a movable feast, as Hervey always called it: all depended on where it began).

  ‘Nach Paris, Herr Oberst?’ the crown prince teased, bringing enthusiastic calls from the hussars.

  The princess’s face was all exhilaration. ‘Colonel Hervey, your regiment – c’est magnifique!’

  Hervey coloured. Perhaps it was the French, and the accent from beyond the Rhine. ‘Ma’am, it is your regiment. I wish only that you were seeing every man of it on parade.’

  ‘Then I hope I shall have opportunity to do so, in England.’

  Hervey answered as he knew would Lord George Irvine. ‘Ma’am, you must be welcome at any time.’

  An aide-de-camp cantered over. ‘Sir, His Royal Highness invites you to take refreshment with him, and your regiment also.’

  A princely refreshment too. Behind the inn were picketing lines in the welcome shade of orchards and plantations, and on long rows of canopied tables a cold feast the like of which no dragoon believed he had ever been treated to. Beef, ham, chicken, sausage, pickles, bread of all sorts, cake, brandied fruit, all ad libitum, and with plates and forks and knives so that they dined like gentlemen – and drank the local saison from Delft tankards specially made which the prince wished every man to take with him; Rennie and the troop serjeant-majors keeping watch on the taps the while, for although the beer was weak, the thirsts were strong. That the Prussians and the Dutch were not so fastidious was their business.

  At the crown prince’s table, under a white canopy decorated with emblems of the house of Orange-Nassau, Prussian eagles and the Union flag, a dozen sat with easy conviviality – the princess on his right, the object of all attention. Hervey marked, and not for the first time, how the presence of but a single woman (the countess too was at table, on his right, though mute) so completely changed the tone. Not that the conversation was any more elevated (although French had a way of sounding so) but that all seemed to frame their remarks with a desire for the lady’s favour. He marked that he himself felt proprietorial – Princess Augusta was his colonel-in-chief after all – becoming restive at the accomplishment of the oberst, who seemed to extract the readiest smiles from her (must Prussia lord it over every German staat?).

  So that when towards the end of the déjeuner the princess asked their host where they were all to go now, and the oberst said without waiting on the prince, ‘Nach Paris! Tod dem französisch!’fn1 he could not force a smile until courtesy to his host (who laughed heartily) demanded he did.

  ‘To Brussels, I think,’ said the prince, bringing the mirth under regulation, and then adding to it: ‘To the Duchess of Richmond’s ball!’

  Hervey laughed. It was a good joke, if rather at the expense of the Duke of Wellington.

  ‘Were you there, Colonel Hervey?’

  ‘No, sir, I was not. I was a mere cornet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I myself left before supper!’

  More laughter.

  ‘But this time, I think we may have our supper and dancing without so rude an interruption!’

  There was to be a soirée that evening, and tomorrow a grand ball, and a week of drawing rooms and levees, and then field days and schemes of manoeuvre and reviews. It was not to be a summer of idleness.

  An aide-de-camp came to the table and bent to speak in the prince’s ear.

  The prince looked surprised. ‘But first, and, I must declare, unexpectedly, the crown princess arrives,’ he said, rising. ‘I will present you all, gentlemen, and then we shall proceed to the place where the Prince of Waterloo – your Duke of Wellington’ (nodding to Hervey) ‘made his headquarters for the night, and pay our respects to my former commander-in-chief before returning to the city, where I hope to have the pleasure of your company again at nine.’

  Hervey moved to Princess Augusta’s side as the crown prince bowed and asked her leave to greet his consort.

  ‘How apropos that they meet in the middle of a battlefield,’ she said, sotto voce, when he’d stepped away, ‘for they fight like dogs and cats.’

  So confidential an aside, and something of a giggle, quite took him aback.

  ‘Brussels is not St Petersburg,’ she continued; ‘It must be sehr provinzlerisch, though she prefers it to Amsterdam.’ (The crown princess was the tenth child of Paul, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.)

  Would Princess Augusta salute, then, being in uniform, or would she curtsy? He decided it impertinent to ask – for all that she herself had begun it. Besides, these were deep waters: Saxony and Russia had fought on opposing sides so often – as, indeed, had the Dutch (and, for that matter, Prussia). Only the Austrians, he thought, had remained true. Thank God he was an Englishman! Never had England wavered (well, perhaps that wretched Peace of Amiens – ‘a peace that every man must be glad of, but that no man could be proud of’ – but not for long; not even a year). He might not have rank beyond the crown he wore on his shoulder, but in this of all places he counted himself inferior to none.

  They gathered to be presented, but Princess Augusta took herself off to where the carriage halted, wishing to assert her independence – or status perhaps. Hervey smiled to himself as she kept her shako on and saluted rather than bend the knee. Was that why she’d worn uniform today? How clever if she had.

  The crown prince guided his consort towards them, all smiles again to her own very formal air. Indeed Hervey thought she brought a distinctly northern chill to the heat of the field.

  The crown prince beckoned him forward. ‘Colonel Hervey, of His Britannic Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons,’ he said in French.

  Hervey, scabbard in his left hand, saluted and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Je suis honoré, votre altesse royale.’

  He had earlier toyed with ‘impériale’, the honour due her as a daughter of the Russian emperor, but Malet’s intelligence had previously suggested that ‘impériale’ was a contentious form in the Dutch court.

  Princess Anna Paulowna, as she was known less formally, held out a hand. The gesture was unexpected; nevertheless, Hervey was quick to remove his glove to kiss it.

  ‘I am glad to see that ribbon at your neck, Colonel.’ (He wore the yellow-edged, red silk of the Order of St Anna, presented to him in Bulgaria.) ‘I am informed of your service with our army.’

  ‘Our army’ was a revealing locution, and, strictly, he had not served with but had been observing with … ‘I was most fortunate, Your Highness.’

  ‘You are acquainted with Princess Lieven, I understand, Colonel.’

  He managed (he thought) to hide a look of uneasiness. ‘Yes, ma’am. I made her acquaintance last year before going to the Levant.’

  ‘And how is the princess?’

  ‘When I saw her last, ma’am, she was exceedingly well.’

  He was pleased with himself: he’d answered truthfully but without any indication of how recently
they’d met (and thereby frequency) – for intrigue seemed endemic in ladies of St Petersburg.

  The crown princess was a year or two his younger, perhaps. She was not what his subalterns would call a beauty, if nevertheless a fine subject for the brush. Her eyes were cold – or, in truth perhaps, sad: she could never have known her father, murdered in his own palace when she was but an infant, and her brothers and sisters were strewn across the courts of Europe like so many stallions and brood mares; and for what cause she and her husband fought ‘like dogs and cats’ (Princess Augusta’s transposition was endearing) he could hardly suppose, and therefore could not judge.

  But here Anna Paulowna was dignity personified. Why she’d driven from Brussels so unexpectedly, only to drive back again with her husband, he couldn’t guess; but he supposed ‘la cour a ses raisons’ (the pun pleased him).

  But why had she spoken of Princess Lieven? What correspondence, and when, could there have been between the two, and to what purpose? He had never wished for the sort of ‘society soldiery’ beloved of so many who put on the King’s coat, but it seemed he could not now shake it off.

  The audience was over in a quarter of an hour. Anna Paulowna began taking her leave – and rather regally. Princess Augusta gave Hervey a look that could have been ‘knowing’, and there seemed a moment’s confusion as to whether the crown prince would accompany his consort in the carriage or ride with ‘his’ commanding officers. It was settled that he would ride as far as the duke’s old headquarters and there transfer to the royal landau, the second carriage proceeding empty as far as Waterloo.

  ‘You see, her French is so much superior to his,’ said Princess Augusta behind her glove. ‘If he had the princess’s command of the language and she his affability, then Wallonia might love, rather than scorn them.’

  Hervey, while obliged, glanced at the Dutch officers, whose hearing (and French) might not have been so hard as to miss her meaning; but all seemed peaceful. ‘Is the scorn so marked, ma’am? Nothing was said of it in London.’

  She merely raised her eyebrows.

  The chargers were brought up, and the lance escort took post to front and rear of the carriages. The crown prince bid Augusta ride with him, Hervey too, and the procession set off along the Chaussée de Charleroi to the three cheers of eight hundred cavalrymen.

  Malet, Serjeant Acton and Hervey’s trumpeter fell in close on his heels.

  ‘They did well today, the regiment,’ he said, beckoning the adjutant alongside as they began to trot.

  ‘D Troop especially well, Colonel, I thought.’

  ‘Especially D, yes. You’ll make much of Prickett, then.’

  ‘I shall, Colonel. I saw Mr Rennie nod approvingly to him. Rare praise.’

  ‘Indeed. And I’ll breakfast with Mordaunt tomorrow. I find it hard to say “Tyrwhitt’s Troop” any longer.’

  ‘I too. We should know the worst before the month’s out.’

  Hervey wasn’t sure what the worst was, for acquittal wouldn’t save Tyrwhitt from a charge of scandalous conduct, by all accounts (the reports in the Dublin papers were not propitious). And prison would mean cashiering, a lengthy business. One way or another, D Troop would have no captain for months more. But he’d said they wouldn’t speak of it until word came …

  And so the conversation changed to recollections of the battle as they rode the same path the duke himself had ridden that evening, when old Prince Blücher had said he would take up the pursuit, and the army had lain down exhausted and slept where it found itself when ‘Retreat’ sounded. The duke had returned to his headquarters at the inn to write his despatch, said Hervey (as he learned later from one of the aides-de-camp), eaten some supper with his staff – those whom shot and shell had not carried off – and after putting down his pen in the early hours told his physician to bring him the casualty list at first light so that he might attach it. Sir Alexander Gordon, brother of the man who was now the foreign secretary (‘I first met him at Corunna,’ said Hervey), lay mortally wounded in the duke’s own camp-bed, so instead he’d lain down in an upstairs room, wrapped in his cloak. ‘But for the roof over his head, which was a needless shelter that night, he slept exactly as every one of the army that night – and the sleep of the victor, close-run that it was.’

  He wondered if there’d been witnesses to that return, as there were now to theirs, though strangely few and rather sullen-looking. Or had they all fled, fearful of what the pounding meant – from midday till evening – and the steady procession of carts full of the wounded? What had the face of victory looked like to those villagers who’d remained? Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won? Had they even recognized the victory? Except that one thing was certain: there were no able-bodied soldiers of the duke’s making their way along that road – and, more was the point, no Frenchmen …

  ‘Alors! Vite! Au secours!’

  It happened in an instant. Of a sudden. Two haycarts – middle of the street. Crown prince one side, lance guard the other.

  Shots – half a dozen. Where from?

  Something like a cannonball – bigger – hurtled from an upstairs window, fuse burning furiously.

  The prince froze.

  Hervey dug in his spurs. Ajax leapt to the royal side.

  He grabbed the prince’s reins and pulled with all the strength of man and horse through the gap between waggon and wall.

  Acton was hard on his heels, then Malet hauling Princess Augusta’s reins.

  Into a side-street. Seconds – ten, no more.

  The prince came to, jerking his horse round. ‘The princess!’

  Hervey knew, but there were cruel priorities – ‘No, sir!’

  Acton barred the way.

  Besides, a landau was as safe a place as any.

  And the escort wasn’t idle. The rearguard were pushing their way up the chaussée. The advance guard, in the frustration of being cut off the other side of the waggons, were tilting at every door and window.

  But between the carriages stood Rennie – the oak in the gale – fuse in hand, foot on the roundshot, like the lion atop the Butte.

  Malet saw him, having slipped Augusta’s reins and doubled back to do what he supposed would be bloody. He swung round again and spurred hard.

  ‘The bomb’s safe, Colonel! And the princess.’

  The crown prince looked dazed.

  Hervey glanced at Princess Augusta. She looked helpless, for all the dragoon uniform – the face of a girl, no longer eine Adlige, a noble (though why should it be otherwise? Noblesse was not everything). For the moment, the soldiers called the tune.

  And it wasn’t done yet. But the captain of the escort had broken through into the little side-street, so now the crown prince was theirs once more.

  Hervey didn’t ask leave, just saluted and made back into the chaussée. ‘Stay with the princess,’ he shouted to Malet, as Acton cut in behind him.

  ‘Sir, I—’

  Too late.

  He weaved past the first carriage, seeing the serjeant-major. ‘Mr Rennie! What do you do there?’

  ‘Awaiting orders, Colonel,’ he replied coolly. ‘I’ve told these Dutchmen to get those waggons out of the way. I thought it best to stay with the ladies until somebody remembers they’re here.’

  Hervey shook his head. Rennie’s composure, disdainful of events – though the stock-in-trade of a serjeant-major – was something to behold. ‘Where are the orderlies?’

  ‘I sent them to the crossing further back, Colonel, to make sure nobody was going to come on us from the rear. The Dutch’ve hared off yonder,’ (he pointed to the side-street to the right, where the waggons had come from) ‘but I reckon the shots were from the left. Colonel.’

  Hervey hadn’t been able to tell; and he’d seen no balls strike. ‘I’ll look for myself. Would you stay with the carriages, please.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  He put Ajax into a trot up the side-street, reaching the far end without seeing a soul
.

  Not surprising. What now – search every house? Put a cordon round the entire village; let not a man out or in until it was done?

  But it was not his country. He’d done his duty. The rest must be for the authorities.

  ‘Sar’nt Acton, I think we babble; the scent’s bad.’

  ‘Aye, Colonel.’

  Then Acton cocked his head. ‘See there, Colonel – the window above the blue door.’

  ‘A face. Yes. But what of it?’

  ‘There were two, and one vanished when I looked up.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Why would one vanish when the other was bold enough not to, Colonel?’

  ‘Why indeed? Civilians, Sar’nt Acton.’

  ‘Take a look, Colonel?’

  It would be better if they were three: one to hold the horses and two to search the house. And if they had powder … ‘At the door only. Give me your reins.’

  Hervey smiled to himself as he took them – colonel covering coverman.

  Acton sheathed his sword and knuckled the door. An old woman in a shawl appeared. He saluted. ‘Mamselle, voulez-vous,’ (he pointed inside) ‘take lookee?’

  ‘Bor! Allemands!’

  She slammed the door.

  ‘She thinks we’re Dutch – or Germans,’ said Hervey, looking up again at the window. ‘We’d better—’

  Crack!

  A shot – rear of the cottages.

  Acton drew his sabre and ran to the corner. Further up lancers were already hauling men into the street.

  The blue door burst open and a man dashed out, then another.

  Hervey loosed Acton’s trooper and spurred at them, drawing his sword.

  One fell under Ajax’s hoofs and the other to the flat of his blade.

  Lancers sped towards him.

  A man jumped from a window, stumbled and cowered as he saw them.

  Down came the nearest point and took him in the shoulder, pitching him like a rag doll under the feet of those behind – a bloody bundle, twitching for a few seconds more, and then lifeless.