Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey)

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Fairbrother?’

  ‘What? I—’

  ‘You seemed to be elsewhere. Corporal Johnson asked if there was anything more?’

  He looked at his host, and his host’s most admirable corporal; and he smiled.

  ‘Might I have more bacon? It really is most unconscionably good.’

  An hour later, the bacon finished, the meditation over, the despatch for London given to an orderly for the post at Mons, Vanneck’s orders written and delivered, and the ball-cartridge issued to his troop, Hervey was ready to take to the saddle to make an inspection of the pickets. Johnson, insisting on his true position as ‘groom of the charger’ rather than – as the wags in the canteen had it – of the close-stool, brought up Ajax and Dolly.

  ‘Captain Fairbrother will accompany us, Corp’l Johnson.’

  Johnson turned to the dragoon leading Dolly. ‘Go and fetch that bay of the adjutant’s, will you, Toddy.’

  Hervey sighed. But there was little point telling Johnson that ‘Toddy’ was ‘Pickering’ on parade (except to save him from the ordeal that would follow if the sar’nt-major heard); it had taken all his powers of persuasion to get him to wear the rank.

  ‘Mr Malet’s already said as ’e could ’ave ’im, Colonel.’

  ‘Most generous.’

  ‘Might I have a sword?’ asked Fairbrother awkwardly, addressing the request to no one in particular. ‘I would feel so deucedly undressed otherwise.’

  ‘It’ll ’ave one on t’saddle, sir,’ replied Johnson.

  Hervey sighed again. Johnson had lapsed into the enunciation that so confounded him when first he’d become his groom (he could never fathom why it came and went as it did). But what things they’d seen in their time; what triumphs and disasters. And always the flat vowels and want of aspirates – revealing so little, and imperturbable. Had they spoken thus when Ivanhoe ranged ‘In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don …’? Except that, by Johnson’s own account, its pleasantness was now much diminished. That morning at Waterloo – he could never forget it – Johnson’s hand shook his shoulder, though but a touch was needed to wake him (the instincts of five years’ campaigning) … Besides, the rain had allowed no more than a fitful sleep, and it had been near midnight when he’d at last lain down … The hand, and ‘tea, sir’ … How had he found a fire to brew it on such a night? Not one officer in a dozen could have been woken that way. Yet in Spain no one had wanted him … a refugee of the coal-pit, difficult to understand – no, just plain difficult. The canvas of his valise had kept out the worst of the downpour, but he’d crawled into it already soaked to the skin – and he’d shivered as he took the tea: ‘Couldn’t get no brandy or nothin’,’ Johnson had said. ‘A German ’ad some snaps but ’e wanted gold for it – gold!’ Flat vowels, want of aspirates – defiant badge of a man who would remain his own no matter what. What memories bound them. Were you at Waterloo? / I have been at Waterloo. / ’Tis no matter what you do / If you were at Waterloo …

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘What?’ he said absently.

  ‘I said look yonder.’

  He turned. ‘Great heavens.’

  They came on at the trot. Everywhere, dragoons braced.

  He brought his hand up sharply to the salute. ‘Good morning, Your Highness.’

  Behind the princess, Lieutenant Mordaunt bore the look of a man who knew he had a difficult explanation before him – though Hervey might guess it, for he’d placed him in command of the colonel-in-chief’s safety.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel Hervey,’ she said, with the most winning of smiles, so that he almost began thinking himself pleased she’d come.

  ‘I was not, of course, expecting you, ma’am.’

  ‘I was not expecting you to leave Brussels, Colonel.’

  She had made her point. He ought to have told her himself, but time had been pressing, and …

  ‘I’m about to inspect the pickets. May we offer refreshment?’

  She shook her head. ‘We have no desire to make ourselves a burden. We put up last evening at the Abbaye du Bélian, not ten miles from here, and breakfasted well.’

  He helped her from the saddle (at least she didn’t wear uniform). ‘The Trakehner you rode at Waterloo, ma’am?’

  ‘Indeed. Mr Mordaunt was most attentive in finding her.’

  Hervey glanced at the attentive Mordaunt, who looked ever more awkward.

  ‘Admirable. Exactly as should be. Thank you, Mordaunt.’ He added a smile, albeit wry.

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘Then let me tell you what we’ve learned here, and what we’re about, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the table outside his tent, where he could spread a map (that was, assuming her to be acquainted with maps).

  But his intention was stayed: ‘Colonel, yonder,’ snapped Johnson, never overawed by an occasion.

  Hervey turned, irritated – an interruption too many. ‘What—’

  The exploring officers – one of them.

  ‘Ma’am, forgive me—’ he said tersely.

  An orderly took the sweat-covered reins as Cornet Jenkinson jumped from the saddle.

  ‘Colonel, they’re on the march. Two squadrons – two hundred horse. We watched them parading and move off. None went east, only north. St Alban’s gone straight to alert Captain Worsley.’

  Good thinking; what they’d lost in time, perhaps, they’d gained in assurance that he could withdraw Vanneck’s troop at once – save for a vidette, just in case. ‘Mr Malet, have Vanneck’s troop come up to Worsley’s immediately.’

  ‘Colonel!’

  ‘What were the French – lancers?’

  ‘No, Colonel. Cuirassiers only.’

  ‘In haste, or …’

  ‘With much ceremony, Colonel.’

  ‘Good. We may have a little time then. And they a surprise, by the sound of things.’

  He turned to the princess, who’d come forward to hear.

  ‘Ma’am, I must fly.’

  ‘I shall follow, Colonel.’

  His look was pained. ‘Ma’am, may I request – with all due respect – that you remain here?’

  She smiled again, as winningly as before.

  There wasn’t time to argue. ‘Very well, I’ll tell you all as we gallop.’

  A quarter of an hour, cutting (riskily) across the salient of French soil west of the Bois d’Avau, over stubble fields, here and there a stream, and a hedge or two – a spirited, fortifying gallop in-hand, the princess keeping up with ease, relishing the pace indeed, choosing her own line at the hurdles, skirts no impediment (nor to her lady-in-waiting) … They beat the French to the ground by five minutes.

  ‘Halloo, Worsley!’

  B Troop’s captain was standing in the saddle, middle of his line, peering through the binocular telescope he’d bought in Brussels.

  Hervey cantered to his side.

  ‘Colonel, good morning. Movement in the trees yonder.’ He nodded towards the clump of oaks next the French douanerie.

  Hervey took out his spyglass. ‘Yes, movement … I think – horses?’

  ‘Horses, assuredly – and cuirasses. Scouts, maybe?’

  ‘Or council of war, perhaps? They see us clearly, I trust. I wonder what they make of such a reception party.’ He lowered his glass. ‘Now, mark you: I’ve sent for Vanneck’s troop, and they have fifteen rounds ball. If the French come on hard I may have you withdraw and give them a volley or two – in the air to begin with, but if necessary …’

  Worsley looked uneasy – a departure from the orders of last evening.

  ‘But I want no more, still, than a determined, barring action by you – no edge or point, mind.’

  He looked assured again. ‘No, Colonel. We’ve drilled exactly to your last order.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Only now did he see the princess, halted at the end of the front rank. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, saluting. ‘I beg pardon.’

  She pressed forward. �
�Captain Worsley, what a week it has been!’ – and the same disarming smile.

  He looked at Hervey for enlightenment, but received only a raised eyebrow.

  Malet came galloping, and the serjeant-major. ‘Vanneck’ll be here in ten minutes, Colonel. Kenny’s bringing them short by the Bois.’

  ‘Thank you. Would you escort the colonel-in-chief to the spinney to the rear. There will be a fine view.’ He turned to the princess. ‘Ma’am?’

  She held her smile but was too astute to challenge an order once given.

  Five minutes, and the column trotted three abreast from the line of oaks to the chaussée six hundred yards ahead, breastplates glinting.

  Hervey put his telescope back in its saddle-case. ‘What a sight to behold, Worsley. I never thought to see again French cavalry advance on me.’

  At Waterloo they’d come on in line, at the charge; but the day before, when Wellington’s own cavalry had covered the withdrawal of his weary infantry from Quatre Bras, they’d watched them come on thus – and ever so gingerly, not at all wanting to close for a fight. At muster that morning his troop leader, Edward Lankester, had ridden along the front of the first squadron, exchanging words with his dragoons for all the world like the owner of some well-run estate hailing his contented tenants: ‘I’m sorry, First Squadron – no breakfast, no rum, no Frenchmen, but I think we’ll have all of them aplenty and in good time, if not in that order!’ Oh, the laughter, and Lankester’s good-hearted riposte: ‘It could be worse, though!’ And a voice from the ranks: ‘How’s that, sir?’, and Lankester’s ‘Well, it could be raining!’ – and half an hour later it was.

  But this was too fine a morning for rain – not a cloud, not a breath of moving air. A good day for powder.

  He looked left and right. B Troop was admirably posted. He wouldn’t do as Lankester. It was Worsley’s troop; he wouldn’t steal his thunder.

  He turned and saw Serjeant-Major Collins in his place, behind the rear rank, and centre. He’d have been just as content with Vanneck’s troop, and Armstrong, but it was especially good to see Collins. What a loss to his country he would have been – and all for the sake of a lieutenant’s spleen …

  Malet returned. ‘I’ve told Mordaunt he’s to seize hold of the princess’s reins if necessary, Colonel.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘What a deuced fine thing, though, that she chooses to come.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Worsley, taking up the contact on his own reins suddenly. ‘Here we go!’

  The column had stopped. A few seconds later they began deploying into line.

  ‘How many do you make it, Malet?’

  The adjutant was already scribbling in his notebook. He looked up for a moment or two. ‘They’re fronting fifty, Colonel, two lines.’ He took out his telescope and studied closer. ‘And the same again beyond. Two squadrons, evidently.’ He wrote down the details and the time. It was his to keep the regiment’s diary – and who knew what evidence might be needed if …

  ‘I think so too,’ said Hervey, and with some relief, for it meant the column hadn’t divided.

  They watched in silence as the lines formed and dressed – and then the trumpet call: En Avant.

  There was not a sound from the troop but the grinding of bits, the odd snort and stamping foot (the flies, curse them) and the creak of leather.

  Four hundred yards – a walk still, and in perfect line.

  Three hundred – the same.

  Two hundred …

  ‘With permission, Colonel?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  Worsley drew his sabre and put his weight into the stirrups. ‘Troop will draw swords. Dra-a-aw … swords!’

  Metal on metal – eighty sabres rasping from the scabbard – the sound of grim resolve, fortifying him that drew it and unnerving him that heard it drawn.

  Sound carried in that still, warm air.

  The squadrons halted … and drew swords.

  Hervey no longer shivered at metal on metal. But the rest … For many it was the first time.

  He’d said to expect as much. This was a game for cool heads and calculation.

  Vanneck’s troop came over the crest with the momentum of a whole brigade. Hervey saw the French commander trying to take in what lay before him.

  Then the advance resumed. Walk-march … trot …

  So many men – two hundred, four lines, an overlap, a great weight in the press of horses: he’d need Vanneck’s to bolster Worsley’s, yet be able to extricate them to form a firing line if …

  ‘I shall take post with the supports now, Captain Worsley. A resolute front, mind.’

  Worsley saluted with his sword. ‘You may count on it, Colonel.’

  He knew he could. But these things were better said – if only for the benefit of those on whom Worsley in turn depended.

  He reined left and trotted to where Vanneck had halted and drawn up his troop, fifty yards to the rear on rising ground, with Acton at his heels, and Fairbrother, Johnson and the little knot of others who formed his suite.

  Vanneck had anticipated his orders. The troop was already dividing into three to cover Worsley’s flanks while keeping a few carbines for support.

  ‘Nicely done, Captain Vanneck.’

  ‘Thank heavens we set aside Dundas this last month.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘No doubt he has his uses, but not today for sure.’

  And this was the dangerous time. If the French broke into a gallop they’d be unstoppable without shot or counter-charge. All Worsley could then do – and he’d have to judge it to the second – was go threes-about and wheel left or right at a pace.

  They stumbled into a short canter. It was still a peril.

  Hervey grimaced: was it bluff?

  Worsley swallowed hard, but stood his ground.

  At a hundred yards they fell back to a trot, then halted suddenly.

  An officer rode forward and called to them in what sounded like Dutch.

  Worsley answered with the authority of his broad acres, wearying of their blue being taken for a foreign coat. ‘Pas Hollandais, monsieur; nous sommes Anglais!’

  One of his corporals lofted the Union flag which they’d carried in the parades in Brussels.

  It hung limply in the still air.

  The spokesman conferred with his colonel, who shook his head vigorously. ‘Anglais? Pas possible,’ he said, in a voice that carried clearly. ‘C’est une ruse de guerre!’

  He turned and said something to his adjutant.

  And then abuse erupted the length of the French line: ‘Cheeseheads! Marsh-frogs! Clog-feet!’

  Hervey angered. ‘Rosbifs, yes,’ he said, gathering his reins and spurring forward, ‘but I’m damned if I’ll be called aught else.’

  B Troop sat impassively, aided by growls from Collins.

  ‘Stand fast, Worsley, while I go and speak with that fellow,’ Hervey called.

  But their colonel was in no mood for parley. He waved his sword: ‘En avant!’

  The line billowed forward.

  Hervey cursed, reined about and cantered for the support line. Once, he’d tried to make some Portuguese troops look like the King’s infantry, in red coats, and the ruse had failed. Now he couldn’t persuade a Frenchman that he wasn’t a ‘clog-foot’!

  It was up to Worsley – and Vanneck if it came to carbines.

  The trot was in-hand, but they’d still barge the line, for although Worsley wasn’t in open order, he wasn’t knee-to-knee either (he hadn’t the numbers).

  Hervey gave Vanneck the look that said ‘ready yourself.’

  But it was Worsley’s moment. ‘Quarters left!’

  Round swung every troop horse, just as in the park at Windsor. There were now no gaps – and the line not a fraction shorter.

  ‘Good work, B Troop,’ said Hervey beneath his breath.

  The French checked, stumbled for the most part to a walk and collided with them with no more force than a bo
at coming alongside in a light swell.

  Now the mounted ruck. Cursing, swearing – every sort of imprecation – arms, elbows, knees, boots, pushing, shoving, kicking, gouging.

  But sabres both sides stayed shouldered.

  ‘Now Vanneck, if you please: the flanks,’ called Hervey.

  No words of command, just signals with the sabre. Twenty dragoons with a cornet peeled off from both ends of Vanneck’s line to extend Worsley’s.

  ‘Nicely done,’ said Hervey beneath his breath again. They might be at a field day.

  And then, like the challenging stag which, knowing the contest to be uneven, breaks from the lock of antlers, he saw the colonel of cuirassiers turn about and ride rear. It could not be long now …

  ‘I do believe Worsley’s outwitted them!’

  Malet heard. ‘And see, Colonel – how Collins steadies them.’

  He was trotting the line with no more agitation than before an inspection.

  Would Armstrong? Or would it be fists by now?

  Perhaps it was just a matter of time, for no recall was sounded, and the push of troopers was becoming like the old push of pikes. If one side wouldn’t yield, it must come to blows …

  The curses increased, mutually unintelligible, but plain enough.

  And then a Frenchman lashed out with his sword arm.

  St Alban parried.

  All that clashed were sword hilts.

  But his coverman, furious at the affront, lunged with his knuckle.

  Others followed.

  Then sabres clashed.

  Collins was there in an instant: ‘Swords up, damn you! Up!’