Buturlin shared that opinion. Presently he detached a squadron of hussars to watch the road, and turned for home with the rest. He was in no hurry, though. They had come out at the trot, a full two leagues, and they would return at a walk: he wanted wind in reserve for when they charged, which he was certain they would do, and for pursuit when the Turks broke, of which he was equally confident.
The walk gave them time to range widely, over all manner of affairs, not least of the wars to come. Buturlin was convinced that tumult in Europe was at hand. He himself had been with the French in the suppression of the revolt in Spain six years ago; he predicted similar uprisings in Belgium, in Italy, in the Austrian marches, and – he shook his head – in Poland. In all of these the Tsar had his interests – well, perhaps not so directly in Belgium – and the army would be much occupied.
Hervey was now certain that Diebitsch’s only purpose in asking him to ride with Buturlin was to entice him with the promise of abundant action. He smiled; he had never before heard of a major-general recruiting officer.
By the time they regained the ridge west of Kulewtscha, the scene before them was transformed.
‘See, Mr Agar – you may never do so again: three corps d’armée drawn up for battle.’
Agar at once hitched up his sabretache, took out paper and charcoal and began sketching rapidly.
‘The frontage is somewhat greater than at Waterloo, and not so many men by half, but it has the same appearance of … majesty.’
‘I imagine your vantage point was not the same that day,’ said Fairbrother playfully.
Hervey smiled as he recalled it. ‘The briefest look as we galloped back after a charge.’
Fairbrother knew of the charge from what the Sixth had told him. He felt suddenly chastened. ‘The ground is not so regular here?’
‘No indeed,’ replied Hervey, studying it carefully once more.
At Waterloo the long, low ridge had faced one of equal height and length, which the French had occupied during the night (there was still no sign of Turks here) and from which they had descended in one forlorn attack after another, seen off by the strongpoints on the forward slope – the château of Hougoumont, La Haye Saint farm, the hamlet of Papelotte – or by the regimental musketry atop it, or else by counter-charges from the cavalry. Here, on the other hand, the field was not one of parallel lines but a partially inverted triangle, the base of which was the Russian line, which ran northeast to south-west, about five miles long; and the apex, some five miles from the base, would be the entry point for the Turks. The ridge at Waterloo – Mont St Jean – on which the duke had disposed his army, had been continuous, but here the high ground on which the Russians intended to bar the advance of the Turks was cleaved in two by the valley of the Bulanik, with Pahlen’s 2nd Corps to the west of the stream – the left of the base of the triangle as the Turks would see it – and the 6th and 7th Corps to the east. And whereas the French had watched the dawn from their ridge, and could choose their point of attack anywhere along the line, here the Turk would enter the field with little room to manoeuvre, through a green defile made narrower by crags to north and south. All the Vizier would be able to do would be to expand his front as the ground opened up – as the sides of the triangle diverged – but since General Ostroschenko’s advance guard stood in the middle of the triangle, the Turks would have a fight on their hands even to deploy. If the Vizier did not make use of the road from Marasch to try to turn Ostroschenko’s flank (and why would he – for he could not have known of Diebitsch’s intention to stand here?), his only course would be a frontal attack; and Diebitsch had both the numbers and the ground to defeat him. The duke had said after Waterloo that Bonaparte ‘came on in the old way, and we saw him off in the old way’; Hervey had a dreadful notion that it would be the same today, for the victory of Waterloo was one thing, remembrance of the field that evening quite another.
‘One of Diebitsch’s aides-de-camp reckoned thirty thousand,’ said Fairbrother, now with his telescope to an eye.
Hervey nodded, searching with his own. ‘I think that was the very number of English and the King’s Germans. The rest were a hotchpotch. Some of them fought deuced well, mind. What strange echoes. Can you make out Ostroschenko’s men?’
Red coats would have been conspicuous enough among the verdure of Tschirkowna, a ruin of a village – the blues and greens of the Russians much less so. Once the eye became accustomed, however, the lines were discernible enough. And they appeared to be on the move still.
‘I think we’ll go and see what they do,’ said Hervey, pushing his glass back into its sleeve.
A quarter of an hour later, picking their way through feral orchards and untended vineyards, they saw the Irkutzk Hussars – unmistakeable in their raspberry chakchiry breeches though a mile away and more – forming line on the far right. It boded action of some sort. Hervey put his gelding into a canter to close with them.
The ground was much broken; it took them ten minutes to cross the valley.
He approached the Irkutzk from the rear, the greater courtesy. And handier, too, for he was met by the rotmistr (captain) of the right-rear squadron, who spoke French. ‘Ce qui se passe?’
The rotmistr explained that Turk infantry – the advance guard? – were halted where the road from Pravadi debouched from the forest, a league distant, that they were bringing up guns and forming square, and that General Ostroschenko was ordered to probe them to discover their intention.
Hervey was dismayed that he’d not seen them from the ridge, or even as they descended towards Tschirkowna, but there were so many folds in the ground … Did the colonel speak French, he asked.
‘No,’ said the rotmistr.
But if he were to ride with the Irkutzk he must observe the proprieties: he persuaded the rotmistr to come with him as interpreter.
As they rode forward, Hervey pulled out the new ribbon at his collar a little way in the hope that it would be his laissez-monter.
He need not have worried. Colonel Voinov, a man of impressive height and bearing, seemed to recognize him, inviting him and the rest of his party to ride with the regiment – sabres drawn – in the front rank.
Hervey thanked him and was just able to beckon forward the others and tell them what was happening when the trumpeter sounded ‘walk-march’.
‘Trot’ soon followed. The lines billowed on the uneven ground, the NCOs cursed the troopers’ dressing (though he didn’t understand a word, Hervey smiled to himself: he could have been in the ranks of the Sixth), and the right-flank squadrons began bunching.
In a hundred yards they came back to a walk. More cursing. But what was the hurry? As well let the infantry keep up. The horse artillery looked happier too.
‘No sign of the Turks,’ said Fairbrother when they had gone half a mile, sounding uneasy as he looked left and right at the wooded heights.
Hervey was perfectly able to read his friend’s mind as well as the ground. ‘Yonder crags would be the devil for us to climb,’ he said, nodding to the closer right flank, half a mile perhaps. ‘I imagine Pahlen has them picketed. A few Cossacks would flush out any game.’ Whether there were any Cossacks on the heights he did not know; but why would there not be?
‘Like being in a piss-pot,’ muttered Corporal Acton.
A quarter of an hour later, when they had gone a mile and a half, crossing two streams and half a dozen dry courses at right angles to the line of advance, they came at last on the objective, halting along the top of an incline in full view of the Turks three-quarters of a mile ahead.
Corporal Acton whistled beneath his breath.
It was difficult to estimate the number, not least because the sun was in their eyes. Hervey swept the line with his telescope. It was a good mile, square after square, and cavalry beyond. To be disposed thus he reckoned they must be the spearhead of a complete corps, ten thousand. How many guns would that mean? A corps would have, what, sixty, seventy? He could see twenty, perhaps, the lighter pieces.
‘A cork in the bottle. Can it be drawn out, or does it have to be driven in?’
‘Does it have to be removed at all?’ asked Fairbrother.
‘Diebitsch won’t just let them sit there.’
‘“O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out/ Against the wrackful siege of battering days …”’
‘Very apt,’ said Hervey, searching the slopes on either flank of the Turk line. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Who else?’
‘Uncommon apt, indeed. The Turk has no time, but Diebitsch disdains taking advantage of his.’
‘Just so.’
‘Well, we must see. That’s our business, after all.’
Fairbrother made a muted ‘Hah!’, and frowned. ‘We are resuming our status of indifference, then?’
Hervey ignored the jibe. ‘I suppose Ostroschenko will now try to drive them in to force the Vizier’s hand, but there’s scarcely space for artful tactics. Mr Agar?’
Agar edged his mare forward. ‘Sir?’
‘How might you discern the Vizier’s intention here? Without excess of time.’
He had already been considering it. ‘I was wondering, does he tempt us to attack him, and in turn to counter-attack us? My preference would be to scout rather than fight. If we got into the cover of the trees on this flank, we’d be able to work around the advance guard and see what troops stood ready in reserve.’
‘And what if tempting us were his scheme?’
‘Then I do not see what alternative there would be to waiting on his move. Unless the whole of the Russian force were to be brought forward to attack first. And that would be a perilous affair for both sides in so confined a space.’
Hervey shook his head. ‘I think it the best rule never to let the enemy alone.’
The trumpet sounded ‘walk-march’ again.
Hervey raised his eyebrows. ‘But I see there is yet another course of action.’
What it might be, though, was not yet apparent. They surely did not intend charging? He couldn’t conceive of any outcome but ruin.
Even at a walk it was a continuous effort to maintain the dressing, and a dry channel two feet deep was soon disordering the front rank, bringing yet another blistering torrent of ‘advice’ from the NCOs.
On they struggled.
And then a great thunderclap of artillery far over on the left flank stunned all. Even Hervey started.
All eyes turned left: heavy case-shot at four hundred yards, from a battery hitherto concealed, rocked the advancing columns of Ostroschenko’s infantry – a mile away and more, but still the screams carried. And then the Turks sprang their terrible ambush – sipahis hurtling down the crags, men and horses tumbling headlong, but crashing like a great wave into the exposed flank of Ostroschenko’s columns desperately trying to form square.
‘Poor devils,’ groaned Hervey, looking right to see what danger faced them.
Seconds later it was the same: down a near-vertical cliff plunged the Turk horse.
Colonel Voinov’s instinct was to haul away and re-form. ‘Columns!’
Too late.
Voinov changed his mind. ‘Charge!’
It was a desperate rush at a great host of lances. But surprise counted. The Turks scattered like chaff in a sudden gust of wind. Not a point touched a single hussar; some of the sipahis even took cuts from the faster sabres.
Hervey had not even lofted his when they pulled up. ‘That was fortune smiling,’ he rasped, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘We’d better retire and re-form, or else if they ever see we’re unsupported they’ll roll us up like a damned carpet!’
Fairbrother had already seen – horse and infantry threatening to lap round their other flank. ‘Quickly, Hervey!’
The squadrons turned as best they could – no trumpets, only shouting – trying to regain order as they bustled rear. It was no field-day drill, to be sure.
They began galloping, hastened now by the re-emboldened Turks.
Hervey despaired. They must rally soon, or else it would be rout.
Another two hundred yards – a dry course on which to form: ‘Hold hard!’ he growled, as if any would heed, let alone hear.
Besides, Voinov knew his job. The Irkutzk turned about, rough but ready.
‘Look, sir!’ called Agar.
Five hundred yards left, a phalanx of Turk infantry had detached the Murom Regiment from the rest of the line. They were frantically forming square, surrounded on three sides already, and losing order. Muskets from another phalanx swarmed on them like angry wasps. It would be a pure killing match.
‘My God, where did they come from? Brace yourself, Agar. They’re lost.’
Where were the supports? But all of Ostroschenko’s cavalry were fighting to break clean or else retiring apace. The Irkutzk couldn’t wheel and charge or they’d open a flank to the sipahis.
He shook his head. This was not well-handled. Turk numbers were beginning to tell. Some of the gunners were bravely serving their pieces, but they too couldn’t stand without supports. Where was Ostroschenko?
‘There’s the general, sir,’ called Acton, pointing to the middle of the field.
Hervey saw: he, too, was in a perilous place. ‘He makes a stand! Does Voinov not see him?’
‘Look, sir, they’re breaking away!’ shouted Agar excitedly.
Hervey looked again. Men were streaming from the crumbling Murom square. Unchecked and they would throw away their muskets and be cut down.
‘We’ve got to rally them, Fairbrother. No one else will.’
He didn’t wait for opinion. He took off at a gallop, calling as he went. ‘Mr Agar, when I pull up, remain in the saddle with the others to bar the way. Fairbrother, we shall dismount. They’ll never rally otherwise.’
Fairbrother was past protest. Death by Turk lance or Russian bayonet – what did it matter?
‘Flats of the sword, no pistols.’
The noise was great, and the smoke increasing. A hundred yards, a dry channel to break their flight: that’s where he’d rally them.
‘Here!’ He drew hard to the halt and sprang down, Acton taking the reins.
Cornet Agar motioned Brayshaw and Green to stand left as Acton turned in on the right.
The fugitives from the Murom Regiment came on like hounds in full cry. Hervey raised his sabre and began hallooing.
The first of them took the dry course in their stride. Acton ran in obliquely, leading Hervey’s gelding, blocking. Several gave up, fell exhausted, though some got past. Agar sent two sprawling with the flat of his sabre. They looked up at him strangely grateful. Another jabbed with his bayonet. Acton sprang from the saddle cursing but still holding both sets of reins and felled him deftly with a swipe in the small of the back. He grabbed the man’s tunic straps and hauled him to his feet, shouting the while, turning him round and pushing him back towards the dry course, where Hervey and Fairbrother were manhandling and cajoling. He shouted to Brayshaw and Green to take the reins, then ran to their side.
Exhaustion helped. There was soon a line of twenty Muromskiye standing in the course. Stragglers now began making for them of their own accord – safety in standing numbers. An NCO had recovered himself and was barking reassuringly. A drummer boy struggled manfully with his drum.
Hervey saw him, half aghast: he looked no older than Georgiana. ‘Drum! Drum!’ he shouted.
The boy looked terrified.
Acton ran and showed him, and he began a plucky roll.
Hervey wished he had a dozen more.
They were soon fifty, and most with muskets still. A horse battery galloped up and began unlimbering – six gleaming brass cannon. Hervey cheered them. The Murom fugitives cheered with him.
The Irkutzk Hussars had been pushed back a furlong. If only they would come up and support …
The sun beat down, their ears were filled with the infernal noise of slaughter, but Hervey and his fugitive company watched in silence the death of the Regiment of Murom – a monstrous
firing squad. No, worse – for they were shot down with all the sport of netted rabbits. He was sickened. Not even at Waterloo had there been such execution.
But, curiously, it seemed to steady the fugitives. In ten more minutes they were a hundred, and a mix of regiments, like a life-raft in a sea of drowning men.
The battery was in action now – deafening, yet fortifying.
But there was none that could speak a language other than their own.
Acton, however, by some Babel-process given to NCOs, now had them volleying – and sharp about it too, even if their targets were a hundred yards too far for any appreciable effect. That didn’t matter; the drill was galvanizing. In four rounds of ball cartridge – two minutes of biting, ramming, presenting and firing – the flotsam of the field had regained a semblance of soldierly purpose, and Hervey began thinking they might hold.
‘Sir, look behind,’ called Agar, still astride.
Thank God – the Irkutzk coming up at the trot. Hervey nodded; he was sure they would now hold.
‘And I think it’s General Ostroschenko as well.’
It was indeed, and making straight for them. Hervey checked that his buttons were fastened – the instinct of twenty years.
The general rode up to the guns and embraced the captain warmly, and then along the line of 12-pounders with encouraging words for the gunners.
Then he turned to the improvised company of infantry. The senior of the NCOs called the line to attention, and then arms to ‘Present’.
Hervey saluted with his sword. ‘Bonjour, monsieur le général.’
Ostroschenko touched the peak of his cap to acknowledge.
Hervey tried to explain who they were, but the general nodded and stayed him.
Hervey 11 - On His Majesty's Service Page 25