Twenty years ago, as near as made no odds. And now he was before the walls once more, with the enemy perhaps a few leagues only to the east, just as they had thought the French were that first time. And he not blooded then, not yet shot over. Except that women threw things at him, as they had just now; and not all that many miles from here. Women with donkeys; what was it that possessed them? It was not just gypsy women either; that first time it had been the regiment’s own. Sods and stones they had hurled at him then, and, worst of all, abuse. Cornet to major in twenty years (no, to be fair to himself, it was only eighteen): he had risen respectably, that was for sure, even if not as quickly and easily as the rich and connected had. But women still threw stones at him when he troubled their donkeys, just as if he were a cornet still.
They had had a pitiful time of it, the Sixth’s women all those years ago; he knew full well. Worse, even, than the dragoons. The regiment had had its skirmishes on the way to Madrid, but these had never been more than a bit of a bruising, as Corporal Armstrong had put it. They had managed something of a respite near the Escorial – a roof, decent straw, bread and cheese bought from the Spanish peasants – and then on again across the mountains dividing Old and New Castile, when the women had been hard pressed to stay with the columns, losing some of their precious donkeys in the process. When they had limped into stations in front of Salamanca in the second week of December, it had been a true mercy, for the frosts were so hard of a night that the odd man had died during his watch.
It had been at Salamanca that Hervey had first heard the name Corunna.
The whole regiment had heard it; and been indignant. Not two dozen men had fired their carbines, and even fewer had crossed swords, and now they were to run for the sea! It was not Sir John Moore’s fault, of course; it was those damned Spaniards – feckless all, to a man. They’d said they would defend Madrid, and then they’d surrendered their own capital without a shot!
The Sixth fulminated for two days, even the officers.
But then as suddenly came the news that Sir John Moore would not be turning for Corunna after all. He declared he would not abandon even those who had abandoned him: the army would strike north! They would threaten Marshal Soult’s communications and draw off the French from the capital of Britain’s half-hearted allies; and every man in the army seemed to be cheering.
Hervey’s troop was on picket when they heard. And the Sixth would lead the movement! The news thrilled the ranks, a promise at last of true action.
At muster the following morning, Sir Edward Lankester issued his orders. ‘Mr Hervey, you are to take two sections of threes under Corporal Armstrong and bar the pass behind us to all followers.’
The other officers and NCOs looked at Hervey pityingly.
‘If they are let through they will hinder the movement north of the entire army,’ said Lankester gravely.
‘Very good, sir.’ Hervey supposed he ought to know how to hold a pass against regimental women, though it escaped him for the present.
They took post within the hour, however – ‘the donkey lookout’ the others jeered as his dragoons went past – but he still had no idea what he would do. They could use the flat of the sword, but that could turn into a nasty mêlée, and they were only eight, after all. Neither did he know how long they would have to keep post; there was no telling how many of the camp-followers would try to force their way through, especially if they had wind of the French at their tails.
In the event he had not long to wait before resolving on action. And perhaps it was as well, for he could hardly sit all morning without giving his dragoons any orders. ‘Everything in the work of cavalry depends on the officer’s coup d’oeil.’ He had heard it a hundred times; he supposed now he would see in one glance what it truly meant. That or he would be judged a failure, for all his address to date.
The trouble was, there were so many of them – hundreds of women, like droves of tinkers, with donkeys, goats, even cows, and countless yapping dogs. And on they came, babbling, all innocent, oblivious of the army’s resolve to thwart their design, the execution of which was entrusted to Cornet Matthew Hervey of the 6th Light Dragoons, seventeen years old, quondam praepostor-elect of Shrewsbury school.
His dragoons sat silent in the saddle. The women were close enough now to make out who was who. Hervey recognized one of the leaders, a big Irishwoman, one of C Troop’s wives. In front of her plodded a donkey loaded with cooking pots and bedding, which she drove amiably with a stick. Hervey wondered if anyone had told them they would not be allowed through until the army was clear. Looking at them, he reckoned not.
Then that was it, his coup d’oeil! These were reasonable women; they would understand the necessity once he explained.
He pressed forward La Belle Dame, his brown mare, a dozen strides or so, just enough for the women to see that he was moving to address them. Corporal Armstrong closed to support, and the column of camp-followers shuffled to a halt.
‘Ladies, I regret you will not be permitted to pass this place until the army has struck camp and cleared it.’
There was not a murmur from his audience.
Hervey was pleased his appeal to reason had been well received. He thought it fair to explain the cause therefore. ‘As you know, ladies, the French are marching on us and—’
Hervey saw his mistake, but too late. The silence turned at once into noisy dismay.
‘You’re not leaving us behind darlin’,’ shouted the big Irishwoman, hitching up her skirt and slapping the donkey on its backside with the flat of her hand. ‘Come on, girls!’
‘That’s right, Biddy,’ muttered Armstrong. ‘Stick your fat Irish neck out!’ He pressed his horse forward alongside Hervey’s. ‘Sir, I think you should fall back on the picket.’
Hervey reined about. They retired a dozen paces and he retook position one length in front of his dragoons, Armstrong returning to his place as right marker.
‘It’ll take more than half a dozen boys in blue to stop Biddy Flyn!’ bawled the big Irishwoman over her shoulder. ‘Have no fear of it, girls!’
Hervey, though still ruing his first ploy, knew he must make a second. ‘Picket, draw swords!’
He detested the rasp of metal on metal. It blunted the edge; he’d known it for years. But at that moment it was welcome – a chilling sound, a warning.
The column, uncertain, shuffled to a halt again.
‘Now, Lieutenant, you’re not goin’ to cut up a few poor women who just wants to keep up with their menfolk are you? You’ll be wanting our bandages for sure when the time comes!’
That may be so, thought Hervey, but it didn’t alter his orders. But she was hinting at his bluff: he could hardly cut up the army’s own women. He knew for certain now that the flat of the sword would not keep them back, and it would be disastrous to pretend with the edge. In any case, how would it go with the men when they heard that their women had been roughly handled?
The followers surged forward again.
Hervey dropped his sabre to hang from his wrist by the knot, drew his pistol and fired into the air. ‘I will shoot that donkey of yours, Mrs Flyn, if you come any closer!’
The women halted, for the moment stunned.
Then Biddy Flyn prodded her donkey again and stepped out. ‘I’d like to see the man that would shoot my jenny! Faith, I’d have his guts for garters, I would!’
Hervey jammed his pistol back into the holster and drew his second.
But Armstrong had closed to his side again. ‘No, sir. Better let me.’
He nodded.
Armstrong pressed forward, leaned out of the saddle and put a pistol to the donkey’s head. ‘Now hold hard, Biddy Flyn!’ he growled.
‘By Jasus, don’t ye just frighten me, Corporal!’
‘I’m warning you, Biddy!’
‘Mother o’ God, ye’d never do so heathen a thing. Come on, girls!’
Armstrong fired and the donkey fell stone-dead.
The dragoons as one dr
ew their carbines.
‘I will shoot every donkey!’ Hervey’s voice almost broke, but he didn’t think anyone noticed. ‘Now sit yourselves down until we have the word to move!’
Biddy Flyn, for all her bluster, was crying. ‘Faith, ye’are a vagabone. Ye’ve murdered the life of me poor, darling innocent crather. May ye niver see home till the vultures have picked yer eyes out!’
Others began to wail. All of them began settling themselves down by the side of the road.
Hervey nodded his appreciation as Armstrong reined back to his side. ‘Corporal,’ he said quietly, ‘would you have a dragoon go back and bring my donkey.’
Everywhere dragoons hailed Hervey’s men with mock honour: ‘Donkey-shooters!’ And then it was ‘A Troop donkey-shooters!’ And by the second evening the other regiments in the brigade had given the appellation to the Sixth as a whole. However, Captain Lankester much approved of Hervey’s conduct. The camp-followers had become a deal more tractable now, and the army had been able to put a fair few miles behind it since the bivouac at Salamanca. Indeed, the affair revealed something more of his new cornet (beyond the courage he took for granted): a resourcefulness and resolution that he considered was all too rare. He would keep a special eye on Cornet Hervey; the boy had the makings of an officer.
near Valladolid
17th December 1808
My dear Dan,
There is nothing I ought to tell you in a letter that might be intercepted by the enemy, and so I have not written to you in many weeks, and it may be some time more before I may send this by safe hands.
There is much to tell you. When last I wrote I told you it was Sir John Moore’s firm intention to form a junction with the Spaniards, and to advance on the city of Burgos to confront the French. But the Spaniards did not show any inclination for the fight, and, in truth, do not seem to welcome us as did the Portuguese. Indeed, they appear to look upon us as if we were exotic animals come to engage in a private fight with the French, and that they themselves may now stand with their hands in their pockets and look on. They do not appear to regard us in the least as allies who are prepared to shed their blood for Spain. They simply regard us as heretics! In our billets it has sometimes been as much as we can do to get a glass of water. A corporal of the 18th (Hussars, I mean) was killed by a stiletto in our last billet when he refused to pay the bloated price demanded for some meat.
General Hope, with the rest of the cavalry and artillery, has joined with us, but General Baird is still marching from Oporto. The latest news is that the French have near a hundred thousand, that Madrid is firmly in their hands, and they are now bent on destroying us! It is now certain that Bonaparte himself is at their head!
So we marched here – to Valladolid – in the expectation of engaging Marshal Soult’s army, for it was Sir John Moore’s belief that in marching first on Madrid Bonaparte had left Soult unsupported, and that Sir John would therefore march north and attack him in order to draw off Bonaparte from Madrid. He did so, he told us all in a very noble order, “for the good of the Service”, since otherwise the British Army might leave Spain with all the impression of being unwilling to fight. And it is said also, by those who have business with the headquarters, that Sir John Moore has very uncordial relations with our minister at Madrid, Mr Frere, who has importuned him on many an occasion to fight, but most imprudently.
Believe me, Dan, the whole Army is blazing for a fight. Sir Edward Lankester – who daily shows himself an officer of most wonderful character – says that it must be certain that Sir John Moore will have to break off and save the Army (for a hundred thousand French, even without Bonaparte at their head, would be a sore trial for our thirty-thousand), but yet to do so without a fight would hazard too much. But whether we return to Portugal is not certain, for our lines are long there, and there is talk of a place called Corunna in the north whence the Navy might take us off in safety. But all that is long before us, for first we must have our fight, and who knows, these fellows in red coats all about us may yet give the French such a drub that they will run to the east whence they came (and our cavalry will surely hasten them!) and the Spaniards might then find the will to fight!
I did not say anything of our brigadier. He is the Honbl. Charles Stewart. I think you told me once he was in Holland? I have seen him several times and he is much admired. The others in the brigade are the 18th and the 3rd (Hussars) of the King’s German Legion. The brigade led the northwards movement of the Army, and our scouts rode very boldly to the east of them, crossing and re-crossing the French line of advance and passing to Sir John Moore the information of Bonaparte’s progress. We danced about the French indeed like moths about a candle!
The weather has been bitter cold, and grows worse by the day. The night frosts are very hard and the fogs so thick that we have the very devil of a job on picket (there have been many false alarms, and more than once a sentry has fired on his own). Snow has been falling hard these last days and our Spanish guides (who are excellent fellows) say the roads will be impassable for our guns, and where the snow blows into drifts it will not be safe for the infantry to march.
Dan, since I began writing this there is news just had of the arrival of General Baird’s corps at Mayorga, which is fewer than twenty leagues north of here, and also Lord Paget with the rest of the Cavalry. This latter is welcome news to all who know him, for they say he is the finest commander of cavalry in the whole of the Army! Our new orders are that we shall march at once to Mayorga – the Sixth I mean – and there to join General Slade’s brigade of Cavalry. In truth this is not the most welcome of news since it had been our fervent wish to be first in on the French at Valladolid! It goes hard on us too that we are to leave Brigadier Stewart’s brigade, for not only did I tell you that he is regarded highly, the opinion of the officers concerning Brigadier Slade is very poor. They say he is a very odious man and is universally called Black Jack . . .
But at least some of the women escaped the worst, returning to Lisbon of their own volition. The commanding officer, generous as ever, offered gold for the journey to any that would take it. And by that third week of December, none of the men could have been in any doubt as to the privations their women would suffer if they stayed. Despite all their washing and mending, their cooking and nursing, the best thing was to get them back to Lisbon before the snows closed the passes.
But for all that, Hervey’s problems with women seemed simple and direct then, however bruising. A few sods and stones, a welter of abuse, a deal of rib-bending from his fellows: it had been nothing of lasting injury, even to his pride. Indeed, though he did not know it at the time, his troop captain had spoken of the business to their commanding officer in terms of approbation.
However, two decades on and here he was again with women and donkeys; and Johnson and a missing trunk. But if only tinker women and donkeys were his sole vexation, how much simpler would his affairs be. He had antagonized Kat for sure. He had not realized that it had been she who had prepared the way with the chargé, that it was because of Kat that he was at Elvas now, just as it was because of her that he was in Portugal at all. And when she had said she would accompany him to Elvas he had refused her, not wanting, as all those years ago, to be encumbered by followers. But he had not told her that Isabella Delgado would go. It seemed an unnecessary aggravation to do so, serving no purpose, for Kat would only say that Isabella’s presence showed that Elvas was safe enough, and he would then have to explain that Isabella Delgado would serve his purpose in being in Elvas, whereas Kat would not; which in turn would suggest ingratitude, and perhaps even provoke a counter-argument that she, Kat, had served his purpose so well to date that she could not fail to be of continuing good service in Elvas.
Well, it was done now. He was in Elvas, and Isabella Delgado would be here before too long. He could only hope that Kat never learned of it. Why should she indeed?
Private Johnson had recovered his spirits, and so had Hervey. The small trunk contained not
hing that was irreplaceable, and the tinkerwomen’s insults had not hurt so very much. And they were both very comfortably housed in the palácio of the bishop of Elvas, the horses stabled well, and the bishop himself was agreeable. Isabella Delgado’s uncle kept a good household too, with even a lady’s maid who would provide tolerably well for her while they stayed. The bishop’s laundry would have shamed many a one in St James’s. Hervey’s losses were, indeed, made good within the hour, and very adequately, by the bishop’s linen room.
Tomorrow he would see Elvas, the mirror of Badajoz. Or rather, he would see it at close hand, for the walls of the great frontier fortress had been visible for miles. Hervey’s certainty in a forward strategy had grown at once after seeing them again after all those years. But for now he had the pleasure before him of the bishop’s table, and the bishop’s intelligence of the Miguelistas, and – he would admit – the company of the bishop’s niece. Not that Isabella Delgado’s company would be primarily of a social nature, for Hervey’s Latin was hardly assured, and there was no knowing what the military authorities spoke.
They assembled only briefly, at six, in the great hall on the first floor of the palácio before processing to the bishop’s private dining room, a high-ceilinged chamber hung with religious tapestries. They were five, Isabella Delgado the only female, although the fine oak table was big enough for twice the party. The bishop’s chaplain was a man of about Hervey’s age. He said little, and then only in reply to a direct question or to an instruction from his principal. The bishop himself was tall and spare, with the look of an ascetic, yet a benign one. He smiled welcomingly but not egregiously, he spoke in French to Hervey before dinner, and it was obvious that he had a great affection for his niece. The other guest was the commander of the Elvas garrison, Brigadier-General d’Olivenza, a short, compact man with a round, bald head and side whiskers. He too had a ready, warm smile, accentuated by exceptionally good teeth, very white.
Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War Page 14