The bishop’s chaplain said grace, and then they sat. It was a Friday, so the table was meatless. There were four dishes, three of them bacalhau, salt cod. Two footmen served the first, while the bishop began at once to speak to the issue.
‘General, we all know the reason for Major Hervey’s coming here. I believe he would know your thoughts on the situation in Elvas. Are you able to speak freely?’
Isabella leaned towards Hervey on her right to translate.
‘I am perfectly able to speak freely, my lord. We are among friends.’
Hervey concluded by their ease and words that bishop and general were on terms of respectful intimacy. He thought it reassuring.
‘Major Hervey,’ began the general, smiling still. ‘I can tell you very simply. I have troops enough to hold the fortress against the Spaniards and the followers of Dom Miguel, but I do not know their true allegiance. I have no reason to doubt it, save that I had no reason to doubt the loyalty of the regiments that deserted with the Marqués de Chaves.’
Isabella obliged again with her interpreting.
‘What is the allegiance of the fidalgos hereabout?’ asked Hervey.
The general looked at the bishop, who answered for them. ‘I believe and trust with all my heart, Major Hervey, that Elvas is loyal to Dom Pedro and Her Royal Highness the regent.’
‘Which is why,’ added the general, ‘the Spaniards and their lackeys may yet be uncertain as to what their next move must be, for Elvas commands the road to Lisbon.’
Hervey knew it. It had commanded the road to Madrid twenty years before – Elvas and its twin sentinel Badajoz across the frontier. But then it had all been so simple: the French would advance, or else Sir John Moore would, and Elvas or Badajoz be invested. There would be a siege battle, the French or Sir John would prevail, and the advance would continue. That was the business of war – an option of difficulties, for sure, but in essence straightforward. What did an army of rebels do, however? They would be expecting some sort of popular rising, the defection of some of the garrison, and the support of Spanish troops, who might not dare cross the frontier. How then would they proceed? By what signs would they reveal themselves? These were the questions to be addressed, and Hervey realized that his prior knowledge of the Peninsula counted for little in this regard, if anything at all. But he was more than ever certain that sitting behind the lines of Torres Vedras would not serve.
Isabella worked hard to convey both the sense and import of the conversation as it ranged from fact to speculation and back, at times seamlessly. She ate nothing of the first dish, and the second was all but finished before Hervey noticed and came to her aid for a time by exchanging some more general notions in French, though evidently the general found it difficult to follow. When the plate of cheese was removed – queijo da ovelha, the bishop had said; from his own flock on the green hillside above the tinkers’ encampment – the footmen brought a rich pudding, yellow-green.
‘We may indulge ourselves without too much reproach, I believe,’ said the bishop, smiling at his niece.
Isabella returned the smile. ‘My uncle knows his niece well, Major Hervey. Batatada – it is a favourite of our family.’
After so unvarying a dinner, Hervey too was enlivened by the prospect of a good pudding. ‘I well recall your Elvas sugar plums, sir: ameixas d’Ehas?’
‘You recall them very well, Major Hervey,’ said Isabella. ‘But batatada is most certainly not a dish for a penitent.’
Hervey inclined his head, inviting a fuller explanation.
‘Sweet potatoes, sugar, egg yolks, cinnamon and cream.’
‘Let the sky rain potatoes!’
The bishop inclined his head.
‘Shakespeare, sir.’
‘And let the band play “Greensleeves”,’ added Isabella.
Hervey caught a glimpse of a smile he recognized – a childlike smile, confident, content, relishing. It was the same he had seen in Georgiana; and, by extension, her mother.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OPENING SHOTS
Elvas, early next morning, 16 October 1826
Musketry woke him while it was still dark. Hervey sprang from his bed and made for the window. He could see nothing outside but an empty courtyard lit by torches. He pulled the window open to hear better. The shooting was sporadic rather than volley-fire, the number of muskets difficult to gauge – a goodish number though, not an affair of watchmen and footpads. It seemed to come from the west, not the east; and from inside the walls.
He began hauling on his breeches and boots.
There was another welter of firing. Johnson came in, and began helping him fasten his overall straps.
‘Something of a surprise, I imagine,’ said Hervey. ‘The general thought it would be a month and more.’
‘We’ve ’eard that before, sir!’
‘True. You were quick out of the burrow?’
‘I couldn’t sleep for that bell all night.’
‘What bell?’
‘Ev’ry quarter of an hour, it were.’
Hervey fastened the last button of his tunic, and picked up his sword and pistols. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. Is Corporal Wainwright roused?’
‘I’ll go and see.’
‘I shall find Mrs Broke to see if all’s well. Then I’ll come down to the courtyard; you and Wainwright meet me there.’
‘Ay.’
Hervey had a vague notion of where Isabella’s rooms were, but the palácio was pitch dark save for his candle. He half stumbled his way up stairs and along interminable corridors, with no sign of a servant (but why should they come out when there was firing?), until Isabella herself obliged him by opening a door as he passed. She was dressed and carrying an oil lamp.
‘Major Hervey, the watch have been and say to remain here.’
The watch: at least somebody was active. Hervey relaxed a little. ‘Very well, if they say that you and your uncle will be safe here. I’m going to the courtyard. I want to see what the firing is.’
Isabella checked the impulse to entreat him to caution. ‘The watch is at the south gate during the night, Major Hervey.’
He nodded; she had an admirably cool head.
‘You will need me to speak to them. I will get my cloak.’
She gave him no time to protest.
They met Corporal Wainwright and Private Johnson in the south courtyard, both in regimentals, and armed.
‘Horses, sir?’ asked Wainwright, hardly sparing Isabella a second look.
Hervey thought. Horses might be a liability, but once outside the walls they would not be able to do much without them. ‘Yes, but we’d better lead to begin with.’
They went to the stables. The musketry continued for the five minutes it took to saddle up, but it got no nearer. Hervey wished they had been able to see more of the town before evening had come. He was thankful for Isabella at his side, at least until he was set off in the right direction; she could not stay once they closed on the musketry.
He was thankful, too, that Wainwright was with him. The Horse Guards had said one servant only, but he had long learned not to take a quill driver’s word for gospel. ‘I’ll try to get one of the watch to take us to the citadel,’ he said, tightening the little Lusitano’s girth.
‘I can do that, sir,’ said Wainwright. ‘I had a look about last night.’
Johnson took Hervey’s reins. ‘Shall I lead ’er then, sir?’
‘If you would,’ said Hervey, turning then to Isabella. ‘Senhora, it looks as though I shall not have need of your services, since my corporal knows the way. I think it better that you stay here.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Major Hervey. But I caution you not to go abroad without the facility of speaking with those who may intercept you.’
Hervey had no time for sentiment; there was danger, but he was glad of her help. ‘Very well, madam; I am obliged. Johnson?’
‘Ay, sir.’
There was no need of words: Johnson was now Isabella’s coverman.
‘Take a torch apiece, if you will,’ said Hervey. ‘There’s no advantage in disguising our approach.’
The watch let them through the gates with blessings and expressions of gratitude, as if three Englishmen were somehow more capable than they.
The street was empty but for a barking dog, the artisan shops which crowded the quarter shuttered and silent. Wainwright, point, set off at a trot, his gelding’s shoes striking on the cobbles, the bridoon jingling, his spurs ringing and his sword clanking in its scabbard. Would it be terror behind the shutters, or relief, wondered Hervey.
Round the first corner Wainwright ran into a lone but resolute sentry – or one startled into resolution. The challenge came in thick Portuguese, but a challenge without doubt.
‘Inglese,’ answered Wainwright confidently.
‘Inglese?’
Hervey turned the corner in time to catch the sentry’s disbelief. He sympathized; nobody would have told him the English had joined this war. ‘Onde está os generale?’
The sentry seemed vaguely to comprehend, but looked relieved as his officer appeared.
Hervey saw a lieutenant as smartly turned out as the picket at St James’s, in a long, blue greatcoat, white cross-belt and crimson sash, and shako bearing the number 5 – the Fifth, ‘1st Elvas’, regiment of infantry.
Corporal Wainwright saluted.
A good move, thought Hervey, as well as correct; it pleased and reassured the man. He thought it best to speak to him first in English rather than risk alarming him with French, and hoped Isabella would come forward soon. ‘I am Major Hervey of His Britannic Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons.’
The lieutenant saluted, but said nothing, so that Hervey was unsure if he spoke English or not.
‘Parlez-vous français, monsieur?’
‘Un peu, monsieur.’
Hervey decided to continue in French. ‘I wish to see General d’Olivenza. I dined with him last night at the bishop’s palace.’
The lieutenant was not in the least discomposed. ‘Very well, monsieur. Please come with me.’
He motioned to the picket behind to make way, then beckoned Hervey to follow him.
Isabella joined them and established her credentials in rapid Portuguese.
‘Ask him, if you will, senhora, what he makes of the firing.’
The lieutenant of the town picket shook his head. ‘We are trying to discover.’ He called one of his NCOs over: ‘Take the English major to the citadel.’
Hervey sensed the lieutenant’s keenness to have them escorted away, for all his civility. ‘I am obliged. I hope we may meet again shortly.’
The lieutenant saluted. ‘J’y reste. Quand vous retournez, monsieur le commandant, j’aurai tous que vous voudriez savoir.’
They shook hands.
It took a quarter of an hour to travel the dark streets to the general’s headquarters, and they saw no one. They passed through the citadel’s immense arched gateway without challenge, crossed the courtyard, and into the great hall. Torches and candles lit the assembling officials and soldiers. Some of them were agitated, and looked at Hervey and his party warily. His uniform was not so very different from the Portuguese, but it was different enough.
The escort spoke to an orderly, who brought the officer of the inlying picket.
Isabella explained their purpose, and the ensign bid them follow him.
When they came to the general’s quarters, his adjutant greeted them respectfully, seeming already to know who Hervey was. He admitted him at once, and Isabella.
General d’Olivenza sat at a table covered with maps. Hervey saw the same man as the evening before, but not the same countenance. Gone was the composure and solidity; instead there was an old and anxious face, and hunched shoulders. His good manners remained, however. He rose as they entered, bowed to Hervey’s salute, and again to Isabella.
‘The most alarming reports from Portalegre, Major Hervey,’ he began, gesturing at one of the maps. ‘Not twenty leagues from here. The Duke of Ferreira is marching with an army on Lisbon. He has already swept aside the garrison at Castelo de Vide and induced the regiment there to throw in their lot with him. Castelo de Vide! Never would I have imagined it possible.’
Hervey advanced to the table. ‘May I, sir?’ He picked up a magnifying glass and peered closely at the map.
‘And the Marqués de Chaves does the same in Alto Douro. And the Duke of Abrantes has landed in Algarve and carries all before him. We shall soon be cut off here.’
Isabella struggled to keep up with the general’s agitation.
Hervey found each of the places on the map, but not without difficulty; the distances involved seemed to him curious. ‘General, how is all this intelligence come by?’
‘We have a regular exchange with Portalegre, Major Hervey. A galloper arrived three hours ago.’
‘How do you suppose Portalegre learned of the other two incursions?’
The general looked as though it was the first he had considered it. ‘It is on the post route to Madrid from Lisbon. Perhaps it was learned thus.’
Hervey calculated. ‘We left Lisbon but three days ago.’
The general looked puzzled.
‘And if the report came from Lisbon, it seems remarkable that the news should have reached Portalegre from both the north and the south of the country at the same time, think you not?’
‘You imagine it a false report then, Major Hervey?’
‘I think it a very convenient one, General. Calculated, perhaps, to persuade a garrison that resistance is to no end.’
The general sat down again, thoughtful.
‘The fortress can hold out indefinitely, I understand.’ There was more an imperative tone to Hervey’s voice than a questioning one.
The general raised his eyebrows. ‘I have fewer than two hundred men, Major Hervey. Those and fifty or so pé do castelo.’
Hervey frowned. ‘General, last night you said you had a regiment of infantry – the Fifth, as I recall. Indeed I was brought here by one of the Fifth’s officers.’
The general nodded. ‘I have. But since the war it has never been at more than half-strength. And half of those are on winter furlough.’
Hervey sat down opposite him.
The general brightened. Elvas had not fallen to Masséna when the French invaded for the second time, in 1810, when he had been but a captain of infantry. ‘The walls are strong. If the defenders are true then we might hold yet. But there must be active steps for our relief.’
Hervey could have no certain idea if the general’s sudden faith were sound or not, but unless the commander of the fortress himself was assured then there could be no resistance to speak of.
‘I have sent the captain of the guard to discover what is the musketry,’ said General d’Olivenza, brightening further.
‘That is capital, General,’ Hervey replied, hoping to sound convincing.
The general rose and made to fasten on his swordbelt. ‘Come, Major Hervey; I will show you the citadel. The guard is stood-to.’
That was a start, thought Hervey, but he need not see it now. ‘Sir, might I first see what the rebels look like?’
The general looked puzzled. ‘There’s another hour to sunrise, Major Hervey.’
‘Indeed, sir. What I meant was that I should like to see for myself what is this firing. Do I have your leave?’
The general looked no less puzzled, but was inclined to think that Hervey knew his business. ‘Of course, of course.’ Then he seemed to have second thoughts. ‘But I will not have you go without an escort. See you, take a dozen atiradores.’
‘Do you have a half-dozen cavalry instead, sir?’
‘What is here in the garrison is out on patrol already. The nearest are at Vila Vicosa, three leagues south-west.’
Hervey remembered Vila Vicosa well enough. He did not suppose the road was any better now than it had been then. ‘Thank you, General. I imagine we will be very well served by your tiraadores.’ H
e braced. ‘With your leave?’
The general called his adjutant and gave instructions for the escort. ‘I will walk the citadel then, Major Hervey; before dawn – the first time in years. I believe I am the better already just for imagining it.’
Hervey smiled politely. He was pleased for the general’s re-animation, but despairing that it had taken his own observations with the magnifying glass to prompt it.
‘Tiradores, sir?’ asked Corporal Wainwright as they waited in the courtyard.
‘Johnson, you remember?’ Hervey took his reins back and checked the girth. They would lead the horses again, but he might have to mount in an instant.
‘Riflemen,’ said Johnson. ‘Like us ones.’
‘Good riflemen, too,’ added Hervey.
As he spoke, a dozen brown-clad figures came doubling towards them, their shadows large on the walls. They fell into line without a word of command, sloping their Baker rifles just like the Sixtieth or the Rifle Brigade – Shorncliffe-fashion.
‘See, black buttons and plumes and all,’ said Hervey, glancing at Isabella to see if she understood. Indeed, it was only the brown zaragoza cloth that would have distinguished them from Major Cope’s men at that moment, reckoned Hervey. That and the figure 1 on the shako: the atiradores company of the 1st Regiment of Caçadores; the best of the best.
And then he had second thoughts. ‘Senhora, I think, if you will, it is better that you remain here now. I believe we shall be able to make ourselves understood.’
The atiradores’ serjeant stepped forward one pace to report his men present.
Hervey thought he had better observe the formalities. He dropped his reins and advanced to the middle of the courtyard.
The serjeant slapped the butt of his rifle with his right hand. Hervey returned the salute. Then followed a declaration he imagined was incapable of translation.
Isabella was more than a match, however. ‘The company of atiradores is ready and at your command, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, a little awkwardly. ‘Please tell the serjeant I am marching towards the sound of the musketry and would be obliged if he would follow.’
Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War Page 15