Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey, too, was awake half the night. And when he was not awake he was only half asleep, for the cold brought the shivers, even though the picket fires burned bright. The horses were tethered in a walnut grove and stirred little, however. They had had a good feed at about ten o’clock, beans and barley, and although there had been no hay they had soon given up trying to pull at the wisps of grass in the muddy slush. At first light, if there were no sign of Soult, Paget intended withdrawing to Mayorga, twenty miles to the south-west. There the commissaries had promised a good supply of forage.

  It was Hervey’s first Christmas in other than the warm bosom of his family. He had scarce had time to contemplate it until now, lying on a waterdeck in his cloak next to a fire, looking at the stars. They kept a good Christmas in Horningsham. It had never been a parish, especially in his father’s cure, where the word ‘festival’ meant other than what it promised in the observance of the Church’s year. The long tradition of the village was Christmas revels that continued well after Twelfth Night and the appointment of the Bean King; indeed, Lord Bath’s tenants feasted throughout January to the Purification of the Virgin at the beginning of February.

  But his father always ensured a proper observance of the sacred as well as the profane. In a few more hours, at eight o’clock, as was his invariable rule, he would be close by the brazier before the chancel steps saying the morning office, as the Book of Common Prayer required:

  And all Priests and Deacons are to say daily the Morning and Evening Prayer either privately or openly, not being let by sickness, or some other urgent cause.

  And the Curate that ministereth in every Parish-Church or Chapel, being at home, and not being otherwise reasonably hindered, shall say the same in the Parish-Church or Chapel where he ministereth, and shall cause a Bell to be tolled thereunto a convenient time before he begin, that the people may come to hear God’s Word, and to pray with him.

  Not that many of the parish would ordinarily come to hear God’s Word of a weekday, either in the morning or the evening. The Reverend Thomas Hervey MA had no curate and no clerk; the glebe did not permit it, neither did he have the private means to afford it. Perhaps today, thought Hervey, a few of the devouter souls would make their way to the little church at the end of the village, and would read (if they were able), instead of the usual Apostles’ Creed, that of Saint Athanasius, Quicunque Vult – ‘Whosoever will be saved: before all things it is necessary that he hold the Catholick Faith.’

  But the greater number would pack the nave and the free pews of the side aisles for the celebration of the Lord’s Supper, or Holy Communion as Mr Hervey was wont to call it. When first he had come to the parish, twenty years ago and more, the service had been quarterly; now it was administered on the first and third Sundays of each month, and on the greater festivals. And he administered it without the Prayer Book’s requirement that ‘So many as intend to be partakers of the holy Communion shall signify their names to the Curate, at least some time the day before’. Most of the villagers welcomed it as a cheerier observance too, for the church band had a fuller part and more extensive repertory than at Morning Prayer, and some of the village ancients fancied they recalled the gaudery of ‘the merrier days before the stripping of the altars’. A few, however, thought it popish.

  Hervey smiled to himself. Popishness ? If ever a man thought he saw it in an English parish then he ought at once to come to Portugal or Spain. He had not yet seen what Southey called ‘the mummery of a Catholic Lent’, but there had been processions enough. But why it should dismay so much, he was at a loss to know. Sir Arthur Wellesley, at least, had shown no revulsion at what he saw, and he had said as much in a General Order:

  The religious prejudices and opinions of the people of the country should be respected. When an officer or a soldier shall sit in a

  church from motives of curiosity he is to remain uncovered. When the Host passes in the streets, officers and soldiers are to halt and front it; the officers to pull off their hats, and the soldiers to put their hands to their caps. The guard will turn out and present arms.

  Hervey closed his eyes. He imagined himself sitting in the little church of St John the Baptist in Horningsham, to his brother’s right (he would surely be home from Oxford?) and his sister’s left as they listened to the Reverend Thomas Hervey deliver his sermon. He wondered if they, or his mother, might have any notion of how he passed the nativity here! He fancied he knew what would be the words of that sermon too, the same as always, for they were a true favourite of the congregation, as if they were written in that very corner of Salisbury Plain, ‘the ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short’.

  The other partner of his childhood he could not picture quite so well in his present mind, for she never sat among them in Horningsham, driving instead with her guardian, Lord Bath, to the family church in Longbridge Deverill on the other side of the Longleat estate. They had all shared a schoolroom in the great house, and diversions in the park, but there was ever a distance, and it showed itself on the Sabbath. And in late years, too, the rites of passage in society had taken her away from the more rustic contentment of west Wiltshire, as, indeed, had his own schooling at Shrewsbury. He had not seen her in a year and more but although he might confess his greenness in such matters, he thought Henrietta Lindsay the most perfect of God’s Creation.

  A cold coming to Sahagun they had had of it; and it was a cold going too. On the feast of St Stephen, when his father would be taking the dole of the Christmas box to the poorest of the parish, Hervey and the 6th Light Dragoons formed threes on the road to Mayorga, finally to quit the town, and leave it to the French once more. He wondered at the men the Fifteenth had lost taking this place but a few days before. Had they died in vain? Would it be the rule thus fighting Bonaparte? Up to now England had not engaged the French on the Continent, preferring instead to use her naval power to pick off France’s colonial possessions, paying subsidies to the continental allies to make war in Europe. But Spain and Portugal had seemed an advantageous opportunity to grapple with Bonaparte on land, for while the French fought on long external lines in the Peninsula, Sir Arthur Wellesley – and now Sir John Moore – would have the luxury of precisely the opposite conditions. And the unfettered support of the Royal Navy. That, at least, was how it was meant to be; well did Hervey recall Colonel Reynell’s words in England before they embarked. But now, on the feast of Stephen, the grand design looked defective.

  Lord Paget was brisk about it this frosty morning. He was full of good cheer for the ranks of hussars and dragoons, and gracious words for his commanding officers. But he had no time for his brigadier. ‘Ride after that damned stupid fellow,’ he said loudly to one of his ADCs, having given ‘Black Jack’ Slade his orders for the march. ‘See as he makes no mistake about it!’

  Colonel Reynell had already resolved to act on his own cognizance when it came to orders from Slade, whatever the consequences. The commanding officer of the Tenth, who had suffered agonies of humiliation at Sahagun, had resolved likewise; as had the Eighteenth’s colonel. It was the very damnedest thing, said Reynell, that as well as all else they should have such an incompetent brigadier foisted on them. He prayed, and trusted, that Sir John Moore would have rid of him when they were home.

  The test of the three colonels’ resolve was not long in coming – and at Mayorga, a place where they were hoping to find a little comfort, the commissaries having promised to leave their stores in one piece. Shots rattled out from the walls as Paget’s men approached.

  Hervey was so far down the column he could see nothing. It sounded but a skirmish.

  Sir Edward Lankester speculated. ‘It seems that Bonaparte did not pause to celebrate the nativity.’

  Lieutenant Martyn was incredulous. ‘Could Bonaparte really have marched that fast? It says little for our observing officers.’

  ‘His cavalry could,’ replied Sir Edward, coolly. ‘Indeed, they would be neglectful otherwise.’

  Hervey warmed at
the prospect of action again. He glanced over his shoulder: it seemed he was not alone in the sentiment. And soon it was all haphazard jogging, the column bunching up then stringing out like a busy caterpillar. It was as much the horses as the riders, for one way or another they had the scent of a gallop.

  Sir Edward was trying hard to keep his bay in hand and to check the ardour behind him. ‘Hold up, for heaven’s sake!’ he cursed. His composure was rarely disturbed, but he would not have barging, just as if he had been bustled by some plunger following hounds on a hotted blood.

  The quartermaster’s tongue settled it, and a dozen cut mouths from the curb.

  ‘No,’ said Lankester at length, his equilibrium restored. ‘It will be his cavalry only, pushed ahead as far as might be. Just as we ourselves were doing with Soult before Paget sounded “home”. He’ll bolt them now, I imagine. We might have a little sport, indeed, gentlemen.’

  The entire column halted.

  The minutes ticked by; it hardly seemed dashing work. Then the adjutant came galloping. ‘Your squadron, Sir Edward!’ he shouted as he passed down the line.

  ‘Mr Laming, my compliments to Captain Worsley, if you please.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Cornet Laming reined round and spurred away to alert B Troop’s leader, while Sir Edward led his troop forward past the Tenth.

  Lord Paget, General Slade, Colonel Reynell and the Tenth’s commanding officer each had a spyglass to the eye as Sir Edward came up. The firing had stopped, but they stood exposed nonetheless with the most remarkable detachment, he considered. Even Slade, though in truth ‘Black Jack’ had little choice while his divisional commander did so.

  ‘Ah, Sir Edward,’ said Paget, as terse as usual, slipping his telescope back into its saddle holster. ‘Chasseurs, a couple of squadrons. They’ve retired to the high ground yonder.’ He pointed to the snowy pasture north of the town.

  Sir Edward took it all in at once: two squadrons of chasseurs à cheval on the commanding ground, carbines loaded and powder proven, and no other approach but front and uphill. ‘I fancy a squadron should manage it, my lord,’ he said, with a somewhat exaggerated formality. ‘I shouldn’t think it necessary to trouble the gunners in this.’

  Paget smiled. ‘No doubt, Sir Edward, but the Tenth shall support you. And Hay will bring up two guns.’ He turned to General Slade and inclined his head very slightly to ask if it was understood. All the brigadier had to do, indeed, was lead them to their objective.

  ‘Very good, my lord.’

  Sir Edward Lankester cantered back and began putting his troop into line two ranks deep, in the prescribed manner. Captain Worsley’s came up and began the same. There was no need of words. B Troop was to follow in support of A, as they had done many a time on Wimbledon Common. A would advance and B would follow at fifty yards, close enough to lend weight to the clash, but far enough to allow A to clear the line of the charge, either by pushing on through the mass of the enemy or wheeling to a flank. And then behind the Sixth’s squadron would come the Tenth’s, disposed in the same manner.

  General Slade rode to the front with his trumpeter, and drew his sword. ‘Walk-march!’

  The squadrons swelled forward, like a sail catching the wind, but after a dozen paces Slade held up his hand. ‘Halt!’

  ‘What in God’s name . . .’ Sir Edward could not believe that Slade would check an advance in the face of the enemy, even one that stood four furlongs away.

  An orderly began adjusting the brigadier’s stirrups.

  ‘I am astonished!’ gasped Sir Edward, in a voice to carry to where Slade dallied.

  Lord Paget was no less dismayed. ‘The damned fool!’ he spluttered, in the hearing of all about him.

  Slade raised his sword again. ‘Advance!’

  The squadrons surged forward, eager to be on with it.

  But in another twenty yards Slade halted again, and the same orderly began fussing with the stirrups.

  ‘Great heavens!’ exploded Paget. ‘Reynell, go take the reins from that damned bungler!’

  Colonel Reynell saluted, drew his sword and spurred his big chestnut mare into a gallop. He wheeled in front of A Troop and, without checking, stretched out his sabre towards the chasseurs.

  The whole line took off with him, swords high, as the manual prescribed. It was not the way of Wimbledon Common, with steady approach, gathering pace, then the final charge; but Reynell was as frustrated as Paget.

  Hervey struggled to keep a semblance of control over Stella. He was not in the least concerned for the clash of arms to come, only that he should not overtake his troop-leader. And struggle it was, for the mare’s bloodlines were the sprinter’s, and half a mile was her distance. With thirty yards to run, he saw the French front rank erupt in black smoke, as at Sahagun. He glanced left and right: the fire, thank God, was no more effective. But the smoke obscured his man. He just galloped headlong.

  A Troop crashed into the French like a wave on a seawall. Two dozen chasseurs fell at once, not a man to the blade. The dragoon nearest Hervey tumbled from the saddle as his horse pecked, the head of another striking him square in the chest. Hervey slashed wildly at its rider, but missed. He dared not look round for his coverman but lunged in further, through the front rank now, sword at ‘Guard’, three sabres threatening. He dug his spurs hard into Stella’s side, stopped two cuts with his blade, so hard they almost dashed it from his hand, gave point front and broke the man barring his way out. He emerged the other side without a drop of blood on his sabre but three prisoners to claim.

  ‘Huzzah, Mr Hervey, sir!’

  He turned to see his coverman break surface, blood the length of his sword.

  ‘Cut through that muff like it were a cabbage!’

  ‘Brayvo, Corporal Bain! Brayvo!’

  Bain was twice Hervey’s age, but he thought nothing of a boy praising him. Neither did Hervey feel reluctance. Two charges, knee-to-knee, in one week: he was no longer a boy.

  The 15e Chasseurs à Cheval of Marshal Michel Ney’s VI Corps lay about the frozen ground like toy soldiers tipped from a box, or else scattered beyond Mayorga like sail in a sudden squall. Some were made prisoner, lodgers for the hulks on the Medway or Thames, or for the new stone walls rising on Dartmoor. A hundred prisoners, at least, and their horses: a little prize money, perhaps, but a good deal more glory.

  The Sixth’s own casualties had been mercifully light – one man dead and half a dozen with the surgeon. One of them was about to feel the saw at that moment, a decent man from A Troop, Private Walton, not many years enlisted, whom Hervey liked for his clear and steady eye when spoken to. Sir Edward Lankester and Corporal Armstrong stood with him too.

  ‘You won’t leave me behind, Captain Lankester, sir?’ His voice was composed, scarcely betraying the pain the mangled arm must give. Neither was it pleading, simply an emphatic request.

  Sir Edward looked at the surgeon, who raised his eyebrows, as if to say he might not be able to leave him alive.

  ‘Not if I can help it, Walton.’ He laid a hand on his other shoulder.

  An orderly put a cup of opium tincture to Walton’s mouth, and then a bottle of rum, but he shook his head at the strong drink.

  ‘Take it, bonnie lad,’ said Armstrong. ‘Best way.’

  Walton did his bidding, in big gulps, coughing and choking until half the flask was gone.

  ‘That’s the way, Wally, lad.’

  An orderly put a leather strop in Walton’s mouth and tried to place a handkerchief over his eyes.

  ‘No, no, no,’ slurred Walton. ‘I’ll see the captain.’

  The surgeon nodded; his assistant applied the tourniquet. Two orderlies held Walton’s legs down, and another pinned his shoulders.

  First the knife went to work. Sir Edward and Armstrong would have looked away, but Walton wanted their assurance. Sir Edward was surprised by how deliberately the surgeon made his incision.

  ‘Brave lad, Wally. All the troop’ll hear of it!’ said Armstrong.


  The surgeon took up the arteries with silk ligatures, then set to with the saw.

  Walton bore it well, gagging and struggling very little.

  Both Lankester and Armstrong felt their gorges rise at the rasping of saw teeth on bone. Hervey closed his eyes.

  ‘There’s a good fellow, Walton,’ said Lankester softly.

  But it was all done in minutes. The surgeon threw aside the arm and stood back. Then it was more ligatures, and suturing and taping.

  ‘Is it off, Mr Williams, sir?’ The words rolled drunkenly.

  The surgeon frowned. ‘Yes, my boy. Your sufferings are over. I’ve to take up the arteries, but you’ll feel no pain.’

  *

  Mayorga 26th December 1808

  My dear Dan,

  I write to you with some apprehensiveness, for since my last letter we have begun what may be a long retrograde movement, whose object and intention you will understand I cannot be permitted to reveal, and I do not know when next I may have an opportunity to pen any lines whatever. After leaving Sahagun we were very promptly in action once more not many miles to the west, whence I write this to you. There was a very fine affair of Cavalry this day here, in full view of Lord Paget, in which we overturned a substantial force of what is believed to have been Bonaparte’s own men hastened to intercept our rearward movement. I am proud to say that one squadron of the regiment distinguished itself greatly, though it is very unfortunate that General Slade, our brigadier, again displayed poor address, just as they say he did at Sahagun. All the officers say he cannot be long for his command once Sir John Moore hears of it.

  But now we rest in the expectation of being further pressed by the French as we cover the remainder of the army in its efforts to get across the R. Esla and to Astorga, where it is confidently expected that Sir John M. will make a stand. We have taken possession of excellent supplies which the commissaries had no option but to give to us or destroy, for they have not the means of transport, neither the mules nor the oxen nor the carts to carry more than a portion of it away. Earlier this day the French had possession of it, for not long had our baggage-master and his party taken possession than Marshal Ney’s Chasseurs galloped into the town and made them prisoner. But then the Hussars of the King’s German Legion re-took the commissary stores and set free the baggage party, before in turn being driven off west towards the Esla. So now we have free issue of boots, biscuit, powdered meat, shirts, blankets, stockings, belts, oats, hay, lamp oil, candles and all manner of things, as if it were the trump of doom, when the graves come open and all is let loose! However, the rum has been placed under guard. The officers are to appeal for moderation in this making free, for the horses already carry too much, but it is a deal to ask of a man whose clothes are wet and threadbare, his boots likewise sodden and his belly hurting, and it is so very cold. My own groom has brought me three shirts, a black pudding and a good many other things, but since my own bat-animals are by now, I trust, with the regiment’s mules and cart beyond the Esla, I may not be able to take away much.