Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War

by Allan Mallinson

It would have been a minute’s gallop on even ground – less – but the ditches, gullies and walls made it tricky going for the handiest horse. In ten they were with General Hill’s brigade, where the left flank rested on the Burgo River and astride the main road. Four battalions of English infantry stood against two French divisions on the heights to the south-east: the 2nd Foot (the Queen’s), the 5th (Northumberland), the 14th (Buckinghamshire) and the 32nd (Cornwall).

  Sir John Moore looked about but said nothing; he saw the French made no move here yet, and he could trust Hill and his men if they did. Besides, behind them was Catlin Craufurd’s brigade – Scotchmen for the most part – and to their right James Leith’s North-Countrymen. Three brigades, the division commanded by Lieutenant-General Hope: no, he need have no fears for his left flank.

  Back they cantered, scrambling over banks and hedges, leaping streams and drycourses, on to the extreme right of the line to see how was General Baird and his three brigades. A mile, just over; not a bad front. The ground was certainly to their advantage too. Sir John Moore said little, seeming pleased at last with what he saw. Then he spun his cream gelding on its haunches and sped back to the vantage point, his followers hard pressed to keep with him.

  Out came the spyglass again, and the army commander began searching the hills to the south-west for the turning movement he expected Soult to try.

  ‘Hah! There we have it, Thomas!’

  The direction of his telescope told Colonel Graham where to search with his.

  ‘Yes indeed, Sir John. A very good number of cavalry. Three regiments at least.’

  Hervey could see them too. He could not make them out with any certainty, but they had the look of the dragoons they had drubbed at the Esla.

  ‘A galloper to hasten Fraser forward, please,’ said Sir John, as if asking for the time of day. ‘His division to take post on the Heights of Santa Margarita, as I warned. And another galloper to Paget’s to have them move to the right to make contact with Bentinck’s brigade.’

  Hervey thought he comprehended the design. Sir John must judge this move to indicate Soult’s true intention, to turn his flank, thence to roll up the line from the right and cut off any retreat towards Corunna. He was disappointed not to be called to gallop, especially since Fox was less on her toes now, though she did keep throwing her head up, making it difficult for him to steady his spyglass.

  But suddenly he was grateful for her restiveness, since he might otherwise have missed the movement in the foreground: down the slopes towards the battered village were streaming hundreds of voltigeurs. Now, indeed, he could hear them shouting: ‘En avant! Tuez! Tuez! Tuez! En avant!’

  Bentinck’s pickets, having clung on through the roundshot’s pounding, came doubling back towards the main line, falling even as they ran to the bullets of the French sharpshooters.

  At once, Sir John Moore spurred down the hill to where General Bentinck, the prime minister’s son, sat astride his mule talking with the Fiftieth’s commanding officer. ‘Napier, do not let your pickets be thrown out of there,’ he barked, his gaze fixed on the swarming voltigeurs.

  But before either Major Napier or his brigadier could reply, Sir John was off again, galloping flat out for the three hundred yards to where the 4th Foot (King’s Own) stood on the extreme right of the line, his staff struggling to keep up.

  ‘Throw back your right flank company to protect, Wynch!’

  Hervey checked Fox sharp and halted a respectful distance behind the army commander just in time to see how Colonel Wynch’s men answered.

  ‘To the right, incline, Captain Neil!’

  ‘Sir! Right-flank company, atte-e-enshun! Slo-o-ope arms! Abo-o-out turn! Le-e-eft wheel!’

  The company wheeled and then marked time with almost exaggerated precision until the captain was satisfied with the angle of the incline, halting them and bringing their muskets back to the ‘order’.

  To Hervey, it looked a fine manoeuvre.

  Sir John Moore was certain of it. ‘King’s Own, that is exactly how it should be done!’

  Lieutenant-Colonel James Wynch knew of no other way, and neither did he expect anything else of his battalion, but Sir John Moore’s praise was welcome for all that. The first in many a week.

  ‘Now, do not let the French pass this side of the trees yonder,’ said Sir John, indicating the wooded course of the Monelos stream. ‘General Paget’s men will be close on you soon.’

  Colonel Wynch saluted and glanced at the five hundred yards of broken ground that lay between his right flank company and the stream. He would have his work cut out: the musket’s range was nothing like good enough. He could only trust to Paget’s men coming up in good time.

  Hervey began ruing his status as a mere observer: the Sixth would surely have the very best of the action here before long?

  Sir John swung his gelding round and sped away as suddenly as he had appeared. By the time he pulled up atop his hill again Elvina had become a desperate business of close-quarter musketry and the bayonet, the French battery pounding the furthest edge of the village and the slope beyond, so that bringing out the wounded was as perilous as being inside. Hervey counted twelve guns. What few of his own Sir John had not embarked were distributed in pairs along the line or with Paget’s division, and could not reply. The French guns had the range too, so that shot was reaching the main line. As Hervey dismounted to adjust the surcingle, a ball took off the leg of a man not twenty yards from where Sir John Moore stood. He rolled about screaming terribly, and to the evident distress of his comrades.

  Sir John trotted up to the regiment, the Forty-second, many a kilt to bear witness. ‘This is nothing, my lads,’ he said sharply. Then he turned to the dismembered highlander: ‘My good fellow, don’t make so much noise; we must bear these things better. Take him away there, do!’

  Hervey heard quite clearly. He prayed he would bear it well if a ball struck him.

  A galloper pulled up hard by Colonel Graham.

  Graham looked pained. ‘Sir John,’ he called, as the general rode back. ‘Sir David Baird is wounded.’

  ‘Is he, by God?’

  ‘They take him to the rear.’

  Sir John nodded. ‘Have Hope told he is next in command then, please, Thomas.’

  ‘Ay, Sir John. Shall you want him here?’

  ‘No. I see no reason for that yet.’

  ‘Very well.’ Colonel Graham turned in the saddle. ‘Galloper!’

  There were none at hand but Colonel Long’s.

  *

  It took Hervey an age to find Lieutenant-General the Honourable John Hope. That, at least, was how it felt; and very uncomfortable too. The French had begun moving against the left flank, and the divisional commander was everywhere directing the countermoves. In the end, Hervey almost literally stumbled into him, Fox missing her footing at a wet ditch.

  ‘Sir, the army commander’s compliments,’ he began, struggling to regain his dignity after his close shave with the ground. ‘He wishes you to know that you are now second in command on account of Sir David Baird’s leaving the field wounded. He does not require that you move to join him at this time, however.’

  Hervey concentrated hard on looking him in the eye. General Hope’s features were gentle, scholarly, belying his long fighting experience and utter disregard for danger. He nodded slowly, as if still contemplating the intelligence.

  ‘You had better tell me how the battle goes, for I can see only what the French do.’ He indicated the Heights of Palavea, on which the French right flank had stood inactive until half an hour before.

  Hervey did not hesitate, though he realized what weight rested on an eight-month cornet, and he hoped his years would not diminish the authority of what he said. For its accuracy and judgement he had no doubt.

  Shot flew close as he made his report, but neither he nor Hope noticed. One of the ADCs urged his general to retire to a little cover, but the suggestion brought only a dismissive response, so intent was he on hearing
of the battle on the other flank. Hervey gave his opinion of the effect of the main battery, how it made the village of Elvina hot work for the pickets, yet how Sir John Moore evidently considered it necessary to hold, since he had ordered the Fiftieth to reinforce there.

  ‘Just so,’ said the general, nodding. ‘I saw it yesterday. If the French take it then they’ll break the line.’

  ‘And Sir John Moore has inclined the right-flank battalion to meet the move which threatens from the left of the French line, sir. He has sent for General Paget’s division to come onto that flank from Oza, and also for General Fraser’s division to come up from Corunna to the Heights of Santa Margarita beyond.’

  He watched as General Hope took from his pocket a large folded handkerchief, but which he then saw was a sketch of the dispositions made on two-foot square of bed linen. The general studied it a while and then looked to his front. With nothing between the French and Corunna on this flank but his own division, now that Paget’s and Fraser’s were moving to the right, he had better reinforce Pedralonga, the village just in advance of General Hill’s brigade, his left-most. ‘Very well. I have it. You may go now.’

  Hervey saluted and reined about.

  ‘What is your name, sir?’ snapped the general, as if a sudden afterthought.

  ‘Hervey, sir. Sixth Light Dragoons.’

  ‘An admirable report, Mr Hervey. Capital.’

  Hervey saluted again, and struck off fast for the other side of the line.

  As he came back up to Sir John Moore’s vantage point from the rear, just behind Bentinck’s brigade, he took out his watch; it was a little after three o’clock. He observed the second hand closely to see if it moved with regularity, for he had a sense both of time flying and standing still. He wondered if it were the usual in battle, the loss of sense and time; and how difficult it must be for a general to judge his moment faithfully.

  But as he broached the hill he pulled up sharp, horrified. The forward slope was strewn with dead, highlanders and Fiftieth alike, the smoke so thick he could hardly see what lay beyond. But he could just make out red coats the other side of Elvina. He could not see if they moved, however. The noise was so great he could feel it: the explosive roar of the main battery, here and there a British gun answering, the rattle of musketry, the shouting, and the screams.

  But there was Colonel Long with Sir John Moore and the rest of the staff, exactly where he had left them. The Forty-second and the Fiftieth were no longer formed in line, however, and Sir John’s fixed gaze showed that their fate in Elvina must be a desperate one. Hervey reported himself present to his colonel, and then closed on the remaining ADC. At any minute he expected to be sent galloping again, for the French were piling their weight on the village like stones on a press, and there was another regiment of infantry coming down the slopes further to the right. The 4th King’s Own would soon be in action, and he wondered when he would see the Sixth come to their support. General Edward Paget would be bound to send up his cavalry first.

  Half an hour passed, and he did not gallop. But it seemed less, for still he could not see the Sixth, and it would surely not take them as long as that to come up . . .

  He turned back and peered through the smoke towards Elvina again. Unremitting cannonade and musketry: how was it that the village held?

  He had his answer at once. It was not holding. He saw high-landers beginning to stream out from ruins, back up the slope towards them.

  The army commander became battalion officer again: with the divisional commander carried from the field, and Bentinck with the King’s Own on the right flank, there was no other course.

  ‘Hold hard there, Forty-second!’

  ‘We’ve nay more powder or ball, sir!’ they called.

  Sir John Moore turned his cream gelding sideways as if to block their retreat. ‘My brave Forty-second, if you’ve fired your ammunition, you’ve still your bayonets. Recollect Egypt! Think on Scotland! Come on, my gallant countrymen!’

  Hervey’s mouth near fell open as the highlanders began turning about.

  Sir John Moore smiled grimly and raised his hat to them. Then he reined about and trotted back to the top of the hill.

  ‘Have the Guards come up, Thomas.’

  Colonel Graham turned to Colonel Long. ‘Your galloper again, I think.’

  Long nodded. ‘Galloper!’

  Hervey touched Fox’s flanks with his spurs. The mare almost leapt to Colonel Long’s side.

  ‘Have General Warde bring up his brigade, Mr Hurley.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where is the brigade, Colonel?’

  Colonel Long glared at him angrily. ‘The Guards! Where they were damned well posted!’ And then he realized that a cornet sent that morning from the rear would have not the scarcest idea. ‘Behind us, Hurley. A furlong or so,’ he added, in a friendlier tone.

  Stung nevertheless, Hervey put Fox into a flat gallop. Somehow they managed their fences, though any number could have tumbled them, and he was there in less than a minute.

  It was his first occasion to approach His Majesty’s Guards, let alone address any of their officers, and he could not but think it ironic, as he pulled up in front of the little mounted group of the staff, that his first words should be to Major-General Henry Warde, their brigadier.

  ‘Sir,’ he began, saluting. ‘Sir John Moore’s compliments, and would you be so good as to bring up your brigade at once, sir, please.’ Even as he spoke he could not help but notice how immaculate were the uniforms before him. And when he managed to steal a glance left and right, to the two battalions of the First, he had the impression of a review rather than a battle.

  General Warde smiled kindly. ‘Thank you, Cornet. My compliments to Sir John Moore. We shall be with him directly.’

  Hervey waited to see if the general had any questions of him, but there were none. When the Guards were called up it was for one of two reasons only: to stem the tide or to counter-attack. The detail mattered little. ‘With your leave, then, sir?’

  The general nodded, and smiled again.

  Hervey saluted, turned Fox as ceremonially as he could and trotted away a respectful distance before putting her back into a gallop, though this time in hand.

  ‘The order is delivered, Colonel,’ he reported.

  Colonel Long nodded. ‘Capital.’

  Colonel Graham looked across. ‘How long do you suppose they’ll take?’

  Hervey had not considered it. The ground was broken but not excessively; they could not double, though, and keep order. ‘Ten minutes, I think, Colonel. Perhaps a little more.’

  ‘Ten minutes?’ Colonel Graham sounded disappointed.

  ‘It will do well enough, Thomas,’ said Sir John, with an eye to his telescope once more. ‘If Bentinck’s fellows do their work properly in there.’

  Colonel Long, who was scanning the flank, lowered his spyglass. ‘Edward Paget’s coming at any rate, Sir John.’

  Hervey spun round, but even with the naked eye he could see the Sixth did not lead them.

  ‘And not a moment too soon, I believe,’ said Sir John Moore, sparing them but a glance. ‘See how that French column comes round.’

  Hervey turned back to the general, and in that instant saw him pitched from the saddle and onto his back at the feet of Colonel Graham’s horse.

  He sprang from his mare at once, but Graham and Captain Henry Hardinge were there first. He thought Sir John must be unhurt, for he made no murmur.

  ‘Fetch a surgeon,’ called Graham, looking aghast at the sight of the shoulder.

  Two ADCs sped off. Hervey wondered if he ought to go too, but Colonel Long bid him stay.

  He came as close as he thought right; he could not approach the army commander without leave.

  Sir John Moore tried to raise himself on his good arm.

  ‘No, John, take your ease,’ said Graham softly.

  Hervey was not ten yards from them now, trying to hold Fox still as orderlies took up the others’ reins. He saw the army
commander trying to turn his head to see the Forty-second.

  ‘They advance yet, Sir John,’ said Hardinge, gripping the general’s hand.

  Sir John Moore said nothing.

  ‘Let us get him some cover, at least,’ said Colonel Graham, as calmly as he could. He looked about. ‘You there, sir!’

  A big, broad-shouldered highlander standing sentry to his battalion’s largepacks doubled to. Colonel Graham gestured towards a wall close by. The man picked up the bloody body of the army commander, carried him as if a child-in-arms, and laid him down in the lee.

  Surgeon McGill of the Royals came up and began work at once. A roundshot had torn open the shoulder so deep that the lung was exposed; the ribs over the heart and part of the collarbone had splintered into he knew not how many pieces; the muscles of the breast were torn into strips, and the arm was hanging by a thin length of flesh and coat sleeve. He took a piece of cloth from the wound, and two buttons, but he knew he could do no more.

  ‘I think we should move him to the rear,’ he said quietly, but in a voice that spoke of no expectation of recovery.

  The big highlander returned with three of his fellows, and a blanket.

  The army commander was so composed that Colonel Graham began wondering if the wound were not as bad as it appeared. ‘I think once the surgeons are able to dress it properly all should be well, Sir John,’ he tried, laying a silk handkerchief over the devastated shoulder.

  ‘No, no, Thomas. I feel that is impossible. You had better summon John Hope. Tell him I am wounded and carried to the rear.’

  The highlanders began lifting him. They were burly men who might fell another with one blow, yet they took up their countryman with the tenderness a midwife took up the newborn.

  Hervey could scarce believe what a split second had brought, the army commander at once active, masterly, inspiring, and then broken in a way that must turn the course of things beyond imagining. A split second: the random strike of shot or shell. Now he understood how precarious battle was, not just how dangerous.

  He made a move suggesting he should do the galloping. Colonel Graham nodded.

  When he returned with General Hope, the Guards were standing ready, bayonets fixed, where the left of Bentinck’s brigade had looked most vulnerable. The skirmishers of General Edward Paget’s division – riflemen of the Ninety-fifth – were harassing the flank of the French column which had come to a standstill in the face of the King’s Own’s steady volleying. Hope saw at once that his right was secure enough; looking through his telescope he could see that the French dragoons in the distance were turning back, unable to do anything in such trappy country in the face of fire from Paget’s skirmishers. But to his front the situation was uncertain. There was so much smoke he simply could not tell where the Forty-second and the Fiftieth now were. The two six-pounders nearby had been silent for a quarter of an hour, fearful of firing on their own side, and there was no sign of Bentinck.