An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  Lord George Irvine looked pleased nevertheless. He knew full well what the difficulties would be, but they were not such as to jeopardize the mission, and in that case there was no profit in parading them. Sir Edward Lankester understood this, evidently: an officer in command of a regiment had worries enough without those of a squadron being added to them. Yet he had known many a captain who could not feel his ease until he had acquainted his superior with every hazard and contingency in consequence of an order. Sir Edward’s was a prudent habit, too, for when he did express a concern, he could be certain that he, Lord George, would hear him the better. ‘You are well found, Sir Edward. I think your officers will enjoy the sport.’

  ‘I am certain of it, Colonel.’

  Lord George nodded, then looked at Edmonds again – and with the suggestion of pain. ‘What are we to do with Fourth Squadron?’

  ‘With respect, Colonel, were I you, I should be inclined to order H Troop to march under your command, and close-by at that. Warde would understand. Joynson might then manage his own troop well enough without the worry of a full squadron – if you keep him rear.’

  Lord George smiled. ‘So you may keep an eye on them, Edmonds?’

  ‘That would be one of the advantages of such a course.’

  ‘Very well. What say you, Sir Edward?’

  A Troop captain lowered his glass. ‘I have known Edwin Warde these dozen years and more, Colonel. Given time he will come to a right method.’

  Lord George inclined his head.

  ‘If you press me to say more, Colonel, I would only add what I imagine is known to you already, that Daly and Quilley are a disgrace to the service no less than to the regiment.’

  Lord George’s eyebrows rose. ‘It is insupportable that we should have to speak of such men. Two more reprobate officers it would be difficult to contemplate. They’ve not the slightest conception of duty – and nor, I might add, do I see any prospect of driving them to it. I shall order them in arrest at the next flagrant offence and take measures to cashier them.’

  Even Edmonds was taken aback by the resolution. He was minded to rehearse some redeeming virtue, some mitigating circumstance (they were but cornets, after all); but in truth there was none – certainly not charm. ‘A turn-up before the off may be no bad thing. There’s none that dare swerve too much after such a warning.’

  Sir Edward took another sip of his Madeira, as if disdaining mention of two men he would not have passed the time of day with had they not been gazetted to his regiment. ‘I hope we may reward the active sorts, Colonel, as well as punish the villains. I am of the opinion that more should have been made of the exemplars of their rank when we returned from Corunna. We had not a single merit promotion given us.’

  Lord George nodded. ‘You’re right, of course, Sir Edward. And it must pain doubly when the mess sees so ill an outcome of influence as Mr Quilley. I’ll press the matter on Sir Stapleton Cotton when I see him next.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have no doubt that you are thinking of laurels ahead for A Troop?’

  Sir Edward kept his countenance, for he was in perfect earnest. ‘I am, Colonel.’

  On the morning two days following, First Squadron paraded as usual, but Sir Edward Lankester had confided to only three men, the evening before, to what purpose other than routine was the muster. He was obliged, naturally, to inform B Troop’s captain, Jesmond, what was afoot, and he had told his own lieutenant, Martyn, and Quartermaster Watten. Jesmond he had also authorized to inform his lieutenant and quartermaster. He had no great expectation of the intention remaining in confidence to those five, however, for even if not a word was spoken of it the mere amendment to routine would signify something. And so when First Squadron paraded, in marching order, no one supposed it was for inspection only, especially since the quartermasters had given orders for the baggage to be assembled under guard in one of the courtyards.

  Sir Edward had received his orders in writing the afternoon previous. They bore the lieutenant-colonel’s signature, but he knew the words had been crafted in Sir Arthur Wellesley’s headquarters, and in that case very probably by the commander-in-chief himself. He did not know Sir Arthur except by reputation, but he read in those three succinct sentences what he imagined was the essence of the man – and everything of his intention:

  Belem

  30th April 1809To the Officer Commanding No. 1 SquadronYou are to march in advance of the Army via Caldas da Reinha, Leiria, Coimbra and Aveiro to Oporto, to form a junction with the Portuguese forces there operating against Marshal Soult and to ascertain the dispositions, strength and intentions of the enemy, especially in their extent south of the Douro river. You are to take whatever opportunity is presented that will serve for the destruction of the enemy by the main force that follows, or, failing that, and in concert as necessary with General Beresford to the east, to drive the enemy northwards into Galicia in order that General La Romana’s Spaniards may effect that destruction. On no account are you to follow in Spain without express approval of the Commander-in-Chief, with whom you are to remain in communication through the QMG Department’s couriers until the remainder of the Regiment closes on the Douro, whence you will revert to communicate to me.Signed

  Irvine

  Lieut Col 6th Light Dragoons

  Sir Edward understood that he might at best have a week’s march on the rest of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s force, and a day or so only on the rest of Cotton’s brigade. The distance to the Douro was a hundred and fifty miles, over indifferent roads and with horses not yet fully up to service. He could risk no more than thirty miles in the day if he was to have a squadron even half capable at the end of it. But he could at least pick his best men and horses and take them in advance of the rest of the squadron to make the initial junction, for the Portuguese would already know a deal of what he was required to discover, and he could then simply direct his efforts towards confirming their information rather than discovering it anew. He therefore placed B Troop’s captain in command of the squadron, leaving Martyn in charge of A Troop, and left Belem as soon as muster was over with the remaining officers, a servant apiece, a serjeant, a dozen corporals and dragoons, and a farrier.

  Hervey could scarcely contain his zeal as the chosen band set out. Jessye was in hale condition. The other officers may have scorned her to begin with, and they continued with the tease occasionally now, but in those weeks on the Sussex Downs, when Joseph Edmonds had had the officers out for ‘saddle-talk’, they had come to recognize a handy charger and march-horse combined. He had not the slightest doubt that he would win his wager: Fin would be cast before Jessye, and the first fine sabre would be the prize.

  His second charger, Loyalist, was of an altogether different stamp, a starling gelding, a racer who had run head-up once too often. But he had got him for a good price and had re-bitted him. Laming had watched his early attempts with disbelief: ‘Hervey, there are three kinds of fool. There’s the fool, there’s the damned fool, and there’s him as hunts in a snaffle!’

  But the merest contact of rein and martingale had by degrees brought Loyalist’s head down, and Hervey could only wonder at what thin bar that passed for a bit – as well as mutton fists – had hardened the animal’s mouth in the first place. Instead he had bought a round snaffle, jointed, and sewed a length of sheepskin to the noseband so that the gelding had to drop his head to see front. A few days’ schooling soon implanted the association of soft bit and forward vision in Loyalist’s head, but embarkation had interrupted their training, so that the regulation double bridle was as yet unknown to him. But Hervey had reckoned Loyalist would need the curb nothing like as much as his fellow cornet thought. ‘Laming, half the troop goes with just the snaffle, for they have the curb chain so loose!’

  It would have taken a full three weeks more of riding school, however, before Hervey could count Loyalist a sound battlecharger, and this early march north was no occasion for schooling. The horse was a fine sight on parade at least, and promised to be finer still w
hen his summer coat was through. Indeed, with Jessye and Loyalist, Hervey considered himself passably well provided for. He had a march-horse that would serve him true as a battlecharger, and one that had the makings, as well as being fleet enough even to do galloper duty. He needed a little better luck than he had had with Stella; that was all.

  Luck seemed to favour him. When they went into billets on the third night, Hervey was more pleased with his écurie than he had supposed likely. After stables, and a stew of fish at a modest but clean albergaria, he took up his journal enthusiastically.

  3rd MayEstarreja, 3 leagues north of AveiroToday we marched from Coimbra, not very fast, for there were many patrols of cavalry that wished to interrogate us, and we them, a distance of 15 leagues, and here have made a proper junction with the Portuguese corps of observation. E.L. is all activity, forever enquiring of his map or the Portuguese guide, and tonight called for me to interrogate some French deserters, who were in mean condition and knew little, though that little they were content enough to surrender. Soult has outposts to the south of the Douro, that much is certain, but is not otherwise perhaps in too great strength. These men said that there are numerous ferries by which the troops cross the river, and so it may be concluded that Soult would be able to transport his corps in a little time to meet a threat from the south. By the same token he is able to evacuate those men to the safety of the north side if he chooses. There are not many bridges, and those considerably upstream of Oporto. E.L. declares that we will begin tomorrow to make a reconnaissance of the line of outposts and ascertain too the bridges, though he believes this latter will likely as not prove too exacting for so small a number, unless the Portuguese attend.L lost shoe just before we arrived, which we did not see because Sykes was leading him. Farrier Dilkes will fit new this evening after same for E.L.’s second charger. Have ridden L a very good part of way these last days, and he does capitally well, carrying his head much more steady and answering now very promptly to the leg. J never tires and does well on short rations.Not so much green fodder as expected on account of bad weather of late. Rain has stopped, I am glad to record. It had become v. heavy indeed by this mid-day. E.L. says the days to come will be all scouting, and that we must expect contact with the French at any moment. Everyone says it is a fine thing that we are come back to turn the tables on Marshal Soult. I for one want nothing more than to pay them back for the humiliation of the retreat to Corunna and the destruction of our horses.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SPEARPOINT

  Oporto, nine days later, 12 May 1809

  Sir Edward Lankester rubbed the plaster from his eye as a heavyfooted dragoon upstairs dislodged more of the ceiling of the dilapidated pousada that served as the squadron’s messheadquarters. They were so close to the country’s second city, now, that the final hours were beginning to drag by.

  ‘Mr Hervey, I would have you go at once with an escort to meet with one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s observing officers. He has a mind to take a look at the river.’

  They had closed to the Douro, as instructed, and they had done so promptly, but Sir Edward’s tone betrayed nothing of the demands of a week spent in the saddle, the last two days entirely within cannonading distance of the enemy. The squadron – or rather, his hand-picked detachment – had been the point of the spear, so to speak, since crossing the Mondego. Meanwhile, the shaft of the spear – Sir Arthur Wellesley’s main body – had been marching steadily north behind them. Two days ago, the squadron reunited, the point of the spear had had its first brush in earnest with the French cavalry; and yesterday the shaft had seen a sharp action on the Vouga, eight leagues south of Oporto. It had been a botched affair, though, Sir Edward told his officers: Wellesley had been heard railing against several unfortunates who had failed to bring their men up on the French in the right place. But the spear was close now. Porto stood waiting, Sir Edward had written in his despatch; it would not do to keep them waiting long. However, Soult’s cavalry had been able to slip away in the dark, he told his officers, ruefully, ‘like rats scuttling off as the water rises’. Or depending on the point of view, he added, like practised cavalry in a line of surveillance. It was always touch and go what others thought of men who did not stand and fight.

  Hervey felt his head nod, even in the fraction of time between Sir Edward’s giving him the order and his acknowledging it. He was dog tired. All he wanted to do was take advantage of the pousada’s shelter for an hour or so’s sleep. Just an hour; that would be enough – a dry hour, though, not another soaking. By God he had had his share of drenchings this week gone!

  He shook himself, hoping his troop-leader had not noticed. ‘Where is the observing officer now, Sir Edward?’

  ‘He is gone to Villa Nova. He’ll meet B Troop’s picket there, but I want you to conduct him forward.’

  It made sense. Hervey had ridden to Villa Nova, on the south side of the Douro opposite Oporto, at first light.

  ‘No, the observing officer can wait a little longer,’ said Sir Edward suddenly, turning his head to the door. ‘Bancroft!’

  His dragoon-servant came at once. ‘Sir Edward?’

  ‘The coffee, Bancroft, ready or no.’ He looked back at Hervey. ‘You have need of the bean as much as do I.’

  Private Bancroft stood a moment, with a look that questioned the order. He was a fastidious servant, until a year ago a footman to the late Sir John Lankester. He had exchanged livery for regimentals with a will when the new baronet had asked for volunteers, for he might otherwise have been balloted into the militia and that would have been all the inconvenience of the regulars without one quarter of the status (though admittedly one tenth of the danger). Bancroft was of the unflinching opinion that coffee, whatever else its properties, must be hot.

  Sir Edward saw, and understood. ‘There’s a good fellow,’ he added, in a softer voice, and with just something of the supplicatory, so that Bancroft felt obliged, indeed almost content, to fetch the half-made sustainer.

  Hervey took careful note of the exchange. Sir Edward’s way with men intrigued him. Whereas Joseph Edmonds was all commanding – brusque, active, hungry for the fight – Sir Edward Lankester frequently appeared as if he were engaged in some private interest or other; although as soon as he perceived the enemy to be at hand he could become as much a fighting cock as any of them. The curious thing, observed Hervey, was that the dragoons seemed equally to trust both men. With Edmonds, there was in that trust a touch of admiration; with Sir Edward, it was affection. In the terrible retreat to Corunna, Edmonds had cajoled his troop into virtue; Sir Edward had flattered his. But the outcome had been the same: their dragoons would do anything for them. Both troops had embarked in good order, and with fewer losses than the others. Hervey wondered if some sort of synthesis were possible, or whether the essentials of the one style militated against those of the other. He knew – it was an axiom of the service, indeed – that leading men was a natural business: a leader was born. He himself had been born into that society which made of its sons the stuff of command (Sparta, he reckoned, could have had no quarrel with Shrewsbury School, nor Salisbury Plain in winter). There was a mask to command, however. That much he had divined from Daniel Coates, listening to the tales of America and Holland. But perhaps, in truth, the mask was a technique for greater ranks than cornet – although Quilley and Daly would profit by one, he was sure.

  ‘Hervey,’ began Sir Edward, sitting down in a rickety old carver and pulling the spurs from his heel-boxes. ‘What thoughts do you have of events?’

  Hervey had come to recognize the deliberate ellipsis in his troopleader’s manner of speaking. It did not appear studied, or affected, neither did it mark any vagueness of thought. Rather, it seemed the means of encouragement, like the good rough-rider letting out the rope inch by inch, so that the young horse did not take fright – or advantage – at the sudden discovery of the freedom to do what it liked. But Hervey would not think over-carefully of his response, this time trying to imagine
which ‘event’ Sir Edward considered proper for a cornet to speak of. He answered frankly. ‘I am astonished by the audacity of the advance to Oporto after so short a time. Our movements are so much bolder than before.’

  Sir Edward nodded, thoughtfully. In the saddle his fine features could look severe, so intense as to seem almost cruel, yet at other times he looked like a contented man surveying his acres from astride his favourite hunter. This morning, off-parade, at leisure almost, he wanted only spectacles to complete the resemblance to a bookish squire. ‘Do you consider there is a chance we will pay for such audacity in the way we did before?’

  ‘You mean as we had to retreat to Corunna, Sir Edward?’

  Sir Edward inclined his head.

  Hervey thought a little. ‘We have the sea as our left flank, we do not advance deep into the country, we advance against an enemy who cannot be rapidly reinforced, the Portuguese are more reliable allies than were the Spanish, and it is May not December.’

  Sir Edward quickened. Hervey’s reply was not only succinct, it was almost complete. ‘Admirable. Anything else? Anything to our disadvantage?’

  Hervey thought a little more. ‘They say the infantry is not as good as Sir John Moore’s, perhaps?’

  ‘They do. There are too many second battalions, for sure, and very green. Do you believe our general will be able to shape them as Moore did?’

  Hervey was doubly intrigued. This was a rare exchange indeed, a captain asking a cornet his opinion of the commander-in-chief, and he wondered to what it tended. ‘Sir John Moore had many months in England to shape his, Sir Edward. I understand Sir Arthur Wellesley has not had that advantage.’

  ‘Do you consider that he possesses other advantages over Moore?’

  Hervey’s brow furrowed. These were deep waters indeed for a cornet, and in truth he knew little of either man. But he knew that if Sir John Moore had not been killed in his hour of victory they would not be having this conversation now, for, by all accounts, Moore would have been hauled before parliament to answer for the retreat. ‘Truly, I cannot say, Sir Edward. Only that I recall as much praise for Sir John Moore when first we landed in Portugal as now there is for Sir Arthur Wellesley.’