Sir Edward nodded. ‘You are wise to be acquainted with that, Hervey. The fact is that Moore was incomparably the better soldier, but I believe Wellesley will prove much the greater commander-in-chief.’ He leaned back and began buffing a spur on his breeches. ‘This business here in the Peninsula: it is not so much the fighting a man must do – we may suppose there are generals enough who could do that tolerably well; recollect Hope at Corunna when Moore was shot – it is dealing with the politicos, and the allies. Wellesley will handle London right enough, and his brother will guard his back there, and he’s not fool enough to trust the allies – Spanish or Portuguese for that matter – so that he ends up hazarding things as Moore did. We’ll not see brilliance, as we did with Moore, but I believe we may trust to consummate skill in so far as strategy is concerned. That, and sure administration. It will just take so much longer with Wellesley, that is all.’
‘I do not believe I have been able to contemplate that, Sir Edward.’
‘Indeed not. Of course not. But you must contemplate the long point we’re beginning. It will be no bolting Reynard and running him fast to the kill. Believe me, Hervey, these French marshals will show us more foxery than you’d see in a dozen seasons in Leicestershire!’
Hervey thought he was beginning to grasp the import, but he was troubled. Did Sir Edward have concerns that one of his cornets – he – might not have the stomach (or the horse, so to speak) for the long point? ‘I did not think we would see England for a year, at least, Sir Edward.’
‘A year? Mm.’ It was not unreasonable of his cornet to speak of a year: His Majesty’s armies did not campaign abroad much longer, as a rule. But Sir Edward shook his head. ‘I will speak plainly. You have done well these past days, as I observed you did in Spain. It would not do if you weren’t to gain some . . . responsibility in this war. Both you and the service would be ill served. You are but eighteen: you may imagine that I do not have this interview with every cornet.’
Hervey, warmed as if he had just swallowed fine brandy, nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir Edward.’
‘No need to thank me, Hervey. I’m giving you nothing but counsel, and that is my duty. In any case, you may not like what follows. You must know that you can have no advancement in a cavalry regiment unless you are prepared for a very considerable outlay. In the infantry it would be different: there is much more free promotion.’
Hervey knew precisely what he meant. More officers were killed in the infantry.
‘And there is more opportunity for distinction there, and consequently for merit promotion.’
Again, Hervey perfectly understood. If one survived in the ranks of red, and stood in the right place, there was the chance that a senior officer might notice.
‘I consider that you should buy into the infantry, Hervey. You would have a company in no time. This war will last very much longer than a year – five years more, I’d wager. You might even have a major’s brevet at the end of it.’
Hervey felt his stomach tighten. Was his troop-leader saying that he was not cut out for the regiment? Was he trying to warn him off, kindly? But if he were, why now? Why not in England when the prospect of campaigning had been remote?
Sir Edward saw the dismay. ‘The fact is, Hervey, you will scarce have opportunity for distinction in the cavalry. Ours, in the end, is a business unobserved. Not the charge, but that is an infrequent sort of affair, believe me. You saw for yourself in Spain. And if you are bent on long service, as I perceive you are, then you shall have to seek your advantage wheresoever it may be.’
Hervey felt reassured: Sir Edward appeared genuinely solicitous. And he had come to trust that whatever appeared to be the case with Sir Edward was indeed the case. He did not like the advice, but he could not resent it. ‘Sir Edward, I thank you for your good opinion of me, but I have no thought other than to advance in the Sixth. I already feel it as a family.’
Private Bancroft came with the half-made coffee. Hervey now saw that its purpose was to sustain the interview rather than anything else.
Sir Edward took his cup, and a sip, then pulled a face and set the cup aside, sharing Bancroft’s opinion on lukewarm coffee now that its original purpose was passing. ‘That is as it should be, Hervey. As long as you’re content with its price, that’s all. And when you speak of family, have a care: let me remind you that to become too close to any man in our business is folly when you must send him to his death next day.’
Hervey marked very carefully what his troop-leader was saying, wondering if he displayed some tendency in this direction. He was not aware of any. Indeed, he had rather feared that the opposite had been true during the retreat to Corunna, for he had been zealous in his duty as he saw it (not least over the matter of Serjeant Ellis). ‘I shall endeavour always to maintain a proper distance, sir.’
‘Mm.’
There was a long pause. Hervey tried his coffee again, thinking to show appreciation.
‘What do you think of Armstrong?’
Hervey at once assumed that he must be guilty of the offence of which Sir Edward had just spoken. Nevertheless he would give his opinion plainly. ‘I think of him very well indeed, sir.’
‘Good. How long will it take before he is ready for serjeant?’
Hervey brightened; evidently he was not guilty in this regard. On the contrary: it appeared that Sir Edward valued his opinion, though he scarcely imagined his troop-leader had need of it. He contemplated the exemplars of serjeant’s rank in the regiment, quickly dismissing Ellis as wholly aberrant. Armstrong certainly looked the part – the authority that came with the indeterminate age of the non-commissioned officer, the voice that commanded attention, the way of moving, purposeful, confident; and that something extra, an understanding of what it was the officers were about, so that he stood not in opposition ever, while being entirely true to himself. Armstrong, for all his rough-hewn qualities, was ‘regimental’, as Daniel Coates called it, an attribute defying precise definition in a handy volume, if at all. Hervey was sure of it: ‘I venture to say, Sir Edward, that were he required to act in that rank today he would do so very creditably.’
‘You think him worthy of promotion over the heads of his seniors?’
That was a different question. It called for a judgement in more things than simple quality. ‘I have not the wherewithal to give a safe opinion on that, Sir Edward.’
‘Mm. Then you are indeed a shrewd officer. Well, I would have Armstrong given every chance to display himself. He has not the seniority to advance otherwise than by some act of distinction.’
Hervey made no reply.
Sir Edward began polishing the silvered spurs again, breathing on them then buffing on his overalls. After a while he stopped and looked at Hervey directly, as if he were turning over another matter of promotion. ‘I do not know how Wellesley fights,’ he said, with the air of a man who considered it right that he should know.
Again, Hervey was surprised more by the sharing of a confidence than by its substance. It was generally supposed that Sir Arthur Wellesley knew the business of fighting and would make his intentions clear enough. He remained respectfully silent.
‘Wellesley’s got up here quickly, no doubt of it. I’d feared we would delay on the Mondego a good many weeks. But by all accounts his opinion of cavalry is not great. He may yet favour the cautious way, whatever intelligence we are able to bring him.’
Sir Edward paused, as if to weigh again his surmise.
Hervey inclined his head, expecting some conclusion, some course of action which followed from the estimate.
Instead, Sir Edward leaned forward, pushed the spurs back into the heel-boxes, and stood up.
Hervey rose at once.
‘Have a mind of it then, Hervey!’ Sir Edward said it almost absently as he picked up his Tarleton and stepped briskly for the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CHANCE TO DISPLAY
Later
It did not take him long to be ready for the task of esc
orting one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s observing officers. Sir Edward Lankester’s last order to the squadron had been to off-saddle but remain booted: there were no French this side of the Douro any longer, they were assured, and the Portuguese dragoons had a vidette line on commanding ground between the river and the assembling army. In any alarm the squadron could be stood-to in but a few minutes. Hervey had saddled Jessye in no time, and by his own hand.
Not that he knew exactly how close was the main body behind them. For the past three days he had watched as the Portuguese cavalry danced about Soult’s, and all the while Sir Arthur Wellesley’s redcoats had been marching up from the Mondego. Recalling the stumbling, dispirited retreat to Corunna, he had imagined their pace would be slow; he had quite forgotten how fast the infantry could march when it was towards the enemy. However, he knew where the contact points were, and that was what mattered.
He watched as the escort of six dragoons mustered under Corporal Armstrong. They were tired, if not quite so tired as he was. They fumbled a bit, taking longer with straps and buckles, but it did not look too bad. Armstrong was as a rule unsparing with his tongue, but now he encouraged rather than cajoled. He knew the dragoons, and he knew if they were ‘laking’. It did not profit an NCO to bark if there could be no response. He would bark loud enough when the last bit of spare effort was required, effort a man did not know he possessed until squeezed from him by his corporal.
Hervey smiled to himself. He was content – very content. He had recognized in Armstrong a special man, a man he might trust entirely, rely on to the ultimate degree, just as Daniel Coates had told him he would, although the old dragoon had warned that it might take many a year to find such a man. It was Sir Edward’s opinion, too, that Armstrong was special, which made Hervey doubly content.
But still the talk of transferring to the infantry troubled him. Why had Sir Edward even broached the subject of selling out and buying into another regiment? Was that really to be the only way of advancement in this war? He knew it had been the way already for some – for Sir Arthur Wellesley himself in his early years (there was no secret to it). But now that the army was so decisively, indeed desperately, engaged with Bonaparte, the old way could not stand too long? Hervey shook his head. Truly, it was mystifying what Sir Edward had intended. Had he, when he spoke of Armstrong, been saying the same again, indeed – that promotion would not come without some particular act of courage? Hervey trusted he would have sufficiency of that quality (he had never even imagined the want of it). Was he supposed to seek out the opportunity rather than wait for it to be presented? Was that what Sir Edward meant? He began wondering if Joseph Edmonds would have been quite so elliptical in his advice. He imagined not. But there again, said the cognoscenti, Captain Sir Edward Lankester knew his way in that world, as did Lieutenant-Colonel Lord George Irvine; Major Joseph Edmonds did not.
Hervey shook his head. What a repugnant business it was! How different from Edmonds’s injunction when first he had joined his troop at the Canterbury depot: ‘Do not trouble to impress me, Mr Hervey; it is they you must inspire,’ he had said, pointing to the dragoons at skill-at-arms on the square. Hervey hoped now that he would continue to try to do so, not least because they were all tired and the man they were about to escort would form his impression of the regiment by what his little command did this morning. Their charge was no ordinary staff officer; he was an observing officer, one of the men whom Sir Arthur Wellesley relied on for intelligence of a certain kind, that which not even the most vigorous scouting by cavalry could provide. As a rule, such officers did not wear uniform, since their business was behind the enemy’s lines. ‘Spy’ was a word not infrequently used of them, if loosely – and, moreover, dangerously, for by the usages of war a spy might be shot out-of-hand, whereas by those same usages a man in his country’s uniform enjoyed the protection of his captors. Hervey quickened at the thought.
Lieutenant-Colonel Shaw was a hard-looking man, in his forties, Hervey reckoned. There was a pronounced powder-burn on his right cheek, and his upper front teeth were missing. Yet there was nothing of the bruiser in his manner, which was more schoolmasterly than soldier. Hervey had already begun to note how different officers in other regiments could seem. It was not just that they were unfamiliar, they were formed in another way. Some, he knew, would have been formed in half a dozen regiments, but he thought he was beginning to discern a certain stamp; and not merely between Foot and Horse, Guards and Line. Colonel Shaw could not have been in the Sixth; that, he was sure. It was not appearance alone, although he did wear uniform of sorts, which Hervey imagined was on account of his working within the allied lines of communication. No, it was not the ‘uniform’: there was something about him that did not suggest an acquaintance with dragoons.
In fact, it was not possible to determine Colonel Shaw’s regiment even by close inspection of his dress, for he did not wear any distinguishing sign. His coat was a curious affair, dark blue, the buttons half-ball horn, its cut nodding to the military but which might otherwise be that of any man of quality. He wore buff breeches, and butcher-boots, not hessians. Only his headdress was decidedly military, a plumeless bicorn with black cockade. Even his horse furniture was of civilian pattern, so that if he were to remove his hat he could pass for a private gentleman – which was, Hervey concluded, the intention. But hat in place, there was just sufficient mark of the man of rank to draw a salute and, more importantly, laissez-aller from Sir Arthur Wellesley’s men. But Colonel Shaw wanted now to pass through Portuguese lines, and for that, someone had judged it prudent to have an unequivocally military escort.
‘Mr Hervey, my compliments to your captain: an exemplary smart body of men!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Hervey, nodding to Armstrong and the others to take note. Compared with muster at the depot they looked in rag shape, but for field conditions he fancied they were indeed a cut above the usual standard.
‘What are your orders?’
‘I am at your disposal, sir.’
‘That is understood. Very well, I wish to take a look at the Douro.’ Colonel Shaw paused, fixing Hervey, hawklike, as if to gauge his reaction. ‘A close look.’
Hervey nodded. ‘Very well, Colonel.’
‘As close as may be.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I am in your hands, Hervey, but from my map it appears there might be an opportunity to approach the river from Villa Nova . . . here.’ He indicated the point on his map.
Hervey saw, then glanced at his own. ‘There’s a picket half a mile short of there, sir – Portuguese, I mean – on the high road, but I have been no further forward. We might have a guide from them.’
‘Capital, Mr Hervey,’ said Colonel Shaw briskly, folding his map and taking off his reading-glasses. ‘Let us hasten thither.’
It took them but a half-hour to reach the outskirts of Villa Nova. Even as they trotted, Colonel Shaw made notes, constantly searching the country, slowing occasionally to study something or other through a compact telescope. As they eased to the walk a hundred yards short of the picket, Hervey could only marvel at how composed Shaw looked for a man intending to slip behind the French lines at the first opportunity.
‘Upon my word, Mr Hervey!’ The observing officer pulled up suddenly and began peering through his telescope again at the middle distance.
Hervey reined sharply to the halt, wondering what had alerted him.
‘You see that bird yonder,’ said the colonel, with a distinct edge to his voice. ‘What do you say it is?’
Hervey, not a little taken aback, lifted his spyglass, wondering what the bird portended. ‘A hen-harrier perhaps, Colonel?’ he tried, after a not entirely perfunctory study.
‘An understandable conclusion, Hervey,’ said Shaw, keeping the glass to his eye. ‘The colour is much the same; but observe its tail closer. How is it in shape?’
Hervey frowned, though his Tarleton concealed it if his voice did not. ‘Colonel, I think we ough
t—’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Hervey. I know we have business to be about, but you may see a river any day. You will not see a black-winged kite again once you have left these parts.’
Hervey’s frown faded. If Colonel Shaw wanted to watch birds rather than the French then that was his business. He raised his telescope again. ‘I observe that the tail is spread and slightly forked.’
‘Just so. Whereas the hen-harrier’s is . . . ?’
Hervey thought for a moment. ‘Long and straight?’
‘Exactly. But observe also what it does. A bird reveals its identity above all by its habit, Mr Hervey.’ Shaw’s telescope seemed positively fixed to his right eye. His mare stood obligingly still, as if used to episodes of intense study. ‘See how it flies, very much active, like the owl, and how it twists its tail. The harrier is altogether more measured in its movement: a few leisurely beats of the wing as it flies low – far lower than the kite – and then it glides, the tip of the wing raised. Quite unmistakable.’
Hervey saw what was Colonel Shaw’s game, and found himself rather more happily drawn in: a rara avis, evidently, the observing officer – like his black-winged kite. He imagined he might learn a lot from such a man, even if a good deal of it by riddles. ‘Yes, I see, Colonel.’
‘The observation of birds, Hervey, of all the kingdoms of the natural world, is really most apt for our purposes. Observing is a skill to be acquired, and its practice in the kingdom of birds is an exemplary thing. I commend it highly.’
Hervey nodded. ‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘Indeed, a capital scheme would be to have your dragoons observe what birds there may be in a place, and to note their appearance and habit, and to report what they observe. It will test their powers admirably.’
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