An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  Lord George looked encouraged. ‘I think it a very serviceable suggestion.’ He turned to the adjutant. ‘Have someone ask John Knight if there be any objection to that.’

  The adjutant went to find an orderly.

  ‘Now, this wretched Daly affair,’ continued Lord George, briskly. ‘What’s to do?’

  Captain Warde spoke first. ‘Well, Colonel, I questioned him after stand-down this morning. Beale-Browne had already alerted me to the business. Daly says that John Knight would not oblige him in the proper treatment of his charger – which he very imperiously, though correctly, asserts is his own property – so he was obliged to treat the animal himself. He apparently took a brand iron from the farrier, got his servants to assist him and performed the cauter with his own hand.’

  Lord George nodded. ‘John Knight has explained the procedure to me. Evidently the iron must have been red hot, and the horse, enfeebled by the work and short rations, succumbed to the great shock of it.’

  Sir Edward Lankester’s brow furrowed. ‘Is John Knight approving the procedure in general? I have always considered it barbarous.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He very much disapproves of firing what he calls soft tissue, for the reason that it distresses the animal too greatly, and the cauter is prone to infection. But he conceded that his is not the universal view in this regard.’

  Captain Warde looked troubled. ‘Do we consider any of this relevant, Colonel? The charge is one of assault. I wonder, indeed, why Daly and Hervey don’t just have it out with pistols.’

  Lord George smiled benignly. ‘I fear, my dear Edwin, that such an eminently sensible course is closed to us. I’m certain Wellesley would have both of them court-martialled afterwards. No, the matter is relevant if there is to be any counter-charge of negligence, or misuse of an animal. In the case of assault, Daly has a right to bring such a charge, of course, and I am obliged to settle it by court martial. I should have no hesitation in bringing a charge of assault against him, since the picket-officer is my executive during silent hours. But it is all a pretty mess, and would be presided over by a judge advocate and officers from outside the regiment. Will be, indeed, for I don’t see what discretion I may have on account of his scandalous conduct in front of dragoons.’ He sighed, the intense distaste for such a thing perfectly evident. ‘And all this with a general action promising!’

  The adjutant had returned. ‘Shall I summon Mr Daly to your orderly room then, Colonel?’

  Lord George frowned. ‘Yes. And soon, if we must. It were better that it were done quickly.’

  ‘Very good, Colonel. And John Knight says that olives well boiled would be a capital thing, perhaps fed with chop.’

  Lord George’s spirits brightened a fraction. ‘Well, gentlemen, that is something. Let us hope that ravens appear soon for our own stomachs’ sake!’

  In the afternoon, the adjutant summoned Hervey again. Hervey, finding his situation as ‘hero’ to the cornets a queer thing with the threat of court martial hanging over him, tried hard to appear neither anxious nor assured. Barrow’s manner was unusually warm, but the unhappy explanation soon came: Cornet Daly was pressing the charge of assault, he said, and the lieutenant-colonel saw no alternative but to order a court martial, at which, Barrow hoped most fervently, the counter-charges of assault and mis-treatment would be heard.

  ‘In the meantime, Mr Hervey, the lieutenant-colonel wishes you to continue in your appointment, and to discharge your duty with the zeal he would expect of one of his officers.’

  Hervey swallowed hard. ‘The lieutenant-colonel may depend upon it, sir.’

  ‘Very well, you may dismiss. Oh, and the major would speak with you. He’s over yonder.’ Barrow pointed to another olive tree twenty yards away, where the red pennant of the regimental major of the 6th Light Dragoons hung limp in the still air.

  Hervey saluted and turned, then made for the major’s tree. He did not see Barrow shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Cornet Hervey, sir,’ he announced, two dozen paces later.

  Major Joseph Edmonds, sitting in a camp-chair cleaning his pistols, looked up. ‘Well, Cornet Hervey, a pretty business, this. Sit you down.’

  It was not what Hervey had expected to hear. He took the other camp-chair and removed his forage cap.

  ‘I’ve been told everything. I’ve spoken to Treve and half the picket.’

  Hervey supposed that only Edmonds could have had such disregard for the formalities as to speak direct with a serjeant and dragoons. He returned the steady gaze, now entirely confident.

  ‘Treve said you were boiling.’

  ‘That is true, sir. The horse was a sorry sight.’

  ‘Treve said he was boiling more.’

  Hervey almost smiled. ‘I can easily imagine.’

  Edmonds blew into the firing pan, then held the pistol up to the light to inspect the barrel. ‘Daly is a thoroughly objectionable officer. He has every disagreeable feature of that class of man, and not one of the strengths, as far as I can see. I have no idea what are his means, but he signs credit notes as if they were nothing at all. I heartily mistrust his instincts, and I have told Warde this.’

  Hervey was stunned by so decided a pronouncement from the regiment’s second in command.

  ‘But the trouble is, being Irish, when he’s backed into a corner the only thing he knows to do is fight. And when he is bowed and bloodied, he’ll get up and think nothing of it and expect to carry on as before. If the court martial goes against him – and I can’t see how it can’t – the sentence may yet be lenient, and we shall have him still.’

  Hervey saw things perfectly well, but he could not see to what the major’s words tended.

  Edmonds laid down the pistol, and sighed. ‘Funny things, courts martial, Hervey. Officers from other regiments don’t always see things the same; which is, of course, why there are courts martial. But see – and this is the reason I sent for you – you are not to take alarm when the papers come. The colonel is perfectly convinced of the truth of the affair. He wholly agrees with me with regard to the character of Mr Daly. So you are to return to duties as if this were nothing, you understand?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. That is what the adjutant instructed me, too.’

  ‘Good. And not one word of this is to be repeated.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Edmonds’s brow furrowed. ‘See, Hervey, we shall very probably face a general action in the next day or so, and I wouldn’t lay odds on the Spaniards holding, in which case we’ll be sorely pressed and may well find ourselves running for the sea again. Wellesley will have want of every high-stomached officer he has.’

  Hervey glowed at the compliment. Edmonds had been his troopleader for but a few months when he had first joined, and he knew his praise to be sparing. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Well then, be about it!’ He picked up his second pistol and began rubbing the barrel as if Hervey had already gone.

  * * *

  There had been a modest issue of rations for men and horses late in the morning, and both had fed early in consequence. At six, relieved of further duty, and partially filled with bread and beef for the first time in days, Hervey sat propped against an olive tree and took up his journal.

  25th July

  nr Talavera de la ReinaCountry very harsh and dry, and hills many, and with steep cliffs. There are olive groves, however, and vines, and these relieve barren appearance somewhat, but grass is poor and unlikely to sustain unless we graze by the Tagus. Intend visiting Talavera as soon as may be, to see its walls and towers, which are very ancient says Laming, also to buy silk from the royal factory there. We are told our eastward march towards Toledo is halted by the presence of a French army under command of Joseph Bonaparte himself, and that Genl. Cuesta is obliged to withdraw his advance divisions. Sir A.W. has sent fwd a division and Anson’s brigade (23rd L.D. and 1st L.D. K.G.L.) to the R. Alberche to cover the retrograde movement of the Spanish, which vexes us all since the Sixth has not yet seen
action except skirmish at Porto! We are brigaded with Genl. Fane’s heavies (3rd D.G. and Royals), but are to join Genl. Cotton tomorrow (14th L.D. and 16th L.D.) to form line of observation between Talavera and the Alberche. They say Sir A.W. is well pleased at the prospect of a general action since the ground he has chosen on which to stand on the defensive is very favourable to the infantry and also to the guns. I do not recall the place, though we first passed this way with Sir John Moore last November, and there is so great a difference between that season and now that I do not believe I should recognize any but a town of some substance. All the rivers are v. low, and some altogether dry.J and L are new-shod today and both sound, also my mule Pedro. Sykes has a fever but is not too ill and will not report himself sick for fear of being left behind. Sir E.L. sent me on forage patrol in morning. Found nothing but olives. Commissaries brought in some corn and grey bread and beef, but no wine. Water is sweet, however, and we do not have to boil it with tea. Commissary officers are in high dudgeon for apparently Sir A.W. berates them for lack of address, the Spaniards all being well victualled.In spite of vexations too shaming to record, I am tolerably well, and look forward keenly to the morrow.

  All next day, the Sixth stood to the east of Talavera without a sign of the enemy, although they heard skirmishing beyond the Alberche, and occasional cannonading, off and on until the evening. They had shade, at least, and some water, for as well as the olive groves there were big oaks, and the Portiña, which ran from north to south behind them, although for the most part it was a dry ravine, did have pools adequate for watering. Where there were no trees there was stubble, the corn cut a month before by the Spanish, anxious lest what was left of it fall to the French, for Marshal Victor’s men had already made a fine harvest for themselves. They had even made shelters from the stooks, such was the harvest’s abundance, so that as far as the Alberche and beyond, the plain was filled with what looked like yellow bell-tents.

  Early in the afternoon, Major-General Sir Stapleton Cotton had ordered his regiments to off-saddle by half squadrons, but the whole brigade saddled up again for stand-to at last light, and remained saddled until midnight. No other order had come to the Sixth in the entire day, and little news. Cotton himself had stood throughout with Colonel George Anson on the far side of the Alberche, but he had been unable to send back any intelligence of the battle to the east other than from observation, and that very little. General Cuesta’s troops were retiring, seemingly in good order, and neither Anson’s cavalry brigade nor the infantry divisions of Generals Mackenzie and Sherbrooke forward of the Alberche received any change in orders from Sir Arthur Wellesley, so there was no occasion for alarm. At dusk, therefore, Cotton had ridden back to his brigade, ordered the Sixteenth to post videttes along the dry bed of a stream which ran parallel to the Alberche half a mile to its west, and told the Sixth and the Fourteenth to sleep.

  Hervey slept until the welcome order to off-saddle came at midnight, and then he had slept without interruption until five o’clock, when Private Sykes roused him with a canteen of hot goat’s milk, with the compliments, he said, of one of the King’s Germans. Hervey, to whom the sound of the trumpet’s reveille this morning was not so sweet as usual (he had been in a very deep sleep following two nights with next to none), knew he ought to ask how his groom had come by the milk – and, indeed, for how much – but could not summon the strength for the inevitable, lengthy explanation. Sykes was an able servant, but a pedantic one. Instead he leaned half up on an elbow and sipped the pleasing cup. Barely more than a year ago he would have woken to the sound of the chapel bell and the imperative voice of a schoolmaster. He had not disliked Shrewsbury, neither had he actually liked it; he had endured it, usually cheerfully. As well dislike the rain on Salisbury Plain! But now he knew what he truly liked, because when the trumpet roused him it thrilled him also. It did not matter that he was hungry, or cold, or wet, or tired: the prospect of the day, booted and in the saddle, with dragoons who looked to him, a man set in authority (all be that of limited degree – at present), was unfailingly reviving.

  A sip or two of the goat’s milk, the brain come fully awake, and he was thinking of the day ahead. A general action, he hoped; bigger, perhaps, even than Corunna. Not for a moment did he doubt the outcome, in spite of the major’s warning. Nor did he doubt himself, even though he faced court martial when it was over: ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!’ It was in large measure his watch-phrase – and that of the other cornets too. That was the benefit of youth. That was why infantry regiments gave their colours into the hands of sixteen-year-old ensigns, and their companies to youthful captains – ensigns and captains of good family, with the means to purchase a commission and the ardour to do their duty to the bitter end. That was how he understood it, at any rate – the bright side of the purchase coin! What were his complaints at the lack of means to advance by purchase, or his opportunity to display for merit promotion, when the army was facing a general action this day? The commander-in-chief must rely on every man with the King’s commission. Purchase was, at least, a stout bond of surety!

  Every man? Yes, sighed Hervey – as near as made no odds. Even Daly and Quilley. But why repine over those two? What did they matter on a day like this, when the entire army would be drawn up against the French? And, in truth, Daly and Quilley would face shot and shell exactly as he would, and the sabre’s edge, too, if the Sixth were blessed with a charge. And then Daly and Quilley might buy a lieutenancy over his head, the one by extortion of his miserable tenants, the other by some gambling debt in White’s Club! Well, damn their eyes, Hervey cursed! Was he himself worthy of promotion if he could not win it in action?

  These were the cornet’s waking thoughts on the day of the general action at Talavera de la Reina.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SMOKE AND THE FIRE

  Talavera, later

  All morning the Spanish had filed past Cotton’s brigade on the road from Cazalegas three leagues beyond the Alberche, making for Talavera, which the Sixth had now learned was to be the right of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s line of battle. Indeed, for most of the morning the Sixth had been speaking of nothing but the admirable defensive position the commander-in-chief had chosen. He had selected, so to speak, a bottleneck, where the Tagus, flowing west from Toledo to Talavera, and thence to Alcántara and the Portuguese border, meandered north a little, nearing the steep escarpment of the Sierra de Seguilla, and then parallel to it for about seventy miles. By choosing to stand on the defensive at the top of the bottleneck rather than further down – further west – Sir Arthur Wellesley not only held the city of Talavera de la Reina, he gave himself room to withdraw, if that became necessary, with his flanks secure on the one side by the wide, deep Tagus, and on the other by the rugged sierra. That, at any rate, was the opinion of Joseph Edmonds. Prudent a choice it was, he told the subaltern officers, whom he had assembled by way of field tutelage. ‘A commander ought never to fight a general action unless he believe there to be a good chance of victory,’ Edmonds said. ‘But neither should he do so without the certainty of being able to retreat in reasonable order should victory be denied him.’ Nor did the commander have only the enemy to take into consideration; there were his allies too. With the Spaniards, Edmonds added, nothing could be certain. Some days they would fight like tigers; other days they had the stomach of a fat kitchen cat.

  Hervey studied the trudging ranks – dirty white uniforms as far as the eye could see. Two centuries ago, the Spanish infantry could count itself the finest in the world; now they looked no better than a peasant levy. No army in retreat ever looked its best. Hervey knew it from Corunna; and there they had been retreating with scarce a shot from the enemy. What sort of a mauling these men had had he could only suppose. There had been no forerunners, bandaged and bloody, to speak of any action. The rumour was there were so many French that withdrawal to better ground – ground suited to the defence – was the only course. But that was the rumour before which the
y had retreated to Corunna, was it not? So the Moore-baiters had it yet. And this Spanish general, Cuesta – he was too old and obese, the word was. But he must know his business? In any case, with Sir Arthur Wellesley the two armies would be a worthy match for ‘King’ Joseph and Marshal Victor, would they not? The position on which they would give battle here spoke volumes in their favour. Hervey was sure there could be no occasion for dismay.

  He had only to consider the ground. As the major said, it was admirably chosen – a battle line three miles long, its right, the walled city of Talavera de la Reina, resting on the Tagus, its left on a steep escarpment, and the entire front protected by the dry bed of the Portiña river. With so much cover of vineyards, olive groves and corks, as well as the natural entrenchment of the Portiña, it was a position made for the infantry. It wanted only for a better orientation, for the armies would be facing due east, into the sun. But then, what did that matter to the men in red coats, who wanted only for an opportunity to get to close quarters with the French? They had all seen the position when they came up the day before, and were relishing putting it to the test. However, the true genius of the place, as Edmonds pointed out, lay in the centre of the line, where a ridge ran east–west parallel to the Tagus on the right and to the escarpment, the Sierra de Seguilla, on the left. The ridge was cut in half by the Portiña, running north–south, and the western half, the Cerro de Medellin, was higher than the eastern, the Cerro de Cascajal. On the north side of the ridge was a narrow plain of heath, pasture and arable, and a few dry streambeds. Edmonds had asked the cornets what they concluded by this, to which Laming had at once correctly answered that the British guns on the Cerro de Medellin commanded the narrow plain to the north, the Cerro de Cascajal on the far side of the Portiña, and the greater part of the distance to Talavera, whose own guns would easily overlap.

  ‘Capital, Mr Laming!’ Edmonds had replied, slapping his thigh with uncharacteristic exuberance. Then he had narrowed his eyes. ‘And what else?’