‘A fine sight indeed,’ declared Sir Edward, ruefully. ‘And very artfully concealed they were.’
Hervey saw; they all saw. This would have been the moment for the British gunners, but every troop had been sent back behind the Portiña.
‘Anson has no alternative but to charge or retire,’ said Sir Edward, searching the olive groves intently. ‘And I’ll warrant there’ll be another four squadrons in yonder trees waiting for him.’
Hervey had not thought of that. He cursed himself, for as soon as Sir Edward spoke it appeared obvious. The cavalryman’s art lay as much in determining what you could not see from what you could.
‘I hope he’ll not be tempted,’ added Sir Edward, in a tone that said he might.
But Anson was evidently not to be lured. He turned his brigade about and began following General Mackenzie’s infantry.
‘I think we had better conform,’ said Lord George, lowering his telescope. ‘Fours about!’
The commanding officer’s trumpeter relayed the order: falling crotchets, G, E, C, G, dotted quavers and semis on C then E, and a long C for the executive. The Sixth about-faced, four men wheeling as one the length of the line, with the officers riding round the squadron flankers to take up position again. It was a deal more involved than each man simply turning about, but it kept the proper order of things.
‘Walk-march!’
The trumpeter repeated the command: just six Cs and an E, an easy call.
Once the ranks had dressed after striking off (it always took longer when they had been standing for any time), Lord George made to keep up with Anson’s brigade, for he was otherwise being left too far forward on an open flank.
‘Trot!’
Repeating quavers doubled the Sixth’s speed. Bits jingled, scabbards clanked, NCOs barked. To Hervey, it was the best of music.
The French began firing again. Hervey glanced left and rear, expecting to see more cavalry coming from the olive groves, but there were none. He saw Anson’s brigade halt and front. Would this unnerve the French, keep them at their distance? Or would Anson’s men have to charge? There were no supports showing themselves yet, but they could remain concealed and still have time to close with the chasseurs if Anson did charge. It was a fine judgement, Hervey saw. The trouble was that General Mackenzie’s infantry had half a league and more to march before the Portiña, and they would not be under cover of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s guns for another mile.
‘Walk!’
The order took him by surprise. He flexed the reins late. Jessye obliged but stumbled slightly, putting them two lengths ahead of the quartermaster, bumping Serjeant Strange’s mare. He felt himself colour.
‘Halt!’
He reined rear until he was in line.
The quartermaster scowled. ‘Welcome back, Mr Hervey, sir.’
He deserved the rebuke, he knew. If he didn’t keep his attention how could the other ranks be expected to? He saw the nearest dragoons smiling. They enjoyed seeing a cornet checked by the quartermaster. It didn’t matter how aptly an officer did his duty on patrol if he couldn’t keep his place in close order.
‘What do you find so amusing, Harris?’ growled A Troop’s quartermaster.
Private Harris wondered how the quartermaster had been able to see from his position in rear. But, then, that was why he was a quartermaster, was it not? ‘Nothing, sir.’ It sounded feeble.
‘Nothing, is it? Well, just think on this, Harris my lad: there’ll be a regiment and more of sabres in those trees yonder, and any minute now they’ll be coming out with the sole intention of sticking one in you. That is if I don’t stick mine in your arse beforehand!’
‘Sir!’ Harris sounded chastened.
Hervey reflected on the propriety of humour in the regiment. A quartermaster might make a remark at a cornet’s expense, and for others to hear, but the quartermaster’s humour was the final word; it needed no acclamation from the ranks. In a matter of moments the cornet might in turn have to give the quartermaster an order, perhaps unpalatable, and would have it obeyed without demur; but a cornet would stand rebuked for carelessness for something a trained man would not be permitted without equal rebuke. It did not bear scrutiny, but it worked. He had seen it work, and in the most exacting conditions; what was there left to know in the management of men after Corunna?
But why had they halted?
‘Regiment, fours about-face!’ There was an edge to Lord George’s voice now.
The Sixth went through the same evolution as before, but reversed, so that in a minute they were standing exactly as they had prior to the retirement. Hervey quickened: would they charge?
Major Edmonds rode from centre-rear, round the right marker, to where the lieutenant-colonel stood coolly observing the French.
‘I think Anson’s going to have a deuced awkward time of it, Edmonds,’ said Lord George, pointing. ‘Look yonder: there’s another troop of guns coming up on his flank.’
Edmonds saw. ‘Anson’s right to be wary of charging. There’s bound to be twice as many in the woods.’
‘My opinion exactly, Edmonds. I think we had better give him support. Mackenzie’s men are evidently tired, too. Cotton will be home safe shortly.’
‘Indeed,’ said Edmonds, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘Curious there’s no appetite to follow us up. Haven’t they seen we’ve no guns, d’ye think?’
Lord George nodded. ‘I had thought of that. Perhaps they imagine we’re masking them, which is why I think we may be of assistance simply by remaining in line with Anson.’
‘What do you intend if the French break cover?’
Lord George shrugged ever so slightly. ‘We must see, but if there’s opportunity to charge, then I shall take it!’
Anson’s brigade stood their ground in open order for a full ten minutes. One ball alone did damage, striking the head clean off a man’s shoulders as he tried desperately to rein round. But the second gun troop, a thousand yards to the brigade’s right, had now begun unlimbering, so that fire would converge and be the harder to evade. General Mackenzie’s infantry, meanwhile, had managed another half-mile, giving Anson the opportunity at last to withdraw far enough to tempt the French gunners out of range of any supports in the olive groves.
The Sixth watched with the keen interest of spectators at a field day as Anson’s brigade turned about. The King’s Germans were unquestionably handier would have been the majority opinion; the Twenty-third had fresher horses, it seemed, for there was a good deal of napping and barging. But the brigade turned tight nevertheless, and sharp though unhurried.
‘Very coolly done, I must say,’ declared Lieutenant Martyn. ‘The brigadier judges it very fine.’
Lord George waited until the nearer gun troop ceased firing and the horse teams came up, then resumed the Sixth’s own progress rear. ‘Regiment will retire. Fours about!’
Round they went again, and tighter this time for the practice.
‘Walk-march!’
And then, after fifty yards, ‘Trot!’
Anson’s brigade had retired a full half-mile in the meantime, before stopping once more to cover the infantry’s last mile to the Portiña. Both troops of French guns followed up quickly and came into action as soon as the brigade formed front again.
‘Halt!’ called Lord George.
The Sixth pulled up from the trot, untidy but fast.
Lord George intended losing no time. ‘Front!’
The squadrons turned like a weathervane when the wind veers suddenly. It was an urgent manoeuvre, and every man knew there must be cause.
They saw the cause as they came full round: the nearest gun troop stood half a mile off, a squadron of chasseurs to each flank, and an empty mile and more between them and the olive groves.
‘Singular,’ declared Sir Edward Lankester. ‘They are deuced confident of themselves!’
He spoke the thoughts of his squadron, for every man could see as he did: before, the French had been bold; now they had been
rash.
‘Forward!’
The command thrilled through the ranks – so much more welcome to the dragoon’s ear than ‘retire’. And Lord George’s trumpeter sounded the call with relish.
‘Trot!’
The bumping and barging began again, horses extending unevenly to keep with the fast pace Lord George was setting.
In four hundred yards they halted, having wheeled a quarter right without any command but from the sword. Without the pivot it was uneven, but much the faster.
‘Draw swords!’
Five hundred sabres flashed from polished scabbards. The movement was meant to unnerve the enemy, a calculated display, its timing of the essence. These French had dared so much in coming forward with so few supports; Hervey wondered how they would take to this notice of the charge.
‘Forward!’
Lord George would press them for an answer.
‘Trot!’
It was knee-to-knee proper now, stirrups clinking with the next man’s, scabbards bouncing about and clanking without the weight of the sword, shouts of ‘Pull back there!’, ‘Get up on the left!’ It was a sight that awed more at a distance.
The next order would all but commit them to the charge. The guns were a quarter of a mile away, trained off the Sixth’s line of advance at Anson’s brigade. The French had seconds only to decide their course, or it would be decided for them. Hervey could barely contain himself as he saw the chasseurs incline to face them.
Lord George did not hesitate. ‘Gallop!’
At last it was come, his first true regimental charge! Four squadrons – eight troops at a good strength, in first and support lines, with the lieutenant-colonel at the fore and every officer in his place. The strangest thoughts came to him: two thousand iron shoes pounded the hard earth, each one but a nail from failing – how the regiment’s farriers held the fortune of them all in their rough and ready hands! He had to check himself: it was not yet the charge. It was possible, even now, for Lord George to hold up, the gallop still in-hand, sabres still sloped.
The French did not advance to meet them. Would they turn and run? Hervey felt his gut tighten with every stride. There were two hundred yards to close with the chasseurs. When would Lord George give the word?
‘Steady, damn your eyes! Stop your racing! Hold hard there!’ Officers and NCOs alike cursed to keep the lines straight. Hervey saw a horse from C Troop bolt, its rider heaving on the reins for all he was worth. One in front of him stumbled then somersaulted headlong, tumbling the horse next to it and the one right behind. Hervey swore with relief at the near-miss. This was so much harder than Sahagun! The ranks were so close – too close? And the approach was so long! Would the French turn?
Now they had the limbers forward, hitching up the guns. Seconds more and they could gallop them safely rear.
One hundred and fifty yards: the chasseurs drew their sabres. Hervey swallowed hard. They would stand their ground!
Up went Lord George’s sabre. ‘Charge!’
His trumpeter blew the rising triplets as best he could.
Up went five hundred sabres, just as the drill book said, lofted high to meet cavalry with a powerful cut (the point was kept for infantry, to spear like tent pegs).
The Sixth ran ventre à terre, the fastest Hervey had known. The collision would be terrible, the destruction appalling. He prayed Jessye would not stumble or collide head-on when they closed. He could only do so much to direct her.
Less than half a furlong: he could see it all. They would overlap both flanks of the chasseurs by a dozen yards, just as the drill book prescribed. Jessye was pulling, but nothing to what every other trooper was.
Fifty yards: they broke! The chasseurs broke! They turned, they ran – back, left, right, any way there was space to run. The guns were pulling away, but exposed now to five hundred sabres.
Every man pressed his horse for the last turn of speed. The lines bowed and buckled, the cursing and swearing inaudible now – only the wild shouting.
The front rank veered left a fraction, exposing the second by a dozen men. Hervey found himself with a clear front and chasing the chasseurs’ left-flankers. But he shot so fast between two of them he almost missed his strike: Cut One – right, diagonal-down left – a clumsy slice to the nearside, slashing the man’s sword-arm from behind. He reined hard left to the support of the front rank, where he was meant to be. It was all confusion.
But the leading squadrons were already galloping on after the guns, despite the disordering of the second line. Some of the chasseurs had pulled up or turned, letting the squadrons charge past. Many were clutching at wounds, and many more were pretending to.
Hervey was almost knocked from the saddle by the rear two squadrons as they raced through like the wind, eager for blood and seeing it fast disappearing. They thrust and cut as they passed, making more for the surgeons’ list, but those French who had not run for it suddenly saw their chance: they would fight their way through what was left of the leading squadrons’ second line. In an instant, Hervey and his fellow supports were thrown on to the defence.
A man rode at him with his sabre at Guard, eyes burning. Hervey met him with Cut Three – right, diagonal-up left, driving the horizontal guard high and exposing the man’s rein-arm to the covering corporal. But the coverman wasn’t there. Hervey felt the cut at his shoulder blade as the chasseur followed through like lightning. There was no pain, just the sensation of blood, and then another chasseur was hacking left and right towards him. Hervey jerked his wrist up, sabre to Bridle Arm Protect. Just in time – the French blade arched down and drove-in his sabre hard, slicing deep into Jessye’s left ear. It would have cut through the headstall had the leather not been doubled with chain; then the bit would have fallen from her mouth and he would have been helpless. He gasped. Another chasseur lunged at him with the point, but Hervey’s coverman swooped from the nearside and dashed the sword from his hand.
And then the French were gone. A dozen dragoons were suddenly by themselves, the flotsam of the clash, the rest of the Sixth three furlongs away dealing terrible destruction to chasseurs and gunners alike, or lying on the ground as lifeless as the scores of Frenchmen and horses. Two of the dragoons nearest him were so blood-soaked he could not name them; another was bent double in the saddle. What did he do now?
‘Mr Hervey, sir!’
His covering corporal had circled and come up behind him again.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Well might he be anxious, for his officer’s bloody back rebuked him for not being in position.
‘I’ll be well, Corporal Toyne.’ Hervey was more determined than certain, for he felt his left arm weakening. But he must appear unperturbed, just as would Sir Edward Lankester.
‘I’m sorry, sir: she ran out as we bent left.’
In truth, Hervey had no sense of dereliction in his coverman. The charge had become a barging race, and he himself had lost the front rank, which he was meant to be supporting. ‘You were there to parry that point, Corporal Toyne. I’m deuced grateful for that.’
He closed to the doubled-up dragoon. ‘What’s wrong, Bunting?’
Private Bunting tried to lift his head.
Hervey saw the blood oozing between the dragoon’s fingers as he clutched his stomach – and the grey matter among the red, a hideous disembowelling. ‘Take him rear, Abbott,’ he said to the man next to him, trying not to betray any hopelessness. Then he turned away while he still had control of his gorge.
‘Hadn’t I better bind up your shoulder, sir?’ asked Corporal Toyne.
Hervey was tempted, but he couldn’t give in, not now. There was fighting still, and no bugle had sounded ‘recall’. ‘We’d better catch up the troop. Form line, Corporal!’
By the time they closed on the rest of the regiment, the fight was over, and Lord George’s trumpeter was blowing the octave leaps for ‘rally’. Hervey found himself strangely composed by the return to order, for it was just as the manual prescribed: When the
shock of the squadron has broken the order of the opposite enemy, part may be ordered to pursue and keep up the advantage; but its great object is instantly to rally and renew its efforts in a body. Yet he was abashed that he rallied from the rear rather than from the front.
However, no one seemed to have missed him. But then, how could anyone know where men were in an affair such as that?
‘Very well, Mr Hervey,’ said Sir Edward, seeing him touch his sword to his lips. His voice was barely raised. ‘Right-mark for the second rank, if you please. Just there will do capitally.’ He nodded to where, then turned his head again. ‘Your jacket, sir, requires attention. See to it as soon as may be!’
Hervey’s mouth fell open. The remark would have stung when first he joined the Sixth, but now, after his Corunna steeling, he recognized his troop-leader’s manner for what it was. An officer might be carried from the field, but otherwise he was to bear his wounds unremarked and preferably unnoticed. Indeed, an officer was never wounded: an officer was hit – like a gamebird. That, at least, was the code of the 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Caroline’s Own). He smiled, helplessly.
When they had retired west of the Portiña, dressed wounds of men and horses alike, mended tackling, refastened shoes, and attended to all the other requirements of a regiment of cavalry that had clashed with a couple of hundred chasseurs and brought in or spiked six guns (and were required to be ready at once to do the same again if needs be), Hervey sat under an olive tree, put his sabretache on his knees and wrote to Wiltshire.
Talavera de la Reina
27th JulyMy dear Dan,I enclose herewith a separate account of our progress to this place, which is the furthest we have advanced eastwards this time. But today we had an affair or two of cavalry, in which the regiment as a whole utterly routed two strong squadrons of Chasseurs à Cheval, and took six guns. Earlier this day I was so close to the Commander-in-Chief that he looked directly at me. He is smaller than I had imagined, compared with Sir John Moore I mean, but very active. He was almost captured, had he not been able to spring so fleet into the saddle! After our affair of the guns, which was by way of covering the retirement of a division of infantry most sorely tried in advance of the city, we crossed the Portina river, a dry stream about a mile to the north of the city, which the Spanish have garrisoned. It is not a little steep sided, about four feet deep, and more in places. One of the dragoons had a fall, his horse broke a leg and he himself has broke his skull, which was very ill luck since he had gone through the skirmish with the chasseurs with not a scratch. We are dismounted now and stood-easy (it is Six, and the sun is still high directly to our rear) amid olive groves, very extensive, so that one might ride to Talavera without showing oneself to the front. They extend half way up the Cerro de Medellin, which is a promontory, affording the same cover therefore. In front of us are the Guards and Col. Kemmis’s brigade, in which are the 40th, where John Ayling is ensign, for whom I was doul at Shrewsbury, and an excellent fellow. He hailed me as we rode in and I shall mess with them later if duties allow. We stand-to at Nine.I did not say that a Frenchman cut Jessye’s ear badly, so that I feared she must lose a part of it, but our veterinary surgeon, John Knight, is so skilled with needle and thread that he has sewed her up admirably . . .
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