An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  The aide-de-camp beckoned for their horses.

  Hervey reckoned they had perhaps an hour and a half to find the commander-in-chief before the light failed; the moon would not be up for four hours and more. He shortened stirrups before mounting: he had stumbled about enough on Salisbury Plain in the dark to know what they might be in for.

  As soon as they descended to the pasture south of the cerro, a terrific musketry opened from the direction of Talavera. The sun was low to their right, but the powder flashes were still vivid. The little party pulled up sharp.

  ‘I think that is our answer, gentlemen,’ said General Hill, calmly. ‘The French are trying to persuade us they will attack tonight on the left, while the real attack is against the Spanish.’

  ‘Will they hold, sir?’ asked Hill’s aide-de-camp.

  ‘Talavera’s a strong enough place, Harry,’ replied the general (audible, just, to Hervey standing four lengths rear). ‘But there’s a mile of open line to the junction with Campbell’s brigade, and Cuesta’s men are unpredictable, frankly. Cuesta himself is unpredictable!’

  Without warning, he dug his spurs into his charger’s flanks; the ADC and escorts had to kick into a fast canter to catch him up. Loyalist began napping as Hervey pressed him hard to follow.

  The shadows were long when they found the commander-in-chief. He was exactly where General Hill had supposed he would be, with the right-flank brigade, Campbell’s, watching calmly as Spanish soldiers poured rear from the line between the redoubt and the city. Hervey saw them, and with some dismay after what General Hill had said. He looked about for Cornet Bruce, but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Ah, Hill, what is the pounding on your flank?’ asked Sir Arthur Wellesley, nodding to the salutation.

  General Hill replaced his bicorn, fore and aft. ‘I cannot rightly make out, Sir Arthur. The batteries on the Cerro de Cascajal are pounding empty ground on the east of the ridge. I came to ask what are your dispositions for the first line, for I can discern nobody yet, not even a picket.’

  The commander-in-chief kept his eyes on the rearward stream of Spanish. ‘Have no fear, General: the Germans will soon be there, and there’ll be a brigade of cavalry in the valley beyond you.’

  ‘In that case I will ride up the line to find them, Sir Arthur – the Germans, I mean.’ He paused, staring now at the Spanish, who continued to pour from the line, although a good many of their comrades stood their ground yet, keeping up a brisk, if ragged, fire. ‘This is a pretty business!’

  ‘It is the most curious affair,’ replied Wellesley, very composed. ‘A great host of French dragoons came up to the trees not a quarter-hour ago and discharged their pistols – to have the Spaniards show themselves, I suppose. And they obliged them handsomely: the whole line blazed away! Well, it is no matter: if they will but fire as well tomorrow, the day is our own!’ He shook his head just perceptibly. ‘But as there seems to be nobody to fire back at just now, I do wish they would stop it.’

  ‘You have sent someone, Sir Arthur?’ asked General Hill.

  ‘No, they are Whittingham’s men. He’ll see them right, I have no doubt. Only look at the ugly hole those fellows have left in my line!’

  It was as plain to them as may be, long shadows or not: there was a gap in the allied line a furlong and more. Hervey reckoned the French must have the sun in their eyes not to see it.

  Brigadier-General Alexander Campbell, in the Government sett of his old regiment, the 74th Highlanders, and sitting astride a tit of a mare that even the commissary would not have looked twice at, could bear it no longer. ‘General, I think I had better take the Seventh there. If those fellows keep running they’ll take the rest with them.’

  ‘No,’ said Wellesley, shaking his head. ‘I shall want the Seventh here soon enough. But I wish you would go to their second line and try to get them to fill it up.’

  Campbell raised his hat and turned his charger. ‘Hill, I’d be glad of another galloper, if you would. I’ve had to send mine with word to the next division.’

  General Hill nodded to Hervey. ‘By all means, Campbell. I shall return to mine. I perceive you will have the fight of it here tomorrow, if not tonight. I wish you well.’

  Hervey was disappointed. He had hoped to learn more of affairs here; it was not every day a cornet might listen on the conversation of the commander-in-chief. He saluted and took off after the brigadier and his major obediently.

  ‘Great heavens!’ cursed Campbell, his nostrils flaring, his eyes wide. In five minutes he had discovered what Sir Arthur Wellesley could not observe. ‘A whole brigade’s worth of them running! The supports have gone as well!’

  Hervey was equally astonished. The scrub, to the rear of the olive groves which marked the front line, was alive with men making west at the double. Many of them had thrown off their hats and downed their muskets. They looked like stags running before hounds.

  Brigadier-General Alexander Campbell was having none of it, despite Wellesley’s caution. He drew his sword and took off at once into the middle of the rout, laying about any man within reach with the flat of it. Hervey and the brigade-major, likewise swords drawn, stuck as close as they could, fearing at any moment a Spaniard would turn on his abuser and shoot him from the saddle.

  The brigade-major all but grabbed at Campbell’s reins. ‘General, it’s no good! We must get help!’

  ‘Damn it, Gorrie, I’ll flay ’em back to their posts! I’ll damn well shoot them to their duty!’ Campbell let his sword drop by its sling and drew his pistols instead.

  Hervey and the brigade-major dutifully drew theirs, Hervey certain it would be his last. There were a thousand Spaniards in musket range, and not all of them had thrown down their arms.

  Campbell fired into the air. A few men checked; others further away, seeing a madman not an adversary, changed direction. He drew a bead on the closest Spaniard still running, and fired. The man fell stone dead.

  There was a split second only to marvel at the marksmanship before a ball whistled past Hervey’s head, then several more. It was pointless trying to find the culprits – there were dozens of muskets levelled at them.

  ‘General, we must run for it!’ the brigade-major insisted.

  There was a sudden and decided fusillade behind them. Hervey turned to see a long line of cavalry approaching, enveloped in smoke.

  ‘Thank God!’ sighed the brigade-major. ‘See, General, the Spaniards have brought up their cavalry.’

  Brigadier-General Campbell, feverishly reloading his pistols, seemed not to have heard.

  ‘General!’

  At last he turned, his face as red as his coat. ‘And not before time,’ he rasped. ‘I’d hang every other man if he were mine!’

  Hervey shifted uneasily in the saddle. While he could admire the general’s courage and determination, the sanguinary rage was more than a little alarming.

  Campbell slapped his mare hard with the flat of his sword – if not quite as hard as the unfortunate Spaniards – and took off as suddenly, almost leaving Hervey with his thoughts. ‘Thank you, Cornet! You may go back to Hill now,’ he called over his shoulder, as if he were dismissing a pilot at the end of a day’s hunting.

  Hervey touched the peak of his Tarleton punctiliously, glanced about gingerly, then inclined left so as to make straight and fast for the Cerro de Medellin.

  By the time he found General Hill’s headquarters – a two-mile ride – it was dark but for the campfires.

  ‘Stand easy, Mr Hervey,’ said the assistant quartermaster-general. ‘The French guns blaze away every so often, but things are quiet. Keep your horse saddled, though.’

  ‘Yes, sir. General Hill might wish to hear that the Spanish are getting back into their place on the right flank.’

  ‘Very well, I shall inform him.’

  Hervey turned and went to look for Private Sykes. In a division of infantry he knew it ought not to be too difficult to find a man with a horse, but the night was now so black that it was
difficult to make out anything more than half a dozen paces away.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Is that you, Sykes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I heard Loyalist blowing. There’s coffee over here, sir. Picket’s got a brew on all night.’

  ‘That would be welcome indeed, Sykes.’ He glanced over his shoulder to fix exactly the general’s campfire in case he were summoned.

  ‘I wondered where you was, sir, when the gen’ral came back.’

  Hervey smiled, ruefully. ‘I think in the despatches it might say “liaison with our allies”.’

  ‘Sir?’

  As Sykes took Loyalist, there was a sudden musketry due east – three hundred yards, perhaps four. Hervey grabbed the reins again and began running back to General Hill’s headquarters.

  The general was already giving orders to Colonel Stewart, his second brigadier. ‘Yours to the support of Low’s brigade, then—’

  The firing ceased as abruptly as it had started. General Hill waited for several minutes before changing his mind.

  ‘Very well, Stewart: as you were. A false alarm. These Germans fire too readily. You may go back to your brigade, but keep a sharp watch.’

  The brigadier took his leave.

  ‘Mr Hervey?’ said the general, peering at him in the light of a good blaze.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Thank you for your report. Have you taken coffee since coming back?’

  ‘No, sir, I was—’

  The firing began again, but from atop the crest this time, the flashes quite clear.

  General Hill growled. ‘The old Buffs, as usual making some blunder! I do wish these fellows would contain themselves better. Fetch my horse, please.’

  An orderly brought him his black gelding and helped him into the saddle.

  ‘I’d better go and put them right. They’ll have lost all direction, I fancy.’

  Hervey clambered astride Loyalist while General Hill and one of the brigade-majors took off as if it were daylight. He had the devil of a job keeping with them, Loyalist napping again, wanting his head in the pitch blackness.

  Four hundred yards at a fast go, and uphill, and the general shouting, ‘Cease firing there, you men! You face the wrong way! Cease firing!’ Hervey could only wonder at the impulsiveness of infantry generals: they made the cavalry’s work that day seem timid by comparison.

  The firing suddenly faltered. Loyalist started as black shapes loomed.

  One grabbed the general’s reins. ‘Se rend, monsieur! ’

  Hervey drew his sword, spurred at him and cut hard on the offside. There was a cry and the black shape fell.

  ‘Away!’ yelled Hill, hauling on the reins.

  They dug in their spurs for dear life. Shots followed left and right. Hervey lay low across Loyalist’s neck and prayed they wouldn’t stumble. He didn’t see the brigade-major fall, nor the musket ball strike the general’s horse.

  Down the slope they hurtled – four hundred yards, rats running in his stomach as fast.

  ‘Stand to!’ bellowed Hill as they galloped in. ‘Stewart, your brigade at once, please! Open column of companies! I’ve no notion where the Germans or Low’s men are, but the French have the crest!’

  Colonel Stewart began barking orders as General Hill dismounted. Hervey made to follow, but the general had other intentions. ‘Find Wellesley and tell him what’s up, Hervey!’

  It was a simple enough order, but devilish difficult. Where was Wellesley? Would he still be with Campbell’s brigade on the far flank? Surely not, if the situation had quietened there? Yet Campbell would know where he had gone next – that was something. Would he even be able to find the flank brigade, though? It was pitch dark, and there were two hours to moonrise. And he had not yet been about a battlefield at night, with nervous sentries firing before a challenge. This was not like Corunna. He must think very carefully.

  He decided to descend the ridge riding due south – at least the sky was clear and he could see his stars – and then strike due east until he found the second line. Someone there must know where was the commander-in-chief.

  They scrambled down the ridge, Loyalist choosing his footing carefully. They made the bottom without too much trouble, striking left and east at the olive groves and following the tree-line for a furlong and more until the groves began climbing the side of the cerro, so that Hervey knew he was near the line. Then he took a fix on a good star due east, and pushed on into the trees. He heard firing on the heights above him, and prayed it was ‘Daddy’ Hill’s men worsting the French. Could it be otherwise?

  After five long minutes he found the rear of what he reckoned must be the Third Division. ‘Galloper!’ he called. ‘Second Division galloper!’

  ‘Here, sir!’ answered a picket-serjeant, lofting a torch. ‘Second Twenty-fourth.’

  Hervey jumped down thankfully: here was an NCO who knew his business. ‘General Mackenzie’s division, are you?’

  ‘His brigade, sir. The general’s been here this very minute.’

  The Twenty-fourth’s picket-officer came up. ‘What is the firing, do you know?’

  ‘The French are on the ridge,’ replied Hervey, nodding left. ‘Do you know where General Mackenzie is?’

  ‘With the lieutenant-colonel, I think. I’ll take you.’ He held out a hand. ‘Davies.’

  ‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, galloping for General Hill.’

  ‘A horse-holder if you please, Serjeant Allott,’ said Ensign Davies.

  Hervey handed Loyalist’s reins to one of the picket, though not without hesitation. It was the maxim of the prudent soldier never to be parted from his kit, and the horse was the cavalryman’s kit, sine quo non. But he could hardly trail through a battalion of infantry at night leading a charger.

  * * *

  Ensign Davies was sure-footed about the olive groves. It was not long before they found the Twenty-fourth’s lieutenant-colonel, General Mackenzie with him. Davies stood to attention, and saluted. ‘Picket-officer, sir. A galloper from the Second Division.’

  General Mackenzie turned. ‘What is the alarm up there?’

  Hervey saluted. ‘The French have the summit of the ridge, sir. General Hill is driving them off. He has sent me to find the commander-in-chief, sir.’

  ‘He went there the minute the firing began.’

  Hervey checked himself, somehow disbelieving that Sir Arthur Wellesley had been ascending the cerro as he himself had been descending. He almost asked, ‘Are you sure?’ Instead he saluted again. ‘With your leave, sir.’

  The general nodded. ‘My compliments to General Hill. He shall have my best support on his flank.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Hervey picked his way back with Ensign Davies, easier now that his mission was accomplished – or, rather, obviated. ‘You had hot work of it this afternoon,’ he tried.

  ‘We did, by God! You saw?’ replied Davies, sounding as if he would go again this instant.

  ‘We were on your left flank.’

  ‘I did not see it. I did not see anything but smoke and shot. You fellows have the better view of things astride.’

  Hervey hoped he did not mean they merely looked on, especially since things would have gone so much the harder with the Twenty-fourth had the Sixth not charged. But it was scarcely the time to put him to rights about that. ‘The work of cavalry is for the most part unobserved,’ he consoled himself.

  Loyalist was waiting quietly as they got back to the picket’s fire. Hervey took the reins and thanked the holder, a private man who looked surprised to be addressed directly. Then he turned to Ensign Davies again. It was a strange feeling, for he knew there was every chance he would not see him again: an ensign in the centre of the line during a general action would face a great deal of metal. ‘I hope you have a quiet night. And good fortune for the morrow.’ He held out a hand.

  Davies took it. If he feared for the morrow he did not – would not – show it. ‘As long as we have powder enough it will be well. Come and dine with us a
fterwards.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Thank you. I shall.’ He climbed into the saddle (Loyalist preferred him not to vault, as Jessye allowed), touched his peak, and turned back the way he had come.

  The moon was an hour and more away yet, but the sky was lightening. When Hervey found the same tree-line he had taken east, he squeezed Loyalist to a trot – quick, but in-hand. The horse started napping again, and Hervey began wishing he had taken Jessye instead. Loyalist had done him well in the gallop on the cerro, but there was no surety in a charger half trained, and picking about the army in the middle of the night was not a thing to be doing with a nappy gelding. The musketry atop the cerro was increasing. There would be nothing he could do, but his every instinct was to gallop there. Loyalist sensed it and broke into a canter. Hervey would not allow it, though, checking with rein and leg until the horse was back in-hand again. Half trained Loyalist may be, but there was no excuse for bad manners. But he lengthened the stride a fraction: General Hill might have more duties for him – he ought not to delay beyond a safe moment.

  In a few minutes more he saw the open pasture. Then he heard the crack as Loyalist squealed and faltered. He pulled up at once and sprang from the saddle. Loyalist stood calmly as Hervey felt around the impaling: twelve inches of olive branch the diameter of a musket ball stuck-out from just beneath the sternum like a bolt from a crossbow. How deep it had gone he could not know, but blood was already oozing from the wound. He realized there must be force to it, for the entry was clean, no tearing.

  What could he do? Could he find John Knight? Where was the regiment? If he left the shaft in, would it help staunch the flow? But what damage did it do inside? If only John Knight were here . . .

  He must pull out the shaft. The surgeon always removed a missile. That was the way, was it not? Thank God Loyalist stood calm! Perhaps, then, the damage was not so great? But then, when he got the shaft out – and he must have it all out, and cleanly – he must staunch the bleeding somehow. How could he do it without someone to hold Loyalist still? And he had nothing but his blanket to staunch with. Perhaps if he cut it up . . .