An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  Loyalist was grunting now, but he stood motionless. Hervey slashed the blanket into handy rags with his sabre. When he was done he felt the wound again. The blood was copious. He was sure the shaft had gone deep. And now it was wet and he would not have the purchase on it . . .

  Should he pull fast or slow? If he pulled fast it might break; if slow, Loyalist might shift with the pain and break it anyway. He dried his palms as best he could, looped the reins round his right arm and grasped the shaft with both hands. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered, then drew firmly and evenly, praying it would come out in one.

  Loyalist grunted but stood stock-still. Hervey felt the point of the shaft anxiously: it was sharp – it hadn’t broken inside. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. But a good six inches had penetrated. If four inches would kill a man, it did not take a horse anatomist to understand the damage.

  Blood was running freely now. Hervey pressed the rags into the wound as best he could, but at once they were soaked through, so that in a few minutes he had used every piece of his blanket. The horse was becoming unsteady on his feet; Hervey had to lean hard against him. In a few minutes more, Loyalist dropped to his knees; the hocks followed soon after, and then he rolled to his left side, breathing shallow.

  Nothing Hervey could do would staunch the blood. Could John Knight have done anything? Knight could clamp a vein or an artery – he had seen him do it – but how could he here? He couldn’t see anything, even if he had had clamps – or even a knife to make an incision. All he could do was kneel by Loyalist’s head as his lifeblood emptied into the earth. There was musketry all about the cerro, men dying alone in the dark; he did not think about them, only that a noble animal like Loyalist should not die ignobly or alone. He thought to finish things with a pistol, but there had been enough of that at Corunna (and the shot would likely raise alarm with General Mackenzie’s brigade). No, there would be no ball in the brains, for Loyalist was not in pain; that was evident. He must stay by his side, reassuring, until the time.

  In half an hour Loyalist was quite still; there was no more breathing. Hervey struggled with the lump in his throat, and cursed. There was nothing he could do now but salvage what furniture he may and make his way back to the cerro. There he would take Sykes’s trooper and send his groom back to the Sixth for Jessye. The moon would be up soon: Sykes ought not to have too hard a time of it. He envied him, indeed, for what was there for a cornet to do in the thick of night among infantry? There hadn’t even been need of him to fetch the commander-in-chief. He swore. Galloper duty, the cornet’s thrill, had been a pointless affair. But that, he knew (because first Daniel Coates, and then Joseph Edmonds, had told him), was one half of the true nature of war – a terrible, pointless wasting. He cursed again, and stopped struggling with the lump in his throat.

  And he had thought himself steeled by Corunna!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WORK OF CAVALRY

  Next morning, 28 July 1809

  A hand shook his shoulder, roughly. ‘Reveille!’

  Hervey had sweated through the day before, and through the night, but now he shivered, his instinct to pull the cloak about his shoulders again. He sat up. The moon had set, but the sky was lightening in the east: it would be full dawn inside half an hour. He had slept for three hours, perhaps, and he ached for more. His shoulder throbbed. The wound had been nothing, but the stitching had been rough. He was hungry, too. He had with him some liquorice sticks and a flask of brandy, nothing else. The supply animals had not come up by the time he had left for the Second Division, and General Hill’s infantrymen had no rations to spare. But the night’s alarms had thrown everything into confusion; it looked as if no one on the Cerro de Medellin would fight his battle today on a full stomach – or even half of one.

  He got up, folded his cloak and started to saddle the little trooper Sykes had handed over to him. Trixie, his groom had called her, after his sister. Poor Sykes: he had drawn the mare only the day before, John Knight having cast his post-Corunna remount on account of bog spavin. Loyalist had been almost a hand higher, but Trixie was sturdy enough, and steady, reckoned Hervey. She stood loosely tethered where he had slept, calmly cropping the rough grass. Her belly at least would be filled, even if with poorish fodder. He was relieved that Loyalist’s saddle fitted well, and he managed to get the girth and surcingle tight without the biting that some of the older troopers were prone to. She even lifted her head for the bit. A very tractable mare, she was. It pleased him, drawing the sting of the night somewhat. He hoped she was as handy.

  He buckled on his sword, tidied himself – ablutions waited until stand-down – checked the girth again and climbed into the saddle. She stood still for him, a good sign; he flexed the bit, she dropped her head nicely, and he squeezed his legs just a fraction. She answered well. Hervey had no idea of her provenance – even if she were country-bred – but he was relieved at her quality: he did not fancy seeing out his duty with the Second Division astride a screw. He was only surprised she had passed into the riding-master’s hands and then out again.

  He saluted the AQMG and nodded his ‘good morning’ to an aide-de-camp he had not seen before. General Hill was just mounting, so he halted at a respectful distance with his dawn thoughts. The sky was no longer black but grey, the urgent time when the minutes seemed to race. When daylight came, the country would be exactly as yesterday, the lie of the land unaltered in a single detail. But the enemy had not been inactive during the night: what would be the scene before them? How many French would be drawn up ready to attack? How many guns would there be on the Cerro de Cascajal? More, for sure, than the British disposed here.

  Half a dozen other mounted figures now rode up. Hervey strained to see who. He braced as he recognized the profile of the commander-in-chief, cloaked and wearing a bicorn. What had kept him here the night? Had the Cerro de Medellin been in such peril that the commander-in-chief had kept vigil while he himself slept? He felt a sudden guilt; but, then, no one had told him to do other than sleep. No one, indeed, had told him anything at all. Or had Sir Arthur Wellesley come up to the cerro for the dawn stand-to? In which case it could only mean that it was here he expected the French to show themselves first. Hervey felt the thrill of a man discovering he was unexpectedly in the place of decision.

  It was so obvious, now that he thought about it: here was the place to see the battlefield, not down among the olive groves. Here, the commander-in-chief could direct his battle, seeing the moves the French made, judging which were real and which were feints, speeding gallopers this way and that with his orders. But Hervey supposed he would see none of it, for his own orders were to return to the Sixth as soon as daylight was come. Could he do so without General Hill’s leave? But could he remain here longer without incurring his troop-leader’s wrath? There would be nothing for the cavalry to do until the infantry had clashed. In any case, had not the order gone out for the cavalry brigades to forage after dawn? He would hardly be missed in foraging . . .

  He could not yet make out the hands of his watch face; by the look of the sky, he reckoned it must be half-past the hour, perhaps even a quarter-to, for first light was at five. And at first light a white horse was grey, not black: the staff dragoon’s with Sir Arthur Wellesley, now, was black (if, of course, it was the same animal he had seen yesterday). First light was the time when the routine of the night – pickets, sentries, sleep – changed to that of the day, when regiments mustered and stood-to their arms, when the pickets and sentries came in, when general actions began. He calculated that it would be two hours and more before the first dragoon drew his sabre to cut anything but grass. He hoped fervently that General Hill would not dismiss him now, therefore.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley and General Hill moved off with their staff towards the eastern crest of the cerro. Hervey followed hesitantly, expecting at any moment to be told to rejoin his regiment.

  One of the aides-de-camp, a lieutenant from General Hill’s own regiment, rode up alongside him. ‘Was it
you with the general last night?’

  Hervey was cautious, uncertain of the ADC’s purpose. ‘If you mean when the French first attacked, yes.’

  ‘Then I am especially pleased to make your acquaintance. Gartside, Ninetieth,’ said the ADC, holding out a hand.

  Hervey took it. ‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons.’

  ‘The general owes his liberty to you, I understand, if not his life.’

  In truth, he had not given it much thought, such was his dismay at losing Loyalist. ‘It was a close shave, I own. I am sorry for your major, though. He must have been hit by a ball as we galloped home.’

  ‘He was dead when we found him. I’m only sorry I was not with you: the general had sent me to Tilson’s brigade for their evening state, which we’d not had.’

  Hervey nodded in commiseration. ‘What I don’t understand is why we were surprised. How had the French passed through the first line? And with scarcely a shot?’

  ‘There wasn’t a first line, not to speak of. The brigades had been posted very ill.’

  ‘I imagine they’re better posted now?’

  ‘Indeed. Wellesley and the general were abroad for two hours after we pushed the French off the ridge. Both our brigades are now forward. Tilson’s is right, on the crest, and Stewart’s left so the French can’t envelop the wing. There’s supposed to be a brigade of cavalry in the valley over yonder to support him, but I don’t know who.’

  Neither did Hervey. Cotton’s, with which the Sixth were brigaded, were covering the junction with the Spanish on the right, and Fane’s heavies would surely be needed in the centre? ‘Anson’s, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, when they show, no doubt one of us will be sent to them. But I should say, the general spoke very favourably of you, you know – after the skirmish last night, I mean. There’ll be a promotion in it.’

  Hervey was flattered, if doubtful. ‘Really, Gartside, it was nothing out of the ordinary. We must have made two dozen cuts apiece in the Sixth yesterday afternoon!’

  Lieutenant Gartside put a hand to Hervey’s shoulder. ‘My dear sir, we all of us know the work of cavalry goes unobserved. When it comes to promotion, one cut in the right place is worth a hundred out of sight. Be pleased you have made both sorts!’

  Hervey was still doubtful, but he would hope. If it did not bring promotion, it might at least serve his reputation when it came to the court martial and Daly.

  Ten minutes later, with the sun flushed up, Lieutenant Gartside pronounced his final words on the matter. ‘See, Hervey: those are the fellows who will give us our opportunity!’

  The sun was full in their eyes, but Hervey could make out the French well enough. Opposite the Second Division, on the Cerro de Cascajal, were more guns than he had ever seen. He took out his telescope to observe. The gunners were standing to attention by their pieces, as if all was ready and waiting for the command ‘fire’. He scanned right, to the low ground the other side of the Portiña. Regiments of blue-coated infantry stood facing the British line as far as the redoubt at the junction with the Spanish, all ranked in column of battalions for the attack, guns to the fore. Behind them were cavalry in numbers he could not begin to calculate. Corunna looked but a skirmish compared with this! The rats in his stomach began running again.

  Lieutenant Gartside beckoned him further forward until they drew close to one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ADCs. ‘Gordon, my dear fellow!’

  A captain, four or five years Hervey’s senior, no more, wearing the uniform of the Third Guards, turned in the saddle. ‘Gartside – good morning.’

  To Hervey, he sounded as cool as the commander-in-chief looked.

  ‘I heard you were come out,’ said Lieutenant Gartside, with an easy smile. And then he looked at him more intently. ‘My dear Gordon, are you quite well?’

  ‘The devil, I am, Gartside. I’ve not been well since leaving Lisbon. Something has taken hold of me, and I wish it would leave go!’

  ‘I am sorry for it. It’s deuced noble that you should turn out, feeling so out of sorts. May I present Cornet Hervey, of the Sixth.’

  The ADC turned further in the saddle, and nodded. ‘How d’ye do, sir.’

  Hervey touched his peak.

  ‘Gordon was with Sir David Baird at Corunna,’ explained Gartside.

  Hervey at once knew all. Baird had been Moore’s deputy at Corunna. This was the Gordon who had taken the victory despatch to London, and got a brevet for it. It ought to have been another’s honour, they had all said, since Baird himself had been carried from the field early in the day, and General Hope had seen the battle to its end. But Baird had insisted that his nephew take the despatch – and, no doubt, had arranged this appointment to Sir Arthur Wellesley, too. But Hervey was not disposed to dislike a man merely for his good fortune. After all, Captain the Honourable Alexander Gordon had paraded this morning, in the most evident discomfort, and that said something of his quality, did it not?

  Gartside was not deterred by either Gordon’s reserve or Hervey’s. He knew the one well enough, and was already coming to like the other. ‘Gordon, are you able to tell us what are the army’s dispositions? We came up here last evening and saw nothing.’

  Captain Gordon, while keeping a sharp eye on the commander-in-chief, was happy to oblige his old-schoolfellow. It was simply explained, he said. From their vantage point, here on the Cerro de Medellin, they could see the mile of British line along the Portiña clearly enough – and with a good telescope they could see the Spanish, too, three-quarters the distance again to the walls of Talavera. The junction was guarded by the bastion of Pajar de Vergara and its batteries (Hervey had seen it the evening before) and the divisions were formed, conveniently alphabetical, right to left from the bastion to the cerro: Campbell’s on the right, then Mackenzie’s, then Sherbrooke’s; and then Hill’s on the left flank. Two brigades of cavalry – Fane’s and Cotton’s – would stand in the centre of the second line between Mackenzie’s division and Hill’s, while Anson’s was ordered to the north valley.

  ‘I am very much obliged, Gordon,’ said Gartside, turning to Hervey.

  Hervey imagined himself as well served now as any galloper in the army. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain Gordon.’

  The ADC turned and looked at him. ‘Was it you who cut out Hill last night?’

  Hervey was surprised the news had travelled. ‘It was.’

  The ADC nodded, and with just a suggestion of a smile. ‘Then you did the army a service, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

  A thunder-blast of cannon seemed to rock the entire cerro. Then came the whistling-buzzing shot, tearing the air about them, pounding the forward slope and throwing up fountains of earth, showering the commander-in-chief’s party with sods and stones – and worse. A bloody arm fell in front of Hervey, its fingers stretched out like a fan. Instinctively, for it was the way Joseph Edmonds had trained them (and to take his eyes from the disembodied limb), he took out his watch: it was twenty minutes past five o’clock.

  The redcoated battalions of the forward brigade swayed visibly under the bombardment – thirty guns were firing, by the ADCs’ common reckoning. But the batteries were now joined by others further down the slopes of the Cerro de Cascajal, so that soon there was a continuous fire, and all concentrated on the eastern end of the long ridge of the Cerro de Medellin.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley turned to General Hill. ‘Very well, have them withdraw behind the crest and lie down. But have the light companies hold their ground: I must have skirmishers to break up the columns when they advance.’

  General Hill had taken the precaution of having the brigade-majors join him for stand-to. He nodded to them, no words necessary, then he touched his hat as the commander-in-chief spurred off to inspect his other divisions.

  Smoke drifted across the valley of the Portiña, obscuring their view of the batteries, but likewise spoiling the gunners’ aim. General Hill sat coolly astride his black gelding on the reverse slope, far enough behind the crest for protection,
but, standing in his stirrups, able to observe the movement of the French – and his light companies. After twenty minutes without flinching in the storm of shot, he snapped shut his telescope suddenly, and scowled. ‘The French have excess of fortune this morning. So many guns firing blind and still telling! And every shot thickening the smoke. I can no longer see the light companies!’

  ‘Recall them, General?’ asked his AQMG.

  ‘Ay, George; let us have them in. And quick about it.’

  The AQMG reined about and repeated the order to the brigade-majors.

  In less than a minute the regimental buglers were sounding ‘retire’. As a rule, General Hill did not permit field orders to be passed by bugle. The drill book was emphatic on the matter: Signals are improper in exercise, because dangerous and apt to be mistaken in service. Except that in his experience signals were rarely mistaken by the enemy! But what alternative did he have this morning, with so much smoke? This morning he did not mind by what means his skirmishers were recalled. If the French heard the urgent, repeated Gs, so be it! The light companies would be sure to.

  Ten minutes later, Hervey saw the first men filing home through the blackening smoke, arms sloped, regular as if on parade.

  General Hill exploded. ‘Damn their filing! Let them come in anyhow!’

  Lieutenant Gartside blinked. ‘I do believe that is the first time I have heard the general swear.’

  With so severe a cannonade, Hervey could not but imagine the general had cause.

  Then, in a few minutes more, the fire abruptly ceased. The only sound was of the wounded, and these remarkably composed. After such thunder, the silence was eerie. Hervey felt his stomach tighten.

  ‘There can only be one reason,’ said Hill, standing tall in the stirrups, and shielding his eyes from the already strong sun as he peered into the smoke. ‘The gunners’ll not be able to see their own men. Their infantry must be half-way to the top.’