Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey, indeed, had felt a good deal of shame at his first thoughts (that he wished it had been Cornet Daly instead). That was a part of his news that he could not impart to Wiltshire, either to his family or to Daniel Coates. For Talavera, for all that the steeples might be rocking in England now, had not been the occasion for amnesty: the court martial merely awaited opportunity. Hervey’s pleasure in going into quarters at Badajoz was therefore greatly tempered by the knowledge that at last there was the opportunity.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AN OFFICER’S WORD

  Badajoz, evening, Innocents’ Day, 1826

  Hervey looked at the letter from Elvas again. It had been in his hand not a quarter of an hour, but it was intriguing him the more with each minute. The veiled speech and the knowledge that it was not the writer’s mother tongue – although as fine as ever he would expect to read from someone whose first language was not English – was increasing his doubts.

  Elvas

  28th December

  My Dear Friend,

  It pains me greatly that ten whole days have passed since your noble act, and yet you are still confined. I assure you, as I have each time, that I do not spare myself in seeking your return to Elvas in accordance with what I trust are your wishes. I am comforted to know that you are well treated, as I would expect of our great neighbour, Spain. These are confounding times, and I pray that proper relations shall be restored before long between two countries which are of one Catholic heart.

  Hervey shook his head again as he re-read the sentiment. He recognized both the sincerity and the need to assure the censor – to engage his sympathy, even – but the words, truly, were too finely crafted, even for Dom Mateo, though he had no reason to suppose the letter was not his. In any case, the news it brought, heartening as it was, could scarcely have been from another, even if the singular puzzle over the identity of the ‘fellow of long acquaintance’ would now vex him. At least the identity of the other arrival at Elvas could be in no doubt:

  I am overjoyed to tell you that unofficial and friendly emissaries from Lisbon have arrived here this very hour. The one who has connections here, and in whose company we first made our acquaintance, shall be of exceptional assistance on account of family. The other is a fellow of long acquaintance to you, in a position of some authority and influence now. But more I cannot say until the greater comings are made generally known, for to do so might tempt hasty action, or diminish the consequence at the highest level.

  So, Isabella Delgado was in Elvas! Hervey felt more reassured than he had in days. Why, he would have been hard put to say; except that there was about Isabella a great air of capability and judgement, as well as connections with the bishop’s palace in Elvas, which in turn meant connections in Badajoz – perhaps even in Madrid. However, such an oblique reference to the identity of the second arrival could suggest no name to him more likely than any other, except the mention of authority and influence. ‘Authority’ ruled out Kat. Thank God, for Kat’s charms and talents did not seem to him well matched to the frontier. There were any number of officers who might answer to the description, especially since he had no idea of the magnitude of the authority and influence Dom Mateo had in mind. There were generals, indeed, who might feel some slight obligation to him. But could a general be an ‘unofficial’ emissary? He thought not.

  ‘The greater comings’ was maddeningly ambiguous. Hervey saw perfectly well that the words could refer to the visit of senior officials (and with that, public humiliation and the Horse Guards’ discipline). But might they refer to comings to Portugal, rather than to Elvas? And might ‘greater’ mean greater in number rather than rank? In other words, had a British army landed in Lisbon?

  Dr Sanchez came about six. Hervey did not know if he had seen the letter (Sanchez had brought all the others, but this one had come by an orderly – which had first put Hervey on his guard somewhat). He thought to judge his moment before revealing its receipt or contents.

  They sat down to wine, the physician in distinctly good spirits.

  ‘You know, Major Hervey, I have been thinking about Talavera since you recounted it to me. I believe I must have seen your regiment that day. The Duke of Albuquerque’s corps stood in the valley north of the ridge you spoke of. I confess I recall it very well, in fact, since I was astonished – and I was not alone in that sentiment – that our corps made no move.’ Sanchez shook his head, not pained, but evidently embarrassed. ‘But what did I know, a mere regimental surgeon? And it was a long time ago.’

  To Hervey, it was not a long time. A year ago he might have thought so, perhaps, but not now, not cloistered, incarcerated – whatever might be the word – in Badajoz. He was troubled by the good doctor’s perspective. If he were to enlist his help, he had to persuade him that the alliance of their two countries was of recent mind – continuing, indeed. In fact, he had to convince him that the two of them were men of one body.

  He believed he could, for the sense of obligation to one who had shared the dangers of that day at Talavera would be profound in a man of Sanchez’s manifest sensibility. Sanchez, the regimental surgeon, may have carried a scalpel rather than a sabre, but he was of the ‘Yellow Circle’ still.

  His very next words appeared to prove it. ‘You did not say what of your wound. I imagine it was but superficial?’

  Hervey smiled. ‘The shoulder blade prevented the sword from cutting too deep. Our surgeon said I was lucky, although I did not feel it, for it hurt like hell, and I could hardly flex my rein-arm for days after.’

  ‘I imagine there to be no ill effects now?’

  ‘No, none at all. Indeed, it was all quite better before we reached Badajoz.’ As he said it, he felt the smile turn hapless.

  Sanchez nodded. ‘Until you reached here. Just so. But not for the last time, of course.’ He looked saddened.

  Hervey imagined he knew the cause. His own remembrance of Badajoz, in spite of the pleasant days they had had on first reaching the city, was hardly agreeable. Some of the later memories haunted him yet. Sanchez’s own memories, even if hearsay, would be infinitely worse: four sieges (the first French, the others British), and the terrible final storming. It was not to be recalled. But – and here was the gamble – Hervey judged that it might serve his purpose to do so, for the very horror of the final storming of Badajoz might touch something deep in a medical man. It would be risky reminding a proud Spaniard of his ally’s depredations. But, as Sanchez himself had said, it was a long time ago. He might not recall too well the details; he might not even have been there.

  ‘Would you take more wine with me, doctor?’

  Sanchez nodded. ‘I would.’

  He had appeared to hesitate, as if overcoming a prohibition. Hervey sensed his purpose working out.

  ‘Major Hervey, there is something I should speak of.’

  ‘Yes, doctor?’ Was this the moment Sanchez would pledge himself?

  Sanchez sighed, sounding heavy-hearted. ‘I am distressed to tell you this . . . I had hoped it not necessary . . . I . . .’

  Hervey was now uneasy. ‘Speak, doctor; let us have the worst!’

  ‘Major Hervey, the authorities here are talking of bringing you before a military tribunal.’

  Hervey’s jaw dropped. ‘On what charge?’

  Sanchez shook his head again. ‘I do not know. I heard mention of . . . espionage.’

  Hervey did not reply. The outcome of such a trial, if unfavourable, was known to them both well enough. He felt his spirits plummeting like a stone into a deep, dark well. A military tribunal at Badajoz: the wheel had come full circle. Nothing could be more painful to a soldier’s pride than to be arraigned before a military court. He had never spoken of the first time, with anyone – not with Daniel Coates, nor even with Henrietta. In a pocket of his writing case there was, still, a sheet of paper, a convening order for a court martial seventeen years old – his age, almost, at the time of its signing. He did not rightly know why he kept it. His penance, perh
aps. But had he not redeemed himself a hundred times since then? A military tribunal – a court martial: the wheel had, indeed, come full circle, and he dreaded being broken on it.

  COURT MARTIAL

  A General Court Martial shall convene at Badajoz on the 10th day of September, 1809, in pursuance of a warrant from Lieut.-General Sir A. Wellesley, commanding his Majesty’s Forces in Spain, to hear charges against Cornets M. P. Hervey and F. K. Daly, both of his Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Caroline’s Own).

  PRESIDENT,

  Colonel Sir JOHN PATTINSON, Bart.

  MEMBERS,

  Lieut.-Col. J. A. CHATTERTON, C.B. 3rd Drag. Guards.

  Brevet-Major C. TOWER, R. Artillery.

  Major P. MITCHELL, 4th Reg.

  Capt. A. J. APLIN, 88th Reg.

  Capt. F. HAWKINS, 88th Reg.

  Capt. WARBURTON GREY, R. Engineers.

  Capt. J. S. SECCOMBE, R. Artillery.

  Capt. the Honbl. F. PURDON, 7th Reg.

  Lieut. R. J. INCE, 60th (Royal Americans).

  Lieut. W. PODMORE, R. Artillery.

  Lieut. C. ZWICKY, 97th Reg.

  Lieut. A. J. NEWTON, 48th Reg.

  JUDGE MARTIAL

  DAVID JENKYNS, Esq.

  Deputy Judge Advocate General.

  As the regulations required, Hervey and Daly had been placed in close arrest the evening before the court assembled, though each separately. They were not incarcerated, rather were they confined to quarters in agreeable houses near the Las Palmas gate, close to the convent that would serve as the court. But it did not go well with either man to have his liberty suspended: Hervey felt the deepest humiliation at having Cornet Laming sit the evening with him as escort, while Daly fulminated against ‘the ungentlemanlike refusal to accept his parole’.

  In the morning they dressed in best regimentals, but without sword, belt or headdress, which were carried instead by the escorts. At the convent, Hervey met his defending officer, Lieutenant Martyn, and walked with him to an ante-chamber to wait for the court to assemble. Cornet Daly was already there. He made no sign of greeting, looking straight ahead, so that when they were asked to form up ready to march into court, Hervey found himself taking position in front of him, as his marginal seniority demanded, with added discomfort.

  One pace behind Hervey was Laming, however, a reassuring thought if not an altogether happy one. ‘Prisoner, attenshun.’

  Laming said it so softly that Hervey barely heard. ‘Be a good fellow and speak up,’ he said, turning his head to the side.

  In doing so he saw Serjeant Treve, who had been orderly quartermaster the night of the incident, waiting to be called in evidence. John Knight was standing nearby, too, and Private Brayshaw, his assistant, and the orderly corporal of that night, and the inlying picket-commander, and several dragoons who had been on guard – all waiting to give evidence. Inside the court, he knew, there would be spectators, from the regiment and from the army. He felt sick with shame.

  ‘Prisoner, quick-march.’

  Hervey, prisoner: it was scarcely to be borne. He had done his duty, and it was come to this. When would they hear of it in Wiltshire, or at his school? The ignominy stretched before him like the open sea.

  ‘Halt.’

  Again, Laming could hardly bring himself to breathe the word of command. Hervey halted by some instinct rather than obedience.

  Behind them, Cornet Wyllie from C Troop, Daly’s escort, gave the commands very decidedly.

  Hervey looked directly at the president. He did not know Colonel Pattinson, as was only right, but he had heard of him. He had been with Sir John Moore at Shorncliffe and had a reputation for discipline, if not quite of the ferocity of General Craufurd. He wore his bicorn low on his brow, betokening, thought Hervey, an angry disposition towards the proceedings. He could have no objection to the colonel’s being president, however, though that was his right, as it was Daly’s too.

  He looked at the other officers in turn, twelve of them, making thirteen in all, the minimum required for a general court martial. The junior member was Newton, lieutenant of the 48th (Northamptonshire), the regiment that had done more than any to save the day at Talavera. What would he make of a quarrel between cornets of light dragoons – an affair of peacocks? Next was Zwicky, from the 97th (Queen’s Germans); what might his notions of high honour make of the conduct of two British officers? The other two lieutenants, Podmore in the blue of the Royal Artillery, and Ince in the green of the Sixtieth’s rifle battalion, he imagined would think much the same. The captains, three in red, two in blue, looked as if they would share the opinion, but more vehemently. Hawkins, second of the two Connaught captains, had a raw powder-burn across his nose and left cheek, vivid evidence of a fighting disposition. What would he care for a brawl in the horse lines, safe behind the infantry’s pickets? Would he know that the Sixth had had their share of fighting too, had gone hard at the French time and again, first with Moore and now with Wellesley? It was the old trouble – the work of cavalry, light cavalry especially, went unseen for the most part. It was too easy to think of them trotting here and there looking as if they were off to escort the Prince of Wales at Brighton. No one had seen them on the march to Corunna, though they had held the French cavalry at bay and bought the infantry precious time. But they had not been there when Sir John Moore had finally given battle, for he had sent his cavalry rear. There was nothing to earn the contempt of a soldier more than to be absent from a battle.

  Captain the Honourable F. Purdon, 7th Foot, the Royal Fuzileers, a peer’s son from (it was said) Sir Arthur Wellesley’s favourite regiment: what would he make of a drunken squireen and a parson’s son who resorted to his fists? The Sixth’s reputation would be tarnished, whatever the outcome. And the tarnishing would be under the gaze of their new commanding officer: Lord George Irvine was taking his seat behind the prosecuting officer’s table.

  Hervey now glanced at the two majors. They looked every bit as severe as Joseph Edmonds. Finally, he turned his eyes to the lieutenant-colonel, the only cavalryman, from the quartermastergeneral’s department of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s staff. He presumed the exclusion of any other was deliberate, perhaps because it was difficult to find anyone who did not know something of the affair; perhaps because another officer of light dragoons might be prejudiced in his opinion.

  The president broke the silence. He read out the warrants for the convening of the court martial, then turned his gaze directly on the accused. ‘Do either of the prisoners have objection to me or to any other member of the officers here assembled for the purpose of trying the cases before the court?’ He addressed the question directly to the two defending officers.

  Lieutenant Martyn, standing to Hervey’s right, turned to him for an answer.

  Hervey shook his head.

  ‘Mr Hervey has no objection, sir.’

  Lieutenant Beale-Browne asked the same of Cornet Daly.

  There was an exchange, sotto voce, but evident enough.

  ‘Mr Daly objects to Captain Aplin on the grounds that his family and Mr Daly’s are in dispute over certain matters.’

  The president looked at Aplin.

  ‘I am not aware of these matters, sir,’ replied the Connaught captain. ‘Neither that my family has any business with Mr Daly’s. I myself do not know him, but I am ready to stand down, of course, if Mr Daly believes I might be prejudiced.’

  The accent was not dissimilar to Daly’s own, thought Hervey, but neither was it exactly the same.

  The president turned back to Lieutenant Beale-Browne. ‘I myself would not consider there to be sufficient evidence of the likelihood of prejudice on the part of Captain Aplin, but the prerogative is the prisoner’s.’

  There was another whispered consultation. Hervey thought Beale-Browne sounded agitated.

  ‘Mr Daly is still of the opinion that Captain Aplin be not a member, sir.’

  The president stifled a sigh. ‘Very well. Captain Aplin, you are released. Court order
ly, be so good as to summon the waiting member.’

  Hervey imagined that Daly had not served himself well by insisting on Aplin’s replacement, and could not help being pleased by it; except that officers sitting in judgement were sometimes contrary and might take it as evidence that Daly was of a very ‘independent’ mind – which to any thinking officer could be no bad thing.

  The waiting member was a lieutenant of the 29th (Worcestershire). He entered by a side door, stood at attention and saluted.

  ‘State your name, if you please, sir,’ said the president.

  ‘Hyacinth Hames, sir.’

  Cornet Daly smirked noisily.

  The president rounded on him. ‘Mr Daly! This is a court of law and you are in contempt of it.’

  Hervey started. Character appeared to be outing: he almost felt sorry for Daly.

  ‘Well, sir? Have you nothing to say?’

  ‘I meant no offence to the court, sir,’ replied Daly boldly.

  The president looked even blacker. ‘Do you have objection to this officer?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The president looked at Hervey.

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Very well then. Court orderly, be so good as to inform the judge martial that the court is assembled.’

  ‘Sir!’

  The court orderly, a lantern-jawed serjeant of the 1st Guards, spun round and marched out. The members placed their swords on the long table before them, removed their hats and took their seats. The president nodded to the escorts, who in turn propelled their charges to chairs, one in front of the other, facing forward on the right-hand side of the court.