Rumours Of War h-6

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Girls, is it now, Corporal? Sure we’re not the sort that you’re used to!’

  ‘No, indeed we’re not! We’ll not be insulted by someone just because they’ve a bit of lace on their arm!’

  ‘Oh ay, Maureen? Who would you be insulted by then?’

  ‘Will you hear that, Lieutenant! Are you going to stand there and let this man call us whores?’

  Hervey was close to total confusion.

  ‘I’ll call you worse than that, Maureen Taylor, if you and the rest of you don’t get a move on with these donkeys!’

  Hervey saw the peculiarly disarming effect that Armstrong’s Tyneside, and knowing smile, had. The troop’s dozen dissolved into giggles, with much winking at him, and more than one lift of the skirt to show a bit of calf (and shapely calf, too, Hervey noted).

  ‘They’re not bad lasses really, sir,’ said Armstrong as they led them off. ‘Taylor’s wife’s a mite brazen at times, but she means right. I don’t suppose you heard how she was on the ship?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Tended all Taylor’s pals when they were sick as dogs, she did. Washed up more puke than you’d see of a pay night!’

  ‘That is heartening, Corporal.’ Hervey meant it, even if he could not yet quite understand why.

  ‘Ay, well, sir, I bet yon Sykes of yours’ll avail himself of her services. She knows how to scrub all right does Maureen Taylor.’

  Hervey managed a smile to himself as they rode back. He wondered how to tell of it to Daniel Coates. It was a pity he would not be able to in his next letter home, though in truth the regiment’s followers were not unlike half the women of Horningsham, his father’s nominal parishioners. They were not bad sorts; the quartermaster would not have put their names forward for the draw otherwise. Without the discipline of the barracks, though (or the village), they became as unmanageable as their donkeys. But then, what concern was it to him? This little affair had not injured him beyond the moment, and had indeed revealed depths to Corporal Armstrong. The promise of good laundry was a powerful balm, and in any case, he did not expect any regular engagement with Maggie Doolan, Maureen Taylor and their saucy like.

  Private Sykes much approved of the followers. ‘They’re not bad ’uns, sir,’ he chirped as he made up Hervey’s camp kit for the night. ‘They made a bit of a commotion as they came in, but they’ll have a boil on soon as. Would you like me to take ’em your linen, sir?’

  Hervey did not hesitate. ‘If you would, Sykes. Is that all the baggage brought in now?’

  Belisarda, Hercules the mule and Pedro the donkey had come up with the other officers’ bat-horses behind the regimental women. There had been no shortage of men and boys in Lisbon wanting silver, and there were almost as many batmen, muleteers and donkey drivers as animals themselves. Hervey was glad to hear that his baggage was complete, for he had already decided, with the experience of a month’s powderless campaign, that some redistribution of his equipage was necessary.

  Daniel Coates had been most particular in respect of Hervey’s campaigning kit. He had given him his own tarpaulin bed, which had once belonged to his general, but he had also urged him to obtain a boat cloak and learn quickly how to sleep in it. Coates’s ‘the first occasion the baggage fails to come up isn’t the time to be acquainting yourself with the cold earth’ had already proved prescient. On almost every detail, in fact, Daniel Coates had imparted the distilled experience of North America and Flanders with admirable aptness. Dry, wet, hot or cold: the old dragoon had known it all. He was determined ‘his’ young gentleman should know it too, and have whatever he had come to prize in the process – telescope, tinderbox, camp-kettle, oilskin haversack, and a dozen other things that eased the soldier’s burden. And all now neatly stencilled M.P.H.

  Except, of course, the business of regimentals. This, even Coates acknowledged, was beyond his former station and, therefore, competence. Instead, Hervey had placed the business of his uniforms in the hands of the travelling representative of the Sixth’s tailor, Mr Gieve of Piccadilly. Lord Bath had had his own bootmaker, Hoby of St James’s Street, fashion him two pairs of hessians. His brother, John, had presented him with a morocco writing box; his godfather had sent him a travelling dressing case. Even his sister had contributed to his necessaries; the lip salve in a silver sheath had already proved an unexpected blessing.

  There were, however, three considerations in which he had resolved to take very particular counsel, these being, so to speak, the particular tools of his trade. The riding-master’s declamation rang in his ears still: ‘The cavalryman must live only for his horse, which is his legs, his safety, his honour and his reward.’ And so Hervey had always understood, but Jessye had been greeted with disdain: a ‘covert hack’, some of the blades had called her, fit only to be ridden to the meet. ‘You’ll need rather more blood than that for the chase,’ his lieutenant had exclaimed on first seeing her. But Jessye had soon proved her speed and handiness in the jumping lanes, and by the time the Sixth had begun readying themselves for Portugal she was admitted as being a good sort for campaigning. His second charger he had bought at the Canterbury depot from an officer transferring on to half pay. The gelding was three-quarter-bred, as good a hunter as any to be found in Leicestershire, the seller had declared. Hervey was pleased with his purchase, not least for buying within the modest amount his father had been able to provide (the selling officer had had an unusual degree of sentiment when it came to his horses, keener they should go to someone with good hands than deep pockets). And Jessye’s saddle fitted well enough too.

  Jessye’s own replacement (temporary, Hervey was determined – just long enough for her to be let out of quarantine when the farcy was done at her layerage) he had bought from a dealer in Arundel, where the regiment had lately formed its depot for the campaign. He had had to pay over the odds, he knew full well; he needed a horse at that instant more than the dealer needed a buyer, but the riding-master told him he’d have no difficulty selling on in Spain for twice the price. La Belle Dame was smaller-made than Robert, the bay gelding; she could be marish, even a little nappy, but she was pleasingly up to weight, and so far rather a good doer. He would be sorry to part with her when the time came.

  With the other tools of his trade – pistol and sword – he had had mixed fortune. He had taken with him the light dragoon sabre with which he had learned the cuts and guards as a boy, thinking that he would at least have a workmanlike weapon to hand if fashion failed him. He had been determined to have a ‘Mameluke’, as all self-respecting officers of cavalry sported, but he had had to buy blind from Reddell’s in Jermyn Street. When it came, its length and weight felt strange compared with the dragoon’s, and he was not sure he had the real measure of it even now.

  At least his pistols gave him no trouble. The adjutant had told him that the colonel would have no objection to his carrying a pair of the new ‘Land Service Pattern’, which he would be permitted to buy at ‘vocabulary’ price from the Ordnance. His fellow cornets all had the same; it was a very serviceable weapon, they agreed. But it had been the best part of a month now since leaving Lisbon, and he had drawn neither firearm nor sabre, save to clean it.

  Indeed, Hervey was fretting. Moreover, the dragoons were fretting. They had all been told in Lisbon that Sir John Moore was taking the army to Madrid, to stand side by side with the Spanish to repel Bonaparte. Why then did they not make more haste? They marched scarcely twenty miles in a day. And why were the French not here to greet them?

  ‘Why don’t they let us ’ave a go at Boney, Mr Hervey?’ a dragoon called after him at stables, not daring, perhaps, to hail the lieutenant. ‘Why don’t they send the Sixth to do the job, sir?’

  Hervey ignored it. He was not going to have the ‘distance’ closed so importunately, and from behind his back, though he was not inclined to let the NCOs upbraid the man too much. And anyhow, what was he meant to say? He had no more idea than they why the advance was so ponderous. Sir Edward Lankester told them as much
as he knew, no doubt; he could hardly go and pester him for more. What was it that Coates used to say? That they would pass whole weeks in Flanders idling and with no notion what was afoot; then there would be a great rush, and then another long halt. ‘Hurry up to wait’, he called it.

  There was another fortnight’s fretting, however, before Hervey’s troop had their first skirmish. They had crossed the border near Elvas the day after the halt at Vila Vicosa, the country at once becoming rugged and even harder going. Hervey was soon counting himself fortunate to have a pair of horses not overcharged with blood. The march thereafter had been as uneventful as before, but the pace had quickened, and so the grumbling had not been as bad. They made Badajoz the first evening, then they followed the valley of the Guadiana to Talavera la Real and Medellin; then they turned north-east to Magagos, Truxillo and Almaraz, crossing the Tagus again to Naval Moral and Callera. And now they had a cold night march to Talavera la Reyna, with but sixty miles to Madrid as the crow flew. And the Sixth were leading the army, and Sir Edward Lankester’s troop were scouting.

  Hervey and Cornet Laming had taken the point by turns throughout the night. They rode half a mile or so ahead of the first detachment, keeping check of the scouts’ rate of advance, and the route, which was now in the hands of Spanish guides. As dawn came up, it was Hervey’s turn at point. The road ahead was open, downhill slightly, with rough grazing on either side, but with no sign of either sheep or goats, and scattered squat-looking trees, olive perhaps. In the distance Hervey could just begin to make out the lights of their objective, Talavera la Reyna (the name meant nothing to him then; eight months later he would count it one of the names he would never forget). The guides said it was a fine city, and welcoming. He was looking forward to a half-day’s halt there, some sleep perhaps, and most of all a bath.

  His hopeful thoughts were abruptly halted as back came one of the scouts at a pace – Private Claridge, a miner like Armstrong, but from the Somerset fields. Claridge saluted, although it was not the practice on outpost work. ‘Sir, Corporal Armstrong reports men on the road ahead. He can’t make out how many though, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Lead on,’ said Hervey, matter-of-fact, though his heart was already pounding.

  Armstrong was only a furlong down the road, but because of the way the land lay, Hervey would not have been able to see him until much closer, even had it been light. In a minute or so, Claridge slowed the trot, then came to walk. They found Armstrong leaning on his horse’s neck to try to get a better perspective ahead.

  As Hervey closed, Armstrong dismounted and lay flat on the ground to get a clear line. ‘I can’t make out whether they’re sheep or what, sir. But there’s definitely something moving.’

  Hervey was surprised that Armstrong had detected anything at all, for his own telescope revealed nothing but a dark mass against a dark background, though it was lightening now by the minute. ‘There are not supposed to be any Frenchmen this side of Madrid,’ he said, searching with the glass. ‘They could be Spaniards.’

  They could be anything, indeed. They could be shepherds abiding in the fields; or Marshal Soult’s outposts if Madrid was already in French hands. That was why armies had cavalry, was it not, to discover these things? But Hervey had never pictured the actual discovery quite like this.

  ‘No Francéses,’ said their Spanish guide, an elderly officer who had once been a serjeant-major and who now sat impassive, save occasionally that he spat noisily. He seemed wholly indifferent to the ado.

  Hervey tried some Latin. ‘Pastori?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  Hervey was unsure what he meant. He tried more Latin, and French. ‘Miles? Soldats d’Espagne?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders again, but slower, and made a sound that suggested it was possible.

  ‘Mais no Francéses?’

  The man spat, even more noisily than before. ‘No.’

  Hervey knew he must either send a dragoon back to halt the forward detachment, or press on. Having the advantage of the sun rising behind the unrecognized figures while they themselves remained in shadow, he decided to advance.

  He half whispered the order. Corporal Armstrong remounted at once, and the others – Lance-Corporal Boldy his coverman, and Privates Claridge and Starling – unfastened the pistol holsters on their saddle arches and pushed their cloaks back over the shoulder. Hervey signalled the advance with his hand, and set off at a walk, the Spanish officer at his side still clearing his throat with great determination and force.

  They had not gone fifty yards. ‘Oveja!’ snorted the guide, with even more forceful expectoration.

  Hervey halted, and saw: sheep indeed, and all over the road, and left and right of it for fifty yards. But there were men with them, mounted, were there not? He screwed up his eyes to make them out better. He motioned the others to draw their pistols.

  ‘You would shoot sheep, señor?’ Another loud expectoration.

  Hervey took no notice.

  Corporal Armstrong came up alongside him. ‘Half a dozen, I reckon, sir,’ he said, barely audible.

  ‘Could be shepherds,’ replied Hervey, just as quietly. ‘But strange to be mounted at this hour, don’t you think? Probably Spaniards from the garrison, but . . .’

  They still had the advantage of the light, but although the silhouettes were unmistakably mounted men, they were just silhouettes. They could easily be soldiers, and numerous, the flock making just enough of a noise to cover their approach.

  Fifty yards more, at most, and then he would know for sure. But so would the men amid the sheep.

  Hervey thought rapidly. If they were Spaniards they would challenge first. If French, they would know there was nothing before them but the enemy, and there might be no challenge. He would not be able to identify them one way or another until they spoke, and so the advantage would not be his. He had no option, therefore, but to advance until a demand for the parole – or a ball – came their way.

  Another ten yards; the challenge came. ‘Qui vive?’

  Hervey pressed his mare on, his heart racing. They might yet be Spaniards; the French challenge was common enough practice.

  ‘Qui vive?’ This time it was emphatic.

  ‘Qui veut savoir?’

  ‘Ha! L’Empereur veut savoir, monsieur.’

  The pistol seemed double the weight as he brought it up. He cocked and fired in a split second. The others did the same. The powder flashes and the noise startled him as much as it did the horses, but he pressed forward, grasping for his sabre.

  There were screams; then more screams, and shouting. Sheep scattered in every direction.

  Hervey lunged at the dark shape in front of him. The hilt almost jumped from his hand as the blade struck.

  Corporal Boldy’s horse leapt past him, Hervey’s coverman giving point to the same dark shape and toppling it from the saddle. There was no drill in the movement of swords and horses. It was all confusion. But soon there were shouts of ‘Quarter!’ everywhere. Hervey’s heart beat quicker than ever he’d known, and his blood coursed. But he had not spilled a drop of his own.

  In five more minutes it was daylight, and their handiwork was plain to see. Two chasseurs à cheval lay dead, and another dying. Two more staggered with fearful wounds to the head, and three stood with their hands clasped in supplication. They were not so formidable, thought Hervey. Nothing like as formidable as he had imagined the men who had marched the length and breadth of the continent and carried all before them.

  ‘Help those wounded there, Corporal!’

  He need not have said it, for the victor’s compassion had already moved two of the dragoons to dismount with their water bottles.

  ‘Bind the others’ hands, and then I shall question them. They must know a pretty thing or two.’

  ‘You speak proper French then, sir?’ asked Armstrong cheerily as he beckoned Claridge to do the tying.

  ‘I trust I do,’ replied Hervey. And trust he meant, for if his F
rench was perfect he could not yet know it; the only native of France he had ever spoken with had been his governess. But she had spoken French with him from an early age; and Alsatian German. Now he would see if French chasseurs spoke the same.

  He looked again at the lifeless bodies. This was his work – one of them at least by his own hand. ‘Death to the French!’ Now he had done it; it was no mere toast any longer. And he could write to Daniel Coates at last: today I killed my first Frenchman. No, of course he could not. And it was over so quickly anyway – no time to think or be afraid. Not at all as he had imagined – as he had imagined since first wanting to be a soldier.

  One of the chasseurs, writhing, disembowelled, cried out suddenly, ‘Maman!’ Then he fell silent.

  Hervey shivered. ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ He checked himself: prayers could come later. For now, there was work to do. ‘Corporal Armstrong, send a man back to report, and two ahead to picket the other side of yonder trees!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DRAWING THE LINE

  Lisbon, 6 October 1826

  ‘I like Mrs Delgado,’ said Johnson as he laid out Hervey’s best tunic.

  Hervey did not reply, absorbed as he was by his newly acquired maps. His hand trembled a little, so that he had to peer more intently than usual. He liked these quarters in Reeves’s Hotel, but it was just so damnably cold, what with coal in short and expensive supply, and wood seemingly deficient of heat. It had been two days since he had stood before the Delgados’ great chimneypiece, and he had scarcely been warm since. But it had not been on account of inactivity, even in the absence, still, of orders from Colonel Norris. He had scoured the premises of the booksellers and cartographers of Lapa and the neighbouring districts until he had assembled a handy topographical library.

  He looked up, puzzled by the lacuna. Johnson’s statement of itself seemed to require no comment, but the absence of a consequential clause rendered his purpose obscure.