Rumours Of War h-6

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘I don’t as a rule take instruction from Corporal Cobbett!’

  ‘He accused him of snugging it in to London.’

  ‘I think it a shame if we lose Wellesley,’ said Lankester, warming his hands with the cup. ‘He has his faults, God knows, but he does at least know when to fight. And, from what I have heard, Cintra was not of his choosing.’

  ‘No,’ said Paget, shaking his head sympathetically and sighing. ‘Those two old fools Dalrymple and Burrard were the cause. Burrard’s boy is one of Moore’s aides-de-camp. It must go hard with him. The inquiry cannot be much longer in the outcome, but I hazard, still, that it will be the end of Wellesley.’

  Lankester finished his mess of tea. ‘But what may we say of this evening, sir? Can you stay your leave for two hours more? My dragoons will be the better for a good hash inside them, and some of the horses are in want of a nail or two.’

  ‘As a rule I wouldn’t wait on an escort,’ said Paget, smiling. ‘And neither would you. But I’m content on this occasion if it allows me to drive them all the harder in their turn!’

  ‘They would be discouraged if you did not!’

  ‘Very well. Send them word, and stay for some dinner. I have it on good authority the commissary has killed its several fatted calves.’

  ‘A treat indeed. I’ve had nothing but stirabout these three days past.’

  Beef was what the dragoons had heard promised. But it was not steaks or even clod that the commissary issued that evening; rather was it ox tails and head, though this would make a welcome potage if they could find a few other things to throw in. Bread they had not seen since Salamanca, and the biscuit was as solid as the frozen ground. Hervey had eaten the last of his hard-boiled eggs that morning – half of one egg, for he had shared it with Private Sykes. Daniel Coates had told him to carry hard-boiled eggs always, as many as he could find space for. It had so far proved one of his best Flanders dodges. It would be a good while, now, before he ate another, for he had seen neither beast nor fowl in the last twenty miles.

  A Troop’s dragoons had got themselves very fair shelter in one of the dorters, and half a dozen fires were giving good service. Where the fuel had come from Hervey wondered, but was not inclined to ask. If the friary was long abandoned, as it appeared to be, it was salvage wood whatever its first purpose. Camp-kettles bubbled away promisingly. It was impressive how quickly they came into action. The Sixth had dispensed with the big, iron ‘Flanders’ pattern, one for every ten men; the mules had carried them with the regimental baggage, and it could be an age before they came up. Instead the lieutenant-colonel, by judicious use of the grass fund, had replaced them with a much handier one made of tin, which a man could carry on his saddle, one between six. They could thereby have a brew of tea without every man having to make his own fire and use his own mess tin.

  Hervey stopped by a kettle where a dragoon called Knowles, known universally as ‘Knacker’, was making dumplings of Indian corn and dropping them into the boil.

  ‘Are you going to try one of Knacker’s doughboys, Mr ’Ervey, sir?’ asked Private Harris, a cheery sweat of a dragoon who was wont to say, whatever the vexation, ‘It’s naught compared to ’Olland.’

  Hervey welcomed the offer, as much for its comradely purport as its nutrition. He imagined himself not so much ‘Cornet Newcome’ any longer.

  Private Knowles had been called ‘Knacker’ since the Duke of York’s ill-starred landing in Holland in the last year of the old century. He and Harris had been greenhead dragoons together, both having enlisted at Kingston the year before. They had learned fast but hard on that campaign, and when the regiment had had to destroy so many of its horses because there was not room for them on the transports home, Knowles had used his pistol on behalf of many a man who could not face shooting his own trooper. There were not many left in the regiment who had been in Holland, but the alliteration served to keep the nickname popular. Hervey had shivered at the story when first he heard it. It was one thing to have to shoot a lame animal (and Daniel Coates had made sure he knew how), but to put down good horseflesh to keep it from the hands of the enemy was a sorry business for an Englishman.

  Knacker was not his half-dozen’s cook that evening on account of any culinary skill. Each man who chummed together took the chore in turn, and given the unvarying ration and the means to cook it, there was little to be had between any of them in terms of proficiency. The issue biscuit came in three conditions: hard, jaw-breaking or maggoty. The maggoty made the better stirabout, but it was not always palatable to those who had first seen the ration live.

  This evening the biscuit was jaw-breaking, and Harris for one decided to put his in a pocket for another day, one when he might have an afternoon to let it soak in a mess of grog. ‘I reckon the artillery could fire it, sir, if they was short of case.’

  Hervey smiled. He liked the way the best men made fun of their hardships. There was infinitely more comfort in it than grumbling, although, in truth, there was little enough of that except when it looked as if there would be no going at the enemy. And then there could be any amount. Marching away, ‘like licked men’: they could not contemplate it.

  But not tonight. Tonight they were happy. All they needed was a warm bellyful of something, and then they could be off with Lord Paget to have a go at the French.

  ‘I’ll take a doughboy, thank you, Harris, but I would not wish for someone to go short on my account.’

  ‘They won’t do that, sir,’ said Knowles, pulling out the first of the dumplings. ‘We found a whole sackful of corn, we did.’

  Hervey took it in his gloved hands. It looked like a little frightened hedgehog, and he had to remove a glove so as to pick out the prickles.

  ‘What’s it like, sir?’ asked Harris, taking his.

  ‘I can taste the beef,’ replied Hervey. Which was to be expected, for the extremities of the butcher’s art were having a good boiling in the kettle too. ‘What is the corn you have?’

  ‘Here, sir,’ said Harris, pulling open the sack.

  Hervey took a handful. ‘Mm; like barley meal, unsifted.’ Later, the commissaries would issue the same to the troop quartermasters for stables. But he picked out all the prickles and ate the doughboy just the same.

  ‘Shall you be coming with us, Mr Hervey?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, very decidedly.

  Harris seemed to nod, and Knowles too. ‘Chokey’ Finch arrived with an armful of wood.

  ‘A good find, that, Private Finch,’ said Hervey, mindful of how the dragoon had got his nickname.

  ‘Ay, sir,’ said Chokey, looking pleased. ‘Serjeant Grady gave it me. He were giving away lots of it. The commissaries bought an ’ouse that no one were livin’ in – all ruined an’ that – and broke it up for firewood.’

  Hervey was impressed by the enterprise; the commissary-general’s department had been the butt of much criticism from regimental officers of late.

  ‘Is everything in order, Mr Hervey, sir?’ came a deep Welsh voice, a touch of anxiety added with careful measure.

  Hervey turned, a little sheepishly. ‘Ah, Serjeant Ellis.’

  ‘Captain Lankester’s compliments, sir, and could you join the officers for tea before the escort musters.’

  ‘Yes, serjeant, of course.’ There was an implied rebuke – from Lankester or Ellis, he did not know. Perhaps it was from both; but there was nothing to be done save do as bidden. Certainly there was nothing to be said, except thanks to the dragoons for their hospitality.

  Serjeant Ellis waited until Hervey was gone, and then he eyed Harris, Knowles and Finch in turn. He did not actually say the words, but ‘watch yourselves’ came to their minds. When he was gone, they screwed up their faces in various gestures of disapproval or self-pity.

  ‘What did the chaplain say last Sunday?’ grumbled Knowles: ‘ “God loves a cheerful giver”!’

  ‘Ay, Knacker,’ replied Chokey Finch. ‘But Ellis doesn’t. And ’e’s got more say ’ere than God ’as.
’

  ‘He likes it enough when he takes it from us. He always wants summat. It’s not right.’

  ‘He wanted Maureen Taylor an’ all.’

  ‘Bell-bastard!’

  ‘Ah, Hervey; you will have some tea ere you go?’

  Lankester spoke as if it were his drawing room in Hertfordshire rather than the troop mess, though without the least degree of affectation. But instead of china and silver, Lankester indicated the blackened camp-kettle hanging above the fire, the tea much sweetened with treacle and turned to the colour of saddle leather by the addition of goat’s milk. Private Sykes dipped in an enamelled cup and handed Hervey a quart of the scalding brew.

  ‘I fear there will be no dinner unless your servant has been uncommonly active,’ said Lankester, a shade wearily. ‘We have just, I understand, taken receipt of some fine pork, but it is as yet on its feet.’

  From the other side of the cloisters came squealing, as if Lankester’s word had been the command.

  ‘A pig becomes pork,’ said Lieutenant Martyn, smiling ruefully and relighting his cigar.

  But the squealing continued too long.

  Lankester grimaced. ‘What in the name of heaven is yonder butcher doing?’

  It stopped suddenly; then there was musketry – ragged, perhaps half a dozen shots.

  Lankester put down his basin. ‘Stand to arms, then, gentlemen. Hervey, go and see what is the cause.’

  Hervey refastened his cloak and hurried outside. He saw the trail of blood before he reached the infirmary, where the inlying picket was quartered. There were dragoons milling about, and the picket-commander, but no semblance of order.

  ‘What is happening, Corporal? What is the alarm? Why are you not stood-to?’

  ‘A pig got loose, sir.’

  Hervey scowled. ‘The firing, I mean! Corporal, be good enough to give me a report of the alarm. Where did the firing come from?’

  ‘The men, sir. They’s ’ungry!’

  Hervey’s mouth fell open as he realized what had happened. ‘You mean they fired on a pig?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you approve it?’

  The corporal hesitated.

  ‘Come, man! Did you have them fire?’

  The same Welsh voice as before intervened. ‘Is there some difficulty, Mr Hervey?’

  To Hervey’s mind the question smacked of wilful obtuseness. Ellis was picket-serjeant; he ought himself to be rousting them about. There was a hint of insubordination in the absence of the ‘sir’ after his name too. There had always been a resentful edge to Ellis.

  ‘I am waiting for an answer, Corporal!’

  ‘I said as we should shoot the pig, sir. The men is ’ungry, like Serjeant Ellis says.’

  Hervey was dumbfounded. They had had a hard march of it, and rations were short, but was that just cause? The picket’s orders were exacting, especially in the matter of opening fire; the whole billet was now standing-to. ‘Place the corporal in arrest, Serjeant Ellis.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’

  Hervey braced himself. He had no wish to upbraid a serjeant in front of dragoons. ‘I note your advice, Serjeant, but I would have you place the corporal in arrest for disobeying his standing instructions.’

  ‘Mr Hervey, a pig is fair game, I should say. There’s not a deal of rations otherwise.’

  Hervey blanched. What did Ellis think he was doing? The corporal had disobeyed regimental orders. It was not for the picket-serjeant or anyone else to question them by winking at the breach. The pig-shoot may have been of absurdly little moment, but if standing instructions could be disobeyed without remark, then the Sixth would soon be a convention not a regiment. And, Ellis was challenging him in front of dragoons.

  He would not bridle, however. He would explain himself clearly, and then put it to the test. ‘Serjeant Ellis, Corporal Cutter is in disobedience to regimental standing instructions. It is for the adjutant to decide if there are mitigating circumstances. You are to place the corporal in immediate arrest.’

  ‘Look, Mr Hervey, Corporal Cutter was only—’

  Hervey boiled. Ellis had gone too far. And all over a pig. ‘And you are to report yourself to the serjeant-major.’

  Ellis looked black.

  Hervey turned on his heel and marched away, just as Daniel Coates had told him. Make the order plain, he used to say; give it decidedly, and then leave the man to it, for then he could only obey or disobey rather than argue.

  He went straight to the adjutant and found him in the chapel of rest unfastening his sword, the regimental serjeant-major likewise. He saluted and stood at attention.

  ‘A false alarm, by all accounts,’ said the adjutant. ‘What frighted the picket?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. The picket fired on a pig which had loosed itself from the butcher. I have placed the picket-corporal in arrest.’

  ‘Have you, indeed?’

  ‘For disobeying standing orders.’

  ‘That is reasonable. What think you, Mr Scott?

  ‘The picket’s orders is quite clear, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the adjutant, laying down his swordbelt with an air of finality. ‘Deuced fool, Corporal Cutter. Well done, Mr Hervey. Be sure to inform Mr Laming. Has the picket-serjeant taken charge now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then Hervey braced himself again. ‘I am afraid I had to order him to report himself to the serjeant-major. He showed too much reluctance to carry out my orders.’

  ‘What orders?’

  ‘To place the picket-corporal in arrest.’

  ‘You ordered Serjeant Ellis to the sarn’t-major? Was it absolutely necessary?’

  ‘He took Cutter’s side in the business, and in front of the picket. He said that the pig was fair game. I ordered him twice to place him in arrest, and it took a third.’

  The adjutant looked at the serjeant-major, seeming by no means convinced. ‘Is there anything you wish to ask, Mr Scott?’

  ‘If I may, sir, I would ask Mr Hervey if he would repeat how his second order to Serjeant Ellis was framed, as exactly as may be.’

  The adjutant nodded to Hervey.

  ‘I recall exactly that I said I would have him place the corporal in arrest for disobeying standing instructions.’

  The adjutant looked at the serjeant-major again.

  ‘If I may, sir, I would ask Mr Hervey: it was after this order – I mean after Mr Hervey informed Serjeant Ellis that the arrest was on account of disobedience to standing orders – that Ellis said the pig was fair game?’

  ‘That is so, Serjeant-major.’

  The serjeant-major looked at the adjutant. ‘It seems a very certain business, I would say, sir.’

  ‘I fear it is so. Let us hope so, indeed,’ replied the adjutant. ‘I suppose it must be a regimental court martial. Not the best of times for it, but then it never is. You had better hear Ellis’s account, Mr Scott.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ The serjeant-major gathered up his swordbelt and cap, and took his leave.

  ‘Well,’ said the adjutant when he was gone. ‘I shall consider it most carefully and then speak with the colonel. I think you may be satisfied, Hervey, that you acted properly.’ He sighed. ‘But it is the very devil of a business. He’ll be reduced, of course. Perhaps even to dragoon. Is there anything you would say for him?’

  Hervey wished there were something he could say. He certainly had no desire to be the cause of a man’s breaking. Yet what was there by way of mitigation? He had given the adjutant an entirely factual account of the incident, and the serjeant-major himself had approved his conduct. ‘I think not, sir.’

  The adjutant looked disappointed.

  There was a long silence; or so it seemed to Hervey.

  ‘I’m scarcely surprised,’ said the adjutant at length, sighing heavily. ‘Ellis can be a vexing man. Very well, Mr Hervey, you may dismiss.’

  The escort stood-to their horses at six o’clock. Though the sun had set two hours before, the torches, fires and settled snow m
ade it light enough for Lieutenant Martyn to have a good look at them. They were a mixed bag, by no means the thirty best, for Lankester could ill afford them with what he imagined lay ahead. But he had made sure the NCOs were sound – Serjeant Emmet, long in the service and steady; Serjeant Crook, younger, dead keen and clever; and two corporals, one of them Armstrong.

  They were not at all a bad sight, these thirty, even turned out in cloaks. Lieutenant Martyn thought he should say some words. ‘We are about to do duty of especial importance,’ he began, raising his voice just enough to carry to either end of the single rank, above the occasional snort and the chink of a curb chain; he did not want to make a spectacle of it (already there were dragoons from Number Two Squadron gathering to watch). ‘For we escort General Lord Paget himself, the commander of all General Moore’s cavalry. The regiment will thereby have an unrivalled opportunity to demonstrate to his lordship its character and capability. Upon our address, therefore, will his lordship’s approval rest, for although he will have regard for the reputation in which the regiment stands from its past feats, his lordship has not had occasion to become personally acquainted with us. I trust that every man will remember that – no matter what he is called upon to perform.’ He paused to lend emphasis. ‘Very well. Twos will advance left . . . Advance!’

  His words would make no difference, Martyn supposed. The best would do their duty no matter what; the others would not be flattered into capability or exertion by appeal to the reputation of the regiment. But it would be a lame thing to parade in this bitter cold and then set off without a word. And by making such a song of it, too, there would be no expectation of clemency for defaulters. Was that too harsh a judgement? They all wanted to be at the French, he had no doubt of it, and they would all fight well when it came to it. The trouble was, too many of them believed they would go better at the French for a little liquor inside them. What was it the chaplain himself read from Scripture: Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish?

  There was no ease in drink for them that night, however. And beer and liquor they would have traded for hot tea at any price the sutler named. Lieutenant Martyn would not let them mount until they had been marching an hour and more, the road ankle-deep in snow, but they knew at least there would be no more of it that night, for there was not a wisp of cloud. That spelled worse in its way, though, for the air was already chill, so that soon the snow froze and their marching became harder as the crust began breaking unevenly with each step. Men started to curse, some of them foully, and some profanely. It pained Martyn; it pained Hervey. It pained the odd ‘Methodist’ in the ranks.