Rumours Of War h-6

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey was at once qualmish. Had it all become an affair of barter? ‘Kat—’

  ‘Well, you may be grateful that I am a proficient at whist, for the Forbeses are devoted to the game and I was the chargé’s partner.’

  Hervey smiled, relieved that Kat made light of matters again.

  ‘And well may you look content, Matthew, for the form of the evening gave me ample opportunity to advance your cause. Not that Mr Forbes required much persuasion. His opinion of Colonel Norris is, I would say, not high. He believes the cost of putting those lines of his in order would dismay the Portuguese. So he is sending a letter to Mr Canning to advocate your design. That is, I believe he will do so.’

  Hervey smiled again, but this time with intense satisfaction. He bent to kiss her once more.

  ‘No, Matthew,’ she protested, teasing with practised perfection. ‘I think I will have some tea, if you please.’

  Fortune now truly began to favour Hervey. When he went to Norris’s quarters a little after nine, he learned that the colonel had left for Torres Vedras at five. It gave him sufficient of a pretext to apply at once to the chargé d’affaires in person. Mr Forbes, already disposed to think the best of a man recently appointed Companion of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath, and who had presented a design for intervention more practical and economical than Norris’s own, at once gave him leave to go to Elvas. Moreover, Forbes said that he himself would go at once to the Negócios Estrangeiros e Guerra to discover what he could of the official intelligence; and, too, he gave him discretionary powers to take what measures he saw fit. While these were not actually plenipotentiary, they nevertheless released Hervey from the obligation of referring his action to Colonel Norris (Hervey thought it a truer mark of his standing than any ribbon). Nevertheless, his military sensibility obliged him to report his intentions in writing, and so he returned briefly to his quarters to pen a letter to Norris, with a copy to Lord John Howard at the Horse Guards.

  *

  Kat was at his quarters still, enjoying a breakfast of coffee and brioche, Johnson attending her with all the address of a practised lady’s maid. Hervey told her what Forbes had said, and thanked her again for her interventions. He had even managed to find flowers for her, gardenias.

  ‘I shall leave by noon, Kat,’ he said, taking her hand once Johnson had left.

  ‘The Portuguese lady will not be accompanying you?’ asked Kat imperatively.

  Hervey smiled reassuringly. ‘She will not. The general at Elvas speaks excellent English. There is no need of Senhora Broke.’

  ‘And that is the sole consideration, Matthew?’

  ‘Kat,’ he insisted, squeezing her hand. It had hurt her to discover so casually that Isabella Delgado had been at Elvas: he understood it full well.

  ‘I will stay with you until you go. I have sent for my clothes. Perhaps we might take a little air together?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And then, as soon as you are gone, I shall continue the embassy on your behalf with Mr Forbes. It pays always, I think, to be constantly represented at the centres of affairs.’

  She said it with a kind of sportive smile, suggesting that she relished the notion for its own sake.

  Not for the first time did Hervey think that if Kat could be so fervent an ally, how formidable an opponent she could also make.

  PART THREE

  THE LESSONS OF HISTORY

  ‘The truth is that we have retreated before a rumour – an uncertain speculation – and Moore knows it . . . O that we had an enterprizing general with a reputation to make instead of one to save!’

  Mr Canning, Foreign Secretary, to Lord Bathurst, Secretary for War and Colonies, 9 January 1809

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HORNS OF THE DILEMMA

  Elvas, 29 October 1826

  Hervey, with Corporal Wainwright, reached Elvas late the following evening. They might have done so sooner but instead of riding post they had each led a second horse, changing and leading the other after the first thirty miles, then alternating every twenty or so thereafter. Hervey counted it a fair feat of endurance – a hundred and twenty miles in thirty-six hours. Lusitanos, good little stayers with their Arab blood; he had never thought much of them as battle chargers, but they had served him well since coming to Portugal this time. All four were well blown by the time they reached the fortress, but they were sound still, wanting only a day or so’s rest, and not a shoe loose between them. He wondered if Johnson was being even half as well served as he made his slower progress with the bat-horses.

  In his map room, in the citadel, Brigadier-General Dom Mateo de Bragança received him with evident pleasure, and an air of unconcern. Surrounded by so much polished wood, and stone the thickness of a man-o-war’s hull, it was not difficult to imagine oneself secure, thought Hervey. The paintings, the green-leather furniture, the reflecting lamps, all gave the impression of permanence, of fastness. Whether or not Dom Mateo’s composure was studied, he could not tell, and he imagined there might have been further intelligence during his journey, that the original information had been faulty. But Dom Mateo put him to rights: the rebels were assembled, he said, and waiting only the signal from Madrid, for there was to be a concert of assaults in the north and south, as well as the centre.

  ‘And all this intelligence from the Church,’ he said, coolly. ‘Or a part of it, for I fear a good many holy men would throw in with Miguel, thinking the fatter life would be with him.’

  Hervey raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I have spies too, Hervey,’ he assured him, and with a look of satisfaction. He poured out two good measures of red wine. ‘I know where yet the rebels are. They cling to the walls of Badajoz, sheltering under their cannon like curs!’

  Hervey raised his glass in salute. ‘To see the other side of the hill, General,’ he replied, with an approving smile.

  ‘The whole business of war, Hervey.’ Dom Mateo raised his glass in return. ‘Douro says so, then I am bound to succeed!’

  Hervey could not but admire the fidalgo assurance. He was tired, however. They had slept not two hours since leaving Lisbon. But he did want to know the reason for the assurance, for he was unaware what had changed in their favour so. Dom Mateo hardly appeared a man about to begin a bullfight.

  ‘May I enquire your design for battle, General?’

  Dom Mateo looked suddenly less sure. ‘It is true that I have not the men both to defend the fortress and to meet the rebels in the field, but yet I must. It is impossible that I should lose the fortress of Elvas – great was our humiliation when it fell to the French.’

  This told Hervey nothing new, save that Dom Mateo had no fixed idea of a plan. A general must always appear confident, however, and he admired him for that at least. ‘Elvas shall therefore be your principal object?’

  Dom Mateo frowned. ‘It must be so. And yet by harbouring all my strength here, the rebels may do as they will – may take the high road to Lisbon if they please. Do I defend the fortress, in that case, or does the fortress imprison me?’

  ‘Dom Mateo, yours must be the decision. When is it supposed the attack will come?’

  ‘Soon. Within one week. I have observing officers in Badajoz; they will alert us to any movement.’

  Of that he sounded confident. Hervey nodded approvingly.

  ‘What would be your counsel, my friend?’

  Hervey could feel the effects of a comfortable chair and strong wine. It would not have been so when he had first come to Portugal: Cornet Hervey could ride for days without sleep (that, at least, was how he recalled it). But he could not retire with the design uncertain. They had rehearsed the dilemma before, and tired though he was, Hervey thought he must do so again. ‘Senhor Saldanha himself led a force out of Lisbon to check the Duke of Abrantes in Algarve. Have you any promise of such assistance?’

  ‘The Conselho da Guerra would send every man it could spare!’

  ‘I am sure of it. But do you know how long that wo
uld be?’

  ‘It is impossible to say. First it would be necessary to send word to Lisbon.’

  They had come full circle. The defence turned on the rapidity with which word could be got to the capital. Hervey explained his own design once again, supposing, as it did, the arrival of ten thousand British troops, the mobilization of the militia and ordenança, and the telegraph open. ‘Let us imagine, then, what might be the outcome of an incursion. What do you suppose would happen if the rebels could not be driven from the field here by your men? Would that of itself secure their object?’

  ‘And the fortress was in our hands still? They would have free rein over the country hereabout, and others might rally to them.’

  ‘But they would be vulnerable, yet, to a force got up from Lisbon.’

  Dom Mateo nodded. ‘And there could be sorties from the fortress.’

  ‘Just so. They would need the strongest of rearguards if they were to march on the interior. But if the fortress were to fall to them?’

  ‘They would, I suppose, command what we otherwise did.’

  Now Hervey nodded. ‘I think that is the material point. The situation would be the harder to recover were the fortress in rebel hands than ours. It might even be impossible. It follows, therefore, that holding Elvas must be to what our utmost effort is directed. Not the forts on the hills about, but the curtain itself and the bastions.’

  Dom Mateo frowned. ‘But Hervey, I am a cavalryman; you are a cavalryman. It cannot do for us to sit behind walls and hurl back stones!’

  Hervey smiled. He, too, detested the notion. ‘But you are no longer cavalry, Dom Mateo. You are, are you not, Estado Mayor de Praça?’

  Dom Mateo sighed dolefully. ‘I compliment you, Hervey. It is true that I am no longer cavalry but the staff of a garrison. What a price to pay for a general’s silver star!’

  Hervey shrugged. No vocal reply seemed required.

  Dom Mateo looked resolute again. ‘There is a saying: Foi para o Maneta. It means one is to face a grim ordeal. Maneta – he of one hand – was the most brutal of French inquisitors in the late war, but in truth it were better to face him, for all there was then to lose was one’s life!’

  Hervey said nothing for the moment. At length he rose in an effort to stave off the sleep he was so in need of. ‘Dom Mateo, who is your chief of staff?’

  ‘Ah, my chief of staff. He is a good man, an excellent man, with a most active mind, although he is pé do castelo, since he lost a leg at San Sebastian.’

  ‘May we send for him? I think we might put his active mind to good use, so that you and I might have some rest. I’ll warrant you too have slept little this past week.’

  ‘Hervey, I tell you I have slept not three hours in each day.’

  Hervey thought it little wonder that method in his calculations had so far eluded him.

  An hour later he closed the door of his bedroom and sat heavily on the ornate half-tester. Without Johnson he must unfasten his spurs and strappings for himself. It was a struggle, but he managed at length to divest himself of his canvas overalls and boots, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  But it would not do. There were things he must commit to his journal that very evening, since events might turn on them (and, indeed, he might have to answer for them). He rose wearily and went to the writing table, where one of Dom Mateo’s men had laid out his morocco case. He unwrapped his journal from its oilskins, took up a pen and dipped it in the inkwell.

  He wrote quickly – a brief account of his coming to Elvas, his deliberations with Dom Mateo, his meeting with Dom Mateo’s chief of staff:Major Coa was some time in being summoned, but it proved to be wholly honourable for he had been conducting an inspection of the vaults and cellars of the citadel, and the tunnels to the outer works, in order to satisfy himself that there could be no covert ingress. The fortifications are not in universally good repair, but they are much strengthened since first I saw them two decades past. There are more detached lunettes, which I fear we may not be able to garrison, and there are two ravelins that may have to be given up. When the major came it was past two o’clock, and I considered it the best course to review the situation as a whole and make what list could be made of the actions to be taken, and in what order of importance, so that whatever the movement of the enemy in the days to follow – or even this very night – they might themselves have timely countermeasures.

  Sir John Moore had been an inspiration, but the duke had been an equal teacher, mused Hervey. The duke may have been humbugged at Waterloo, but he had disposed his forces in depth, and he had constituted a good reserve. That, indeed, was the essence of the commander’s art. Seeing the other side of the hill was but trial and prelude. Humbugged – the duke himself had said it. Dancing quadrilles in Brussels, confident that Bonaparte could not move against him without his knowing. But his art had been such that he was able to take leave of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in his own time when the alarm was raised. That had been the surety of his victories; a surety which, perhaps, Sir John Moore had not shared.Major Coa has a most active mind, and we shall be very well served by his address. He has read Southey’s history of the war here, and he has studied some of Colonel Clausewitz’s commentaries. He well knows the duke’s precepts for making war, and, moreover, he appears thoroughly to understand them. Once Genl de Braganza has settled his plan, I believe we may trust Major Coa to have it executed very faithfully and with percipience.

  The Duke of Wellington, the Fabian general: Hervey had spent so much time contemplating his methods that he felt he might know what it was the duke would do in any circumstances. And since the duke had never been beaten, that ought well to be an infallible method. In which case, why did Norris, who sought faithfully to emulate the duke too, fail so comprehensively to see the folly of his plan?

  Hervey put down his pen. Infallible method – the notion was beguiling. What would the duke have done had he been in Sir John Moore’s shoes? And what might have been had not Moore fallen at Corunna? For surely Moore rather than the duke would have taken the army back into Portugal? Unless the government had dismissed him: who knew what mischief those who disliked his method would have made? Sir John Moore was hardly a true Tory.

  Hervey stood and unfastened his tunic bib, then he lay down on his bed, so tired he did not even lift his feet off the floor. They had done their best; Major Coa was even now setting in hand a dozen things that might gain them time if the attack were to come sooner than expected. Tomorrow the captain of the Corpo Telegráfico would be here, and there might, by that means, be had the depth and reserve they were in such want of. Hervey drifted into sleep confident the duke would have approved.

  Was it as Sir John Moore would have done too? Perhaps. At Corunna he had beaten off quite five times his number. Brave, bold Moore: the hero-worship of him that day, when all before had been angry, resentful complaint, what did it say of the soldier and what inspired him? Hero-worship – not a mite too strong. Even the morning of Waterloo they hadn’t cheered the duke; not in the way they had cheered Moore at Corunna. With the duke it was admiration, respectful, cool. With Moore, after all these years, it was yet still difficult to fathom. The selfsame men who cheered him at Corunna had cursed every inch of the way. There had been neither worship nor admiration on that march, only the dull realization – and even then not by every man – that survival was a question of will, death hovering hard at heel in the freezing air for those without sufficiency of it, whether it came from within or was imposed.

  It had been a bitter order indeed to turn back at Sahagun. Especially bitter since it had been so brilliant an affair of Paget’s, economical and decisive, for all that ‘Black Jack’ Slade had missed his entrance. In General Orders the next day Sir John Moore praised them for their ’address and spirit’ and for gaining ‘a superiority which does them credit’. And in his own journal he declared it was ‘a handsome thing, well done’.

  Hervey smiled drowsily at the remembrance. As the
trumpeters sounded ‘recall’ they had begun collecting the prisoners in the little chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Puente, and Lord Paget heard the first returns – the French, fifty, at least, killed among the truncated vines and ditches between Sahagun and the bridge; one hundred and fifty taken prisoner, including two colonels. Debelle himself had been unhorsed and ridden over, though he had managed to escape. Lord Paget railed furiously over the number that had got across the little bridge and bolted home to Carrion – three hundred more perhaps. But he brightened at the news of his own casualties – not more than a couple of dozen, and a handful only who would not see the sun rise. And if the town of Sahagun itself was a poor billet in the days that followed, a poor billet was, as the sweats said, better than a good bivouac. Compared with what was to come, it would seem like a palace.

  The day after the next, Sir John Moore himself came up with the rest of the army. Hervey, cornet of the outlying picket, saw him riding at their head, for all the world like a Roman general. He took out his telescope, discreetly, to see him better. The commander-in-chief rode a cream-coloured gelding, striking among so many blacks and bays, clipped out full like a hunter, its coat very near the colour of the general’s own hair. Word was that he intended falling on Marshal Soult at dawn the following morning, with the Spanish under the Marqués La Romana assailing the French at the same hour from the north-west.

  Hervey would not have exchanged his cold picket post for a warm bed that morning, for the sight that followed the commander-in-chief came rarely, he supposed, to one of his rank. First, the King’s Germans, General Alten’s light brigade, its two green-jacketed battalions indistinguishable at a distance from British riflemen. These were seasoned soldiers, Hanoverians who had chosen exile rather than Bonaparte’s terms, but with more than a handful of men from other parts who had found themselves exiled so: Poles, Italians, Danes, Greeks even. They said that in a bivouac of the King’s German Legion, besides being the place for good meat and plentiful drink, there was a story to hear in any language a man cared to name.