Rumours Of War h-6

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Serjeant Ellis? What—’

  Ellis stared back defiantly, sack in hand.

  ‘What is it you have, Serjeant Ellis?’

  ‘Why don’t you run home to your mother, boy!’

  Hervey angered, whether at the affront, the insubordination or the looting he did not care. ‘You are in arrest, Serjeant Ellis!’

  ‘You little bull’s pizzle!’

  ‘You are to report yourself at once to the serjeant-major.’

  ‘What a right little fuck-beggar you are. I’ll do no such thing! And you aren’t going to do anything either, Mr-bloody-Newcome!’ He pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it straight at Hervey’s chest.

  ‘Put it down, serjeant,’ came a voice from the door.

  Ellis looked across. ‘Armstrong! I’ll not hear that from a jumped-up chosen-man!’

  ‘Come on, Serjeant; you’re in enough trouble without that.’

  Ellis knew the trouble he was in all right. He could have but one shot, and either way there was a witness to his crime. It would only be the difference between rope or firing squad, though. But he might need the shot later. He threw the sack at Hervey and ran.

  ‘Leave ’im, sir!’ called Armstrong, pushing past and seeing Ellis making off towards the river. ‘He’s as good as dead.’

  Hervey returned his sword. ‘What on earth do you suppose has possessed him?’ He was incredulous, but not a little conscious of his own part in the serjeant’s destruction.

  ‘I reckon his true form were let slip, sir. He were on the pad and taken red-handed. He were a bad ’un, sir. He’d take anything he liked from a man when the quartermaster weren’t looking. And one of his corporals said as how he’d seen ’im drawing his yard with one of C’s wives at Valderas; and rough with her an’ all. The poor lass were so ’ungry she’d do owt for a bit o’ bread.’

  Hervey felt better at hearing of the delinquency. ‘Well, he shan’t get back across the Esla without a horse, and he’ll be lucky if the French take him prisoner.’

  Colonel Reynell had not known whether to be in despair at having a serjeant found so delinquent, or cheered at having a cornet and a corporal prepared to do their duty. And Craufurd had merely scowled throughout the report. ‘There can be only one way, Reynell: the rope.’

  But there was not the time to brood, nor even to imagine where Ellis might be, for it had not been long after breakfast that First Squadron, Hervey’s, had been called up to reinforce Third across the bridge. All day they had exchanged shots with Ney’s scouts, charging them at every opportunity. Time and again Lord Paget galloped up to a vidette, exhorting them to one more effort. They cheered him as he spurred off to the others, and then fell savagely upon the next French scout hapless enough to show himself. But no matter how hard Paget and his men worked, the ‘mask’ was in the end as porous as the clothes on their backs, and from time to time Craufurd’s men at the bridge found themselves in a brisk exchange of fire with Ney’s best scouts. Not once, though, were the French able to combine into any force strong enough to bustle the sappers from their work.

  *

  Just before dark, Lord Paget, like a seasoned huntsman deciding to blow ‘home’, turned to his brigade-majors. ‘I think we shall now give ground to the marshal. Let us see what he makes of it, what?’ Without another word he reined about and left his staff to the recall.

  As he trotted into Castro Gonzalo ten minutes later he found Craufurd standing behind the semi-circle of riflemen who constituted the close bridge garrison. He touched his bicorn with his right index and first fingers. Craufurd returned the greeting, and they shook hands.

  ‘You come most carefully upon your hour, my lord,’ said Black Bob, his face creasing into something that might pass for a smile.

  Paget looked exhausted. ‘Ay, General. And for this relief, much thanks. There are stragglers on the road, still, but we should be awaiting them for ever. The Tenth will come through first, then the Fifteenth just after dark. The French are not pressing us that hard, but it’s as well not to let them know they can close up. Slade will report when the last is through.’

  Craufurd grimaced. ‘I suppose he’s capable of following his own men!’ He turned to his brigade-major. ‘As soon as the last of the Fifteenth is across, the outlying pickets are to withdraw.’ Then he turned back to Paget. ‘You are welcome to my table, such as it is, in yonder house. But I beg you would first excuse me.’

  They shook hands again. ‘I’ve commanded Slade’s pickets for him all day; I’m damned if I’ll be his march orderly! I accept your hospitality with pleasure, Craufurd.’ And Lord Paget rode across the bridge.

  Black Bob took out a canteen of rum and a cup from his saddlebag, pressed his horse forward to where the semi-circle of the Ninety-fifth stood, immobile, the rain running out of the muzzles of their rifles, and beckoned forward the serjeant. ‘Judge who best has need.’

  The man took the canteen and cup and touched his stovepipe shako – cap, as the Rifles called it – its stubby green plume beaten down by the rain, but the silver bugle badge still shining. ‘Ay, sir,’ he rasped.

  ‘When all is ready, riflemen,’ began Craufurd, raising his voice high to reach both ends of the semi-circle, ‘you will immediately get the word and pass over the bridge. Be careful, and mind what you are about!’

  Hervey was the last cornet to cross the Esla, and Sir Edward Lankester, behind him, the last mounted officer, General Slade having decided to go straight to the bridge to watch his brigade over. In the firelight he saw that the Ninety-fifth were minding very carefully indeed what they were about, and he prayed that when the engineers had done their work the riflemen would be able somehow to cross safely. He asked Sir Edward for leave to watch. ‘We toiled a good many hours at that stonework. I should like to be able to tell them just how it went.’

  Sir Edward saw no reason to refuse him. ‘But an hour only, mind, lest we march straight to Benavente. Though pray God we don’t, for every man would be asleep in the saddle after a mile.’

  On and under the bridge the artificers were finally laying the matches. Lieutenant Herbert said he intended first to fire the charges under the two arches adjacent to the central one, giving the bridge garrison the chance then to cross the gaps by ladder. ‘Then when they’re the other side I shall fire the charges under the central arch to extend the breach such that a crossing can’t be improvised. The French will have to send their engineers up, and that will delay them very considerably.’

  Hervey kept watch for a quarter of an hour from the saddle. It was so dark he neither saw nor heard anything but the rain, not even the Esla, in spate now. Then he saw a lantern on the bridge, and coming closer, until by the light of the picket’s brazier at the near end of the bridge he could see Lieutenant Herbert and one of his artificers. He dismounted, handed the reins to his coverman, and walked towards them. He was determined to see the engineer’s science as close as may be, his first demonstration of what powder could do in the hands of skilled fireworkers.

  ‘Ah, Hervey; you come to see the melancholy side of our art, do you?’ said Herbert, placing down the lantern. ‘It is a fine work, too, the bridge. Really a very handsome thing.’

  Hervey noted the cautious preference for the word ‘art’ rather than ‘science’. ‘Have you lit the charges, then, sir?’

  ‘Yes. And there is about five minutes to burn,’ said Herbert, looking at his watch. ‘I should have been proud to have built a bridge like that. Such solidity. I fear long odds for our chances of knocking down those arches perfectly.’

  They walked a little way further, crouched behind a low wall, and waited in silence.

  Then it came: first like a rumbling of distant thunder, not very greatly audible above the rain and the river, and not at all as Hervey had imagined. There were no jets of flame, no showers of sparks, no streaking rockets; the charges were packed so deep into the stone supports. But the ground shook.

  And then he could make it out, just: the nearest arc
h had collapsed.

  Herbert and his artificer set off at the double, followed without a word by a dozen sappers carrying the footway. Hervey followed too. The nearest arch had become a chasm twenty feet wide, and he could now see that the further one had fallen as well.

  The sappers had the footway down in no time. It was barely more than a ladder’s width, yet Lieutenant Herbert walked it as if he were on stepping stones across a brook.

  From the middle arch he could see his sappers laying a footway from the French side. In another minute the riflemen of the close bridge garrison would be able to cross. First, though, he needed to make sure the matches were in place for the charges under the centre span.

  The ladder on the buttress was still tied fast. Herbert clambered down into the darkness with a rope round his middle and the other end held tight by his artificer. Hervey lay down to see if he could see the work, but it was too dark.

  In a few minutes more, Herbert climbed back up the ladder and called to his sappers on the other side to send the riflemen over.

  It took almost an hour for them all to cross. The footways were mere planks, with no handholds. They were narrow and slippery, and it was pitch black. In truth, Hervey thought that if a man could see what he stepped along, and over, it would have taken at least twice the time. And the night was doubly welcome indeed, for if the French saw now they would surely attack, in even modest strength? Hervey thought the bridge would easily fall to them.

  He counted forty-one in all, thirty-three riflemen, their officer, holding out his sword for balance, and seven of Herbert’s sappers. It was all very neatly done.

  Then came the artificer, and then Herbert himself. Hervey helped them push the footways into the river.

  ‘Double away, Hervey. This will be a noisy affair!’ called Herbert, and with some relish.

  A noisy affair: Hervey would never forget it. They were not long at the end of the bridge when a blast like the crack of doom threw them flat on their faces.

  When the shower of masonry was over, General Craufurd loomed out of the dark. ‘Your report, Mr Herbert. And quick about it, if you please.’

  ‘He is gone for a look, sir,’ explained Hervey.

  ‘Hah! You sappers like nothing more than to get among the trash!’

  There was levity in his voice, but Hervey thought better than to disclaim Black Bob’s dubious accolade.

  In another minute, Herbert was back. ‘Two arches gone in the first explosion, sir, each of twenty feet. I’ll need to survey the centre span more fully, but it has fallen, for certain.’

  ‘Good work. Did you get all my riflemen back?’

  ‘All present, sir,’ came a voice from behind.

  ‘Mr Hill?’

  ‘It is, General. And thirty-two riflemen.’

  ‘Good. And your men, Herbert?’

  ‘Seven of them, sir. The other three, the second firing party, will be crossing by wherry as we speak: Mr Gilbert and two men remained on the French side in case the matches could not be lit from here.’

  Hervey did the sums again; he found he had counted one too many. But better that, he thought, than the other way round.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AN AFFAIR OF CAVALRY

  Elvas, 1 November 1826

  Dom Mateo was unwavering in his determination to take whatever cavalry he could muster to confront the rebels; and the Spaniards too, for that matter. The more Hervey told him of the affair at Sahagun and the fighting withdrawal to the Esla, the more he became convinced that it was the only way for them now.

  ‘The fortress will hold, Hervey,’ he said assuredly, as they walked together along the eastern ramparts in the early sun. ‘Look around. See how thick the walls are. These Miguelistas would have to assemble a very great siege train. With cavalry we could at least prevent them.’

  ‘With enough cavalry, Dom Mateo. And the walls would have to be defended truly.’

  Dom Mateo waved a hand dismissively. ‘The commanding officers are good men.’

  Hervey had no doubt of it, nor that Major Coa was a most capable staff officer, but with the possibility of mutiny in the garrison (an acknowledged if scarcely spoken threat) he was still doubtful that dividing their efforts so was prudent. He sighed. ‘Dom Mateo, don’t mistake me; I believe your resolve admirable, but I do not see that our condition here is at all to be compared with Lord Paget’s at Sahagun. The French believed Sir John Moore was about to attack them at Carrion; Paget was therefore merely playing to their expectations. It is true that he was so vigorous thereafter that they thought he had many more cavalry than he did, but they were themselves very hesitant in advancing to the Esla, as if fearing a trap.’

  Dom Mateo raised both hands. ‘But why should the rebels be any bolder?’

  Hervey did not answer at first. The question was a fair one. In coming to his estimation, he had supposed the worst (it had always served him well to do so), yet it did seem more likely that an advance would be hesitant, especially one intent principally on probing. He began nodding his head. ‘It is a pity that we do not have the means of increasing the rebels’ trepidation.’

  Dom Mateo inclined his head, and smiled. ‘You see, Hervey; my scheme is possible. All we must do is find a means, a ruse even.’

  Hervey was somewhat abashed to realize that Dom Mateo displayed more spirit for the fight than he did. But he had come to distrust mere fighting spirit, when it was a substitute for thinking, though it sometimes revealed possibilities that would otherwise not occur in cool calculation. He saw that Dom Mateo was determined, and decided to throw in with that spirit. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘General, you are right. All we must do is find a means. I distrust ruses; they depend too much on fortune. But if there are not the solid means, then humbug it must be.’

  Hervey began to wonder how Lord Paget had found the means. Looking back on it, he supposed it must have been the affair at Sahagun that decided matters. The French, even knowing their own superiority in numbers – which by then they must have had a very clear idea of – had neither counter-charged nor manoeuvred that morning. There was no lack of personal courage in the ranks of chasseurs and dragons, as the affair at Benavente later had shown, but their commanders lacked confidence, or skill; perhaps both. Paget must have calculated that any blow, however weak, could only serve to increase their disquiet. By rights, had Debelle been a commander of any dash, Soult’s cavalry would have beaten him to the Esla, taken the bridges and cut him off. Paget must have had nerves of steel to remain east of the river for so long, especially once night had come.

  How had Paget found his way to the bridge that night? Hervey remembered full well how he himself had had the very devil of a job finding the Sixth after the engineers had fired the charges, when General Craufurd had at last dismissed him. Just before midnight, orders had apparently come for the regiment to proceed with all haste to Benavente, about eight miles to the north-west, and Sir Edward Lankester had at once sent an orderly to the bridge with this intelligence, but somehow Hervey had not received it, and he had returned in the early hours to an empty monastery rather than a welcome billet. There had been but one road for the regiment to take, however, and so Hervey and his little party – the men tired and disgruntled by this time rather than exulting in their work at the bridge – had plodded for another three hours until they reached the outlying pickets at Benavente.

  ‘All the cavalry is at the castle,’ said the picket-officer, who seemed not entirely sure of his information – nor, indeed, too certain of his own courage; and for the first time, Hervey was aware that all might not be well.

  The castle was easy enough to find, for it stood on a rocky outcrop high above the town, a blaze of light compared with the darkness of the mean streets below. Hervey and his men dismounted short of the gate and the inlying picket.

  ‘Corporal Armstrong, have the men stand easy while I get orders.’

  ‘Ay, sir. But I hope they’ll be orders to bed down. There’s not much left in nei
ther man nor beast.’

  Hervey was inclined to say that he imagined what little remained would soon be the difference between getting through the mountains and falling prey to the French; but he supposed that Armstrong knew it too. ‘I’ll see to it, Corporal. It might be the last straw we have in many a night.’

  As he walked away he cursed himself for doubting – or, rather, for giving voice to those doubts. Daniel Coates had said it time and again, and he knew it of his own instincts too: an officer ought never to show his uncertainty. Indeed, he ought never to reveal his thoughts at all. It was all of a piece with Sir Edward Lankester’s warning to keep a distance always. Hard words, Hervey knew full well, but learned over a fair few years, and kindly meant.

  As he rounded the corner into the bailey, however, he found that Sir Edward was differently occupied this morning. He was angry, and – most unusually – it was apparent.

  ‘Infamous! I never thought to see its like!’

  Even Colonel Reynell seemed surprised by his agitation. ‘I fear we’ll see worse, Lankester. I pray not at the regiment’s hands, that is all.’

  Their grooms were hurriedly tightening girths and surcingles, the chargers pawing the ground or dancing on their toes as the two officers stood impatient to be mounted. Dragoons were standing to their horses all about the flare-lit cobbles. Hervey caught the tone of the serjeants, too, as commands flew left and right. If this were not exactly an alarm, then it was an unexpected turn-out for sure.

  ‘Is that you, Hervey?’

  ‘It is, Sir Edward.’

  ‘I suppose the bridge is destroyed then?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I had imagined the French had taken it.’

  Was this why Sir Edward appeared so liverish? Hervey had not observed any tendency that way at earlier turn-outs.

  ‘Decidedly not, sir.’

  ‘We are bidden down to the Esla. You had better take your ease for a few hours. At least until daybreak. I’ll send word.’