Rumours Of War h-6

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey was too tired to be disappointed at the prospect of missing an affair. He saluted to acknowledge, and turned about.

  ‘But keep the men from inside the castle,’ snapped Lankester after him. ‘Those infamous devils have disgraced the name of soldier!’

  Hervey turned again and acknowledged, though he had no idea what his troop-leader referred to, especially which soldiers had earned so black a name.

  ‘Pull it off; he’ll not want it till morning,’ he said, looking at one of the trooper’s feet. The shoe was loose, and if it came off with the horse still tethered there was every chance the wretched animal would tread on a nail. ‘And do it now, while we have the lantern.’

  Tired though he was, and recalcitrant his dragoons, Hervey had decided to look at each horse now rather than wait for daylight, for he reckoned there was no knowing what alarm first light would bring.

  ‘Otherwise all look sound, Corporal Armstrong.’

  ‘A peck o’ corn then, sir?’

  ‘Yes. You would imagine a place like this would have some hay, too.’

  ‘I’ll go and look, sir.’

  Armstrong could be no less tired than he. It wouldn’t do to turn in and leave him to it. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, sir. It doesn’t take an officer to find feed.’

  That was true. But Hervey was intrigued, also, to know what had made Lankester boil. ‘I shouldn’t be able to sleep right away. I’d like to have a look in yonder place.’ He nodded towards the keep. It was an imposing sight, even when the spirits were lowest.

  Armstrong would have settled for a full hayloft, to go half shares with the horses for bedding or food, but there was time for that yet; he would go with his officer. He put Private Brayshaw in charge, next for chosen-man, threatening dire consequences if he didn’t keep a good watch.

  ‘He’ll not make a bad corporal, sir, that Brayshaw. He’ll never take an eagle, but he’ll not lose ought either.’

  ‘I have a feeling we shall have want of the latter more, these coming days, Corporal.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ The disappointment in his tone was marked; Armstrong was not a man for losing things, but his talents undoubtedly inclined more to wresting emblems from the French.

  The ramp from the bailey to the keep was steep, and the cobbles smooth. They had to watch their step. ‘He was handy with the shovel, I would grant you that,’ said Hervey, using his scabbard as a walking stick.

  And in the peculiar way that tired men’s thoughts roamed, he began wondering by whom, and by what process, Private Brayshaw had been picked in the first instance. He supposed it must be the quartermaster who first brought a man to the captain’s notice. And that would be perfect sense, for it was principally the quartermaster who would have to rely on the man, except in the field, where the officers had an equal call on an NCO’s facility. Hervey supposed that in practice the choice was probably not so difficult. A corporal must be a true proficient with his arms, a good horsemaster, smart and active, correct and faithful. And he ought to be intelligent. He must certainly be able to read, and preferably to write. No, indeed: the choice at any given time could not be excessively difficult. But how could it have been that Ellis was first chosen, and then advanced?

  The smell of smoke was strong as they made their way past none-too-alert sentries into the courtyard, where bonfires blazed in every corner. It was indeed a majestic place, thought Hervey, half palace, as arresting as any he had seen since landing in the Peninsula – the soaring turrets, the towers bound with massive chains of sculptured stone, the fretwork as fine as any he had seen in an English cathedral. This was the seat of the Duchess of Ossuna, and the stuff of fairy tales.

  But then he saw how the bonfires were fuelled, the windows shutterless and a good many without their frames. He wondered where the duchess was now – many miles away, he hoped – and if she knew of the heavy-handed requisitioning.

  ‘Can hardly blame the poor beggars, sir,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘No, indeed not.’ A year ago, from the comfort of a Wiltshire fireside, or even a Shrewsbury dormitory, he would have found it hard to understand. Was this what Sir Edward called ‘infamous’?

  He saw the open door to the grand entrance, and soldiers passing in and out freely. ‘It’s not every day a duchess opens her doors to us, Corporal Armstrong. Let’s take a look.’

  As soon as they went inside he saw the occasion for Sir Edward’s anger. And with each room they passed through – without the slightest let or hindrance – his revulsion increased. He could not have imagined it. Indeed, he could hardly believe his eyes. He was witnessing a scene of criminal despoiling no less, a site of conduct repellent to his every instinct. In the ballroom, he stood speechless.

  Corporal Armstrong’s upbringing fitted no image of the English pastoral, but he too found his gorge rising. ‘Bastards! I’d happily lay on with the cat to any one of ’em.’

  Hervey would not have dissented. Not at that moment, for sure. The broken glass everywhere – windows, mirrors, fine crystal – the silk panelling, gilt furniture and tapestries lying burnt or splintered, wanton destruction, defacing, theft; he was ashamed at the name of soldier, and English soldier at that. ‘Do you think our men capable of this, Corporal?’

  Armstrong looked at the scratches and incisions of a hundred bayonets, then spat. ‘Not so long as there’s NCOs who’ll do their job.’

  Hervey had already formed the deepest regard for Armstrong sword-in-hand, but he now saw in this bruising man that other element which constituted the truest non-commissioned officer: the complete understanding of where duty lay, not just because it was learned by rote or experience, but because it was instinctive. If there was any good to be had from the testimony of disgrace before them now, it was that he, Hervey, saw a man he could trust absolutely. Daniel Coates had told him he would; but he had said that he might have to wait many years for it.

  ‘Alarm! Alarm!’

  They had stood-to later than they ought; the horses were still unsaddled, even with the first signs of daylight towards the Esla. Hervey grabbed the surcingle from his groom and threw it over the saddle himself. ‘Do up the bridle tight, Sykes,’ he snapped.

  Pounding hooves added to his dismay.

  ‘The French are crossing the river!’ shouted a hussar as he galloped into the bailey, his horse’s shoes sparking on the cobbles and sliding to a halt. The man jumped down and looked about, surprised by the absence of orderlies eager for his intelligence. He saw Hervey and made for him instead. ‘Sir, the French are fording the Esla. General Paget wants all his cavalry to rally at once!’

  It didn’t take an order to have the men mounted. Indeed, Hervey was last into the saddle.

  ‘Where exactly are we to rally?’

  ‘Straight down the road, sir, towards where we crossed last night.’

  Hervey would have liked something more precise, but it was clearly not to be had. His men were moving, too. They would have pressed straight into a gallop if the stones had not been so worn. Every vestige of weariness was gone. All they wanted was to have a go at the French again.

  But how had the French been able to cross? Hervey struggled to imagine, just as he struggled with Stella’s plunging; she was hotted as if she’d had racing corn for breakfast. Why had they spent so long blowing up the bridge if all the French had to do was trot upstream a few hundred yards and ford across?

  He need not have worried about an exact rendezvous, however. In a quarter of an hour they heard musketry. He could not go far wrong if he rode to the sound of the guns.

  It was all but daylight now. The musketry was the other side of a thick belt of trees. How might he push through in good order and safety?

  The fire continued, more ragged than in volleys, but intense enough. He checked the pace, saw a defile and galloped for it. They checked again to a breaking canter, cursed the low branches, then came out to the flood plain of the Esla as the sun rose full over the hills the other side. He saw the l
ine of blue five hundred yards away. It could have been any of Lord Paget’s six regiments – at that distance it was impossible to make out the distinguishing marks, even the headdress. Yet somehow a dragoon knew his own; he put Stella back into a hand-gallop and took his two dozen wayfaring sabres fast towards the roost.

  As he closed on the serrefile Hervey saw Lord Paget galloping from the direction of the river, where the pickets of the 18th Light Dragoons – hussars in appearance and practice, if not by name – had spent the night in chilly watch.

  ‘You see, there are not so many of them, Reynell,’ called Paget from the saddle. ‘Otway’s pickets should hold them!’

  He galloped off towards the reserve, leaving Colonel Reynell to judge for himself what should be his action.

  That was how it was meant to be; or so Hervey understood. It was not for a brigadier, let alone the commander of the cavalry, to be the fount of all commands on the battlefield. As custom had it, a cavalry officer, whether in command of a troop or a brigade, was meant to exercise judgement according to his coup d’oeil. How easy it all seemed when Lord Paget expressed his intention and left Colonel Reynell to it. It did not require the intermediation of General Slade; that was certain.

  Hervey stood in his stirrups to see better, and sensed the twitching of two hundred sword hands, all eager to draw sabres and close with the enemy. The French were across the river, no doubt of it. In strength too, evidently: he could see the Eighteenth’s pickets giving ground before them. But it was one thing to drive in a picket line, and quite another to stand against a counter-charge, especially with a river at one’s back. The Eighteenth would send them splashing back across the Esla in very short order.

  Now the Eighteenth’s adjutant came galloping. He was beside himself with exasperation, and full voiced.

  ‘Where is Slade, Colonel?’

  ‘It is a mystery to me as you,’ replied Reynell coolly but no less audibly.

  ‘Will you support us then, Colonel?’

  Two hundred men behind him would want to know the reason why not.

  ‘You need scarcely ask,’ said Reynell. He turned his head at once. ‘Trumpeter, walk-march!’

  It was a ragged strike-off, but it did not matter. Colonel Reynell’s promptitude was what counted to ‘the yellow circle’, the fellowship of the cavalry.

  The Sixth mustered only two hundred and ten sabres, Number Three Squadron being in reserve with Lord Paget, and a good part of Second on picket or forage duties, but it would still be a fair weight to throw behind the Eighteenth. Together they could drive the French back into the Esla or take them prisoner. Reynell was confident of it. And he would not pull up until the west bank was cleared of every last chasseur.

  If only he could see them. The flood plain was extraordinarily flat, and the Eighteenth were masking the object of the advance.

  Hervey could see even less with two ranks close in front of him, and Stella plunging again in an alarming fashion, unhappy with her station at the back of the field. He heard no bugle, but the pace quickened, and Stella began throwing her head up as well as plunging. Hervey thought they would break through the ranks in front if once he let her have the rein. And if he did that he might as well send in his papers at once.

  He had both hands to the reins now, struggling to keep his sabre upright as he pulled, not wanting to advertise his difficulties. He wished it were Jessye beneath him; handy little mare, no looker but answering to leg or hand with equal honesty. She could not match Stella for speed, but then he was no longer a general’s galloper. And – the very devil was in it – this fine blood, which had meant to be his making, looked like being his undoing. Or his ruin, even, for a stumble with her head up would mean a broken neck; his too, probably. What was this mare about?

  Then the whole regiment was trying to pull up hard. The lines buckled, so that for a time it was not possible to say that one man had overtaken another. Stella just missed the flying hooves of the horse in front and slewed into a trooper in what remained of the front rank. Hervey’s leg knocked its rider’s boot clean from the stirrup.

  ‘Fookin’ Jesus!’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Corporal,’ tried Hervey, at last with Stella in hand.

  Colonel Reynell, a full twenty yards ahead, was standing in the stirrups with his sword raised, still bellowing ‘Hold hard!’

  Hervey saw why: the Eighteenth had turned. There was no chance now of taking the Sixth into the enemy’s ranks, not with the Eighteenth retiring before them. He could see the French at last, though: there were so many chasseurs it looked as if a whole brigade had got across.

  ‘The regiment will face in two ranks!’ Colonel Reynell’s voice was calm but insistent.

  It was like falling-in at first parade: an eager, untidy business, corporals shouting, heads and eyes all over the place, until by degrees there came the semblance of two lines, and, finally, good order. Hervey managed to find his place, in the rear rank and to Reynell’s right. But he could see with what assurance the Eighteenth retired: unhurried, as at a review, knowing as they must that if the French dared to charge they would be thrown over in an instant. He wondered where they would halt and front. He supposed about fifty yards from where the Sixth stood. That would be where Dundas prescribed, so as to have the close support of a second line. But the regulations did not serve on every occasion, and would not this morning, for only too clearly there were more chasseurs than the Sixth and the Eighteenth could stand against without support. To his left was a troop of the King’s German Legion coming from Benavente, and at a fair speed, but the rest of Slade’s brigade was nowhere to be seen. And certainly not the brigadier. What were they expected to do?

  He saw General Stewart, the Eighteenth’s brigadier, signalling the right with his sword, towards Benavente, and they began wheeling. It looked to Hervey like a very explicit giving of ground, and it left the Sixth exposed. But perhaps that was intended? He was surprised by the pace of things, how little time there was to judge their action; it had not been like this up to now.

  Colonel Reynell was not outpaced, however. ‘Advance at the trot – march!’

  The line billowed forward.

  ‘Left wheel!’

  The Sixth wheeled left to follow the Eighteenth. As they did so the chasseurs quickened their trot.

  In a minute the leading French squadron was closing, and rapidly. Hervey thought the regiment must change to canter or else be overrun. It would look horribly like flight though.

  Colonel Reynell had other ideas. ‘Walk-march! About face!’

  It was smartly done. The Sixth turned about in two ranks, the flanks nicely overlapping those of the chasseurs now only seventy yards away.

  ‘Return swords! Draw carbines!’

  Out from the saddle buckets came the Paget carbines.

  ‘Load!’

  Fortunate was the infantryman with his steady platform. Many a dragoon might have envied that as he took a cartridge from its pouch, bit off the end and clenched the ball between his teeth, struggling to keep his mount still as he tried to tip a little powder into the priming pan. Hervey, now in the front rank, drew his pistols ready-shotted. He looked left and right: one dragoon dropped a ball, cursed terribly and reached for another cartridge, but otherwise every man worked mechanically, and two hundred butts came to rest on the foreleg within an impressive ace of one another.

  ‘Front rank, present!’

  A hundred barrels came up to the aim.

  Hervey would swear he saw the chasseurs check. Yet at fifty yards surely the carbine could have little effect?

  A few seconds more and they checked most decidedly; the trot faltered and then the whole line came to a halt.

  Would they draw swords and charge? He thought they could do no other.

  But the chasseurs made no motion. They stood as if on parade. Were they waiting for them to make the first move?

  ‘Sixth Light Dragoons, carry arms!’

  As one, the carbines came down from the aim.


  ‘Sixth Light Dragoons, walk-march!’

  That settled it! Reynell was not going to be bustled from the field. If the chasseurs wanted to wait out of carbine range then the regiment would close it. It was a bold move, an audacious move; some might say foolhardy. But Reynell would give no cause for complaint against the Sixth, off or on the field. No one, whatever Sir John Moore had them do in the days to come, would be able to say the Sixth lacked fight.

  At forty yards Reynell held up his hand. ‘Halt!’

  They all knew what would be the next order, but no man anticipated it. Strict drill was the imperative in the face of the enemy: a hundred carbines raised as one would have its effect.

  But the Sixth faced not only a squadron. Beyond the stationary chasseurs, not a furlong away, looked the better part of a brigade. Hervey could not believe they had laboured a day and a night at the bridge when but a mile upstream, evidently, there was so serviceable a ford.

  He made ready his holsters, and he had a mind to keep them open once he drew his pistols again, for there would be no time to spare before he needed a sabre in his hand to meet the charge.

  ‘Light Dragoons, present!’

  Hervey levelled both pistols, his right hand through the reins, not a little anxious about his mare’s steadiness off the bit and a fusillade about to start her.

  The pause was long. Or else it seemed to be. He held his breath.

  But the chasseurs’ colonel simply brought the hilt of his sword to his lips, then down to his side.

  Hervey heard the Frenchman call ‘retire’, and he heard the breath escaping from a dozen men around him. He felt relieved and cheated at the same time.

  ‘Carry carbines! Threes about!’

  The ranks babbled with pride.

  ‘A good go, that, Mr Hervey, sir?’ came Armstrong’s cheery opinion.

  ‘Yes indeed, Corporal; very smart it was.’

  But did the French not have the field now? Surely General Craufurd’s men could not have made it to Astorga yet? Hervey could not grasp what must be.

  In two more furlongs he saw that Lord Paget had no intention of surrendering the field to the French. It even occurred to him that Paget had quite deliberately drawn the chasseurs across the Esla so as to be able to engage them on ground of his own choosing, with the river hemming them in. He had formed the Eighteenth at the narrowest point between the Esla and the birch wood that ran parallel to it, and Hervey saw their brigadier, Stewart, at the head, and the King’s Germans mustered with them. He could see too a squadron of the Tenth beyond, coming up fast from Benavente. He calculated Stewart would be able to dispose six hundred sabres, and only then did he realize that not only had Paget chosen his ground but he had fallen back onto his reserves. He smiled to himself; these were lessons that no amount of book-learning could take the place of.