Astorga: that had been the place. That had been where a regular retrograde movement (as it was meant to be) turned into irrecoverable flight. Astorga: infamous memory! Hervey could scarcely bear to think the name, the place where Sir John Moore’s spirit was broken, as so many of his regiments’. And all because they could not fight a general action.
‘I am afraid it is not to be, gentlemen,’ explained Colonel Reynell to the Sixth’s officers craning to hear his words in yet another cloister. ‘Evidently there is neither the means nor the stomach for a fight.’
There were gasps of disbelief, mutterings of dissent, and many an exclamation of ‘Shame!’
‘General Romana, I understand – plucky don that he is – would have us contest the mountain passes west of here instead of hightailing it to the sea. But Sir John Moore will not have it. In short, gentlemen, it has become Sir John’s sole object to save the army. And we must allow that he is in a better position than are we to judge it.’
Still there was the sound of discontent.
Colonel Reynell had other things to occupy him, however. ‘You may know that the army has already been obliged to destroy the greater part of the ammunition and military stores for want of carriage. And for that reason too we shall be obliged to leave the sick once more.’
‘Shall we not at least fight a rearguard action here, Colonel?’ asked Sir Edward Lankester, sounding as if there were no sensible alternative.
‘We shall not, Sir Edward,’ replied Reynell. ‘I am afraid we shall be leading the field.’
Leading? The whole assembly was appalled.
‘The mountain roads west of here are too narrow for cavalry to be of any use, save for a very few as orderlies and such. It will fall to the Fifteenth alone to march with General Edward Paget’s rearguard division. Our business will be to get ourselves clear of the road to Villafranca as quickly as possible in order that the infantry and artillery might have free of it. I understand that Sir John may yet make a stand at Villafranca if the circumstances are favourable, for it would not be so easy for the French to outflank him there as here.’
The promise of action in which they would not take part was little comfort, and the grumbling began again.
*
That night, Hervey wrote to Daniel Coates:My dear Dan,When last I wrote I could not have imagined that our condition could be any worse, but I have to tell you that our army is become a very wretched affair, with much indiscipline and insubordination. The officers complain openly of Sir John Moore, that he has not the stomach to fight the French &c. I, of course, do not know what must be, but I have seen things these past days that almost make me ashamed to bear the name of soldier. The army in general is in a most enfeebled state. I should, of course, say armies, for both redcoat and Spanish alike suffer. Especially are General Romana’s Spaniards truly to be pitied. Today I watched as they stumbled in to the town all morning (to say marched in would have been to travesty the soldier’s term). The poor devils were raveningly hungry, barefoot, and their once fine uniforms in rags. A great many of them had no muskets. A British ensign, attached as an interpreter, told me they fired off all their ammunition just to keep their hands warm. And a good number of them were fevered – typhus fever, it is said. But their delirium looked little different to me from the stupor of our own infantry, too many of whom appeared to have broken into the bodegas and staved in the casks. I have seen them shoot down exhausted bullocks in the street, while they are attached to the cart poles, and then hacked up and wolved with barely a pass through the flame of burning stores and furniture. I should tell you that not all the regiments are in this insolent condition of course. The Guards, as you might imagine, are as steady as ever you saw, and the Scotch for the most part, and the Germans, the 4th King’s Own too, and of course General Craufurd’s light brigade. Our colonel is in a fearful bait lest our men follow suit, but tomorrow Sir John Moore is to have the whole army parade to watch punishment, by which it is hoped that some sense of discipline may be uniformly restored . . .
*
‘Pour encourager les autres,’ said Lieutenant Martyn, very decidedly, on their way to orderly room next morning. ‘Though I myself doubt it will do the least good, judging from the delinquency I saw on my way up. And Edward Paget is to hang two as well, I’ve heard. Though that, I fear, will be not the slightest degree of encouragement either.’
Orderly room proved a sullen affair. ‘They murdered a woman and her children at Benavente,’ the adjutant explained, seeing the looks on the faces of the other subalterns as he gave instructions for the punishment parade.
Hervey’s disquiet was allayed.
‘Very well, gentlemen, that concludes orders,’ said the adjutant, closing his minute book. ‘To your duties.’
The subalterns left with heavy hearts, however. The prospect before them was not agreeable in any degree. It was bad enough that they had to slink away to Corunna without so much as a rearguard, but first having to parade for a hanging, and then watching a procession of the dregs of the army, whom the French had overtaken and cut up, hardly conduced to raise the spirits.
That was not the object, Hervey realized. Colonel Reynell had made the parade’s condign and exemplary purpose clear. In any case, had not Sir Edward Lankester already said that the regiment must look to its own during the weeks to come? Hervey was sure it must be so: the Sixth had always fought well, Sir Edward said, and they were among friends. It was not mere sentiment, he felt sure. For one thing, Sir Edward was not a man given to sentiment, and for another it seemed manifestly true; even allowing for the business of Serjeant Ellis. In any case, friendship did not have to be cloying. The important thing was that if a man wore the figure ‘VI’ on his regimentals he would do all in his power not to shame those who shared that badge. That at least was the regimental ideal, and it worked often enough as not.
*
Quartermaster Banks looked distinctly unfriendly when A Troop paraded an hour later. Had any dragoon shown the merest sign of comradely familiarity his humiliation would have been effected with summary despatch. A tongue-lashing from Quartermaster Banks was not a complete deterrent to delinquency, any more than the cat was a complete deterrent in the flogging regiments, but its effect was none the less for that. Fortunately, this morning every man sensed the quartermaster’s humour, and even the corporals were wary. Why the quartermaster looked so unusually severe was anyone’s guess, but it was not difficult to imagine that with Holland and India to his credit, he was all too aware that it was but a stone’s throw from good order to mutiny. And he, Quartermaster Isaac Banks, would have no stain on his record for such a thing in his troop (Sir Edward Lankester may own the troop in strictly proprietary terms, but it was Izzy Banks’s until he had handed it over to the captain; handed it over not merely in good order but in perfect order).
That had been the message this morning: no explicit order, but the understanding that turn-out was to be beyond mere muster-good. The quartermaster’s eye searched, noted, reproached, approved. Sir Edward Lankester took over a troop the King himself could have inspected. But there were no words, and Lankester led them in silence to the appointed place, where he found the rest of the Sixth already drawn up in two ranks. He formed A on the right of the line, as was their privilege, and reported ‘all present’ to the adjutant.
The town square, a vast fairground in better times, and filled with every type of uniform, was as silent as A Troop’s ride. There was nothing like the proximity of the gallows to still the restless and quieten the wags. Three sides of it were packed four ranks deep with infantry of the Line, while five regiments of cavalry and two battalions of the Guards occupied the other. The gallows, impressed from the civil authorities, towered above the parade, the two condemned men standing rock-like on the scaffold, hands and feet bound, a serjeant with pike on either side of them.
The silence continued a full five minutes. Then there was a sudden cacophony of words of command from every regiment.
&nbs
p; ‘Sixth Light Dragoons, atte-e-enshun!’
Three hundred sabres came to the perpendicular from the slope. Colonel Reynell dropped his to the salute as Sir John Moore, half a dozen general officers and his staff rode into the square.
General the Honourable Edward Paget, the cavalry commander’s younger brother, lost no time. ‘By the provisions of the Mutiny Act and the Articles of War, I confirm sentence of death passed by field general court martial on Privates Lynch and Terry of the Ninth Regiment of Foot.’
No one had expected Paget to commute the sentence, but the words were terrible to hear nevertheless. Men as well as horses shifted their weight.
‘Provost Marshal, carry out sentence!’
Neither Lynch nor Terry was offered hood or blindfold. They were men under discipline, they had committed murder, and they would face their end squarely.
Hervey strained to see.
A chaplain in Geneva gown said inaudible prayers for a full minute, and it seemed longer. When he was finished, the serjeants tightened the nooses about the men’s necks. Then the provost marshal nodded to his assistant. The corporals pulled the levers.
The two privates, feet lead-weighted, dropped through the trapdoors into the open-front space beneath. Hervey thought he would never be able to describe, or forget, the sharp intake of ten thousand men’s breath. Private Lynch’s rope unravelled on the jib and his body fell too far, almost to the ground, so that his head snapped clean off as the rope jerked, and rolled to a muddy halt in front of the guard at the foot of the scaffold. But that was a mercy compared with Private Terry’s contortions: he struggled a minute and more at the end of his rope until, the air choked off, he at last fell still.
‘Botched,’ muttered Izzy Banks. ‘Both of ’em. Too heavy the one, and not enough the other.’
Those dragoons near him shuddered at their quartermaster’s acquaintance with the finer points of a hanging.
But the provost marshal and his men could scarcely be blamed. They had not hanged anyone since coming to the Peninsula.
‘Carry on, Provost Marshal,’ said Sir John Moore, grimly.
Grimly and, thought those sweats who knew him, dejectedly. It was not the pleasure of a general officer to have men hanged and arraigned when there were the King’s enemies close by.
A sorry-looking procession (‘parade’ would not have served) now began to shuffle through the square, men horribly cut up and mutilated. These were the stragglers, the men who had broken ranks for whatever reason, whom the French cavalry had set about with evident skill and relish. Sir John Moore wanted every man in the army to know what fate awaited those whose will and discipline failed them.
Hervey paled at the sight, a veritable march-past of grotesques. Even the red cloth could not hide the blood stains and raw wounds.
Red cloth, all save for one. Hervey gaped as he saw the bloody bundle of blue shuffling along with the rest. A serjeant of the 6th Light Dragoons: there could hardly be a more shameful sight. Ellis had brought himself to this, no one else. Even so, he, Hervey, had been the instrument of that shaming, and the sudden evidence of so profound a fall from grace unnerved him.
The escort, non-commissioned officers of the Guards, formed the procession into line to face each side of the square in turn. Immaculate in their blackings and pipe clay, the Guards stood in stark contrast to their charges, as indeed was the intention, reckoned Hervey. He thought it like some medieval representation of hell, the promise of infernal torture for the transgressor. He fixed on the bloody blue bundle again, then suddenly remembered that Ellis was a fugitive still.
But the quartermaster spoke first. ‘I have him, sir.’
Hervey was relieved to have the responsibility taken from him.
And Ellis would have a glimpse of the fate that awaited him.
General Paget glowered at the stragglers, his horse a length in advance of Sir John Moore’s (he commanded the parade), and shifted in the saddle. ‘March on the prisoner!’
His voice condemned the man as surely as had the court martial. It contained no hope of clemency. Hervey felt his stomach churning.
The provost marshal’s men stood aside to let twenty guardsmen file into the middle of the square. A red-coated private, hatless, marched at their head, as broken-looking as the escorts were magnificent. They halted in front of the overturned waggon that was to serve as bullet-catcher.
‘Sentenced this very morning,’ said Izzy Banks, loud enough for those dragoons nearest to hear and relay it to the extremities of the troop.
Speedy justice, as well as the remorseless kind, was a powerful reminder.
Hervey strained to hear more.
‘Mutiny.’
The dread word; Hervey tried hard not to flinch as he turned back to see the condemned man brought out of the ranks and made to stand in full view of the parade.
The provost marshal began to read. ‘Given this thirty-first day of December, eighteen hundred and eight, by order of Major-General the Honourable Edward Paget, Private Leechman of His Majesty’s Fifty-second regiment of foot is hereby sentenced to death by shooting for the offence of mutinous conduct contrary to the provisions of the Mutiny Act, in that he at Benavente on the thirtieth day of December eighteen hundred and eight did strike his superior officer, namely Serjeant Hamilton of that regiment. The sentence to be carried out without delay.’
General Paget turned to the Fifty-second.
Private Leechman’s commanding officer now spoke up. ‘Sir, the man’s previous record has been exemplary, as stated at the court martial, and his officers respectfully request for clemency to be given on this occasion. He wishes to admit his guilt before the parade assembled.’
General Paget nodded.
Private Leechman began in a loud but faltering voice. ‘I am brought to this by my own devices and through drink. And the justice is fair. If I might be spared my life I resolve never to falter again, and to serve my King and country faithfully, as I have always endeavoured to.’
‘That will do it,’ said Lieutenant Martyn in the Sixth’s front rank, just loud enough to carry to the cornets. ‘A clean breast of it and an oath to the King.’
Hervey hoped so. The offence was not perhaps so great, he imagined, for no doubt the serjeant had been harsh, and the man was of previous good character.
The provost marshal turned to General Paget.
‘See,’ said Martyn. ‘Paget will turn to Sir John Moore, and in so doing accept the petition for clemency.’
But the general did not. ‘No man who has previously been of good character may escape the consequences of an offence. By that method the whole army shall be undone. Carry out sentence!’
The universal shock was audible. The depravity of the offence and the severity of the discipline were at once imprinted on every mind.
The provost marshal nodded to the field officer of the Guards, who in turn nodded to the serjeant of the escort.
The serjeant tied Leechman’s arms to his side, bade him kneel down as the escort cleared the line of fire, and placed a sack over his head.
The square fell silent again.
The drum-major nodded to the firing party. Sixteen guardsmen filed in front of their target at a distance of ten yards.
There were no chaplain’s prayers this time, perhaps, thought Hervey, because the man had committed no crime against God; only the drum-major’s presiding over ceremonies.
Silent presiding; the muskets were loaded ready. There would be no awful clattering of ramrods. And all the words of command, which as a rule were barked out, the drum-major gave by hand. It was a gesture of mercy towards the condemned man, for Leechman was of previous good character and his offence was military rather than the common felon’s. This, then, marked Hervey, was General Paget’s clemency. His discipline was harsh, but not cruel.
The drum-major lifted his hand, as if beckoning someone to rise. Up to the aim came a dozen muskets.
Hervey felt his every muscle tense.
Th
e hand fell.
The volley was as near perfect as might be. Smoke rolled back over the firing party, leaving Private Leechman’s bulleted body to the parade’s view. Half a dozen balls had struck, throwing him heavily onto his back, but his arms, pinioned by the serjeant’s cord, quivered like the fins of a fish before the gaff’s merciful release.
The drum-major, silent yet, summoned forward the other four guardsmen. It looked a well-practised drill. They placed their muskets to Leechman’s head and fired, at last putting the man from his agonies.
There was the sound of retching from all sides of the square. Hervey felt a tear in his eye. Only a passing bell could have made the moment sadder.
Afterwards, a full hour later, for Sir John Moore had all his regiments march past the salutary display of mutilation and death, Hervey went quietly to his duties. For once there was no idle talk about the horse lines.
‘There are always bad ’uns, Mr Hervey, sir,’ said Corporal Armstrong, finding him to one side, and sensing perhaps his preoccupations.
Hervey was drawing-through the barrel of one of his pistols. ‘I beg your pardon, Corporal Armstrong, I did not quite hear.’
‘There are always bad ’uns, sir. Anywhere. Any rank. I reckon it’s a mercy yon serjeant was found out now. No knowing what he might’ve done.’
Daniel Coates would have said the same. Hervey could hear the old dragoon’s certainty, learned the hard way in so many years’ campaigning. ‘Let us hope there are not too many, Corporal Armstrong.’
He did not add ‘and with rank’, though Armstrong might well have imagined the sentiment. To Hervey, the notion of being failed by a man on whom he was meant to rely was peculiarly repugnant, contrary to every instinct and to what he understood was the tradition not just of the regiment but of the service. The Ellis business put him on his guard. In what lay ahead – and there could be no doubt now what a trial it would be – he meant to maintain that guard, for Sir Edward Lankester’s words rang in his ears: ‘Do not become close.’
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