Yes, here was a cavalryman with the surest coup d’œil. All would be well; but, even so, Edmonds had not liked what Uxbridge had said about the difficulties with the Dutch and the Prussians. Never had he trusted anyone but an English regular, yet now they must rely on allies close on both flanks. Was not this what he had warned of that very day in Cork when the news of the escape from Elba arrived? And it would be no Peninsula this time – no Fabian campaign of advance and withdrawal on Wellington’s terms, no game of cat and mouse. This was too close to Paris for the French, and Bonaparte himself would be in the field. It would take the whole weight of an allied army – an army of unity – to defeat him, not one of rifts and suspicions.
Later in the morning Hervey rode into Ghent to see d’Arcey Jessope, whose invitation to dine with his regiment he had received the day before. ‘But, first, my dear friend,’ said the ADC as he greeted him enthusiastically, ‘I want to show you my new charger. I am excessively pleased with him, I must admit. He is the most beautiful creature!’
They went to the château stables where Jessope had lodged his new horse, and an orderly led him out under a magnificent saddle-cloth. ‘There!’ exclaimed the captain of Guards. ‘Tell me your opinion – is he not the most magnificent steed, fit for an aide-de-camp to the duke’s military secretary!’
Hervey smiled; Jessope had such an attachment to looks! This gelding was, however, as fine a looking thoroughbred as Hervey had seen. An inch short of sixteen hands, he guessed, there was a pleasing symmetry to his conformation. His lean head, indicating the real quality of his breeding, was well set on. He had a kind eye, betokening a generous disposition (and that, Hervey judged, was what Jessope needed above all else). He had a nice length of rein let into sloping shoulders, putting the saddle in the right place. He stood on good legs, not too spindly as some thoroughbreds had, with enough bone below the knee. His quarters were well let down, and his hocks were well under him. His summer coat, a deep liver chestnut, shone. And – which Jessope no doubt found most pleasing – he carried his tail well. Hervey had but one reservation: he was a shade too short-coupled for his liking. True, Jessye had a short back, but he always believed this to be less a concern in non-bloods. But, he had to admit, this gelding was a picture, and he congratulated Jessope.
‘Let us ride together a while, then, and I can show you his paces: he trots as if on air!’
Hervey readily agreed. The tacking was called for and, after a little difficulty fitting the saddle (‘He is somewhat cold-backed,’ Jessope explained), they set off for the park near the great cathedral of St-Bavon.
To Jessope’s frustration, however, he could not keep his gelding on the bit.
‘Is he green?’ asked Hervey, trying not to make too obvious a suggestion that Jessope’s hands might be wanting.
‘Well, he was warranted eight years old. I think, perhaps, I have not been able to give him quite sufficient exercise since coming here.’
Hervey was sceptical, however, and he observed the gelding intently as they trotted along the sandy ride that bisected the park. The horse would not relax its back, seeming instead to hold it stiffly, and there looked to be too little activity in the hind legs for so well bred an animal.
When they returned to the château Hervey asked if he might look him over more closely.
‘Do you think there might be some ailment, then?’ asked Jessope, with more than a note of concern.
Hervey paused before making any reply, running his hand along the horse’s back, feeling for obvious sore points. But there were none: the back was as clean as could be. ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I know only a very little about these things. But I am always a trifle uneasy about short-coupled thoroughbreds. I like more room for the lungs, though I must say that yours seems to have not too shallow a chest. You say he is eight years. Has he done much?’
‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Jessope, a might uncomfortably. ‘I bought him at Tattersall’s, as the property of a gentleman.’
Hervey looked in the gelding’s mouth. The groove in the crown of each incisor was gone, and the star was present in the central ones. ‘Well, he is eight at least. Beyond that I cannot tell.’
‘What do you suppose is the trouble, then?’
Hervey let out his breath and raised an eyebrow. ‘Look, Jessope, he is a handsome thing, but …’
Jessope had by now braced himself. ‘Tell me what you suppose!’
‘I fear he may have a kissing spine.’
Jessope looked puzzled.
‘I have seen it only a couple of times before, and there is no sure way of knowing, but each time it has been a thoroughbred with a short back. A kissing spine is when the vertebrae impinge, invariably in the middle back.’
Jessope looked crestfallen. ‘And what may I do about it?’
‘The first thing you must do is seek the opinion of someone better-qualified than I. There must be a staff veterinary officer with the duke’s headquarters.’
‘Yes, there is,’ replied Jessope. ‘And what if he confirms your diagnosis?’
Hervey paused again. ‘I am very much afraid that at his age you can do nothing. But in any event, you must have a horse that you may rely on in the field. You do have others?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘of course, but they are not one bit as magnificent as he.’
‘Jessope, my dear friend, believe me,’ urged Hervey, ‘I understand that it is necessary to be turned out magnificently on the staff. But when it comes to fighting you know full well that it’s “handsome is that handsome does”.’
Dinner comprised both agreeable company and good fare, the Guards having paid handsomely for the contents of a market garden nearby and for venison from their château’s deerpark. There was champagne brought that day from Rheims by traders of resource, its cost inflated, however, by the ‘tolls’ paid to French patrols near the border. In respect of champagne, at least, even during the late wars, neither the allied blockade nor Bonaparte’s edicts had ever quite extirpated trade. But Jessope had been curiously reserved throughout dinner. And afterwards, walking in the formal gardens of the château, he revealed why. ‘You must not breathe a word of this,’ he began, in almost a whisper, ‘but matters are looking very grave indeed as regards the Prussians.’
Hervey committed himself to absolute discretion.
‘There might even be a thorough rupture in the alliance,’ he continued, Hervey’s expression of surprise encouraging his conspiratorial manner. ‘It would seem that earlier this year, at the congress in Vienna, there was some impasse as regards the future of Saxony and Poland. The Prussians appeared to want to incorporate the greater part of both into Prussia itself. It would seem that a secret treaty was signed in which we agreed to side with Austria and France against the Prussians – and with the Russians, too, I believe – in the event of its coming to a fight.’
‘Great heavens!’ sighed Hervey, ‘and I suppose you are going to say that the secret is now out?’
‘Bonaparte discovered it – naturally – and is now most skilfully driving a wedge into the alliance.’
‘What shall happen?’
‘I know not. Lord Fitzroy considers that it will not make a deal of difference in so far as the congress is concerned. Bonaparte must be dealt with – the Prussians know it well enough. And the only way is by concerted action. But in Vienna they may have their stately dance: the difficulty will be in the field, for it seems there is much resentment already amongst the Prussians. Gneisenau, their chief of staff, can be trying at the best of times – so hearsay has it.’
‘But is not Prince Blücher to be their commander? He has a reputation as a seasoned soldier, has he not?’
‘Yes, indeed. But you with all your study will know that the Prussians have a most curious system. The chief of staff answers direct to their king in many matters – principally in the strategy of the campaign. So even though Blücher is the field commander he is bound by Gneisenau’s orders in certain circumstances.’
> ‘It is a curious system for sure; it evidently works, however.’
‘Evidently so, though it is untried in coalition. Oh, and by way of adding to the discord,’ said Jessope almost as an aside, ‘they are shooting the Saxons!’
‘What?’ gasped Hervey.
‘Several Saxon regiments have mutinied, and the Prussians are shooting the ringleaders. Altogether, then, not everything on our left flank is as the duke would have it be!’
Hervey raised his eyebrows and then shrugged. ‘And what does headquarters think Bonaparte will be about next?’
‘The duke believes there will be no attack in the north – at least, to begin with. He believes Bonaparte will strike first at the Austrians on the Rhine.’
‘And what of us here, then?’
‘Oh, there will be some offensive to hold us in Belgium, that is for sure. But look, my good friend, I have to be back at headquarters ere long. I will tell you all as I hear it, but it must go no further. I tell you because I cannot trust anyone else to keep silent and, in truth, I must talk with someone – the confidences are all but intolerable. Now, riding out with headquarters – shall you be able to join us tomorrow?’
‘You may be sure of it.’
‘Then be there by eight: the duke will be very prompt.’
XIII
DESIGN FOR BATTLE
Flanders, 2 June 1815
WHEN HUGO STYLES had raised an eyebrow at the supposed inadequacy of Hervey’s equipage – ‘do you think that two will be enough?’ – he had scarcely fancied that one of those two horses would be an unprepossessing little mare. And had it been Styles about to ride out in the company of the commander-in-chief, albeit no doubt at the back of a large field, that ornament of an officer would for certain have ridden the poorer-looking charger to the headquarters, his groom leading a finer one, and there he would have changed horses – just as at home he might take a hack to a covert, and thence change to a blood for the chase. But Hervey had chosen to do the contrary, though acutely aware that the Sixth’s officers had at one time scorned Jessye as a covert-hack. Not that he feigned to consider, for the briefest instant, the alternative. He dismissed it, however, on the grounds that the Duke of Wellington would not engage himself in the sort of Hyde Park ride that Styles might have envisaged. And if there was to be anything tricky, then he wished to be on that handy little mare – indeed, the handiest in everyone’s judgement now. Perhaps if Harkaway had not thrown a splint he would have chosen him instead, but the gelding was gorging himself on the lush green grass of east Cork, making whole again in anticipation of Hervey’s return to the hunting field in that glorious county.
The headquarters party that morning was not as big as he had expected. The duke himself, wearing a plain blue coat and hat, and riding a big grey, was accompanied by Lord Fitzroy Somerset. This, Hervey’s first sight of the duke’s military secretary, greatly took him aback, for the man looked no older than he.
‘That is because he is not!’ said Jessope. ‘Well, not by more than a year or two. And a lieutenant-colonel to boot!’
Hervey studied him, fascinated. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, a lieutenant-colonel in the Grenadiers and one of the duke’s principal staff officers. A son of the Duke of Beaufort (no doubt this had been instrumental to his first being appointed ADC to Wellington in Spain), but there were many similarly connected officers who failed to win so signal a favour. Patronage could be but an incomplete explanation. And here was he – a lieutenant with hardly the means to buy a captaincy, and a stop on promotion even if he did have. It would have required the attributes of a saint at that moment not to feel at least some particle of resentment.
‘Did you know his wife is with child – their first?’ added Jessope, as if Hervey might have any idea – or, indeed, interest. ‘She is in Brussels at this time.’
‘I was not even to know he was married!’ he replied flatly.
‘Why, yes,’ began Jessope, unperturbed, ‘last August, to the duke’s niece. It was a deuced fine wedding, I may tell you!’
Hervey smiled to himself. The duke’s niece – how these threads wove tight together! And he wondered who these other three in the party might therefore be. Perhaps they, too, were officers of like affinity. He began to feel uncomfortably out of place. Maybe, had he not been so conspicuous (he was wearing field order, so that he looked not unlike the two staff-dragoon orderlies accompanying the duke), he might have felt more inclined to ease, for the others wore plain clothes of black, blue or green which would serve them equally well in the hunting field. And they seemed intent on keeping their own company, though apparently on nodding terms with Jessope.
‘Where is the escort?’ he whispered.
‘There is no escort. The duke keeps his field small and relies on quality,’ replied Jessope, likewise sotto. ‘What do you think of that entire he rides – he is quality, is he not?’
‘Truly he is, though more a youngster than I would have supposed.’
‘The duke has a stable of near two dozen, counting drivers. And most of them bloods!’
‘Then I shall be sure to remain a respectful distance behind with Jessye!’ he smiled.
‘What of the Hanoverian you bought of me? Was he not a more meet companion for a ride such as this?’ asked Jessope, puzzled.
‘I rode him here – did you not see? In truth he would, I agree, have set me off finer in a parade. But my mare, here, is the fleetest little creature God made.’
Jessope frowned.
‘Believe me,’ insisted Hervey, ‘in a squeeze I would be with no other.’
A fast trot south and west took them through villages full of British, Dutch and Belgian troops, for the most part infantrymen. The duke stopped once or twice to exchange words with an officer he appeared to know, but there was no formality. The commander-in-chief’s progress was, indeed, as brisk as reputation had it. Then, as they turned back in the direction of Ghent, crossing a hayfield which had taken its first cut a week or so before, a big buck-hare got up from almost under the duke’s feet, startling his young horse and those of his nearest attendants. The duke, however, regathered his reins before any of them and was straight after it, hallooing loudly.
‘Soho!’ called Jessope to Hervey. ‘We must be in at the kill!’
The hare led them in a huge circle over country empty but for a few labourers by the hayricks. They crossed three streams at a furious pace, and still there was no check – a full five minutes’ galloping. A sunken road all but proved the hare’s escape, too, for the duke’s horse pecked on landing short of the top of the far bank and tumbled its rider. Two of the other officers, riding hard up close, went the same way. The third pulled up before take-off, as did the staff dragoons and Lord Fitzroy. Hervey put Jessye at the hedge, where the others had gone for the gap, and she cleared the road in a soaring arc.
Ignorant of what convention demanded of him, and seeing the duke already on his feet and remounting, he galloped off after the hare. With no one in front, now, to check his speed he pressed his legs to Jessye’s flanks and closed steadily with the big buck. At twenty yards he drew his sabre and, pointing, pressed the mare to a final effort. The buck jinked to the left and Hervey came back to the recover, turning Jessye sharply, who did a neat flying change of her own accord to lead with the left leg. The hare continued running to the left, and Hervey knew he would not be able to get on its inside, so he leaned forward at full stretch and pointed down the nearside. A second or so later and he lifted the quarry on his sabre.
‘Smart work, boy, smart work!’ shouted the duke as he caught up, bringing the rest of the field with him. ‘The smartest swordwork I have seen in many a year!’
They began circling in a walk to let the horses down, and Hervey presented the hare to the staff dragoons. ‘For your pot, troopers!’
‘Who’s your hard-riding friend, Jessope?’ called the duke as the ADC caught them up.
‘Lieutenant Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, your Grace,’ he replied.
The duke smiled, turning to him:
‘“A different hound for every chase
Select with judgement, nor the timid hare
O’er matched destroy.”
Do you know that verse, boy?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. It is Somerville’s Chase.’
The duke nodded. ‘Just so, and I think I should despise an Englishman who did not know it. Hervey – the name is familiar. We have met before, have we not? Toulouse?’
‘Yes, sir; I was commanding a flank picket,’ he replied, incandescent at the recognition.
‘Indeed, you were,’ added the duke, breaking into another smile. ‘Lord Fitzroy, this officer accounted for a horse battery on his own. What sport there is to be had in the cavalry!’
‘I sometimes wish I had remained a light dragoon myself, Duke!’ added Lord Fitzroy, offering Hervey his hand.
‘Well, I cannot say the same myself,’ laughed the commander-in-chief, ‘though I was only a dragoon on paper, as it were. It seems to me, though, that a light dragoon is something a man must be at some stage of his life but that he must move sharply on to more serious things! Consider the elder Pitt, Hervey – now, there’s a dragoon who moved on to greater matters!’
Everyone laughed politely, as subordinates tend to when a senior officer attempts humour.
‘I think it best if I first seek distinction as a dragoon, your Grace!’ Hervey submitted.
‘But you are almost there, my dear fellow!’ countered the duke. ‘You know how to handle a picket. Now, if you can do something to check this appalling habit our cavalry have got into of galloping at everything and then galloping back again, without note of the circumstances, you will achieve distinction right enough. I dare say you will be unique!’
A Close Run Thing Page 25