A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘We cannot go another day on liquor and tea, Johnson,’ groaned Hervey. ‘Where are the quartermasters?’

  ‘Still progging, I expect, sir. I’ve been up ’alf t’night w’t ’orses an’ there’s no sign of nobody.’

  ‘Why is it so infernally difficult to bring food up to the army astride a high road?’ he sighed despairingly. ‘So there is nothing for the horses, either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surrounded by corn, and no hard feed! Do you suppose there is anything to be had, Johnson?’

  ‘Oh ay, sir,’ chirped his groom. ‘Artillery waggons ’ave been comin’ in all night. There’s plenty o’ shot an’ shell, by all accounts.’

  Thank heaven for that at least, thought Hervey, though he could not fathom why it always seemed to be a question of alternatives – powder or shot, rations or fodder. They had snatched a hurried breakfast on the sixteenth, at Lankester’s insistence, and there had been nothing since, only biscuit, geneva and tea – and green fodder. Now he was grumbling, and that vexed him even more. Could he not put up with an empty stomach for a day or two? There would be plenty enough to fill it after they had swept the French from the field. ‘Damn it, Johnson, here’s a guinea: go and buy anything we can get our teeth into!’ he sighed.

  The dawn’s drill was routine, however, to be done on the emptiest of stomachs. The regiment stood-to just before five; and twenty minutes later, when the sky had lightened enough for Edmonds to be sure that there would be no attack at first light, they had stood down. As the order to dismiss was passed along, Serjeant Strange, who had again stepped effortlessly into the boots of the troop serjeant-major, came up to give the muster report: rank and file seventy-four, present-sick three, absent-sick three, missing two, horses sixty-eight.

  ‘And the armourers, Serjeant Strange?’

  ‘Corporal Ford is ready to begin now, sir. I shall get them to sharpen by half-sections.’

  ‘And I suppose there is no sign of rations and forage?’

  ‘Some barley has come up, but little else. Serjeant Armstrong has been foraging all night but he’s not found much. He says the place is fair crawling with troops, never seen so many. We shall not be able to cut any of the corn, either, since it’s all been flattened.’

  There was nothing gloomy in Strange’s delivery, simply matter-of-fact. Both of them had seen it often enough before, in the Peninsula, but half the troopers were new drafts who had seen nothing more arduous than a field day outside Cork or a review in Phoenix Park.

  ‘They did well yesterday, though, think you not, Serjeant Strange?’

  ‘The greenheads? Ay, they did well enough. But I can’t say as we were pressed that hard, sir.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Hervey, and then he smiled. ‘But the troop has stolen another march in getting the armourers. Heaven only knows how many times we hacked with blunt blades in Spain: we want none of it today.’ He thought of Salamanca, and the repeated cutting to rescue d’Arcey Jessope.

  ‘How many do you suppose the duke has here, sir?’

  ‘How many what?’ he replied, conscious that his thoughts had been elsewhere.

  ‘How many troops do you believe the duke can dispose on this position?’

  ‘How many can you see, Serjeant Strange?’

  ‘Well, I have not seen this many tight-packed since …’ He looked thoughtful.

  ‘Exactly so! I would hazard you have never seen the like, even with your service! Well, I may tell you something: the duke can dispose of eighty thousand or nearabouts!’

  Strange whistled, an uncharacteristic display.

  ‘But,’ continued Hervey, ‘he is so suspicious of Bonaparte’s intentions that he planned to station one-quarter of these at Hal and Tubize lest the French march on our flank for the Channel ports. And I believe he will have done so even now.’

  ‘Still, a goodly number – more than ever he has had before for a single battle, I should surmise.’

  ‘But less than half are our own, and most of those are largely untried.’

  ‘Mr Hervey,’ began Serjeant Strange warily, ‘you are not saying that you doubt the outcome today?’

  ‘Not for one moment,’ he replied without hesitating, ‘but Bonaparte can dispose of so many – a hundred thousand, they say – that it would be rash to suppose we might spend a second night here. He will for sure have a superiority in guns, and he has the initiative so will be able to concentrate them. The duke’s artillery amounts to a hundred and fifty pieces – no more – and he must dispose of them along a wide front.’

  ‘But what a front, sir!’

  ‘Indeed so, Serjeant Strange, and you will not have seen the half of it. It is a very handsome position to defend. There is a château at yonder end of this ridge which is a veritable fortress – or will be once the Guards have done with it.’

  ‘And you have learned all this in riding with the duke, Mr Hervey?’

  ‘Ay, we rode every inch of the ground. But I tell you, Serjeant Strange, the duke will come to rue leaving that corps at Hal, for with the forest behind he has little space to manoeuvre and he has a great want of reserves. Without the Prussians he runs a very close race indeed!’

  Shots now rang out raggedly the length of the ridge as the infantry proved their cartridges and firing-locks, and the sentries, whose muskets had been primed for their night watches, discharged them rather than risk drawing the charges. Soon the cavalry would be doing the same with their carbines, and Hervey winced. Every time he had heard it in the Peninsula he had winced. ‘How we do flagrantly tell the enemy of our position and strength, Serjeant Strange! Do we not break the most fundamental principle of war? And all because of a worry over damp powder. It is so needless, too, for with percussion-locks there would be no fear for it.’

  ‘Well, that is true, sir: I reckon your carbine must be the only one of its like in the field today. Had I the opportunity I should have bought one for myself, whatever the price, for it might be the difference between the quick and the dead on a day such as this.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Hervey. ‘The Rifles at least might have had them if His Majesty’s Government and the Ordnance had shown a little more address.’

  ‘Indeed they might: there is nothing those riflemen would like more than to load on their bellies!’

  Hervey smiled with him. ‘It is a mercy at least that Bonaparte never laid eyes on the patent, for he would have had it in the hands of every tirailleur by now.’

  Camp-fires were burning soon after stand-down, primed by the same powder for which there was such a fear. In the quantities the troopers of the Sixth had used to light theirs the combustion was not an altogether reliable indicator of the absence of damp, but the flames augured well. The horses were unsaddled and given their few pounds of uncrushed barley. Slade would never have permitted that, thought Hervey, but Edmonds knew he could have them saddled up sharply enough in the event of an alarm, and Sir Hussey Vivian had yet to issue even a preparatory movement order.

  ‘There’s a stream just behind the ridge, Mr ’Ervey sir,’ said Johnson as he handed him another canteen of tea. ‘It’s a bit brackish but right enough.’

  The downpour had not been without its advantages, then, for a want of water near the position would have delayed them sorely. ‘Well,’ replied Hervey, ‘since that half-loaf of bread you bought will not detain us long, I shall shave. It can be a passable substitute for a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’ll fetch thee some hot water, then. There’s some on the boil for Serjeant Armstrong’s potatoes.’

  ‘Potatoes?’ said Hervey with some surprise. ‘How can it be that you found the most expensive loaf in Flanders and Armstrong finds potatoes? Where in heaven’s name did he—?’

  ‘There was a commissary officer pissing by the side of the road and …’

  ‘Enough, Johnson; I can guess the rest,’ he sighed. ‘Fetch my razor, if you please.’

  By the time the armourers had re-sharpened ‘A’ Troop’s sabres
it was almost seven, and Edmonds came walking through the lines with the RSM just as Hervey’s men began their meagre breakfast of tea and parboiled potatoes. The older ones gave him a cheer and hailed him with easy banter. ‘Thought T’loos was meant to finish ’im, then, Major!’ called one old sweat.

  ‘Well, if you remember, Harris, we were never permitted a crack at him that day!’ Laughter and more cheering followed – and just a shade forced, Hervey thought.

  ‘Not much of a choky, then, Elba, eh, sir?’ called another sweat, an old Indiaman.

  ‘And you of all people would know about chokies, Finch!’ Raucous laughter and cheering erupted. Nerves were on edge, Hervey concluded.

  ‘Could be worse, sir: it were snowin’ at Sa’gun.’

  ‘That it was, Smiler, and it seems an age ago. D’ye think we shall ever get a Christmas at home?’

  ‘In my case, Major Edmonds, it’s more a question of whether I’ll ever get a ’ome at Christmas!’ There were peals of laughter, and Hervey smiled at the black humour, the soldier’s secret weapon. Edmonds had a way with these men, of that there was no doubt. Different from Lankester’s – very different – but equally effective: more so, perhaps, for Lankester was held in respect and admiration whereas with Edmonds it was respect and affection. Hervey admired them both, though if pressed he would have owned to aspiring more to Lankester’s patrician ease: Edmonds’s obvious devotion to his troopers made him somehow more vulnerable. He seemed to know every man by name – nickname in many cases – including recruits who had only just joined. In the weeks before they had received their sailing orders Hervey had thought him worn out, beyond repair, but now his solidity seemed never more welcome, for though there was laughter in the ranks its nervous edge suggested a rawness which needed nursing.

  ‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ began the major with a smile, ‘it has come to pass, and just as you foretold.’

  Hervey had muttered but a few words of reply, and with no little self-consciousness, when a commotion behind made them turn. The sight rendered both speechless for the present. Indeed, it would endure in the mind of every man in the Sixth that day (they were all to witness it), to be recounted in drawing rooms and alehouses alike for years to come. For the commander-in-chief, on his favourite charger, Copenhagen, accompanied by a galaxy of senior officers and their staff – a veritable troupe dorée – was making his ceremonial progress through the lines. The duke’s gelding, his sleek chestnut coat the picture of condition, was as well known as his rider to the old Peninsular hands. Though his breeding was good (Hervey had heard tell his dam had a line to the Rutland Arabian), he was not the handsomest of horses – certainly not one to have tempted d’Arcey Jessope. But the duke had told his staff many a time that though there were many handsomer and faster, he had never known Copenhagen’s like for endurance and bottom. Handsome is as handsome does, smiled Hervey to himself.

  But the rawest recruit could recognize the duke’s own profile, and it was as well, for he was not in uniform. He wore instead the same blue coat of that first morning’s ride when they had chased the hare. His buckskin breeches and tasselled boots were, too, of a pattern that might have been perfectly at home in Piccadilly. His cocked hat was the only appreciably military apparel, set off by four cockades – the Hanoverian black of King George, and three smaller emblems in the colours of Portugal, Spain and the Netherlands, the four armies in which the duke held rank of field marshal. But, all would later recall, with what presence and authority did he make his inspection!

  He acknowledged the salutes with an expressionless nod. Long acquaintance with his army had scarcely inspired love – on either side – but the duke had confidence in their steadiness in defence, and they in turn trusted his choice of ground and dispositions. There was no cheering: it did not seem appropriate and it would not have been welcome. Across the valley Bonaparte would soon be making the same procession, and at his approach drums would roll, bands would strike up ‘Veillons au salut de l’Empire’, his soldiers would cheer him to the heavens – ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ – and the sound would carry across to the Sixth not half a mile distant. No, the duke did not permit cheering, for if he allowed it once it might invite the opposite in other circumstances. As he neared the end of ‘A’ Troop he paused. ‘Good morning, Major. Good morning, Mr Hervey. I trust the Sixth will guard the flank keenly. You shall see action enough even over there. We shall today show Bonaparte how a sepoy general defends a position!’

  Edmonds made some appropriate reply, and Hervey swelled with pride at the duke’s attention, but the nobility of the major’s comportment could not hide the wound, and then Hervey felt meanly for his own pride while this officer of thirty years’ loyal service received no more recognition than was indicated by his badges of rank. But the duke was never a one for flattery, and Edmonds might soon take comfort in that knowledge, for the Earl of Uxbridge, as conspicuously military-looking as the duke was otherwise, chose at that moment to test (albeit unwittingly) the fragility of their association. ‘You had better apprise me of those sepoy-general plans, Duke,’ he said with a smile, ‘lest I be required to execute them.’

  ‘Plans!’ replied Wellington sharply. ‘I have no plans, sir: I shall be guided by circumstances!’

  Edmonds raised his eyebrows. And then Harris, Sir Hussey Vivian’s brigade major, riding up with orders to proceed to the flank, took the duke’s second barrel before he could utter a word: ‘Ah! Harris, you may tell Sir Hussey that I will have his hide if the brigade so much as thinks of leaving that flank for a minute!’

  ‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ said Edmonds at length, when the duke had passed by and Harris had relayed his brigadier’s orders, ‘the commander-in-chief seems a trifle liverish, but no matter; let us go and mark our ground. We are indeed to be the left-flank brigade, as you supposed, though I confess to being surprised that we are to be the directing regiment.’

  That much at least was a compliment to Edmonds, thought Hervey, for it would have been easy enough for Vivian to relegate them to the supports. ‘The duke’s plan’ – he cleared his throat as he realized his difficulty – ‘that is to say, the duke’s dispositions, are as he anticipated them to be during his reconnaissances.’

  ‘Good God, man – not you, too!’ Edmonds snarled. ‘Don’t you damn well turn into another of those arse-licking fops that go by the name of staff officers in this army of ours. Say what you damn well mean! The duke has plans – of course he has plans, or else he’s even more of a—Look, Hervey, he won’t confide in Uxbridge because of all the trouble with that strumpet of a sister-in-law. I am impressed – no, I am greatly impressed – that you are so much in the mind of the commander-in-chief, but I am truly dismayed that Uxbridge, his own second-in-command, should appear to know so little!’

  Hervey thought to make some amending remark, something that might restore the major’s bruised pride, but nothing came to mind that might escape another tongue-lashing. ‘Indeed, sir,’ was all that he judged prudent.

  But Edmonds could not leave things unresolved. ‘Well,’ he barked, ‘what do you suppose are these damned “circumstances” the duke refers to?’

  Hervey considered it was all-or-nothing time. ‘Sir, the duke is relying on a rapid junction with the Prussians: they must come to his support here or he knows he may be too sorely pressed.’

  ‘Yes, yes, go on!’ demanded Edmonds.

  ‘Sir, the duke has disposed his line along this ridge with three strong positions forward as … anchors. These are the château of Hougoumont on our right’ – he pointed to the distant roofs – ‘the farm called La Haye Sainte just below us here in the centre, and the farms at Papelotte and La Haie over on the left below where we shall take post.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Edmonds, this time more measured.

  ‘Sir, the French will not make a frontal attack: their strength is in manoeuvre. They would be unwise to manoeuvre against our left, however, since that is the direction from which the Prussians must come. They must therefo
re be expected to mount an attack which might envelop our right. Hougoumont will thus be of prime importance.’

  Edmonds paused for a moment. ‘Admirable, Hervey, quite admirable,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  And then, with a sigh, he turned to him again. ‘I am put in mind of the late Lord Chesterfield’s dictum.’

  Hervey was unaware of it.

  ‘There is a silly, sanguine notion, his lordship said once in the house of peers, that one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen, and this encourages, and has sometimes enabled, one Englishman, in reality, to beat two.’

  Hervey smiled broadly. ‘Those may indeed be the odds here, sir – two to one. All should be well, then!’

  Edmonds smiled, too. ‘Come, let us repair to the flank. We may have nothing to do there but at least we know what we are meant to be about!’

  Hervey saluted and returned to his troop: Cornet Seton Canning, his only officer, and Serjeant Strange would be expecting orders.

  Canning looked more boyish than ever that morning but, other than listening to his troop leader with intense concentration, he showed no signs of anxiety. The first courage was always the greatest, Hervey recalled, yet he rued that the duke would have to depend on so much of it in this battle. If only the American war had not taken the first battalions, the Peninsular veterans … But Canning had been steady enough the previous day, as had the others new to battle, and Hervey had made up his mind that, boy or not, he could trust him. By heavens, he himself had been only a year older at Corunna! Next he sought out Armstrong. A few words of appreciation for his night’s foraging seemed in order. He found him sitting on an up-turned camp-kettle, the reverse of his sabretache serving as a writing-slope, and scribbling hurriedly. Hervey could not recall seeing him with a pencil in his hand before, and it brought to mind the teacup in the garden at Horningsham. A smile came at the thought. ‘Serjeant Armstrong, is it not a little early to be writing a memoir?’ he called.