A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  Armstrong acknowledged the jest but with some reserve. ‘Nobody would be wanting a mere serjeant’s account when all you officers is so eloquent with the pen.’

  Hervey frowned.

  ‘No, sir, it’s me last will and testament. Never ’ave ’ad cause for one before now, and I’ve always thought it tempting fate for a soldier to write one.’

  ‘Heavens, man, you’re indestructible! You’ll be seeking absolution next!’ said Hervey with genuine surprise.

  ‘Ay, that an’ all, Mr ’Ervey! If I could find a priest, I might very well do so.’

  ‘Serjeant Armstrong,’ he replied resolutely, ‘if you could find one priest who would not envy your dutiful record, I should at once become a papist myself!’

  ‘Well, tell that to my Caithlin if I stop a musket ball with my vitals today. And be so good as to witness this will meanwhile.’

  Hervey smiled again as he put his signature to the document. ‘You know, of course, that I cannot be a beneficiary and a witness, too?’

  ‘Well, I cannot very well leave my wife to you, can I? Though she is my only possession of any worth. But I know you wouldn’t see her fall on the parish.’ Armstrong fixed him with an unyielding look.

  ‘You may depend on it,’ he replied, and there was a second or so of intimate silence before Edmonds’s trumpeter sounded ‘Stand to your horses’. ‘Very well, then, Serjeant Armstrong, to your post – right marker, right-hand troop, brigade right-regiment!’

  ‘Thank the Lord we are not with General Grant on the right of the Line, eh, sir?’

  Hervey looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if the duke ordered the Line to right-wheel I should be marking time for three whole hours!’

  They both laughed. ‘That was a real Joe Miller, Serjeant Armstrong! But you took me by surprise nevertheless! Away with you – and good luck!’

  Private Johnson answered the trumpet with Jessye. She looked uncommonly good, with not a scratch from the day before. Johnson had even made quarter-marks. But still Hervey had second thoughts: ‘No, Nero, I think, please.’

  For once his groom did not argue. ‘Take ’er for the minute, then, sir, an’ I’ll bring ’im up.’

  The Sixth mustered quickly and without ceremony. Edmonds’s brisk commands moved them to the left at the halt in column of squadrons. There was a minute or so’s wait to allow several ammunition waggons to clear their line, and then it was ‘Walk-march’, by the trumpet, along the unpaved Chemin d’Ohain towards their vigil on the flank. The Scots Greys, with the rest of the Union Brigade, trotted by in the other direction, towards the crossroads at the centre of the line. They were a rare sight. They had scraped off most of the mud which had covered them from head to foot the day before, but the rain had caused the dye of their red jackets to run over their white belts, as if the sanguinary work they were about to begin was already completed. ‘Guidbye, Lights; ye’ll be unco’ palled over there!’ they called. The Sixth’s troopers were happy enough to return the banter and trade good-humoured insults, but they had more than a suspicion that the Greys might be right, that they would indeed see nothing of the fighting which these Scotsmen craved so much. But Hervey was first astonished at the impertinence, for here was his regiment, with all but eight successive years’ campaigning, and yesterday was the first action the Greys had seen in a quarter of a century! Their spirit could not but be admired, however – the ‘first courage’ again. They meant to make up for those years, and knew they would have every opportunity of doing so. And he knew, too, that afterwards they would never let anyone forget it!

  ‘Why are they so particular about ridin’ greys anyway, sir?’ asked Johnson after a mutually incomprehensible exchange with one of their troopers.

  ‘Well,’ said Hervey, ‘it is their name surely.’

  ‘I mean why did they ’ave to ’ave greys in the first place?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Johnson. I mistook your meaning. It had nothing to do with their horses: their uniform was grey cloth when first they were raised.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want one of them ’ats, that’s for sure,’ Johnson scoffed, certain that the bearskin must topple over in the charge.

  ‘No, nor I. They are uncommonly attached to them, though. I think they captured many from the French grenadiers in the Duke of Marlborough’s wars. What is most vexing, though, is that they must now dock their tails. I envied the Heavies the days when they had long tails. I think it the most abominable thing still that we must do it. I thank heaven that chargers are exempt: I could not bear to see Jessye plagued by flies as I have seen others.’

  ‘Well, if dealers would stop docking ’em before they was remount age we wouldn’t ’ave to buy ’em. It’s because all them fashionables wants ’em that way.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right of course, Johnson; I don’t think many believe any longer that docking strengthens the back.’

  The Chemin d’Ohain took them past an extraordinary patchwork of uniforms. The red of the British infantry, the backbone of Wellington’s campaigns, predominated; but there were lines of blue coats, too, of the Dutch-Belgian corps, with the distinctive orange facings of their militia battalions. And then the more familiar green of the King’s German Legion – exiles whose hatred of Bonaparte would mean no quarter to any Frenchman hapless enough to fall prey to their bayonets. Of the Dutch, Hervey was not so sure. During his reconnaissance the duke had confided his concern at having so much of his army made up of untried allied contingents, and for that matter untried British battalions. But his own infantry were well drilled, at least, whereas the Dutch-Belgics had until recently been drilled in French methods. There had been many sneering asides – Hervey himself had made some – but word now was that they had given a good account of themselves yesterday at Quatre-Bras. Perhaps, then, the concern would prove unfounded? Hervey prayed that it would be so, for if they were to face Bonaparte in the strength that the Prussians had felt yesterday …

  And then for once, just for an instant, as he watched a company of Rifles doubling along the road, he wished that he might be elsewhere than with the Sixth. ‘D’ye see those riflemen, Johnson? I’d give a deal to be with them today, for they will be in the thick of things, come what may!’

  ‘Can’t say as I would,’ Johnson replied with a shrug. ‘They’re as big a bunch of roughnecks as you’d find!’

  ‘That is as may be, but you should have seen them six years ago on the retreat to Corunna. I tell you, had it not been for their discipline and marksmanship in that march over the Galician mountains … Well, let us just say that more than one corps owes its survival to those men.’

  ‘What are they meant to be about today, then, sir?’

  ‘They will take up positions, out in front of the brigades, to counter the French tirailleurs and then to harry the columns of infantry. I tell you, they may rely on being in the thick of the action, come whatever. And did you hear what those infernal Greys were saying – that we were riding to the flank like ladies withdrawing after dinner!’

  But then a voice called him back from his thoughts – ‘Hervey! Hervey!’

  The sight of Lieutenant Hugo Styles, with a detail of the 2nd Life Guards, was almost too much, and he would have turned Nero away but that Styles suddenly spurred towards him like a man demented, grabbing his arm after almost colliding with him. ‘Hervey, my dear, dear fellow, is this to be a real battle?’

  Hervey’s jaw fell. ‘I think that is the general idea,’ he replied in his astonishment. He had not meant to sound scornful, but Styles in any event seemed in no condition to detect scorn, intended or not.

  ‘Hervey, I am given command of a troop; I cannot do it!’

  Hervey’s first instinct was to express himself not in the least surprised that Styles did not count himself able – that he was a pompous, self-important ass, that he was about to get his come-uppance and that it was no good whining now, having looked down his nose for so long. But, for all his desire finally to cut him down to size, H
ervey hesitated (for what of the wretched troopers of the Life Guards, who were equally new to the battlefield and in need of steadying?). Instead he de-loped: ‘Of course you can do it, Styles. You are an experienced officer, and your men will follow you,’ he said staunchly, hoping he might sound convincing.

  ‘But that is it, you see,’ Styles returned quickly. ‘I cannot recollect myself; I do not know what I am about!’

  Hervey suppressed another urge to speak sharply, to demand that Styles stop snivelling and take a hold of himself. Instead he continued with his quiet reassurance. ‘Styles, my dear fellow, that is how we all feel,’ he lied. ‘You will do your duty well enough; you will be capable, I tell you.’

  ‘Is that really so, Hervey? You, too, have doubts? Thank you, thank you.’ His eyes were now wild with alarm. ‘Let us dine together at Westbury when this is over. I shall tell Henrietta Lindsay of your composure!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, we shall dine together.’ Hervey knew it to be unlikely, and he cursed him in his heart for bringing Henrietta to mind. Styles would forget this exchange soon enough, he warranted. He was glad of the excuse to rejoin his troop when the squadron trumpeter sounded the trot.

  The repeating ‘C’s of that call never failed to thrill. They spelled action. They signalled an urgency to close with the enemy, or to put some distance between them. And the snorting of the troop horses, who knew the call as well as their riders, and the jingling of bits added to the exhilaration. But this morning Hervey found no thrill. The flank was, by the rubrics of the drill-book, the appointed place for light cavalry, and he himself had recognized the wisdom of doubling to two brigades on this occasion, but he knew nevertheless that they were leaving the seat of action far behind, for Bonaparte would not attempt anything on their flank with the Prussians so close. Even the duke’s dispositions seemed to confirm it, for as they trotted along the road atop the ridge, bordered in places by thick, high hedges, or sunken by as much as a man’s height, he saw less and less of the familiar and reassuring red and more of the blue coats and orange facings of the allies: Wellington would not have so disposed his weakest forces had he expected them to face any determined action. Hervey’s heart sank further, yet he saw that the Dutch-Belgics were setting about the position with a will, cutting gaps in the hedges so that cavalry could pass through, digging out embrasures for the guns and making loopholes for the riflemen. They even cheered heartily as the Sixth rode by.

  After three-quarters of a mile they reached their appointed place, opposite the hamlets of Papelotte and La Haye a few hundred yards across the valley to their right, and they executed a smart evolution from column into line, coming to a halt on the forward slope with the warm sun on their faces, Hervey’s troop in the second line forming the support to ‘B’. Lankester at once called him forward. ‘How do you suppose this conforms with the duke’s intentions?’ he asked.

  The senior captain – and also, thereby, Edmonds’s second-in-command – was remarkably free from pride to enquire thus of his junior, thought Hervey. ‘I think it very exactly as the duke intended, sir,’ he replied. ‘See, in that scattering of farms below us – mark the roofs yonder – he intends disposing his Nassauers. They may be there this minute. And if you stand in the stirrups you can just see La Haye Sainte below the crossroads close where we bivouacked last night. That, he has garrisoned with some of the German Legion and the Rifles. We cannot see the château at Hougoumont, for it is perhaps a mile beyond the farm at La Haye Sainte. Here, see, I have a sketch of the position. The duke said that he intended to place four companies at least of the Guards there. And he will need to, for it will by now be nearer the French lines than our own.’

  Lankester studied the sketch-map intently. ‘And there is nothing to our east but the Forest of Ohain?’

  ‘No,’ replied Hervey warily. ‘A couple of leagues or so beyond the forest will be the Prussians – on this side of the Dyle river, we must hope, for I believe the duke will want for a junction with them ere too long.’

  It was still not eight o’clock, but everywhere steam was beginning to rise – from the ground, the horses, the saddlery; from the men themselves, and from the roofs of the dwellings in the hamlets hastily abandoned by their occupants and now garrisoned by the Duke of Saxe-Weimar’s Nassauers. Only a year or so ago these men had fought for Bonaparte, but Wellington must surely be confident of their steadfastness to trust them to such a position – even on this flank?

  ‘Would that I were able to find such faith,’ replied Lankester sceptically, and Hervey nodded as, with growing despair, he surveyed the sodden ground, a gun team nearby struggling fetlock-deep in mud to drag a nine-pounder along a rutted farmtrack.

  Major-General Sir Hussey Vivian rode along the front of his brigade, calm, assured and exquisite in the hussar field dress of his old regiment, accompanied by his black trumpeter. That he ought, by regulation, to have been wearing general officer’s uniform mattered not to Vivian, who cared only, and jealously, for his hussar brigade. Even Lord Fitzroy Somerset, on the duke’s behalf, had chided him, as he had the other cavalry brigadiers, though to no avail, especially since Uxbridge himself insisted on wearing the dolman. But if Vivian was at all dismayed by the appending of the 6th Light Dragoons to the hussar brigade he had never once shown it: he had even placed them on the right of his line.

  ‘Good morning, General,’ said Lankester as the brigadier reached First Squadron, he and Hervey saluting together. ‘I think it may be another Toulouse for us, by all accounts.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Vivian, ‘you will recall that I was in a field hospital with a damned ball in my shoulder – along with Lord George. But I doubt you will be inactive here today. Bonaparte is in the field and he is sure to manoeuvre against us. In any event, I do not think that we shall long remain in this position: the Prussians are marching to us, and I fully expect them on this flank by noon. I do not suppose Lord Uxbridge will keep us idle thereafter.’

  ‘Let us hope not, General,’ Lankester replied, ‘but I am surprised the French have made no move yet. Not even their artillery has begun harassing fire.’

  ‘Sir George Wood believes it is too wet – their guns would have no ricochet fire, and since Wellington has placed most of his infantry on the reverse of the crest their shot would have limited effect. He believes, too, that they have few howitzers: we should not forget that Bonaparte is first an artilleryman, and will not join battle until he is sure of his guns! He must be deuced confident, though, to be awaiting the ground to dry out, what with the Prussians about to fall on his flank at any moment.’

  ‘We are sure of the Prussians, then, General?’

  ‘We had better be! I dined with Müffling some days ago, and he swore that Blücher had given his word. That ought to be enough!’

  ‘Well, I for one would be content with a Prussian’s word.’

  ‘Exactly so, Sir Edward. But to more pressing matters. Uxbridge has recalled Mercer’s troop to the centre – temporarily, I would hope. There is a Dutch foot-battery making its way hither in its stead – though with little enough haste, I’ll warrant. I do not suppose, however, that artillery will be a requisite for some while at least. But good luck to you, gentlemen; I must now have words with Sir John Vandeleur.’

  Vivian gave them a cheery wave in response to their salutes as he spurred into a canter towards the adjacent brigade.

  ‘Well,’ sighed Lankester, ‘what think you of taking away Mercer’s guns?’

  ‘The duke will have an inferiority of them, it is sure, and will make up for it by wheeling them about. Sir George Wood says our horse batteries are the envy of all, the French included.’

  ‘That is as may be, Hervey, but what use is a foot-battery to us? It cannot support any manoeuvre. Perhaps that is why it is sent to us, to anchor us to the spot!’

  ‘Then, it would have been more expedient to remove our horses!’ smiled Hervey. ‘But what chance do you give our manoeuvring in this soft going even had we Mercer’s troop still?’<
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  ‘Nothing faster than a trot without risk of losing formation. But at least the French will find the going as heavy. Look, Hervey, if we do go forward, then you must keep up close and check the pace: you will not be worth the name of supports otherwise. We have drilled often enough. I am confident of “B” Troop’s handiness in the rally, but holding “A” Troop as supports at the right distance is of the essence. Heavens, but these are difficult evolutions to accomplish at the best of times!’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ replied Hervey, ‘and I have seen so many regiments’ drill in the weeks since we arrived that I have my doubts that all will be capable in this regard.’

  ‘Hervey, I have not the slightest doubt that some are wholly incapable. I saw the Union Brigade at drill less than a fortnight ago: a real Dutch ball it was! The Scotch Greys are as handy as a Thames barge without a rudder! And if any run on today they will pay dearly – as, indeed, may the poor souls who will have to recover them.’

  A rattle of distant musketry, towards the centre of the line, or perhaps beyond, and the first that morning, stayed further reflection on the state of the cavalry’s drill. Hervey looked at his watch. ‘A little after eleven,’ he said.

  ‘Curious that musketry should open a battle such as this,’ replied Lankester.

  ‘I think it must be skirmishing around the château,’ suggested Hervey.

  ‘Then it seems he is to force that flank after all,’ conceded the captain, turning his charger round and making back for his place in front of the squadron.

  But the sound of skirmishing did not distract them long, for across the valley there came the first sign of activity in three hours. A troop of horse artillery trotted on to the opposing ridge, and fluttering lance pennants just visible two hundred yards or so to their rear indicated sizeable supports – unlike that memorable day at Toulouse which had given Hervey opportunity and tribulation in equal measure. He took out his telescope and studied the troop as it began to unlimber, the gunners, dressed in hussar fashion, man-handling four burnished-brass cannon into line, with the sun, now high over the French lines, glinting on the barrels. ‘“And the Lord said unto Joshua, Stretch out the spear that is in thy hand toward Ai.”’