A Close Run Thing

by Allan Mallinson

  Strange had already made it: ‘Go on, sir; I’ll stop them!’

  He had never before heard such urgency in Strange’s voice. Stop them: Strange said ‘stop’, not delay. Both knew what that meant, for stopping could only be at one price.

  ‘Go on, sir!’

  Hervey unclipped the carbine from his crossbelt and thrust it and the cartridge-pouch at Strange. ‘Here, you know the mechanism well enough.’

  That he did, for the carbine had been the talk of the Sixth in Ireland, and he had fired it. He took them without a word but reached inside his tunic and pulled out what looked like a leather tobacco-pouch, though Hervey knew he did not smoke. ‘Here, sir, take this for later, and go on, now!’ he urged, spurring his tired gelding towards the patrol. ‘And good luck, Mr Hervey,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Good luck to you, too, Serjeant Strange!’ said Hervey beneath his breath as he, too, spurred into a gallop. There was no show of sentiment: the formality was exaggerated even. Hervey knew he would have done the same himself had their circumstances been reversed, and that Strange was only doing his duty as countless other serjeants were doing at that moment. But it made it no less gallant. He reckoned Strange would be able to get off four or five shots before the French closed with him, but this was no guarantee that the lanciers would be dissuaded from pursuit, for the patrol (if it knew what it were about) ought to divide – one group to deal with Strange, the other to intercept him. But he guessed they would not, for he had never thought much of their patrolling. Knee-to-knee in the charge, yes, but not this sort of work. And pride would surely get the better of them when the first lancer was hit.

  He gambled well. Even against the continuous thunder of gunfire a mile away he heard Strange’s first shot, then after a few seconds another, then another and another – then nothing. With fifty yards to go to the trees he looked back. The French had made straight for Strange, and there was an evenly spaced line of four dead or dying lancers. Each shot, which Strange fired mounted, had told, and now the best marksman in the regiment was parrying a lance with his sabre. Hervey looked away for an instant to fix his opening into the forest. When he turned again Strange was no longer visible, overwhelmed by the French. ‘Stop them’, indeed: Strange had known precisely the price he would pay.

  The forest swaddled him in leafy silence as he slowed to a jog-trot, then a walk, for Jessye was blowing hard. First Edmonds, now Strange – he wondered who might live to recount this battle. His head hurt sorely. The trees were a blur, and he was all but overcome by the urge to lie down, dropping the reins and letting Jessye take him along the rutted track, oblivious now to his surroundings.

  A pistol exploded. He felt the ball kiss his cheek. Bark splinters flew as it struck the tree behind, magpies and jays scattering in noisy flight, making Jessye shy.

  ‘Votre épée, monsieur! Rendez votre épée!’ shouted the chasseur à cheval.

  Hervey touched the graze, curious that there was no pain – nor then any blood on his fingers. His gut tightened, his mind raced, the plume of the chasseur’s busby changed from a blur to sharp detail, and he saw that neither flight nor resistance was prudent in the face of two cavalry pistols not ten yards ahead.

  ‘Je dis encore, monsieur: rendez votre épée.’ But the voice somehow lacked assurance (though the escorts – five, six, or even more – looked solid enough).

  ‘Eh bien, lieutenant,’ replied Hervey, measured, thoughtful; ‘qu’est ce que vous faites ici?’

  The lieutenant looked surprised. It was for him to ask that question, he stammered. What was an Englishman doing, speaking this way?

  Hervey felt himself trembling uncontrollably, yet he did not know if he were. His voice almost broke as he now grasped his chance: ‘Alors, messieurs: je ne suis pas Anglais. Je suis l’agent de l’empereur.’

  The lieutenant looked anguished. ‘C’est pas possible—’

  But Hervey would not let him finish, instead piling on his doubts. He reached into a pocket (the escorts gestured with their pistols) and took out the de Chantonnay ring. ‘See this: it is the seal of the de Chantonnays – my seal. No Frenchman can fail to recognize it!’

  The lieutenant rode up closer and peered at it. ‘Do you not have papers of authorization, monsieur?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘What? To be found by the English or the Prussians! Do you take me for a fool?’ rasped Hervey in his most imperious French. ‘I have papers well enough, but you will find them only with the emperor’s staff. Now, if you please, I have business to be about.’

  The lieutenant shifted uneasily. ‘What business is this, monsieur?’

  ‘I am not about to disclose the emperor’s business to a lieutenant!’ gasped Hervey, ‘even to a lieutenant of chasseurs!’

  ‘Then, I am afraid, monsieur, that you must accompany us so that we may verify your identity,’ said the lieutenant.

  Hervey was now fired by the deception. ‘Imbecile!’ he shouted. ‘What in the name of France do you think we are about this day? You have seen my seal, have you not? You recognize it surely?’

  ‘Yes, of course, monsieur, but—’

  ‘Then, let me put to you this for your consideration, which only those in the emperor’s confidence must know. The Prussians – they are expected hourly upon this flank, are they not? Mais Prussiens, monsieur? Jamais! They are Grouchy’s men, no? Voilà Grouchy! n’est-ce pas?’

  The lieutenant was at a loss … and then profoundly relieved. ‘Oui, c’est ça; voilà Grouchy! Truly, monsieur, that is so. A thousand pardons for delaying you: I was only doing my duty, you understand. May I provide an escort for you?’

  ‘Indeed you may not!’ thundered Hervey. ‘You will fly from here this instant and leave me to dupe the Prussians. Away, at once!’

  * * *

  The thrill of so outrageous a bluff turned rapidly to cold dread as he pondered the consequences had he failed – shot out of hand as a spy. Sister Maria had said, ‘You could pass for a Frenchman,’ and he had. How he wished she might know of the providence of that ring. He pushed it deep into a pocket as Jessye extended her trot. The forest was cool, soothing – and silent still, the thunder of cannon fire to the south no more here than a rumble. He began to doze in the saddle again …

  ‘Halt!’ came the command, unseen.

  He pulled up at once and looked around. He could see nothing.

  ‘Wer ist das? Wohin gehen Sie?’

  But before he could make any reply there came another voice: ‘Nein, verflucht! Es ist ein Engländer!’

  He did not hesitate a second time. ‘Herr General!’ he called, the Prussian’s vast bulk unmistakable in any light.

  Half a dozen mounted figures emerged from the trees. Two of the general’s cavalry escorts kept their pistols trained on him as he rode straight for Müffling and launched into his dispatch with a fluency that took them aback.

  ‘Teufel! Gefährlicher als ich gedacht hatte!’ exclaimed the baron. ‘Much more dangerous than I had imagined. Come; we must make straight for Prince Blücher.’

  Hervey sighed, relieved that Müffling had grasped the danger and was prepared to act. Indeed, he was first relieved that he took him at his word, for he had no written authority, nor was he an ADC. And, as they quickened on, the general’s eyes widened in astonishment when Hervey recounted how he had discovered the ruse. The general kept repeating his assurance, however, that all would now be well just as soon as they found Prince Blücher. Hervey believed him.

  But his confidence faltered on first seeing Blücher’s men a half-hour later, for where he had been expecting to see a military machine, the legacy of Frederick the Great, he saw only … disorder (some would say chaos). Never – not even during the worst moments of the long retreat through the Astorgias to Corunna – had he come upon anything so disheartening. Was ‘rabble’ too extreme a word for this mass of soldiery, guns and waggons toiling through mud axle-deep? It was as if the entire army had become stragglers. Müffling, however, knew both his
countrymen and his allies, and perceived well enough Hervey’s dismay. ‘It is true,’ he conceded, ‘we were evilly mauled yesterday at Genappe. But do not underestimate the hardiness of these men, Mr Hervey. “Alte Vorwärts” has given your Duke of Wellington his word, his sacred word, that he will come to his aid. You do not suppose that these men will be unworthy of it?’

  This pledge of constancy, and of the spirit that animated the Prince, was heartening, but it seemed unlikely. Yet soon it proved true, for when they found Prince Blücher he was encouraging his weary infantry in person. ‘Kommt, meine Kinder, noch einmal!’ he exhorted them, slapping his thigh and waving his hand. His intent could be in no doubt, and his energy was at once imparted to the jaded foot-soldiers. When he saw his old friend, however, he turned his horse and rode up in a welter of earthy opinion. ‘Mein Gott, Müffling, es ist Scheisse, reine Scheisse!’

  Hervey fought hard not to laugh. Field Marshal Blücher, the veteran hussar and fighter of the French: warm, emotional, with a soldier’s vocabulary – and reeking of onions and gin. What greater contrast with the duke could there have been? Blücher even apologized for smelling so rank (having dosed himself, he explained, after a fearsome fall at Genappe), and shook Hervey’s hand so vigorously that he thought his wrist must crack.

  ‘This officer bears extraordinary intelligence of a ruse by the French,’ said Müffling. ‘I consider that you should hear it before my own.’

  The marshal listened to Hervey’s report in frowning silence and then turned to one of his ADCs, instructing him to hasten General von Ziethen’s corps to the duke’s flank.

  ‘And, sir,’ ventured Hervey in textbook German, animated by Blücher’s determination to foil this stratagem, ‘may I propose one additional order? May I suggest, sir, that General von Ziethen opens fire as soon as his men debouch from the forest, for although they will be half a league or more from the French the firing will signal hostile intent and should therefore confound Bonaparte’s ruse.’

  ‘Ja, ja, richtig; das ist eine exzellente Idee,’ replied the field marshal excitedly. ‘Vieles Schiessen!’ he shouted, slapping his sides as if about to take off after hounds. ‘Vieles Schiessen, Lutzow!’ he called after the ADC.

  Hervey was as anxious to be away as the ADC (for, his business concluded, he wished to search for Serjeant Strange), but he saw that his progress would be quicker in the company of Baron Müffling. Yet Müffling showed no enthusiasm for an immediate return, Blücher and he withdrawing for a full quarter-hour to confer alone. He dismounted and fed Jessye some corn which a commissary was content to give him, and as he sat on a fallen tree holding her reins he began to study more closely the men who filed by. And what he saw began to encourage him; indeed, inspire him. These men – as a body – looked as if they had had a mauling, and yet they had with them all their personal equipment. What was more, it was as serviceable as he had seen – more serviceable even. And the faces of the musketeers of the Silesian Regiment trudging past, though tired-looking, had a fearsome aspect: Hervey thought he saw in them a positive lust to be at the throats of the enemy.

  The cavalry carefully picking their way around the infantry were even more convincing. They, too, bore the signs of battle, but they carried themselves with the same grim determination. These hussars knew what they were about. How proudly the black-and-white shako-cockades bobbed with their horses’ action. And what horses!

  ‘Zey are fine, are zey not?’ said one of Müffling’s ADCs, who had come over to share his tree, handing him a silver flask.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hervey. He could not say other, for they were fine horses, in the finest condition – and this despite their exertions of the past week. ‘Trakheners?’

  ‘Ja, Trakhener. Do you know ze breed?’

  ‘No, I have heard much of them but I have never before seen one.’

  ‘You admire zem, ja?’

  ‘Very much. They are bigger, I think, on the whole than our troop horses – half a hand, I should say. Plenty of bone, and beautiful heads, too,’ he smiled, thinking how much Jessope would approve of them.

  ‘You do not have a cavalry stud in England, I understand?’ continued the ADC, offering his flask again.

  ‘No, we buy from dealers. There never seems a want of good horses.’

  ‘Ja, I admire much your zoroughbred. Ve are using some zoroughbreds now at Trakhenen Stud, I am hearing. To give more speed. But your horse is not a zoroughbred, I zink?’

  ‘No,’ replied Hervey with a wry smile, facing the hopeless task of explaining Jessye’s breeding. ‘Her sire was a thoroughbred, but her dam was a Welsh Cob, an old breed from—’

  But the ADC needed no priming. ‘Ze Velsh Cob I am admiring very much!’ he said in delight. ‘Ze hardy native pony und ze Andalusians make zis cob four or five hundred years ago, I zink. Ze ambassador in Berlin has von of zese ponies for his son, und it is – how do you say? – ze handiest little horse in ze Grünewald.’

  ‘And I fancy that mine, too, is the handiest in this forest!’ laughed Hervey.

  When at last they began back for Mont St-Jean it took them all of two hours through the mud, and the press of men, horses and waggons, to reach the edge of the forest. Yet in that time he became confident at last that the Prussians would assail the French, as they had promised, with all vigour and dispatch. It only remained to see how soon this would be.

  But searching for Strange was not possible, for as they emerged from the tree-line they saw more French cavalry, forcing them on a wide detour. ‘Herr General,’ began Hervey as they reached Vivian’s flank pickets, ‘may I ask you the favour of reporting to Lord Uxbridge that I have done what he commanded: I believe my duty now is to rejoin my regiment.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Hervey; you have done your duty admirably. And I must apologize again that my hussars mistook you for a Frenchman,’ he smiled. ‘Do not concern yourself about Prince Blücher. He is above seventy, you know, but still he is a tenacious soldier, ein treuer Husar as we say. He will never give up!’

  Hervey had half-expected to find the Sixth gone from above La Haye. Instead he found Vivian’s same pickets on the flank; but although the regiment had dressed a little towards the centre, as the brigades had tried to close the gaps, they held the same ground as four hours before. ‘Has, please God, Serjeant Strange ridden in, sir?’ he asked, hoping against hope that he had somehow made his escape.

  ‘I fear not,’ replied Lankester, holding out a flask. ‘You had better take a draw on this brandy and tell me all that has passed.’

  When Hervey’s account was ended the captain turned to Adjutant Barrow who, though Hervey had not observed it, had been active once more with his pocket-book. ‘Is there anything more for the record, Barrow?’ asked Lankester.

  ‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘except that, if I might be allowed to say so, this seems uncommon service. I am sorry for Serjeant Strange; but Mr Hervey should not, in my judgement, let it rest upon his consciousness, for it was noble necessity.’

  Hervey might have resented so cold a dismissal of Strange, but he recognized the adjutant’s purpose well enough. And Lankester voiced the same: ‘Indeed so, Barrow, and very aptly put,’ he nodded. ‘Well done, Hervey. You cannot grieve, for there has been no deficiency in your conduct. And now, if you please, I desire that you resume command of your squadron, for there will soon be hot work to be about.’

  Hervey was grateful enough for their solicitude, yet it did little to reassure him as he rode over to his squadron. Cornet Seton Canning greeted him with evident relief as he resumed his place at the head of First, for Canning had joined the regiment just before they had left Cork, and after only the first field day he had grasped for himself the extent of his inexperience. Command of a squadron had sat uneasily with him for the past few hours.

  Armstrong’s relief stemmed from a different impulse, however, for he counted his lieutenant more than a mere squadron leader. ‘Thank Christ, Mr ’Ervey,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is worse than Salamanca!’
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br />   ‘Tell me of it, Serjeant Armstrong! For I do not wish to dwell any more on my past hours. Serjeant Strange is dead – I am certain – and I had to leave him in the field.’

  Armstrong paused, but (and Heaven knew how much he wanted to know of the circumstances) he held his peace, and began instead to rail against their own inactivity. ‘Not fewer than twelve Frog charges in a row!’ he thundered, recalling with startling imagery the attacks on the centre by the masses of cuirassiers and lanciers. ‘They ’ave tried to break them squares all afternoon. Every time they came on they’ve been seen off by the guns or Lord Uxbridge’s men in the middle. The ’ussars on the other flank ’ave been all over the place – and yet we ’ave sat ’ere idle as a monk’s prick. One paltry gallop in the whole day!’

  ‘The duke’s express orders, Serjeant Armstrong,’ Hervey sympathized. ‘We are rooted to this flank until relieved by the Prussians.’