A Close Run Thing mh-1

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey said nothing. Instead he rued his own ill-fortune: Uxbridge close to death, a man who might help him. And then he cursed himself for his thoughts.

  ‘So the brigade is to march for Nivelles,’ continued the BM. ‘The Sixth are to lead – and none too quickly, if you please: as I said, we are not pursuing the French but following the Prussians. All we must do is get to Paris ere they break every window in the city!’

  If Hervey had never before seen a battlefield the day after action, neither had he followed in the wake of a full-blown pursuit. The road to Nivelles was a trail of abandoned equipment, some of it no doubt jettisoned purposefully – baggage-waggons and the like, which could only hinder an orderly withdrawal. But much else betokened rout: small-packs, powder-horns, muskets and side-arms, the odd field-piece even. Nothing of value, however; for, vigorous though the Prussians must have been in their pursuit, all the signs of a systematic harvesting of booty were there – chests broken open and empty, bodies stripped and waggons likewise. Occasionally they came across a clothed body – a Prussian dragoon or hussar – his sword thrust into the ground and his helmet on its pommel, the minimal honouring of the dead before the needs of the pursuit had driven his comrades on. In Nivelles that night the Sixth sold the prize-horses to a livery stables at well over the official price. Twelve hundred pounds for the relief fund. Hervey was well pleased, and the regiment’s spirits began to revive with the issue of salt-beef and coffee (and the modest purchases of wine) as at last the commissary waggons caught up with them.

  Subsequent entries in the regiment’s journal would read like milestones along the high road to Paris: Charleroi, Maubeuge, Laon, Soissons. Sometimes there were unhurried halts; other times they marched through the night. But never did they see a Frenchman offering resistance. Except once. And for weeks afterwards their gallant allies were, in consequence, held in some disregard by the regiment. Already, indeed, the Prussians’ wanton destruction en route was occasioning resentment. The duke’s instructions for his own troops had been most particular in this respect, as they had been after the Pyrenees: he had even ordered that troops should only of necessity cross standing crops, and in single file. Yet the Prussians had put the torch to anything and everything.

  And so, in the late afternoon of the last day of June, fewer than ten miles short of St-Denis in the very outskirts of Paris, the plight of a lone Frenchman brought the Sixth to anger. They had seen the small château some distance off. It stood in the middle of open pasture, a handsome-looking house but without any sign of life. Had it been later in the day the Sixth might have made their billet there, but instead Hervey determined only on a watering halt. As the point-troopers rode into the yard, however, a shot rang out from a lower window, devoid of all glass and shutterless. Both men turned at once for the cover of the walls, dismounting and snatching their carbines from the saddle-boots in which they had rested idly for all but a fortnight. Scarcely had they pulled cartridges from pouch-belts, however, than out from the doorless château came an old man in his nightshirt raving like a madman and waving a sabre wildly. The pointmen, sensing this was no serious resistance, clipped the carbines to their pouch-belts and drew their sabres instead. Disarming the defender of the château took but seconds, so that by the time Hervey and the forward detachment rode into the yard the old man was simply raving harmlessly. ‘Je suis Bourboniste! Pourquoi vous me persécutez?’ he was shouting.

  Hervey dismounted. No one meant him any harm, he said: ‘Est-ce que vous êtes seul ici, monsieur?’

  The wild eyes darted about as more of the squadron came into the courtyard, and he glanced anxiously more than once towards the house, which bore the scars of what appeared to have been a brisk fight. ‘Oui, oui!’ he replied.

  Hervey asked what fighting there had been around the chateau.

  ‘Rien, monsieur, pas du tout,’ he replied, and then his brow furrowed. ‘Monsieur, vous n’êtes pas Prussiens?’

  As soon as Hervey had convinced him that they were not, the old man relaxed visibly. The surgeon was summoned, and Hervey asked how he had sustained his head-wound, for blood matted his hair. ‘Les Prussiens, monsieur,’ he began: they had attacked him, taken everything that could be taken, destroyed the rest and then tried to burn the house down.

  ‘Them is nowt but bloody fiends!’ protested one of the troopers when Hervey translated.

  He and Armstrong went into the chateau while the surgeon attended the old man. ‘Christ, Mr ’Ervey,’ gasped the serjeant, ‘there’s not a piece of glass not broken!’ The shards were almost ankle-deep, the remains of fine chandeliers and mirrors shot to pieces. Furniture – evidently the less portable pieces – was now merely gilded matchwood. Velvet and brocaded curtains hung in tatters, flame-blackened, and the carpets were ingrained with excrement. In every room it was the same: from the top of the house to the kitchens, nothing remained undamaged, not a window or a door even. Except the door from the kitchen to what Hervey thought must be the cellar, which was firmly fastened though it looked as if it, too, had been off its hinges. ‘Looks like the Prussians weren’t partial to wine then, sir,’ said Armstrong, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘That hardly seems likely after what we have seen, do you not think?’

  ‘Why’s it locked then?’

  ‘Well, I wager it was not locked, when they left.’

  ‘You reckon the old man’s hidden something in there, then?’

  ‘Not something, Serjeant Armstrong, someone. Or more than one. Where is his family? Perhaps he sent them to Paris for safety, but how would he know there was any danger? No, I think the Prussians took him by surprise.’

  Only with the greatest reluctance did the old man give up the keys, and he remained close by as they unlocked the heavy oak door. A light was burning below – more than enough to illuminate the occupants.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Armstrong. Hervey shouted for the surgeon.

  The terror in the girls’ eyes was enough to relate what must have gone before, and their soiled white shifts testified to the violence of their ordeal. Hervey checked his instincts: he wanted somehow to reassure them, but he knew it was better to leave them to their father and the surgeon.

  He and Armstrong picked their way once more through the debris of the great hall, this time without a word, but then Hervey grabbed him by the arm. ‘See there!’ he called, peering up at one of the corner bosses on the ceiling. All were peppered with bullet holes, but the decoration on one was still recognizable.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘See the device on that corner boss, and see here this,’ he replied, taking the de Chantonnay ring from a pocket.

  ‘It looks the same. Does that mean anything?’ asked Armstrong indifferently.

  ‘Well, a fleur-de-lis within a laurel wreath: it is the de Chantonnay seal, and I should say therefore that we were in a residence of the de Chantonnays.’

  Armstrong shrugged. ‘That didn’t save them two lassies, did it?’

  The vicomte de Chantonnay-Fougard fell to his knees, even amid the broken glass. ‘Monsieur, c’est le travail du grand Dieu.’ Gaining then his composure, he explained how he – the entire de Chantonnay family indeed – knew that the ring had been passed into the hands of an English officer after Bonaparte’s defeat.

  It was a little enough undertaking, replied Hervey.

  But the family was indebted to him, protested the vicomte. And now he – a widower and cousin of the comte de Chantonnay – must impose once more on that Englishman and ask protection of him for his two daughters, for their safe conveyance to their aunt in Paris, ‘au nom du roy et de Dieu, monsieur!’

  Hervey thought a while. It was not possible for himself to escort them, he explained: there was not even a carriage in the mews. But he would leave a cornet and quaternion at the château, and once they reached Paris he would see that a carriage was sent for them.

  ‘Vraiment les Anglais sont gentilhommes. Je vous remercie, monsieur. Je n’oublierai jama
is cette gentillesse.’

  But Hervey hoped he would forget soon enough what had occasioned the need of his gratitude, and resolved to make a beginning at once. ‘Mr Lawrence!’ he called into the courtyard, and up the steps came running the junior cornet, his fresh face and fair locks betraying barely seventeen years – fewer, even, than the younger of the daughters. ‘Mr Lawrence, you will choose three of the steadiest troopers – married men, if you can – and Corporal Sandbache, and you will make these people as comfortable as you can. Do you have any French?’

  ‘A little, Hervey … sir, I mean.’

  ‘Then, speak softly to the vicomte, here, and clean up a room so that his daughters at least may try to regain some modesty. Place each man upon his honour and that of the regiment. They are to be as your own sisters, Lawrence – do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. I am sorry you doubt me,’ he added, more puzzled than offended.

  Hervey sighed. ‘I am sorry, William. It is just that an outrage such as this …’

  Armstrong, however, did not scruple: ‘Mr Lawrence sir, just tell whichever bastards you pick – and that goes for Preacher Sandbache, too – that they’ll have me to answer to if one of them so much as looks at them lassies!’

  Paris, 20 July

  Hervey had remained in command a full three weeks. The regiment had arrived in Clichy at the beginning of the second week in July, and he had at once put them to the routine of a garrison, where comforts were bought only at the price of tedious proximity to headquarters. He was not, in most respects, greatly exercised, but one concern in particular was beyond his capability to deal with: the speculation in commissions to which the casualty lists had given rise. Indeed, he was convinced that the regiment might soon have officers on paper only, so brisk was the trade purported to be. His relief, therefore, when Lord George Irvine resumed command was palpable. And he welcomed even Adjutant Barrow’s return from his sickbed in Brussels (‘I were getting nicely used to it,’ Barrow lamented. ‘Silk sheets and fine ladies with china teacups. Treated as quite the gentleman, I were’). Lord George would know how best to spike the trade, and all Hervey now hoped was that his conduct during his brief tenure of command might be deemed worthy for the stop on promotion to be removed. Of the army’s prize-money his share as a lieutenant amounted to about £35, of which half, by custom, would go to regimental alms, leaving just enough to replace his losses of uniform and camp-stores. He still had not the means to purchase a captaincy.

  But would his command be deemed worthy? Who might know that he had led the squadrons in the final hour, that he had brought them to Paris? Vivian and Vandeleur would have seen nothing out of the ordinary; Lord Uxbridge was already invalided home, and replaced once more by Sir Stapleton Cotton. The fortunes of war seemed perverse in the extreme.

  The summons to Cotton’s headquarters (or, rather, to Lord Combermere’s, for so he had been ennobled after Spain) came therefore as a harbinger of hope. Yet what might Combermere have to say to him that Lord George Irvine might not? All that Lord George knew was that Combermere apparently wished to question him on some aspect or other of the battle.

  ‘Mr Hervey, how our paths do cross!’ began the general, holding out his hand. The room, in the Place Vendôme, had a more spartan look than Hervey had imagined on entering the building. ‘You have had quite a time these past few weeks, I understand.’

  ‘I think all would say that they have been momentous weeks, sir,’ he replied guardedly, for there was not enough in Combermere’s proposition from which to infer that he judged his time to have been singular.

  ‘Just so, Mr Hervey; just so. And I may tell you how keenly I feel the want of those weeks: it was by no choice of mine, however, that I remained in England. But that is no matter,’ he continued, handing him several sheets of paper. ‘Here, my boy, I wish you to read this and tell me if in general terms it is accurate. Sit down, if you please.’

  Hervey took the papers and began to read. The first paragraph made his heart pound. By the end it was racing, and he struggled hard to maintain an even tone in his reply. ‘It is completely accurate, sir – in its facts, that is. The opinions expressed are, of course, Lord Uxbridge’s.’

  ‘They may be Lord Uxbridge’s, my dear boy, but I warrant they would be shared by any who knew the facts,’ said Combermere with a smile. ‘Wait here one moment,’ he added, leaving the room by a side door.

  Some minutes later he reappeared, still smiling: ‘The duke wishes to have words with you. Come!’

  The commander-in-chief’s room was, if anything, even more spartan than his cavalry commander’s; but he, too, smiled readily as Hervey entered, and stood to offer his hand. ‘Sit, if you please, Mr Hervey. Will you have some coffee, or chocolate – or perhaps you would prefer Madeira?’ he asked, gesturing towards an ADC standing by for the purpose.

  Hervey saw no reason for restraint: ‘Chocolate, if you please, your Grace.’

  ‘Now,’ began the duke, after waiting for the ADC to leave. ‘Lord Uxbridge has sent me a long dispatch from his sickbed, and in it he recounts the signal part that you played in bringing the Prussians to the field at Waterloo. And Baron Müffling has acquainted me with the advice you gave to Prince Blücher. It was well judged, Mr Hervey – very well judged, for their opening fire, even at so extreme a range, gave notice of hostile intent and thwarted Bonaparte’s stratagem.’ The duke paused and took a sip of his coffee. ‘What you do not know, in all probability, is that the French will to fight appears to have been dealt a mortal blow thereby, for since they believed the firing to be coming from Grouchy’s men the word spread rapidly that Grouchy had turned traitor. Bonaparte was hoist well and truly with his own petard. You may have conceived, on your own account, that the battle was a near-run thing, Mr Hervey. Well, indeed it was – the closest-run thing you ever saw!’ The duke paused again to sip some more. Hervey was transported with pride, scarcely able to contain his anticipation of the recognition which this audience must be presaging. ‘Now,’ continued the duke, with a cautionary inflection which brought up short Hervey’s flight of fancy, ‘this all amounts to a situation of some delicacy. You may be aware that although Prince Blucher and I share the very best of relations, it is not quite that way with General von Gneisenau. Indeed, in the very highest matters of state things are not as they should be.’

  Hervey nodded his understanding.

  ‘I very much regret, Mr Hervey, that I dare not make any recognition of what transpired with the Prussians at Waterloo, and therefore of your part in it. We must not say anything which in the least part suggests that the Prussians did not make all speed, and of their own volition. And that they fired on debouching from the forest entirely out of their ardour to engage the enemy. I must swear you to absolute confidence in this matter: it is known to but a handful of people.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ he replied, almost choking on the words.

  ‘One more thing, Mr Hervey,’ continued the duke, his expression now as intense as when they had first exchanged those few words at the convent in Toulouse. ‘Your service to the de Chantonnays. I am well pleased to learn that my instructions to protect the civil population have been so punctiliously observed.’

  Hervey returned the look quizzically.

  ‘The de Chantonnays are staunchly Bourbon. My chief of intelligence, Colonel Grant, has much cause to praise their assistance these several past years. Am I to understand, too, that you have in your safekeeping a ring for the count?’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘And do you bear it with you, this instant?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Then I think you may soon be able to discharge your obligation in that respect. Colonel Grant will be able to take you to the count: he is here, in Paris. And now, my boy,’ he declared, rising and holding out his hand, the smile once more returned, ‘you have my thanks again, and I wish you good fortune: I am certain you shall have it!’

  * * *

  In Lo
rd Combermere’s office, with more chocolate, Hervey tried to reconcile his exhilaration and disappointment.

  ‘What precisely did the duke say at the end?’ asked the general.

  ‘He thanked me – and wished me good fortune, I think, sir.’ He could scarcely remember the flow of things, let alone the exact words.

  ‘There was no mention of … reward!’

  ‘None that I recall, sir; no, none whatever.’

  Lord Combermere looked surprised, though Hervey did not notice. ‘Lord George Irvine tells me he is to send you back to England with papers for your colonel. I should be very much obliged if you would deliver this to the adjutant-general at the Horse Guards: it is of a routine but sensitive nature, as I understand,’ he said, holding up a sealed dispatch, ‘and this other to Lord George, please. I will apprise you generally of its contents: it commends your service at Waterloo, without mentioning anything of the Prussians, and expresses the duke’s hope that you might be advanced in regimental seniority or suchlike. I am sure these things augur well for the future, Mr Hervey.’ And with that, and a warm handshake, Lord Combermere bade him farewell.

  Hervey rode back to Clichy more thoroughly confounded than he supposed he had ever been. He presumed this express wish of the duke’s must annul all bars to his captaincy, but Combermere had not mentioned anything of field promotion. And, since he was no nearer possessing the amount required for its purchase, the prize looked distinctly hollow. He had never expected garlands for what he had done, but their absence after the promise implied in the duke’s eulogy he felt cruelly.

  The Following Day

  Colonel Grant was an unlikely-looking spymaster. His features seemed too distinct, his gait too obviously military and his voice too loud. But of his business there was, by all accounts, no greater practitioner, and if the duke had felt himself humbugged by Bonaparte’s essay into Belgium, then not one portion of blame would he allow this gallant officer to bear. The colonel arrived at ten o’clock at the billets of the 6th Light Dragoons and, to intense speculation among those officers who recognized him, he and Hervey left by carriage for the house near the Tuileries which was the Paris residence of the comte de Chantonnay. Footmen attended their arrival, and Hervey was at once spellbound by the sumptuousness – the fine paintings, hangings, crystal, and gilded furniture, unaccountable survivors of both the revolution and the recent occupation. And he could not but wonder at Sister Maria de Chantonnay’s willing exchange of all this for her frugal orders. There was champagne, Neapolitan confections – and music.