The Nizam's Daughters

by Mallinson, Allan

  ‘They are formidable-looking, even in defeat,’ acknowledged Peto. ‘I can well understand, now, how an army with such as these men might gain so much – might march to Moscow and back, and fight every mile of the way.’

  Yes – formidable, thought Hervey. And yet, without their swords they had perhaps lost something of their menace. ‘I had not supposed I should ever be so close again myself,’ he conceded.

  ‘Lion is at anchor waiting to take them to join Bonaparte at St Helena. I spoke with her captain yesterday. He’s hoping to meet the man himself there.’

  There were thirty of them, perhaps more – Hervey could not see all – and they stood, arms folded, in the middle of the wide street. Some were smoking clay pipes, and all had the appearance of sublime indifference to their fate. In the sky above, swallows circled and dived, soon themselves to be southbound. The French were eyeing them too, envious perhaps of the freedom to pick their own moment. The escort, two dozen men of the 104th (North Derbyshire) Regiment, and evidently weary of the task, stood easy in a circle about them, bayonets fixed but muskets at the order. The captain, a tall, languid man, perhaps a year or so older than Hervey, but no more, on noticing the two officers touched his peak in salute and raised his eyebrows as if in search of sympathy for his role as gaoler. He gained none from Hervey, though, who was affronted, indeed, by the want of collection in the escort. The men looked tired and insensible, a picture neither of vigilance nor good order. Never would the Sixth have paraded themselves thus in front of a French crowd, let alone before their captives! There was a price to aiglets, he told himself: duty required that he say something. He began pushing his way to the front.

  He was too late, though. In an instant a dozen of the French officers rushed the sentries furthest from where he stood. The others formed line with their hands raised above their heads in submission, confusing the disengaged half-circle of infantrymen from rushing to the aid of their comrades. It was done in seconds. The sentries had not even time to bring their bayonets to the port before they were assailed with the greatest ferocity by the French, fists and boots flailing. Those on the edge seemed dumbstruck. Had they rushed in at once from the flanks it would have been over quickly. Two of them fired their muskets in the air, but then the weapons, discharged and harmless, were wrenched at once from their hands. Hervey and Peto drew their swords and rushed at the fray, but the crowd had doubled in size and women and children arrested their progress so effectively – whether by design or not – that by the time they had pushed through to the other side the captive officers had wholly overpowered their guards. They began withdrawing along the street towards the prefecture in model fashion, half of them doubling a dozen yards and then levelling the muskets while the others doubled further to take up the same covering position. The North Derbyshires’ officer recovered himself and shouldered his way through the crowd with the remainder of the escort, ordering his men to give the French a volley. The report was deafening, and smoke filled the street, making it difficult to see its effect. The French did not fire back, however: Hervey supposed it because the street was full of civilians. ‘Reload!’ shouted the captain. As the smoke cleared, the Derbyshires furiously ramming home new charges, the effect of the first volley was revealed: a dozen or more bodies lay not thirty paces up the street, and only a handful in uniform.

  Hervey was as appalled by the recklessness of the volley as he had been by the escort’s bearing. Why had they not charged first with the bayonet? He called to the captain, but the man did not hear, having now decided, it seemed, to follow with steel after failing to lead with it. Hervey rushed forward but a French leg was put in his way and he fell sprawling atop one of the sentries lying senseless from a butt-stroke. A ragged volley of musketry came from windows on both sides of the street fifty yards ahead, knocking down redcoats like skittles at a fair. It would have struck down Hervey, too, for some of it flew his way, striking the walls of the house where he lay, making little puffs of red brick-dust, the lead balls flattening and falling to the ground – where iron shot would have ricocheted. He turned his head to look for Peto, relieved to see him crouching safe in a doorway. The remnants of the escort fell back along the street, the half-dozen or so remaining on their feet trying to pull their wounded comrades with them – though several were beyond help. At least as many were left for dead. Another volley came, felling two more. Hervey sprang up and rushed to one of them, lifting him across his shoulder and taking up his musket in his free hand. Peto did the same as another welter of musket balls assailed them. One struck the silver pouch of Hervey’s crossbelt, and with such force that he was knocked clean to the ground. Peto, having dropped his man in a doorway, dashed to him, but he was already on his hands and knees retching with the pain and gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him. And still the firing continued as Peto half-pulled him to the safety of the side street where the ragged remains of the infantry were rallying, then ran back to the wounded corporal whom Hervey had been carrying, dragging him too to safety.

  The crossbelt pouch was so twisted that the gilt ‘GR’ was no longer recognizable. The ball was embedded in the silver cover, but it had been the hardened leather of the pouch itself that had stopped it. Where precisely on his back the pouch had been when the ball struck Hervey could not tell, for the ache there was too general. But had it sat as it usually did, when he walked or rode erect, the pouch would have rested directly on his spine. Here, likely enough, was the closest that death had kissed him in seven years’ campaigning – and the first time in his life that England was truly at peace with France!

  ‘You fell so hard I was sure you were shot through,’ gasped Peto, still out of breath.

  ‘It felt so,’ he muttered as he glanced across to where the Derbyshires’ officer lay dead. They had to do something – and quickly. Peto was indisputably his senior, but the responsibility was surely his. There were now a dozen or so infantrymen crowding his corner of the side street, including their serjeant, whose earlier lack of address was still manifest in a look of stupefaction. ‘Serjeant,’ said Hervey, shouting almost and shaking the man’s arm, ‘where is the rest of your company?’

  The NCO continued to stare straight across the main street, as if relief might come from that direction at any second. Hervey shook him again, but could get no answer. He looked at the others, who looked back at him like so many sheep. Yet these were men who, not two months before, had stood their ground at Waterloo against Bonaparte’s finest. Only one of them was showing any activity: he lay prone, squinting round the corner whence the firing had come. Hervey shook the man’s leg: ‘What do you see?’

  The soldier, who had taken off his shako so that as little as possible should betray his surveillance, did not move. ‘They ’ave just picked the cartridge bags off ’em, sor. An’ by the way, sor, them French is in the gendarmry building now. They’ll ’ave powder and shot aplenty there.’

  Hervey recognized the soft vowels of Cork. For an instant his mind was filled with his tribulations there. Then he noticed the stitching holes on the arm of the man’s jacket: evidently the sleeve had borne two chevrons lately. He came back to the present. ‘Where’s the rest of your company, Corporal? Where is the garrison?’

  ‘The company’s at ’Arfleur, sor. There’s a review or some such. And it’s “Private” now.’

  Harfleur was ten miles away: he had ridden through it that very morning. ‘How many marines do you have on your ship, Captain Peto?’ he asked, turning to see Peto deftly applying a tourniquet above the shattered knee of a private little older than a boy.

  Peto looked surprised. ‘Thirty-eight, the same number as she has guns – and a lieutenant. Are you asking me to—’

  ‘With only these men here all we can do is watch the gendarmerie: we can’t assault it,’ he replied, shaking his head to emphasize their powerlessness.

  ‘Would it not be better to recall the garrison? What about the town major?’

  ‘If we don’t act swiftly
then we run the risk of every Bonapartiste in Le Havre throwing in his hand with them. The whole town might be taken!’

  Peto thought it unlikely, but recognized the possibility – and therefore the necessity. ‘Very well, Captain Hervey,’ he replied grimly, ‘you shall have my marines,’ and he turned to make his way back to the quayside.

  But he had no need, for his gig’s midshipman had come up. ‘I heard the firing, sir, and feared there might be trouble.’

  Hervey smiled to himself. Right place, right time – he’ll do!

  Peto, his hat removed in the heat of the afternoon (though he had kept it square during the action), simply raised his eyebrows, and even managed to look irritated by the blood on his white breeches. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Ranson, it is nothing. Be so good as to signal to Nisus and request Mr Locke to bring his men ashore – sharply if you please.’ The midshipman doubled away with the greatest enthusiasm, and Peto turned to Hervey, raising his eyebrows again. ‘His first time within earshot of French fire,’ he drawled; ‘it’s as well to behave with as much indifference as possible.’

  Hervey was minded of Edward Lankester, though nothing of that patrician’s manner was at all studied. Even the way Lankester had ridden the length of the Sixth’s line in the closing hour at Waterloo, risking every tirailleur’s parting shot, was – he was sure – born of the most natural impulse. However, Peto’s bearing, studied or not, was as cool as ever he had seen. Did its impulse really matter?

  But now he saw an even greater service that Nisus might render, for as he lay prone, snatching the odd glance up and down the street (and grateful he was too that he wore his second coat, for the cobbles had sharp edges), he tumbled at last to it – the apt line of fire. ‘Captain Peto, do you see your ship yonder?’ he called excitedly.

  Peto, without thinking, looked back towards the roads where Nisus lay at anchor, and then quickly back at Hervey again, irritated. ‘Of course I see her, Captain Hervey; to what do your powers of observation lead?’

  ‘The gendarmerie is at the end of the street. It stands in direct line from her.’

  Peto looked astonished. ‘You surely do not wish me to undertake a shore bombardment?’ he gasped.

  ‘Not a bombardment – a shot across their bow. Except it must needs be a shot into their bow.’

  Peto looked even more astonished.

  Hervey failed to understand.

  ‘Captain Hervey, how far is the gendarmerie from us?’

  ‘Sixty or seventy yards I should say,’ he replied.

  ‘And a further hundred or so to the quay. And by my reckoning Nisus stands three cables out – a total of seven hundred and fifty yards. Eight hundred perhaps.’

  Hervey was yet more puzzled. ‘That is not an extreme range, sir?’

  Peto raised his eyebrows a third time in as many minutes. ‘It is not an extreme range, sir, but the parabola is such that—’

  ‘Oh yes, Captain, I know the intricacy well,’ he interrupted, but somehow managing not to contrive offence. ‘If you aimed low, however, the ricochet could be to our advantage.’

  Peto said nothing. Indeed, he looked aghast. And then he appeared to be contemplating the proposition. Slowly he warmed to it. ‘There is no guarantee of line, mind you. The shot is not tight in the barrel as with a rifle. It might fly wide.’

  Hervey was silent. It was not his place to give a lesson in gunnery to a frigate captain, though he knew that, at a thousand yards, the shot could not be too far out of line if the gun were laid dead-centre on its target.

  ‘Very well, Captain Hervey, though heaven knows what shall be our fate if this is misdirected. I dare say a court martial awaits us both.’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ smiled Hervey, taking another look round the corner.

  Peto said he would go back to Nisus himself. ‘I suppose you are capable of the business ashore – mounted or dismounted. But I need to see that gun is laid truly.’

  Hervey asked if he would leave his midshipman. ‘I shall need an officer with the cordon around the gendarmerie.’

  Peto approved. ‘And shall we agree to fire on the place at a given time?’ he asked absently, brushing brick-dust from his seacoat.

  ‘I should prefer a signal,’ replied Hervey. ‘Something always seems to make a given time too early or too late as it approaches. Shall we say three powder flashes from this corner?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Peto, ‘three powder flashes it is. I shall make “Affirmative” when ready.’

  ‘And if the first shot is insufficient,’ added Hervey, ‘we shall await another; then you will see us rush the building.’

  A quarter of an hour later Lieutenant Locke and thirty marines (even Peto would not leave his ship entirely without marines) came doubling along the side street to where Hervey and the midshipman were observing – the one with his telescope trained on Nisus for the ready signal, the other still prone and peering round the corner at the gendarmerie. The marines looked eager, bayonets already fixed, sweat running down their faces. There was no time for introductions or other pleasantries. Hervey quickly explained his intention, the lieutenant lying prone beside him to peer round the corner at their objective. ‘There’s no place for skirmishing. When the ball makes a breach we must rush it at once!’

  Ranson’s telescope awaited the red flag with white cross that would signal his ship’s readiness. Suddenly he started. ‘Nisus makes “Affirmative”, sir!’ he called excitedly. ‘She is ready!’

  ‘Very well, then, Mr Ranson, please take charge of the watch I have sent to the rear of the gendarmerie. There are a dozen private men there, but I fear their serjeant is unsteady.’

  The midshipman looked disappointed. He wanted to draw his sword and join the storming party. But a sharp look from Hervey sped him away to join the dozen infantrymen who were all that stood between the gendarmerie and its reinforcement. Hervey had retained the Cork man, however. His job was to make four powder flashes – three for the signal and one as reserve, for powder was never as reliable as supposed, even on a hot day, with not a drop of moisture in the air. However, before he signalled the frigate there was one more thing Hervey felt obliged to do. Taking a white silk square from the pocket of his coat, he tied it to the soldier’s bayonet. ‘Are you ready, Corporal McCarthy?’ he asked, not needing to explain for what.

  ‘Yes, sor,’ said the man resolutely. ‘I shall get an NCO’s funeral, then?’

  ‘I shall see to it myself,’ smiled Hervey, cheered not for the first time by an Irishman’s black humour. ‘Come then,’ and he marched boldly to the middle of the street with McCarthy by his side.

  Musket at the high port so that the trucial white would be plain to all, the erstwhile corporal laughed as they advanced on the gendarmerie building. ‘Jasus, sor, but I hope them French is still willing to go by the rules!’

  ‘Officers of the Garde?’ replied Hervey reassuringly. ‘I should think honour is everything to them. We need have no fear.’

  At that very moment a musket exploded not a dozen yards to their front, the ball flying a foot or so above their heads.

  ‘You was saying, sor?’

  Before he could make reply a voice from within the gendarmerie commanded them to halt and state their business. Hervey looked about until one of the shutters opened further to reveal the moustaches of a colonel of the chasseurs à pied, a man with so great an air of indifference that he began wondering what they might know which he did not. In his best French, and with proper deference for rank, he explained that there could be no escape. ‘You have fought with great honour on the field of battle. I myself saw the gallant conduct of the Garde at the late battle in Belgium. And today you have fought with determination. But further resistance will be to no avail: the guns of one of His Majesty’s ships are at this very moment laid on you. I call upon you to lay down your arms.’

  The shutter opened full, and the colonel called out one word. ‘Merde!’

  ‘What’s that he says, sor?’ asked McCarthy, who had stood p
atiently but uncomprehendingly throughout Hervey’s peroration.

  ‘He does not wish to lay down his arms,’ he replied, bruised. ‘Come.’

  They turned about and marched back with the same composure as they had advanced, the ringing of Hervey’s spurs on the cobbles seeming twice as loud, for all else was silence.

  ‘What was their answer?’ asked Lieutenant Locke.

  Hervey, his pride not a little damaged, felt the need of paraphrase. ‘La Garde meurt mais ne se rend pas! Like Cambronne at Waterloo,’ he sighed. ‘Well, so shall it be if they insist. Are the flares ready, McCarthy?’ he called, seeing him light a portfire.

  ‘Yessor!’

  Hervey drew in his breath and drew out his sabre. He could not remember the last time he had gone into action dismounted. He thought it wise to pull off his spurs. Then glancing once about to see his storming party were ready, he gave McCarthy the word. ‘Fire them!’

  Private McCarthy put the portfire to the powder trails, and seconds later three flashes, one after another, told Nisus it was time.

  Hervey hardly expected delay, for there was no swell for which to compensate in laying the gun, but even he was surprised by the frigate’s response. In an instant one of her eighteen-pounders belched a long tongue of flame, the report reaching them almost at once in the still air. But they saw the shot approaching even before hearing the discharge. It first flew higher than he expected, but then its falling trajectory became apparent, and it crashed into the very doors of the gendarmerie building – so accurate a piece of gunnery that for a second Hervey was speechless.

  ‘Charge!’

  Up! Forward! Boots pounding on cobbles – slipping, sliding. It seemed so slow! As bad as plough, almost. But they made the breach before the French rallied – hardly a shot from any quarter. The double doors were no more, the jambs pulled in with the force of the roundshot. Hervey was through first, a fraction ahead of the big lieutenant of Marines. Inside was all dust and wreckage – more than expected, and a sight he hoped never to see again after Waterloo: broken bodies of fine French officers. Marines rushed past him to the rooms beyond, almost knocking him down. This was their business: close-quarter fighting, confined. And they were eager for it. Not for them long lines and squares, wheeling, fronting and volleying like the infantry. They held their muskets close instead of at high port, ready to thrust with the bayonet or swing the butt up to groin, gut or chin. Brute strength – brutal – brutish. They worked in pairs, with no commands, with the utmost violence, and without check. Forward, forward, forward – momentum was everything to Marines!