XIII
HONOURS OF WAR
Before Silistria, 4 June 1829
Hervey stood waiting in the marbled hall of the villa over which flew the flag of the Tsar’s new general-in-chief, resplendent in best undress which Johnson had spent half the night primping and polishing, the gold wire of his crossbelt looking new-drawn after the lengthy attention of toothbrush and shaving soap.
They had left Siseboli three weeks ago. Since the battle for the redoubt, all there had been quiet; the Seraskier had withdrawn to Bourgas leaving only a force of observation. So Hervey had taken leave of General Wachten, and travelled by frigate to Constanta, and then, to the great delight of Cornet Agar (returned to hale condition), the party had made their way along the remains of Trajan’s Wall (an earth vallum which Agar insisted was very doubtfully Roman, and more likely Byzantine), which ran forty miles or so to the Danube. They had journeyed thence upriver to Silistria (where Hervey was surprised to find the Turks still resisting the most determined siege), arriving two days before. The general-in-chief had returned from Varna only the latter evening.
Hervey carried with him a further letter of introduction from General Wachten (who had left Siseboli too, but for Varna, whence he was to take charge of the garrison at Pravadi). But unknown to him, Wachten had also sent a despatch to Silistria relating in detail the Turkish attack and its prelude, and Hervey’s part in them.
The doors of the general-in-chief’s office were suddenly opened, and out marched an officer of Cossacks, his face aglow with satisfaction.
An aide-de-camp made the introductions. ‘Captain Pugachev is promoted major in recognition of his riding from Pravadi with despatches.’
Major Pugachev had no French, so Hervey was obliged to make his congratulations by smiles and handshakes. ‘In what way was the ride singular?’
The aide-de-camp tilted his head, as if to express surprise at the question. ‘The distance from Pravadi, via the necessary outposts, is almost a hundred miles, and the enemy is at large still. Pugachev took but twelve hours, and on the same horse.’
Hervey nodded in recognition of the feat. ‘And the horse?’
The aide-de-camp frowned. ‘I cannot say, sir. You wish me to enquire?’
Before Hervey could respond (he would have liked, at least, to know the animal’s breeding), the doors opened again, and a second aide-de-camp appeared.
‘General Diebitsch will see you now, Colonel.’
Hervey acknowledged, and turned once more to the Cossack. ‘I trust the despatches contained favourable news. My compliments to General Wachten when you return.’
The French was turned into Russian by the first aide-de-camp. The reply, short, exuberant, needed no translation.
Hervey marched confidently into the general-in-chief’s office, spurs ringing on the polished stone. He halted, saluted, and announced himself in French.
General Diebitsch was already standing, with half a dozen staff officers in a semi-circle behind him. All wore plumes, the appearance more of ceremony than of orderly room. The general returned the salute, greeting him not in French but German.
Count Ivan Ivanovich Diebitsch – or, in the language he now spoke, Graf Karl Friedrich Anton von Diebitsch und Narden – was a boyish-looking man with black hair combed forward in the classical manner, and an easy smile. Hervey had acquired all the knowledge he could of his former service to supplement the picture that Princess Lieven had painted of him. Like Wachten, Diebitsch had been born in Silesia, and been a cadet in Berlin, but had followed his father, one of Frederick the Great’s aides-de-camp, into the service of the Tsar. He had been wounded at Austerlitz, had fought at Eylau and Friedland, and in 1812, after distinguishing himself at Polotsk, was made major-general. He was thereafter at Lutzen, Dresden and Leipzig, was promoted lieutenant-general, and entered Paris in 1814. Then he had joined the glittering congress at Vienna, and was afterwards made adjutant-general and later chief of the general staff. Tsar Nicholas had made him baron and then count, and in 1825 he had been active in putting down the Decembrist revolt. The Tsar, despairing of the ailing Field Marshal Wittgenstein in the campaign of 1828, had then appointed Diebitsch to command of the army in the field. And he was but six years Hervey’s senior (a fact which Hervey tried hard to put from his mind, for the slowness of his own promotion – if in considerable part his own making – stood sometimes as a rebuke).
Another aide-de-camp stepped forward with a blue velvet cushion.
General Diebitsch took from it a medal suspended from a long, yellow-edged, red ribbon. ‘Colonel Hervey, by the power devolved upon me by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, I invest you with the Order of Saint Anna, Second Class, With Swords.’
Hervey, astonished as he was, managed nevertheless to keep his countenance, and bowed to permit the ribbon to be placed about his neck.
Diebitsch then shook his hand. ‘Colonel Hervey, your action in taking command of the Cossack patrol was worthy of the highest praise, and the advice tendered to General Wachten at Siseboli, on which he acted during the Turkish attack, materially affected the course of the battle and saved the lives of many of His Imperial Majesty’s soldiers thereby.’
Hervey cleared his throat. ‘It was my privilege to be among so many brave men, General.’ (It had only been evening, when they returned within the walls, that he had learned that Wachten had sent the reserve company of the Azov Regiment by boat to make the surprise attack on the Turk flank.)
‘Please take a seat, Colonel, and a glass of champagne.’
An efreytor in a white shell jacket appeared from behind a screen with a tray and glasses.
Hervey breathed a sigh of relief that they were not to drink ‘without heeltaps’, for he wanted the clearest of heads. He made a few more complimentary remarks about the resolution of the Pavlovsk Grenadiers and the élan of the Cossacks.
‘Your German is admirable, I may say – exactly as Wachten informed me. You had a German governess, I understand?’
‘From Alsace. It was she who taught me French too.’
‘I imagine therefore that it would take little time for you to acquire Russian?’ He beckoned the staff officers to leave.
‘I have acquired a very little, General.’ Hervey smiled ruefully. ‘Though perhaps I should acquire more if your officers were not so fluent in French.’
Diebitsch smiled too. ‘Colonel Hervey, it is in my power to offer you command of a brigade forthwith, in the rank of major-general. A division would follow soon thereafter.’
Hervey was taken aback, both by the notion itself and by the directness of the proposal. He struggled hard to compose his reply so as not to give offence (it was, after all, a most handsome offer; and changing flag need not be treason). ‘The general is most gracious, but he will understand that I serve His Majesty the King.’
Diebitsch was well rehearsed. ‘I understand perfectly, Colonel, but also that you are an officer whose considerable experience of war is not matched by his rank. The Princess Lieven writes that it is well known that the army of England is diminishing in size, and that what promotions there are to general rank are reserved for the closest acquaintances of His Majesty.’
There was some mischief in the latter suggestion, but enough of truth for Hervey to be less than affronted – not least because of Diebitsch’s entirely benign expression. Indeed, it was all he could do not to reflect the sympathetic smile. The shock, if it could be described as such, was in learning that Princess Lieven was in communication with the general-in-chief, though it was by no means clear if this were direct and recent, or included reference to him personally. And he did not suppose he would be able to discover more. ‘It is true that there are reductions in the establishment,’ he conceded, a trifle reluctantly. ‘As to the appointment of general officers, I am not privy to what passes between His Majesty and the commander-in-chief.’
‘Prettily put, Colonel, but it does not alter the material point. I am able to offer yo
u a command fitting to your abilities – a command, indeed, decidedly shy of your abilities, which with a year or so’s service and acquisition of the tongue of our Russias would be superseded by greater rank. I am made general-in-chief of the army; I shall have need of an officer of your particular resources in my headquarters in St Petersburg, as well as on active operations. At twenty-seven, Colonel Hervey, I was made lieutenant-general, and baron not long after. Princess Lieven writes that your own regiment is to be disbanded.’
Hervey was now in no doubt what had transpired – nor of the power of the general’s patronage. If he were able to confer honours and rank in the field, his influence in St Petersburg must indeed be entire. Russia was no enemy of England’s, after all – nor even great rival. What reason was there, then, for him, a professional soldier, to decline such an offer of advancement? At the very least it demanded some deliberation.
‘General, you press me on a matter of the profoundest consequence which I beg leave to think over.’
Diebitsch nodded. ‘I would have been offended had you turned it down at once, and suspicious had you accepted likewise.’
Hervey was at least diverted by the knowledge that he had passed the first test of Russian generalship. He bowed.
Diebitsch rose. Hervey followed, expecting to be dismissed, but was beckoned instead to a map table. ‘Let me apprise you of the situation facing the army of His Imperial Majesty in the seat of war before Constantinople.’
Hervey, trying hard to put the momentous promise of generalship and military honours from his mind, was flattered to a high degree by this admittance to the realm of strategy. He felt certain, now, that all that had recently gone before – Princess Lieven, the Cossack patrol, the affair of the redoubts – was justified: Lord Hill could not have wished him to be in any other position but this – to have gained the confidence of the Tsar’s general-in-chief.
Diebitsch’s air of assurance was arresting, even as he pointed on the map to the trials that must lie ahead. Between his army and the Sultan’s capital lay first the Danube, deep and wide, with the formidable defences of Silistria still in Turk hands. A hundred miles distant, the Balkan mountains lay square across his path, impassable but in a handful of places. And guardian of those crossing places, standing like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, was the fortress of Shumla, greater perhaps than Silistria. Yet even with the passes forced, there still lay ahead a march of two hundred and fifty miles, open plain for the most part (Hervey had ridden a corner of it with the Cossacks) that could scarcely go uncontested by the Turks. Hervey vaguely recalled that the Balkan was called Mons Haemus because the Greek word for blood was (haema); and he could not but think, seeing on the map what the Tsar’s soldiers would be put to accomplish, that the name was prophetic.
His unease was evident. ‘I will not sport with you, Colonel Hervey; the previous season did not go well – to which I owe my present advancement, as doubtless every camp tattler would tell you. And then many men were carried off by the frosts and the plague. I have spent the latter part of the winter garnering the army’s strength, which is why I have opened offensive operations later in the season than I should have liked – that and the infernal bad weather of late, which has swelled the Danube and washed away the roads.’
Hervey nodded gravely; here was uncommon candour. ‘Is it true – may I ask – that the loss of horses was even more grievous?’
‘It is true. And I have had to bring remounts from the furthest pastures of Russia. And camels from the desert regions – two thousand Turcomans – as well as draught oxen, whose meat we shall take when their work is done. I have, now, a hundred and forty thousand cavalry and infantry, and five hundred artillery pieces in addition to those with the Cossacks. I have two months’ rations and warlike stores in the depots at Varna and here before Silistria. The navy is at my command, as you have seen, and I am confident that not a ship shall venture from the Golden Horn and do us harm.’
Hervey did not doubt it. Perhaps the Sultan feared repeat of the losses he had suffered at Navarino (not for the first time did he think it singular that he should become engaged in the same theatre of war as his old friend Peto). But whatever the reason, in more than two months he had not seen a single Turkish ship.
‘Shall you make any further landing than at Siseboli?’ he asked.
‘No. I shall not dissipate our strength. My intention is to bring the main force to battle in the field, then reduce Silistria and Shumla before what remains of the field army and their garrison is able to withdraw into the Balkan passes. Then I shall march hard on Adrianople. Siseboli shall be my base of supply once we have forced the Balkan. Despite what has gone before, I do not consider the task a difficult one. The Turkish soldier, although he has fought bravely and endured much, is become … bedrükt.’
Bedrükt – despondent, downhearted. There was without doubt something amiss in the fighting spirit of the Sultan’s army. Would the Janissaries have let Siseboli stand as a rebuke to them? Not the Janissaries of old. And yet here they stood, reviewing the coming campaign, not within the walls of Silistria but without. Hervey nodded, but cautiously. ‘There was nothing of élan in their action at Siseboli, or before.’
Diebitsch nodded. ‘It is, they say, in the Turk nature – a tendency to fatalismus. And it is my intention to persuade them of their inevitable fate, and quickly.’
‘General – you will forgive me if I appear impudent – but are there more solid grounds for believing the Turks will not fight as once they did? Especially once we – you – cross the Danube.’
Diebitsch nodded thoughtfully (and smiled to himself, for he ought to have expected as much from a man he wished to make major-general). ‘My spies report that there have not been the reinforcements from the west on which the Sultan was counting. The Servians and Arnauts have sent but few, and the Bosnians, the best of their auxiliaries, none at all.’
Hervey nodded too. ‘That would indeed bear on their fighting spirit.’
‘And I believe they have lately made a grave mistake, which I am now about to take advantage of.’ Diebitsch pointed to Shumla on the map. ‘Here the main Turk force has been assembling since the snows were past, and Reschid Pasha, the new Vizier, arrived at the end of March to take personal command. You are aware of his aptitude?’
‘Yes,’ said Hervey: the reputation of General Reschid was well known to London from his campaign against the Greeks in Morea.
‘But I perceive in this a measure of alarm,’ continued Diebitsch. ‘You may not know it, but Reschid is the son of an Orthodox priest, a Greek. He was made captive as a child, then rose by sheer capability – the Sultan’s first minister, a remarkable transformation. Yet I wonder if the Sultan or any other can have complete trust in his loyalty. That is something on which it is futile to speculate, but it may from time to time impel him to action in order to prove it. In any case, he has miscalculated. General Roth, a capable man despite the reverses of last season, of his own initiative has placed a force of two corps before Shumla – they wintered in Roumelia – and a line of defensible posts between there and Rustchuk, which is the westernmost Turk garrison of any importance. And I have now a line of Cossack patrols between Pravadi and Turtokai here on the Danube,’ (he pointed to the latter fortress, almost equidistant between Silistria and Rustchuk) ‘so that, in truth, the country of the Dobrudscha, though it is not yet ours, is denied to the Turks. The Dobrudscha is good farmland, valuable to the army. And to there,’ (pointing to Rasgrad, half-way between Rustchuk and Shumla) ‘my headquarters are being transferred as we speak.’
‘Before Silistria falls?’
‘Silistria is now surely invested. Its garrison is made prisoner. And – here is the point – the more so for Reschid’s miscalculation: he attempted to recover Pravadi two weeks ago, but his letter to the Pasha at Rustchuk, to send troops to his assistance, was intercepted by my Cossacks, and so Reschid was thrown back. But because he has a reputation to maintain – and perhaps that need to r
eassure the Sultan – he now marches thither again with the whole garrison of Shumla.’
Hervey could see the opportunity in this, but it would be to no avail if the Turks were simply to entrench themselves at Pravadi instead of Shumla. ‘Can Pravadi stand in the face of such numbers?’
‘It has been most carefully fortified since we captured it.’ Diebitsch took an engineer sketch from beneath the map. ‘An inundation here,’ he went on, pointing, ‘covered by a battery, protects the northern side of the town. There is a hornwork constructed on the commanding ground to the west, here, while the town itself is surrounded by a wall flanked with tenailles, so that although it rests in a deepish sort of valley, it is perfectly defensible.’
‘How strong is the garrison, General?’
Diebitsch paused only momentarily before disclosing the number. ‘Eight thousand. With some of my best engineers.’
‘So I take it you intend besieging Reschid as he himself besieges?’ Hervey smiled. ‘Like the Gauls laying siege to Caesar as he laid siege to Alesia?’
Diebitsch looked at him warily.
‘I did not mean to suggest that yours would be the fate of the Gauls, General,’ added Hervey quickly. ‘Only that the ground and the situation seem greatly to your favour.’
Diebitsch shook his head. ‘I have done with sieges. I shall force Reschid to withdraw once more to Shumla, and in that withdrawal I shall destroy him in the open. Upon that battle the key to the Balkan lock shall turn.’
Hervey could make no reply. The design was inspiring. All that was necessary to bring it off was that the Tsar’s officers had the requisite acuity. And of that he could not yet be certain.
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