Lord George spoke to recover the situation (he hoped). ‘You have a good remount?’
Johnson’s face lit up. ‘Ah do, Colonel. This is ’er ’ere.’ He indicated a bay mare, about fifteen hands two.
Lord George took a closer look. ‘I’d have her myself, Johnson.’
‘Ay, Colonel. She’s a good’n.’
‘Well then,’ said Lord George, turning. ‘Let us continue. Thank you, Johnson, for your candour.’
‘Ay, all right, Colonel.’ Johnson put his feet together, braced himself vigorously, and passably well, and saluted.
As they walked away, Edmonds saw a smile on Lord George’s face.
‘I have seen no lack of spirit so far.’
‘I think that is a fair representation of the regiment as a whole, Colonel, though Johnson, I must say, is singular.’
‘I am sorry to hear it! By the way, the regiment salutes with the hand when hatless, or was that just Private Johnson?’
‘It does.’
‘Good. Where do we go now?’
‘The other troop lines, Colonel.’
Lord George halted. ‘No, I think that if the horses are of the same stamp there is no need. I think I would see the stores.’
‘Very well. But I fear they are misnamed, for there’s barely an item within.’
‘Well, I may speak to the storekeeper, I suppose,’ Lord George replied, smiling still, appreciative of his major’s drollness. ‘Now, tell me what I should know of the subalterns.’
Edmonds made a sort of face. What to say? ‘I imagine they are no better or worse than elsewhere. One or two of them have the makings. Martyn, Lankester’s lieutenant, is capable. So is Darrington, the Duke of Sheffield’s son, but he has bid for a troop in the Fifteenth. And Conway knows what he’s about. The cornets have capability; very pleasing some of them. Hervey has a commendation from Robert Long. He galloped for him at Corunna.’
‘And what of the quartermasters?’
‘The serjeant-major’s time is up; he’ll have his discharge. He’s done all he can, and that well, but there’s not a commission for him. He’ll go to the yeomanry.’
‘There is a suitable replacement, I trust?’
‘Senior quartermaster is Lincoln, D Troop. They don’t come better.’
Lord George looked content. ‘Then what would you have me decide for the rest?’
Edmonds shook his head. ‘Nothing. In that respect the last three months have decided things. But as you perceive, there are no horses, and there’s a want of dragoons. We must get back into the saddle; that is all.’
Lord George took mental note again. He considered himself fortunate indeed to have a second in command of such vigour and address. The regiment had bottom – he knew so by its reputation and from what he had seen and heard in one hour this morning – but it would require a prodigious investment, not a little of which would have to be his own. He intended losing no time in its restoration.
For his part, Joseph Edmonds considered himself and the regiment fortunate to have a new executive officer with such credentials and – from what he could judge in one hour – manifest decency. Colonel Reynell he had held in high regard, as much for his humanity as his aptitude. His handling of the regiment at Benavente had been masterly, but to Edmonds’s mind there had always been something other-worldly in Reynell. He thought it his undoing, in fact. Reynell had pulled the regiment through to Corunna with but a handful of delinquencies when others could count theirs in dozens. The orders to destroy the horses had been grievous – no one doubted it – but they had been Sir John Moore’s, and in the grim logic of that wretched campaign they made sense. Why, therefore, had Reynell had to put a pistol to his head? What was the dishonour awaiting him? None; none at all. Indeed, he might have expected some recognition, for there was clamour enough for heads, and the Horse Guards would want some heroes to parade. They were where they were, however, and they had the Marquess of Tain’s younger son, with the reputation as the coolest head in Flanders, and known to be on the best of terms with the Duke of York. He, Joseph Edmonds, could not – must not – fret that Lord George Irvine was a dozen years his junior.
‘Will you dine in mess this evening, Colonel?’
Lord George halted. ‘Indeed I shall, if you will dine too.’
‘But of course, Colonel!’
Lord George smiled. ‘Edmonds, before I left Lord Sussex’s I had formed an opinion that your experience in this regiment was unrivalled. And at my club I met a man who said there had not been a better troop-leader in Spain.’
Edmonds’s brow furrowed. ‘Who—’
Lord George half frowned. ‘You would not have me divulge a club confidence?’
Edmonds had no acquaintance with the clubs of which Lord George Irvine was an habitué. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. ‘No, Colonel, indeed not.’
Lord George smiled. ‘Forgive me, Edmonds. It should be no secret. It was Paget himself.’
‘Paget?’ There could be no greater accolade than from the commander of Moore’s cavalry. ‘I—’
‘No modesty, Edmonds. He said your handling of the troop at Sahagun was exemplary, and afterwards, at Corunna, the regiment.’
In truth, Edmonds intended no modesty, only surprise that anyone took note of anything unless it were done by somebody’s son. ‘I am obliged, Colonel.’ He even thought he might relay it to Margaret.
It was not the new lieutenant-colonel’s easy manner and air of capability at mess on the first evening that impressed itself on the young Cornet Hervey so much as his activity in the weeks that followed, and above all his address to the officers six weeks after his arriving. At mess that first evening, when Lord George had spoken a few words to the officers informally before dinner, there had at once arisen a universal sense of satisfaction in having a commanding officer who might secure for them their proper prestige. But none of them had imagined the practical use to which Lord George would put his standing. When, but one and a half months after first driving through the gates of their Canterbury depot, he called them together again, no one but Edmonds had the remotest inkling of the announcement he would make.
‘Gentlemen, I have news that will stir your hearts!’ Lord George began, smiling as if he were going to declare that Bonaparte himself was clapped in irons in the regimental jail. ‘The government is to send a second expedition to Portugal.’
This was scarcely surprising news, but it caused exactly the hubbub he had calculated. He would now raise it by degrees. ‘And the general commanding shall be Sir Arthur Wellesley!’
There was cheering. None of them knew Wellesley, save that he had a good reputation from India, and Denmark, and of course Vimiero, the battle they had missed; but there had to be some bravado (and there were precious few other names). Joseph Edmonds permitted himself a sigh before resolving that he could not – must not – fret that Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley was but his own age.
Lord George held up a hand. The room was hushed. ‘And, gentlemen, I am delighted to be able to tell you that the Sixth shall accompany the force to Lisbon without delay!’
Silence: the whole room was stunned. And then came the whoops, and more cheering. Only two weeks ago, the notion of their going back to Portugal would have been impossible. No one would have laid a guinea at 100–1 that by this day the regiment would be remounted and up to sabre strength – and warned for active duty. What might not money and influence achieve, even in these times! The colonel’s zeal, they had all seen for themselves; exactly how much money he had laid out, they could only guess. And they did so with much admiration.
‘Who shall command the cavalry, Colonel?’
‘Not Paget,’ whispered Cornet Laming to Hervey. He had come down from London that afternoon, but too late to tattle before they were assembled, which vexed him somewhat, for although he had beaten Hervey to the troop by but a month, he enjoyed the superiority it gave him.
‘Do you know who, Laming?’ whispered Hervey in obl
iging awe, but incurring a frown from the adjutant.
Lord George finished his studied sip of wine. ‘Sir Stapleton Cotton, I believe.’
When they were dismissed, Laming was able to relay his intelligence fully. ‘Paget has eloped with Wellesley’s sister-in-law! Run off with her in a whiskey from clean under his brother’s nose!’
Hervey hardly knew what to say. Lord Paget had seemed so . . . complete a soldier that he could scarce imagine him in any other guise.
‘A damned fool, they say in Brooks’s – throwing away his chance of command thus. But you must concede, Hervey, with what cavalry style did he do it!’
‘London must indeed be scandalized,’ said Hervey, dryly, though he must picture it only, for he had yet to visit.
‘Hah! That is not the half of it. The Duke of York is resigned. There’s a fearful scandal about his mistress selling promotions.’
Hervey shook his head. He knew little of affairs, though he knew that the Duke of York was held in some regard for his efforts in respect of the soldier’s welfare. But a mistress selling promotions? Was that how so many men of evident incapability obtained their advancement? He sickened at the thought. The commander-in-chief with feet of clay: it did not serve.
Hervey retired to his quarters as soon as he could. As picket-officer of the day before, he had been up half the night, but, also, he knew he must order his accounts quickly now that Lord George had put them on notice for Portugal. There would be the devil of an extra expense equipping himself, for his losses at Corunna had been more than he had first supposed, and his uniform had seen such hard service that he knew he must replace the better part of it. The regimental tailor had come down from London the month before, and then again a fortnight ago, and the account would be due rendering at the month’s end. He looked at the list, dolefully:
Pelisse
£32
5s
0dUndress
19
0s
0dFull-dress jacket
25
0s
0dUndress
15
0s
0dDress pantaloons
7
18s
6dDress vest
13
0s
0dUndress
3
18s
0dGreatcoat
12
12s
0d
£128
13s
6d
To this he would have to add, perhaps, another seven pounds for a Tarleton helmet. His boots would serve, but for other necessaries he calculated he would need to lay aside a further ten. He had already paid fifty pounds for a second charger, and its appointments.
He had no idea what government would finally allow to make good his losses; there was much speculation, none of it optimistic. His year’s pay did not amount to a hundred and twenty pounds, and he had laid out four hundred on commissioning. His father allowed him three hundred a year; how, he had no idea, for the living of Horningsham was a poor one by any standard. The proceeds of the Mameluke he had taken from the French general at Benavente had been mortgaged to Messrs Greenwood and Cox, the regimental agents, in the interest of Etoile du Soir – ‘Stella’. The mare had been, perhaps, a prodigal buy, but Hervey reckoned she had saved General Craufurd’s brigade two hours’ marching when he had galloped after them with Sir John Moore’s order for the recall, such was her speed and handiness. Jessye would have done as well if she had not stood quarantined in England; but not his others. Two hundred guineas to save the Light Brigade two hours’ marching! He smiled wryly: if he had taken up a subscription from the ranks that night he would have had ten times the sum. And then to be parted with her for a few dollars at Corunna . . .
No, all that he must put down to experience. Heavy outlay on blood was best left to the blades who wore aiglets. His priority must be to replace his camp stores – tent, bedding, canteens and all the rest. He had come away from Corunna with next to nothing, not much more than Private Sykes could carry, and what he himself had stood up in at the end of the day’s galloping for Colonel Long (which was in truth not very much). He dare not ask his father for a farthing more, and he had no other expectations. At least his living expenses would be reduced once they were in the field. And this time there would surely be prize money? Greenwood and Cox were very obliging, of that there was no doubt, but for how much must he prevail on them for Portugal, and with what security? What of his bills hereabouts, too?
He resolved to take the subaltern’s course. He closed the book and pushed it to one side. He would honour all his debts – that went without saying – but it would have to be when fortune allowed. He had the King’s business to be about, after all. He opened his journal and picked up a pen.It is a fine thing to be in a well-found regiment when so much without is uncertain, and well to know the men on whom one must depend, and to know them true rather than by mere reputation. I have seen enough in my short months in His Majesty’s service to know the nature of some men, and I think it our greatest good fortune to be so strong set-up a corps. I have heard some of the old Indiamen speak of Sir Arthur Wellesley, and they say he is the man to beat the French, but there are many among my fellows who deride him for a placeman. We shall have ample of opportunity to judge it however, since Lord George has by his exertions got us with his army. God grant that this time we may be set fairly to the task, for it would never serve to make such a retreat as Corunna again.
CHAPTER FIVE
GHOSTLY COUNSEL
The British Legation, Lisbon, Christmas Day, 1826
If Cornet Laming had once complained of ‘the mummery of a Catholic Lent’ at Lisbon, the Feast of the Nativity could not offend him now, for the clanging joy of the city on Christmas morning was only what the streets of London might be hearing on its own midwinter holyday.
‘Colonel Laming, sir?’
He stopped mid-stride at the gates of the British legation, and turned to see a smart-looking NCO of the regiment that for so many years had been his own – as astonished to see him there as he was that the man should recognize him. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, it’s Corporal Wainwright, sir,’ said the NCO, saluting. ‘Major Hervey’s coverman.’
Laming half smiled. ‘Indeed! Do you seek me out? How is Major Hervey?’
‘He’s in trouble, sir,’ replied Wainwright, lowering his voice. ‘I came here to tell, sir, but I don’t know who.’
‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’ Laming glanced about. There was no one within earshot, but it was perishing cold, and the street was no place to hear of it. ‘Come inside.’
Wainwright removed his shako as they entered the legation, a fine palácio not many minutes’ walk from where Hervey was meant to be lodged at Reeves’s Hotel in the Rua do Prior. Laming removed his forage cap after announcing himself to a footman, who showed them to a small ante-room.
‘How do you know me, Corporal?’
‘Major Hervey spoke of you, sir, and you came to the barracks at Hounslow once.’
Laming’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you the man who carried Major Hervey to that ship at Rangoon?’
‘Sir, yes, sir.’
‘Very well,’ said Laming, thoughtful. This was the man who had saved both Hervey’s life and his rein-arm, and by holding a pistol to an army surgeon. Laming was at once disposed to hear him carefully. ‘Tell me what is Major Hervey’s “trouble”.’
‘Sir, the Spaniards have got him prisoner. He’s in Badajoz.’
Laming’s aspect changed in an instant. He scowled like an affronted hawk. ‘How? When? What’s to do?’
‘Sir, it’s a bit of a long story, but—’
‘Sit you down, Corporal,’ said Laming, and warmly, man to man, throwing his cloak roughly over a damask settee and settling in a big armchair. ‘But first, tell me: who else knows this?’
‘Well, sir, those at Elvas know, the general – the Portuguese general, I mean. And Dona Delgado and her father; they’re old f
riends of Major Hervey’s, sir. I went to them straight away.’
‘Delgado? Baron Delgado, is he?’
‘Sir; you know him, sir?’
‘Many years ago.’ Laming began to think he ought to let Wainwright give a chronological account, but he needed to know one thing more. ‘Who has sent you here, from Elvas to Lisbon, I mean?’
‘The general, sir. Well, he said as I could go.’
Laming frowned. ‘Corporal, I know from Major Hervey what sort of a man you are, but—’
‘No, sir. I mean that when it started to look like they weren’t going to be able to get Major Hervey out of Badajoz I said that we had to tell somebody in Lisbon – the colonel or somebody. The general didn’t want to because he says that it wouldn’t go well for Major Hervey if it got out.’
Laming huffed. ‘And no doubt it would go very ill for the general too!’
‘No, sir, he’s not like that. He’s offered to exchange with Major Hervey, but the Spaniards won’t have it.’
‘I bow to your good opinion, Corporal. So why have you not told the colonel yet? Which colonel, by the way?’
‘Colonel Norris, sir. He’s in charge of the mission here, the special mission, I mean, the one from England. There are three other majors too.’
‘Then why have you not told him? He is Major Hervey’s commanding officer, is he not? Yours too!’
‘Sir. But as I thought of it, coming to Lisbon from Elvas, I don’t think Major Hervey would want it. You see, he and the colonel had their differences about what should be done if troops come from England. The colonel wanted just to go as far as Torres Vedras, sir, but Major Hervey wanted to have men up near the border.’
Laming raised an eyebrow, and sighed. He had heard it all before: Hervey and his certainty. ‘Major Hervey is ever of the opinion that between himself and the commander-in-chief there is but dead wood!’
‘Sir?’
Laming shook his head. ‘No matter. Are you aware of any good reason for Major Hervey’s contrary opinion to that of a superior officer, Corporal? No – that is unfair. Proceed.’
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