He had lost a wife. It was ten years ago, but her memory – and the cause of her death – was ever with him, if routinely shut out. It had been his fault that Henrietta had died. Others might be blamed, but it had been his actions that had brought it about. He could not escape the fact (and he had never tried). He had a daughter, for whom he barely made provision beyond the material. How might he ever be father-hero to her when he did not see her from one year to the next? He slept with another man’s wife – or rather, he had slept (and how much did he wish she were by his side now?). When the tribunal here had finished with him, and the court martial in Whitehall, he might yet be named in the high court by a cuckolded husband. He would never be able to show his face to his family again. How could he even decently face the day?
He had been apprehensive that first time, the court martial at Badajoz, but not truly fearful, as now. It was not that his memory failed him (he was certain), rather that to be arraigned as a cornet was one thing, and quite another to be tried as brevet-major, Companion of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath. The irony in how things had turned out could not escape him. No doubt the one-time Cornet Daly would this day be hunting freely from his rackety estate in Galway, a careless, bibulous local hero, who regaled his fellow squireens with stories of slaying the French. Doubtless, too, he wrecked a good horse every season, and thought nothing of it beyond the cost of replacement. For what was an animal’s distress compared with his pleasure?
Why was it that some men had no sense of shame, no true sense, while others could be eternally burdened by it? Daly’s face when the court martial had pronounced without withdrawing – how could it not have registered abject shame? Hervey could see it still, the brazen scorn at the judge martial’s plain words: ‘A man of violent temper wielding a cautery is no little threat. I direct that the case against Cornet Hervey be dismissed.’ Then, when the court reassembled half an hour after withdrawing to consider its verdict on the remaining charges, Daly had marched in for all the world as if he were come to buy a horse at Tattersalls. And when the president read the words, ‘To Charge One, Guilty! To Charge Two, Guilty!’, there remained about him a defiant air, as if the proceedings, the regiment, the entire army, did not ultimately matter, for he, Frederick Keevil Daly of Kilconnell, would jaunt on. Even when the president announced punishment, ‘that he be dismissed the service’, his only thought – his question to the court, indeed – had been whether he might recover the value of his commission.
Now, at such a distance, and for an indulgent moment, Hervey might admire the man, for where had his own unbending principles landed him? But in truth he was resolved that if he escaped his present predicament, and if he escaped a court martial, and the attention of Sir Peregrine Greville, he would amend his ways. He would amend his ways so thoroughly, so root and branch, that there could be no possibility of finding himself in a contingency such as this again. Nor, indeed, would there be any neglect of the Commandments or the proper regulation of family.
It was a very remote prospect, however, his ‘deliverance’. That, he acknowledged. But the very thought of amendment lifted his spirits, as if, indeed, he were at some meeting of Methodists. He smiled, and thought of his sister. And then he chided himself again: had Elizabeth ever been wrong in her estimation of things? Had she ever had other than a right judgement? He had laughed at her for her evangelical principles, but they had never let her into deep water. Elizabeth would show him the way; he could trust in that.
He picked up his Prayer Book and opened it again at the collect for the previous day, for it had anticipated his new-found resolve: Mortify and kill all vices in us, and so strengthen us by thy grace, that by the innocency of our lives, and constancy of our faith, even unto death, we may glorify thy holy Name.
If only Joshua could be so apt! In these last, empty days, he had read Joshua closer than ever, almost as if the book might reveal his means of escape. A great soldier was Joshua, a cunning soldier, a soldier who overcame as much on his own side as on that of the enemy. But he knew no Rahab in Badajoz to let him down from the walls, no spies to find such a person within the city.
Dr Sanchez came at noon. He did so full of apology for his absence, for his failure to keep his promise of an early return. ‘It has been a difficult time, Major Hervey, difficult for me to explain. I beg you would forgive me and trust that it was not through choice that I did not come earlier.’
It did not matter to Hervey what had prevented the physician’s visiting, for whatever he had imagined were the possibilities in their recent intimacy, he had begun to conclude that Sanchez was not a man for turning: no honourable man could hazard his family by such a thing, and the physician was nothing if not an honourable man. ‘It has been an idle time, I confess, sir.’
Sanchez glanced at the open bible on the table. His face softened as he drew up a chair and sat down. ‘Joshua, Major Hervey?’
‘Joshua, yes. A great soldier.’
Sanchez unbuttoned his coat, despite the chill which the new-laid fire had not been able to dispel. ‘Do you believe, Major Hervey, that Joshua’s trumpets alone brought down the walls of Jericho?’
Hervey was intrigued. He thought to answer obliquely. ‘With God, all things are possible?’
‘Fie! Major Hervey! I had thought your study of Scripture would yield some more profound insight.’
Hervey smiled again. Was Sanchez merely making conversation? It was a curious attempt at diversion. ‘If you wish, señor, I will tell you what I understand may have happened at Jericho.’
‘Indeed I would hear it. It seems apt, here in Badajoz, don’t you think?’
Hervey was even more intrigued. Did Sanchez mean the aptness was historical or of the moment? ‘Apt? Possibly. Unlike the French, however – or, I imagine, your countrymen now – the Canaanites were terrified at the prospect of meeting the Israelites. They were resigned to their fate even. Does not Rahab the harlot say, “Our hearts did melt, neither did there remain any more courage in any man”?’
‘Go on, Major Hervey.’
Hervey hesitated. The subject was closing to home. ‘The first object in laying a siege is to persuade the besieged that resistance is futile. The walls of Jericho would have meant little if the defenders had not had the courage to fight.’
Sanchez nodded, but with the appearance of sadness. ‘Would that the hearts of the defenders of Badajoz had melted!’
Hervey presumed he meant the night they had stormed the city. But he supposed it just possible that Sanchez referred in a roundabout way to the Miguelites. He would lead a little more. ‘Yes, would that they had. But Jericho was sacked, as you recall, and all but Rahab’s family put to the sword. It was an offering to God, was it not – a first fruit of the conquest of Canaan?’
‘Badajoz was an offering too – an offering to the basest instincts of war. Was not Badajoz the first fruit of the conquest of Spain?’
Hervey’s brow furrowed. ‘Hardly conquest, doctor!’
‘Forgive me. The campaign that rid Spain of Bonaparte – both of them – and for which my country is ever grateful for the assistance of yours, I assure you. But Badajoz paid the same price as Jericho.’
Hervey shook his head. ‘I recoil at the image of Jericho put to the sword, doctor, as I do at that of Badajoz. And yet the slaughter of the innocent here that night is somehow all of a piece with the slaughter in the breaches. You can have no idea how hard our men had to fight to overcome the walls. They did not tumble down, as at Jericho.’
Sanchez nodded again, gravely. ‘I know, perhaps, better than you imagine, my friend.’
Hervey stayed silent; he saw no cause for pressing him.
And then the physician brightened. ‘But you, I think – I know – did not use the edge of the sword against the people of Badajoz.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Quite the contrary, indeed.’
Hervey looked at him intently.
‘See, my friend: I did not visit this mor
ning, but it was not from neglect. I have the means of your escape. It will be quite easy, but we shall need help from Elvas.’
Hervey fought against his exhilaration. He needed to know how Sanchez had the means, and why. The declaration was so much more surprising for his having concluded that the physician was not his man. ‘Why do you do this?’
Sanchez held up a hand. ‘There may be opportunity to explain later. For the moment I would beg you to trust me, and attend carefully to what I say.’
Hervey inclined his head; what was there to lose?
‘Very well. Now understand this,’ began Sanchez, unusually imperative. ‘The castle is impregnable – in the minds, at least, of the authorities. The guards are few and confident of surety. Men may come and go quite freely as long as they have the password, which changes but weekly. The next change will be in two days’ time, when I shall learn of it. But, of course, I may not simply walk out of the castle with you. In any case, how then might you get to Elvas?’
Hervey was certain he would have no trouble getting to Elvas. ‘A third party must enter and overcome the guards on the way out?’
‘That is a possibility, although not without its difficulties. I had in mind your taking my place and leaving with a visiting party.’
Hervey looked doubtful. ‘I rather think it the stuff of books.’
Sanchez shook his head. ‘I see no reason why it should not obtain here, Major Hervey. I have observed the guards. They are, as I say, confident – complacent – in their surety. There is, after all, no threat to the fortress, and the officers do not intrude upon their duties greatly. No, I have seen the guards at work: they are content to count the numbers entering and leaving the citadel. Sometimes they do not even count.’
‘Forgive me, doctor. I did not wish to sound unthankful. As long as we have the means to fight our way past the guards if things go wrong . . . But how may we leave you here? Your fate would be an unhappy one!’
Sanchez held up his hands. ‘That is a detail of which we may speak in due course. The first thing we must do is communicate the password to Elvas. I am unable to do so, for reasons you may suppose. But you have free communications by letter, as we see. You have, I presume, a code?’
Hervey shook his head. ‘Matters did not progress to that.’
Sanchez looked disappointed. ‘Ah, I had imagined—’
‘Except . . .’ began Hervey, thoughtful. ‘There is a code . . . but I don’t have it. But if I ask Elvas to send me the code-book of the Corpo Telegráfico . . . do you imagine the authorities will let it pass?’
‘Ask for many books. That way there stands a chance it might not be noticed.’
Hervey took up a pen. There was paper still on the table from his half-hearted attempts to maintain his journal. He began writing, quickly, an everyday account of his time these past few days, nothing to raise a suspicion. Then he inserted the request for the code-book, trusting that the veiling did not obscure his meaning, other than to the censor:But time weighs heavily upon me. Send me books to read, as many as you may spare, for I am without any diversion. Send, if you can, Folque’s book, that I may learn more of the language while I am confined. And we may speak to each other of his ideas.
Hervey read him the letter, in French.
‘Admirable, admirable. It will arouse no suspicion whatsoever. And your general will understand?’
‘He will understand, I trust. We spoke of Folque enough.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A general of engineers. He planned the army’s signalling system, and its code. Wellington used it throughout the Peninsula.’
‘Very well. I will take your letter to the lieutenant-governor at once. If he has not heard of Folque either, Elvas should have it by the morning.’ Sanchez rose.
Hervey fixed him with a scrutinizing look, though far from hostile. ‘Why do you do this?’
The physician replaced his battered old tricorn, and put a hand to Hervey’s shoulder. ‘Badajoz, my friend. Because of Badajoz!’
It was no explanation at all: Hervey was uncomprehending still. Why would this man do this, risk his own life, indeed, when a British army had behaved so infamously in his own city? He shook his head.
‘That night, the night of the storming here: the shadows are yet long.’
‘But—’
‘Another day, Hervey; another day, perhaps.’ Then he lifted up the letter, waving it and smiling, hopefully.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FIRST FRUITS
Badajoz, midnight, 6 April 1812
Five years, Sir Edward Lankester had said it would take to eject the French from Spain. ‘The long point’, he had called it – ‘no bolting Reynard and running him fast to the kill’. Three of those years had passed, and here they were at Badajoz, barely a league beyond the border with Portugal, exactly where they had been three summers ago. ‘Believe me, Hervey, these French marshals will show us more foxery than you’d see in a dozen seasons in Leicestershire.’ On such a night as this, Sir Edward’s words seemed extraordinarily prophetic.
No, they were not exactly where they had been three summers ago. This time they were before the walls rather than within. Hervey could not help but smile at the realization, chilling though it was. In truth, however, it was not quite as it seemed, and he knew it – they all knew it. Sir Arthur Wellesley was a hunting man; he was now thoroughly acquainted with his hounds and his huntsmen, and he had the measure of his quarry at last. After Talavera, elevated in the opinion of his army (and by the King to Viscount Wellington), he had secretly constructed the lines of Torres Vedras in case he would have to defend Lisbon. Then for twelve months he had dashed about La Mancha as the Spanish junta collapsed, so that the following October, when he perceived he could rely on Spanish support no longer, he withdrew to the lines, breaking his pursuer, Marshal Masséna, by scorching the earth for fifty miles so that for a whole month Masséna’s men sickened and starved within sight of the lines before turning-tail back for Spain.
And so the third year, 1811, had begun with high hopes. They had soon been dashed as the French captured Badajoz and the other border fortresses, closing the door into Spain again. Wellington had lost no time, however, investing Badajoz within two months. But the siege had failed, and a second a month later. Winter quarters, still at the border, still no nearer Joseph Bonaparte’s capital, had been cold and bitter indeed. Wellington knew he could not stay long. And so at the beginning of January 1812, although the ground was hard as iron, and sleeting snow did his army more ill than could the French, he had opened the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo. The fortress fell to a fierce assault ten days later, and Wellington – the whole army – had then turned with confident but brutal determination to the third siege of Badajoz.
‘Who the devil are you, sir?’ barked a voice from the smoky blackness. ‘Get out of my way!’
Sir Edward Lankester had had enough. General Cotton had ordered his squadron forward, dismounted, to the support of the Third Division, but they had stumbled about for an hour in the pitch dark, the guide useless. The walls of Badajoz looked but a stone’s throw away, and the noise was infernal – the sudden shots, the numbing explosions, the terrified screams of the wounded, the terrifying screams of the assault troops, the jeering-cheering of the French who threw them back. And yet the detachment of dragoons could find no part in it because they could not find the provost marshal’s men. ‘Do not address me in that way, sir! I have not been informed that it is a ticket affair!’
‘Damn your eyes, sir! I am General Picton!’
Sir Edward was not in the slightest discomposed. ‘Then I am very glad of it, General, for we are damnably lost and have no idea of our purpose. Perhaps you will permit us to join you?’
‘Is that you, Sir Edward?’
‘It is, General.’
‘Where are your horses?’
‘The other side of the river. Do you have need of them?’
‘Don’t be a damned fool! What are you doing here?’
‘We are wanted by the provost marshal, it seems.’
‘Well, God alone knows where he is. Or cares. These walls are the death of us. Colville’s division and the Light can make no headway in the breaches. And God knows how Leith’s fares on the other side. You can come with me. I need officers to take charge. How many have you?’
‘Three.’ He would not ask ‘to take charge of what?’
‘Well, keep your dragoons where they are and keep as close to me as you’re able.’
That soon proved harder than it sounded. General Picton wore a black coat and a forage cap, and there were more men crowded into the ditch at the foot of the castle walls than Hervey would have imagined possible. A powder keg fell on a man a dozen yards away, killing him instantly. His comrades stamped at the burning fuse like frantic Spanish dancers. A grenade exploded beyond, and there were another ten men screaming.
This was not Hervey’s idea of fighting; it was nobody’s idea of fighting. What was it about Badajoz? Three sieges in twelve months, days of battering away at the walls, and still not a man through its breaches! And here were the Third Division now trying to scale the walls, for the breaches were mined, barred with chevaux de frise, and swept by cannon – swept all the easier for not having to fire through embrasures. It was madness, yet still they were trying. The ladders did not even reach the top of the walls! Hervey saw a man climbing onto the shoulders of another, and then another onto his, as if his life depended on it. What could propel a man so, only to be met with a musket-butt in the face and a thirty-foot plunge onto the bayonets of his comrades below?
But life did not depend on it. On the contrary – the piles of dead below the walls showed that. Hervey knew that something else drove them forward. Threats? Perhaps. Pride? Possibly. Promise of reward? Maybe. A dreadful blood-lust, concocted of revenge and filthy living in the trenches? Undoubtedly. It was a volatile mixture, one that could be boiled up only occasionally and under the severest regulation. Hervey’s blood did not yet boil, neither did pride nor promise of reward overwhelm him yet. No one threatened him, for sure. What in the name of God was he going to do here?
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