A Regimental Affair

by Mallinson, Allan

  It was no good asking anyone behind him. They had scarcely stepped off the well-lit streets of Brighton since arriving. One of the dragoons might somehow have seen the fork, however. But how long would it take him to go down the line anyway? And it would hardly inspire confidence.

  He reined about and halted by Private Johnson, just behind. ‘I can’t find the turning to the windmill. We haven’t passed it, have we?’

  Johnson had only ridden this way a couple of times. He didn’t know the fork, but he seemed certain they hadn’t passed one. ‘As certain as anybody can be in this lot, sir.’

  With such a proviso, the reassurance was of no practical value. ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Hervey disconsolately. And then he cursed. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong. We may as well see if he’s certain of anything too.’

  ‘I only said as I found!’ Johnson protested.

  Hervey knew his problems were already too many to go upsetting his groom. ‘Any tea?’

  ‘I’m not bloody Merlin, Cap’n ’Ervey!’

  He could imagine the grimace of a smile, even if he couldn’t see it. ‘Go and get Serjeant Armstrong, then.’

  The column stood patiently – even the horses, as if submitting to the rain’s whip was just a little more bearable than struggling and catching its sting awkwardly. Hervey wondered how dry was his map, though what use it would serve he couldn’t imagine. It would be a sodden thing in seconds if he tried to read it, even under his oilskin cape. And there was no more chance of lighting a lantern than of unwrapping a carbine and expecting it to fire. He swore even worse, not bothering now to keep it below his breath, for the noise of the wind and rain would have masked it beyond two lengths even if he had bellowed.

  Serjeant Armstrong came forward, cursing the dragoons to make way. ‘What’s up, sir?’

  ‘I must’ve missed the fork to the windmill.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen none. But things are so black I’m not sure I would’ve seen it anyway. Where are we, do you think?’

  Hervey was trying to keep his voice no higher than need be to speak above the storm, but it still felt like shouting words of command on the square. ‘I think we’re towards Ovingdean. All we can do is push on down this way and hope we find some landmark.’

  Hope wasn’t a principle of war. Hervey had said it so many times that Johnson had even quoted it back at him once. Well, this wasn’t war, and in any case he couldn’t think of any alternative. If they retraced their steps there was no guarantee they would do any better than before – except that they might just meet the revenue guide.

  He called for the corporal. Up came Sykes: a good man, Hervey considered him, but no Collins. He would spell out the orders. ‘Ride back down the route out, Corporal Sykes, and if you come across the revenue guide, bring him on at once after us. I’ll leave a vidette if the road forks.’

  That done, they resumed the march. Hervey was soon praying that he’d done the right thing, for in a further half-hour they had found nothing. By his estimate they must have gone another mile and a half – perhaps two – and they ought surely to be coming off the downs and across some signs of habitation, whether they were marching east or due north. Where in God’s name were they?

  Just as Hervey was beginning to contemplate desperate measures (splitting the troop, perhaps, and sending them to the four points of the compass), he caught a glimpse of a light ahead; just a flicker, but a light unmistakably. He pressed his legs to the girth and Harkaway lengthened obligingly. He wondered how he should close with the light. This was hardly enemy territory, but the revenue men had said they were up against villainizers who would not hesitate to fight, and they had the means to do so. But he had lost so much time already. They should have been at the rendezvous an hour or more ago. Well, it was a rule of patrol work, and one which had never served him ill in the Peninsula, to take the risks early. He therefore decided to risk now, and instead of deploying in order to overwhelm any opposition, would hold the troop where it was and send two scouts forward. He himself would be one of them.

  ‘Serjeant Armstrong please,’ he called back to Johnson.

  ‘Serjeant Armstrong!’ called Johnson to the man behind, and so on down the line.

  Up came Armstrong within the minute at a fast trot. ‘Yes, I see it, sir!’

  ‘I’m going forward to look.’ Hervey didn’t need to say more. Armstrong knew his business. ‘Johnson!’

  At twenty yards the light revealed itself to be a lamp in a window. But it was another ten before they were sure the window was that of the turnpike lodge. ‘How in God’s name have we come so far?’ said Hervey aloud, for he reckoned they must have been riding due north, and this was the Lewes high road ahead.

  Johnson closed alongside. ‘Eh, sir?’

  ‘Christ!’ Hervey slid from the saddle and, handing the reins to his groom, doubled to the lodge and knocked loud on the door. Moments later he heard a bolt being drawn, and then the spy-port slid open.

  ‘Who be it?’

  ‘Captain Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons quartered at Brighton. I need your light to see my map.’

  More bolts were drawn, and after what seemed an age the door opened. Hervey entered at once, taking off his shako and cape, and pulling out his map in its oilskin. ‘I’m much obliged to you, keeper.’

  The lodge-keeper was an oldish man, solid, easy in his manner. Hervey looked him up and down carefully, for it was always possible the man might be an accessory to the smugglers. But what clue might give away the association he didn’t know. He spread the map (dry as a bone, thank God) on the table, and pulled an oil lamp closer. ‘Where exactly are we?’

  Maps were not something the keeper was familiar with, though he could read. ‘Ovingdean’s but a mile down the road to the right, sir.’

  The answer was enough. Hervey located the lodge on the Ordnance sheet and took out his hunter. ‘Great gods – a quarter to midnight!’ It was later by an hour than he had thought. But the map showed a lane to the windmill from the turnpike just a few hundred yards on, a lane no doubt decent enough to take corn wagons one way and flour the other. If they kicked on they could be there in half an hour. ‘Who has passed through since nightfall?’ he asked, giving the keeper half a sovereign.

  ‘The Dover coach, sir. Nothing else – not on a night like this.’

  Hervey folded up his map and wrapped it back in its oilskin. ‘Is the road to the windmill easy to find?’

  ‘It is, sir,’ replied the keeper, helping him on with his cape. ‘A furlong almost exactly. There’s a milestone there.’

  Hervey thanked him and put on his shako. ‘I shall leave one of my dragoons here. I may need him to give directions.’

  The keeper said he would be happy for the company.

  Outside it was still raining as hard, and seemed worse to Hervey for his having been sheltered from it for ten minutes. The night too seemed blacker, but he knew his eyes would soon become used to the darkness again. If only the cloud would break and let through some moonlight: how on earth were they going to see their quarry, let alone arrest them?

  Hervey remounted and trotted back to the troop. Armstrong had made the dragoons dismount, despite the oaths and cursing that the saddles would get sodden. ‘Broadhurst, please, Serjeant Armstrong.’

  Private Broadhurst, the next for a chevron, doubled up the line and stood to attention almost peak to knee with his captain. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Broadhurst, that light’s a turnpike lodge. There’s one keeper there. I think he’s straight, but I want you to watch him – inside. And if Corporal Sykes and the revenue guide arrive, tell them that we’ve gone on to the windmill. The keeper will tell you by which way. Just have your wits about you generally, and wait till relieved.’

  ‘Sir!’ Broadhurst saluted and doubled back to fetch his trooper.

  ‘How long is it to the windmill, sir?’ asked Armstrong, already mounted and gathering his reins.

  ‘Half an hour if we can get a move on. There’s a good t
rack to it a furlong down the turnpike.’ He turned and called to Johnson.

  ‘Ay, sir?’

  ‘Your eyes are better used to this. Kick on to the milestone and find the cart track off to the right. We’ll come up as fast as we can.’

  Hervey was happier now he could feel some momentum again. How much their late arriving at the rendezvous would prejudice the revenue operation he had no idea, for its details had yet to be given him. As they rounded the lodge and gained the turnpike he pressed his gelding to a careful trot: he didn’t want to come down on slippery metal at this stage. But two minutes was all it took to find Johnson. And now at last he was confident of finding the windmill – a mile and a half to the right up a well-made track, the ground rising all the way.

  Minutes later Harkaway checked, else they would have collided. A horse was square-on to them, standing stock-still in the middle of the cross-tracks. Hervey had barely turned alongside when he realized it had no rider and there were more horses to front and rear.

  ‘Christ!’ he cursed as he wheeled and reached for his sabre. But a blow on the shoulder blade almost made him miss his grip. He ducked to Harkaway’s neck to escape the next one, spurring him to turn on the spot to meet the assault. ‘Alarm! Alarm!’ he shouted, and lunged forward in the saddle to make an uppercut into the darkness. His sword failed to make contact.

  ‘Alarm’ ran the length of the column, though what in God’s name they could do in this light Hervey didn’t know. ‘Trumpeter! Trumpeter!’ he called repeatedly, until Johnson found him, and then Armstrong and finally ‘Susan’ Medwell. ‘I think we’ve run on the owlers’ train,’ shouted Hervey. ‘Serjeant Armstrong, take half a dozen men left along the crossing track, and I’ll go right. Johnson, stand with two men to picket the track ahead about fifty yards, and detail another two as videttes here.’ Then he told off the same number, and struck along the drove determined to take one prisoner at least.

  But the packhorses were gone, and though Hervey rode for a furlong and more he could find nothing. He dared not leave the drove for fear of losing himself. What would the owlers be trying to do now? They wouldn’t still be making for the shore, not with dragoons – and, for all they knew – the revenue men on their heels? They would double back, seeking safety inland, surely?

  He turned and led his men back the way they’d come. It was no easier a business than leading them out, and he almost missed the cross-tracks, even with its vidette. If only the rain would cease: they’d at least have an extra couple of yards to see.

  There was no sign of Armstrong. Had his serjeant had more luck? ‘Sound “rally”,’ he called to Susan.

  Hervey’s trumpeter managed it very well, considering the gale, cracking the octave descent only once in three repeats.

  In the ten minutes it took Armstrong to return, Hervey thought over his options. He could abandon the mission altogether: the owlers would surely be abandoning theirs and, now alerted to the presence of troops, the contrabanders would hardly risk a landing. But that decision ought rightly to be the revenue’s. Or he could throw out a cordon in the hope of intercepting the owlers: at first light he might well catch them still trying to come off the downs. Or he could give up the owlers as lost and make for the rendezvous with the revenue. Could he throw out a cordon and tackle the contrabanders? Only with another two dozen men. Yet he was reluctant to let either opportunity go.

  ‘Johnson, I want you to gallop for me.’ Johnson was knee to knee with him, but still Hervey was having to raise his voice against the wind.

  ‘Ay, sir. Back to Brighton?’

  ‘Yes, to Captain Strickland. His troop’s the nearest. Give him my compliments, and ask if he will send as many men as he can spare – twenty at least – to the road back there. Tell him what’s happened and ask him to lay up along the turnpike to catch the owlers as they beat back. I’ll go on with Serjeant Armstrong and the rest to try to meet with the revenue. Do you have all that?’

  ‘Ay, sir. Shall I follow you up once I’m done?’

  ‘No. It’ll be best that no one comes east of the turnpike. That way we should avoid mistakes. And you’d better remind them the password is “Wellington”.’

  Strickland’s cordon was a very long shot indeed, and his own chance with the contrabanders was perhaps no greater. If only the guide had shown! If only he hadn’t missed the fork!

  It took them three-quarters of an hour to cover the remaining mile to the windmill, for the going in that pitch darkness was as hard as any he could remember in Spain, and he was especially wary of running into the owlers again. As they broached the windmill rise he saw the reassuring flicker of a storm lantern, and then by its light the same revenue riding officer of the afternoon.

  ‘Good God, Captain Hervey, we were within an ace of opening fire,’ he called. ‘Why in heaven’s name are you come from that direction?’

  Hervey didn’t give their flash powder much of a chance in this weather, even inside the windmill. But you could never be sure, and even one ball might have struck flesh at that range, pointblank. ‘The guide didn’t show in over an hour, so we set out as best we could. We came on the owlers a mile back and they’ve scattered to the winds. I’ve sent word back to Brighton for reinforcements to picket the Lewes road. And then we came on here as fast as we could.’

  The riding officer looked dismayed. ‘You’d better come inside.’

  By lantern light, sacking shielding the windows, Hervey was at last made privy to the revenue’s information and intention. An Ordnance map like his own was spread on a table, and the officer – his face a chiselled image of incorruptibility – pointed to the route by which he believed the owlers to have come. ‘They’re seasoned hands, Captain Hervey. The wool isn’t theirs, so their first instinct will be to save their own skins – though they won’t abandon the packs unless they have to. My estimate is that they’ll lie up on the downs until they can be sure of their escape route. Your men on the Lewes road will frighten them, that’s for sure, but it would take two more lines – each from the road to the sea – to be sure of netting them.’

  ‘Will they alert the contrabanders?’

  ‘It’s a good question,’ said the riding officer, taking out pipe and tinderbox. ‘I should say not, though, for they owe nothing to the wetfeet, as they call them. The two ply their own trade independently. It’s only the economy of using the same vessel that attracts them. There’s no honour among their like.’

  Hervey peered closely at the map. ‘Where is it you expect the landing?’

  ‘Here,’ said the riding officer confidently. ‘We have our sources, you know.’

  Hervey continued to study the Ordnance sheet. ‘But how, on a night like this, will any vessel be able to find the cove, let alone heave to and send out boats?’

  The riding officer smiled. ‘It’s a very fair question. Yet the answer is simple: there are lights placed on the headlands in such a way as to guide the craft to the very place from which to launch its boats.’

  ‘Lights which we can’t see from land?’

  ‘Exactly, Captain Hervey, but there are other methods, you know.’

  Hervey looked abashed.

  ‘I have a cutter stationed offshore watching for those very lights,’ said the riding officer proudly. ‘Her instructions are to signal me with her observations.’

  ‘But if she signals, will that not alert the smugglers and those with the lights?’

  The riding officer smiled. ‘Indeed so. That is why she will signal only if there are no lights, after midnight.’

  The danger of signalling a negative had been drummed into him as a cornet, yet he could see there was no alternative in the revenue’s business. ‘And how do the contrabanders do their landings?’

  The riding officer looked grave. ‘Usually they first land a dozen men, maybe two dozen, to secure the place where the contraband is to come ashore. I’ve known as many as fifty picket a cove for a rich cargo.’

  Hervey was puzzled. ‘I should have th
ought it far easier to have men secure a place from landward.’

  ‘True,’ said the riding officer, with another wry smile. ‘And that’s how it used to be. But with so many troops watching for Bonaparte these past twenty years it became too hot to assemble on the coast. Now that things have quietened, we’ll see a return to the old ways no doubt.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘So, do we speak of Englishmen or French who will come ashore?’

  ‘Frenchmen, for the most part. There are plenty of the old Grande Armée keen to earn some gold. And by God they’ll fight. They won’t scruple in the slightest to use their firearms.’

  Hervey was not especially troubled by this, but the relative numbers were not good. If the French were to put fifty men ashore they would outnumber him more than two to one, taking account of the horseholders. Ordinarily that wouldn’t trouble him either, but in this darkness, with this rain, and with mutual support so difficult . . .

  ‘Is this a rich cargo? Do you expect the landing to be in any strength?’

  The officer looked grave again. ‘Indeed I do. That is why I asked for a whole troop of regulars.’

  Hervey raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Is something amiss?’

  ‘I have fewer than thirty men.’

  For an instant the riding officer’s bile was roused, but his selfcontrol had been too many years in the making. ‘I confide that the deficiency will be no fault of yours, Captain Hervey, but this makes things damned tricky. I’d intended that we should take the vessel and everyone about the business. But this weather was already making that a forlorn hope, and with insufficient men we stand little chance of taking the landing party. All we can safely do is seize the contraband and the porters, and the light-men, for they’ll have information of use to us.’

  ‘It will have to be with the sabre, too, for we couldn’t trust to pistols and carbines in this rain.’

  The riding officer agreed. ‘Let us talk of the details, then.’