Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Tipping? In the daily administration of the regiment he is not at all bad, though I think he is deficient in true zeal. If we are to take to the field again I believe you might find him wanting.’

  Lord George held up a hand. ‘I am by no means dismayed by that. I intend bringing a man from the Royals as soon as may be.’

  Edmonds nodded. ‘Tipping may be glad to sell out. I presume he may exchange with your man?’

  ‘That might be arranged, yes. I would not hear of any turn-out, mind, but I should be obliged to have my own man.’

  ‘Of course, Colonel.’ Edmonds knew he would do the same. It was fortunate they did not have to shift a crack man.

  The duty dragoon came out of the feed room, saw Edmonds, and the stranger, and drew his arms to his side. ‘Morning, Cap’n Edmonds, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Johnson. All sound after exercise?’

  ‘One o’m’s got t’gripes – dry soort.’

  Lord George looked puzzled. ‘What was that, Edmonds?’ he whispered as best he could.

  ‘One of the horses has dry colic, Colonel. This is Johnson, who was in my troop until last year. He comes from the infernal regions.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Johnson advanced, halted after a fashion, and stood awkwardly, feet together but the rest of the body at ease. His uniform was patched even more than Crampton’s and Hardy’s, and he was wearing a short smock.

  Lord George was clearly intrigued. ‘What has been the treatment, Johnson?’

  Before Johnson could answer, Edmonds thought to avoid any misunderstanding; he knew his man only too well. ‘Johnson, your commanding officer.’

  Johnson shifted his weight slightly, which passed as a bracingup. ‘Mr Knight gev ’im a clyster, Colonel, an’ stuck ’is ’and up ’er an’ pulled out all t’mard ’e could. Like rock, it were.’

  Lord George nodded, confident he had understood the import, if not every word. ‘Very well. And you, Private Johnson: what were you able to come away with from Corunna?’

  ‘Nowt at all, Colonel.’ Johnson sounded surprised. ‘We ’ad a few things we’d found on t’way – a bit o’ silver an’ that – but t’infantry’d got all t’best.’

  Edmonds sighed. ‘Johnson, I believe the colonel meant what of your own equipment.’

  ‘Oh, nowt, Colonel. Just me sword an’ carbine, an’ what ah stood up in.’

  ‘And have you received any money?’

  ‘I’ve ’ad all me pay, Colonel. An’ ten pounds for us lost things – me razor an’ that. But they ’aven’t taken for me diffies yet.’

  Lord George looked at Edmonds, who turned to Johnson again.

  ‘Johnson, I cannot believe you have not been told at least five times: there will be no stoppages for deficiencies arising from the exigencies of Corunna.’

  ‘No, ah knows that, sir. But t’quartermaster says ’e’s not just gooin to write-off ev’rythin’.’

  Lord George Irvine, impressed by this evidence of zealous interior economy, was nevertheless puzzled by the method. How were the quartermasters going to determine what were legitimate field losses and what were not? ‘How so, Johnson?’

  ‘We ’ad a full kit check just before we went t’harbour, Colonel.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘What did you lose between then and here?’ asked Edmonds, as intrigued now as was the commanding officer.

  ‘Me spurs, sir.’

  ‘Careless, that.’

  ‘Ah bloody well threw ’em away, sir; after we’d shot all t’orses!’

  Edmonds wished he’d never asked. He’d felt like doing the same after shooting his own.

  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 obliging 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

  0d

  Undress

  19

  0s

  0d

  Full-dress jacket

  25

  0s

  0d

  Undress

  15

  0s

  0d

  Dress pantaloons

  7

  18s

  6d

  Dress vest

  13

  0s

  0d

  Undress

  3

  18s

  0d

  Greatcoat

  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 li
ving 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?’