Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage

by Allan Mallinson

  The Sixth, at least, had been tempered by the first campaign and the retreat to Corunna. The NCOs knew how to make a biscuit last and salt beef stretch, although the weather was very different now – burning sun, not driving snow. Most of the officers had learned the hard way what served in the drill book and what did not. They were ‘roughed off ’ for the field, as Joseph Edmonds put it. As a consequence, the Sixth had not lost as many horses as the rest on the march to Talavera, and looked a deal better in the saddle.

  Not all of them, however: Cornet Daly, for one. ‘Damned screw of a horse!’ he cursed, one scorching afternoon, jumping from the saddle and throwing the reins at his brown colt.

  The subalterns had been riding together at the rear of the column. Lord George Irvine was in the habit of turning over the regiment to the serjeant-major and the quartermasters when no action threatened, and the officers had just halted for midday rest.

  Beale-Browne, H Troop’s lieutenant, at once angered. ‘Mr Daly, you will not abuse your horse in that fashion!’

  Cornet Daly threw up his hands in protest. ‘The damned vet’nary won’t do what’s needed, and the horse’s no damned good to me with a mouth like that!’

  ‘Mr Daly! That is no way to speak of the veterinary surgeon,’ snapped Beale-Browne, looking as pained as he was angry. ‘I would that you moderated your language at once. It is most offensive.’

  Laming looked at Hervey as they found shade under a jungled willow. ‘I tell you, I never met such a blackguard. What does he complain of now?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘His colt has lampas. John Knight told him it’s because he’s a youngster, and the teeth are growing. But to see Daly’s hands I’d wager they’re as much the trouble. He jabs and pulls at the bit as if the animal had no mouth at all.’

  ‘And what is his complaint with John Knight?’

  ‘He wants to fire the mouth but John Knight disapproves.’

  Laming looked scornful. ‘The insufferable conceit of the man! He gallops about the bogs of that country of his like some little Squire Western, and thinks himself superior to a man like John Knight. It is not to be borne!’

  Hervey sighed. He kept Daly at arm’s length anyway, although there were moments when an apparent interest in horses made for conversation, except that with Daly the interest invariably tended to the animal’s celerity, to which he considered all else subordinate. Indeed, Daly was no one’s boon companion. Quilley and he were thick, observed Hervey, but their association seemed more the necessity of the troop and the fact that they had joined together – and that, without each other’s conversation, they would have been hard put to find any. They were, by common consent, an affront to the esteem of the regiment.

  Daly snapped at his groom to bring his second charger.

  Laming looked at Hervey again. ‘No doubt he berates the tenants so. No dragoon will want to do duty for him long. Odious man! I wonder that Warde has not placed him in arrest a dozen times.’

  ‘The colt’s barely three,’ said Hervey, shaking his head. ‘It’s too green an age to put a horse in hard work. The bones aren’t strong enough. Jessye’s four, and I wish she were two more.’

  Laming clapped a hand on Hervey’s back. ‘You are an excellent fellow when it comes to horseflesh!’

  Hervey frowned. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you in other respects!’

  Laming raised an eyebrow. ‘It is not your fault, I suppose, that your Greek is elementary and your Latin very provincial.’

  ‘Hah! I have not found it deficient for any purpose yet. How is your German?’

  ‘The language of the Hun, Hervey, has no attraction for me.’

  ‘I believe they taught your Romans a lesson or two when it came to fighting?’

  ‘That is as may be. But I think it a very moderate achievement compared with the proper legacy of Rome.’

  ‘You would be professor, then, when this fighting ends?’

  ‘You would be parson?’

  Hervey smiled. ‘I take your point.’

  Laming’s second servant had brought a bottle of wine, the red of Estremadura, rough and warm but refreshing nonetheless, and infinitely to be preferred to the brackish water they had been forced to drink of late. The horses pulled at the parched couch grass as the two cornets sat with them, reins in hand. The sun was fierce, though not as bad as it sometimes was at this time of year, said their Spanish guides. The Sixth had lost twenty horses to the heat, and although the other regiments had lost many more, John Knight had been beside himself on a dozen occasions. The King’s Germans weren’t losing as many, he would thunder. Remounts were nigh impossible to come by. Why wouldn’t the officers regulate things better?

  ‘You know,’ began Laming, intent yet on Cornet Daly, who had still not off-saddled his colt, ‘I believe we cornets ought to speak as one to the senior subaltern.’

  ‘And what might that do?’

  ‘We should demand that we buy them out.’

  Hervey was doubtful. He had heard of the practice, though never of any particular. He had no great objection: he probably stood to lose no money, if the regimental agents handled it well. ‘Would that not take an inordinate amount of time?’

  ‘I don’t see why. These things can all be arranged among gentlemen.’

  Hervey raised an eyebrow.

  Laming sighed. ‘I acknowledge the difficulty in that respect. But what say you?’

  ‘If it could be brought off without rancour, then I say yes.’

  Laming nodded. ‘Very well, I shall speak to Martyn. He will have sound counsel. The sooner it’s done the better, for the further we march from Lisbon the harder it will be to induce either of them to sell.’

  That evening, the regiment encamped a league to the east of Talavera among olive groves, finding an old well which, after they had dug it out by pick and shovel, yielded enough water for both men and horses, though the relays had to work for four hours before watering was complete, and another three to fill the buckets ready for morning stables. ‘Never did I know the back-breaking work that is a cavalry camp until this day’ wrote Hervey in his journal:

  We halted at Three o’clock, the horses very tired and showing the want of meat and water. Our three days of marching rations are exhausted, and there was no corn to be had from the commissaries when they came at six. Neither have the men eaten today. They have taken every olive from the trees, which are abundant, but they are very sour. I myself have nothing at all, having eaten the last of the pocket soup for breakfast. There is tea, but no sugar, and little wine. We hope to stay here for a day so that our supply may be restored, for it is as bad with the rest of the army, they say, and worse. We hear of a general action in the next few days, for the French are in strength the other side of the Alberche, and, goes camp tattle, ‘King’ Joseph Bonaparte himself is with the army. How ironic it shall be when we fight a Royal French army!

  ‘Sir! Will you come, please? Mr Daly’s horse is down and there’s a hell of a to-do about it!’ The orderly corporal sounded angry rather than perturbed.

  Hervey sprang up and buckled on his sword. He had hoped for another half an hour with his journal before rounds as picketofficer. ‘Is the orderly quartermaster there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He sent me.’

  Hervey stalked off for the horse lines, leaving Sykes to the care of his journal.

  ‘Where is Mr Daly?’ he snapped.

  ‘At the lines, sir.’

  ‘Then why am I called?’

  The orderly corporal hesitated. ‘Orderly quar’m’er’ told me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal, but why?’

  ‘Mr Daly is right angry, sir.’

  ‘With what reason?’

  The orderly corporal hesitated again. ‘He’s taken against the quar’m’er’, sir.’

  Hervey was becoming irritated by the evasion, but saw no profit in fighting it. ‘I wish they would save their anger for the French,’ he muttered.

  It was getting dark, but the light of the ca
mpfires was good. The olive trees may have yielded a poor supper but they gave off a good blaze. Hervey could hear Daly cursing as he got near the end of H Troop’s lines; he sounded drunk. Then he saw Daly’s colt on the ground, like a mare foaling. The orderly quartermaster, B Troop’s, stood erect and silent to one side, and beyond him half a dozen dragoons from the inlying picket, while Daly ranted, and swung his arms about.

  Hervey could not begin to imagine what was the occurrence. ‘Daly, what ever is up?’

  Daly spun round, his eyes blazing. ‘This man is insubordinate!’ he raged. ‘I’ve placed him in arrest.’

  Hervey was not sure if a cornet could place the regimental orderly quartermaster in arrest. He was certain that it was ill advised. But why was the colt down? ‘Serjeant Treve, what is the meaning of this?’ And then, before the orderly quartermaster could reply, he rebuked himself for the distraction and turned back to Daly. ‘What is the matter with your colt? Is the veterinary called?’

  ‘Sir, he is, sir,’ answered Treve, determinedly.

  Daly cursed more. ‘I’ll call the vet’nary when I’m ready! This man must be confined, Hervey!’

  Hervey bristled. Seniority among cornets might count for little, but he was damned if he was going to be spoken to like that by a newcome. And he was picket-officer! ‘Hold your peace, Daly, if you will.’ He turned back to the orderly quartermaster. ‘Speak, Serjeant!’

  Treve, B Troop’s senior serjeant, a Dorset man, sixteen years in the regiment, remained at attention and spoke quietly. ‘Sir, I was making my rounds and came on Mr Daly and his charger. The animal was down and in distress. Mr Daly was holding a cautery, sir. He said he’d fired out the lampas. I told the picket-commander to fetch Mr Knight at once, sir. Mr Daly protested that I was not to, but I said as it was my duty, sir. And then, sir, I regret to say, Mr Daly became abusive. Sir.’

  ‘That’s a damned lie!’ screamed Daly, lunging towards Treve.

  Hervey, boiling at the thought of the botched firing, stepped between them and held up his hand. Daly halted, swaying. Hervey wished there were another officer to take hold of him. ‘Mr Daly, you will retire at once and report to the adjutant!’ He knew it was a mistake as soon as he spoke, the proverbial red rag to a bull already enraged by the orderly quartermaster’s correctness.

  Daly lunged again – whether at Treve or Hervey, no one would ever be quite certain. The orderly quartermaster stood his ground. Hervey squared, and swung his left fist, striking Daly in the temple.

  He fell – out, cold.

  ‘Oh, God,’ groaned Hervey. But better he than the orderly quartermaster. Could he have restrained Daly otherwise, though?

  ‘What in heaven’s name’s going on?’ came a voice behind them.

  Hervey turned to see John Knight with a lantern.

  ‘What’s the infernal commotion? In the horse lines, of all places!’

  Hervey began to explain.

  John Knight was horrified. ‘Stand easy, Sarn’t Treve.’ He handed the lantern to his assistant and knelt down by the motionless colt. ‘Christ! What a fever,’ he spat, running a hand along the sweating neck and shoulders. ‘Light, Brayshaw!’

  The assistant held the lantern close to the colt’s head as the veterinary surgeon tried to prise the mouth open.

  ‘Hervey, give a hand here.’

  Hervey knelt, turning to the orderly corporal. ‘Go and bring Mr Beale-Browne, please.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’

  ‘And tell him all you can!’

  ‘Ay, sir.’

  John Knight had managed to get the colt’s mouth a little way open, but it took the two of them to prise it far enough for him to get a finger to the roof – risky business that that was. The colt struggled, legs lashing out. Hervey held the mouth wide for all he was worth.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, the palate’s like . . .’ John Knight took out his hand. ‘Leave off, Hervey. God knows what I can do. Brayshaw, make me up a gargle for mouth canker: vinegar, two parts burned alum and salt, and one of bole armenic.’

  ‘Sir.’

  John Knight looked to where Daly lay sprawled. ‘How does he?’

  The orderly quartermaster answered. ‘He’ll be well enough, sir.’

  John Knight huffed. ‘Then more is the pity.’

  All Hervey could do now was wait for H Troop’s lieutenant. Daly had to be removed from the horse lines, and that was a job for his fellow troop-officers. He himself would have to make his report to the adjutant, and already he was wondering how it would be received.

  He got up, spoke quietly to the orderly quartermaster, bade him dismiss the picket and continue his rounds, then turned back to John Knight.

  ‘Christ!’ spat the veterinarian again.

  Hervey saw. The colt lay quite dead.

  Next morning, Hervey made his report to the adjutant after stand-down. Lieutenant & Adjutant Ezra Barrow, ‘the inelegant extract’ as the blades had dubbed him, listened seemingly unperturbed. Extract he may be, but he was the commanding officer’s extract, brought in by him from his old regiment, and therefore carrying authority without the need to display it. Barrow had seen much during his eighteen years in the ranks of the 1st Dragoons, but dispute between gentlemen-officers he was not well prepared for. To him, the officers’ mess was still terra incognita. He had observed its native habits at a distance for many years, and they had seemed alien indeed; but now that he stood on the same ground as they, he sometimes felt he knew them not at all. He was adjutant, however, the lieutenant-colonel’s executive officer, and he would attend to what was before him now as if it had been a mere case of indiscipline among dragoons.

  Except that when he heard the words ‘I was obliged to strike him’, he realized that they were all treading in deep water. ‘Striking’ was a word with resonance, the mainstay of many a charge-sheet: ‘striking a superior’, ‘striking a subordinate’, ‘striking an officer’. For a moment his head swam. Which of these charges was appropriate? A cornet had struck another cornet: he had no idea which of them was senior (it was a trivial thing among cornets anyway, was it not?). Might one officer be charged with ‘striking an officer’? It was surely not the purpose of that particular formulation . . .

  ‘A moment, Mr Hervey, if you please,’ he replied, in the grating vowels of Brummagem. ‘As I recall the serjeant-major informing me at stand-to, the orderly quartermaster informed him that you interposed yourself between Mr Daly and the same, and that Mr Daly then fell unconscious on account of his . . . hysteria.’

  Hervey was surprised. Was that truly how it had appeared to Serjeant Treve, or was it the exercise of rough regimental justice? Either way, he could not let it stand, tempting though it undoubtedly was. ‘No, sir, I did strike a blow, believing it necessary to prevent Mr Daly’s hitting me or Serjeant Treve.’

  Barrow sighed. ‘You might have waited to make sure, Hervey. That way there’d be no doubt of what we’re about now.’

  Hervey was taken aback. ‘I believe I might have weathered the blow without too much injury, sir, but Daly would now be facing a grave charge one way or the other.’

  ‘Or not at all.’

  ‘I have no doubt he was about to assault one or other of us. His whole demeanour spoke of it, then and before.’

  ‘Your fellow cornets will not thank you, Mr Hervey,’ said Barrow, shaking his head with a distinct look of disappointment.

  Hervey was puzzled. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I mean that one way or another Mr Daly would have been in such trouble as to lead to his employment elsewhere. That is what you have been plotting, is it not?’

  ‘Sir, that is—’

  ‘Have a care, Mr Hervey. I may not share your learning, but it is my business to know what goes on in this regiment, and I do not neglect it.’

  ‘No, sir, of course.’

  There was silence. A huge horsefly settled on Barrow’s neck. Hervey strained to warn him, but stood at attention instead, waiting leave to speak. After what seemed
an age, the horsefly left in search of other flesh. Hervey wondered why it had not stung – or how Barrow had not felt it if it had. For weeks they had been plagued by them. Was the adjutant’s skin literally as thick as the cornets supposed?

  Barrow sighed again. ‘Mr Hervey, the veterinary surgeon has already been to see me. He wants Mr Daly to be charged for mistreating his horse. The serjeant-major believes he should be chastised for abusing Serjeant Treve in front of the picket, too. And no doubt you will expect charges regarding his menacing and assault.’

  ‘No, sir. Daly was drunk.’

  ‘I thought officers got intoxicated, Mr Hervey?’

  Hervey considered himself in too precarious a position to rise to the bait. ‘No doubt Mr Laming would prefer the word, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Laming and his Greek. Very useful skill in an officer.’

  ‘Except the word is Latin, sir.’

  ‘Don’t quibble, Mr Hervey.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, otherwise I would have had your sword this instant.’

  Hervey braced up again. He was not at all on firm ground, much less than he had imagined.

  ‘Well now, for the time being there is no need to render this in writing, not until I have spoken to Mr Daly and then the lieutenant-colonel. You had better speak to Captain Lankester meanwhile. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well, dismiss.’

  Hervey replaced his forage cap, saluted, turned to his right and marched from under the shade of the olive tree, which was the adjutant’s orderly room. He had had nothing but broth to eat in thirty-six hours, but that was not the reason he felt sick.

  *

  When he reported to Sir Edward Lankester, Hervey found that his troop-leader was already aware of the turn-out (indeed, the entire regiment appeared to be, according to Private Sykes).