And then the French were gone. A dozen dragoons were suddenly by themselves, the flotsam of the clash, the rest of the Sixth three furlongs away dealing terrible destruction to chasseurs and gunners alike, or lying on the ground as lifeless as the scores of Frenchmen and horses. Two of the dragoons nearest him were so blood-soaked he could not name them; another was bent double in the saddle. What did he do now?
‘Mr Hervey, sir!’
His covering corporal had circled and come up behind him again.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Well might he be anxious, for his officer’s bloody back rebuked him for not being in position.
‘I’ll be well, Corporal Toyne.’ Hervey was more determined than certain, for he felt his left arm weakening. But he must appear unperturbed, just as would Sir Edward Lankester.
‘I’m sorry, sir: she ran out as we bent left.’
In truth, Hervey had no sense of dereliction in his coverman. The charge had become a barging race, and he himself had lost the front rank, which he was meant to be supporting. ‘You were there to parry that point, Corporal Toyne. I’m deuced grateful for that.’
He closed to the doubled-up dragoon. ‘What’s wrong, Bunting?’
Private Bunting tried to lift his head.
Hervey saw the blood oozing between the dragoon’s fingers as he clutched his stomach – and the grey matter among the red, a hideous disembowelling. ‘Take him rear, Abbott,’ he said to the man next to him, trying not to betray any hopelessness. Then he turned away while he still had control of his gorge.
‘Hadn’t I better bind up your shoulder, sir?’ asked Corporal Toyne.
Hervey was tempted, but he couldn’t give in, not now. There was fighting still, and no bugle had sounded ‘recall’. ‘We’d better catch up the troop. Form line, Corporal!’
By the time they closed on the rest of the regiment, the fight was over, and Lord George’s trumpeter was blowing the octave leaps for ‘rally’. Hervey found himself strangely composed by the return to order, for it was just as the manual prescribed: When the shock of the squadron has broken the order of the opposite enemy, part may be ordered to pursue and keep up the advantage; but its great object is instantly to rally and renew its efforts in a body. Yet he was abashed that he rallied from the rear rather than from the front.
However, no one seemed to have missed him. But then, how could anyone know where men were in an affair such as that?
‘Very well, Mr Hervey,’ said Sir Edward, seeing him touch his sword to his lips. His voice was barely raised. ‘Right-mark for the second rank, if you please. Just there will do capitally.’ He nodded to where, then turned his head again. ‘Your jacket, sir, requires attention. See to it as soon as may be!’
Hervey’s mouth fell open. The remark would have stung when first he joined the Sixth, but now, after his Corunna steeling, he recognized his troop-leader’s manner for what it was. An officer might be carried from the field, but otherwise he was to bear his wounds unremarked and preferably unnoticed. Indeed, an officer was never wounded: an officer was hit – like a gamebird. That, at least, was the code of the 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Caroline’s Own). He smiled, helplessly.
When they had retired west of the Portiña, dressed wounds of men and horses alike, mended tackling, refastened shoes, and attended to all the other requirements of a regiment of cavalry that had clashed with a couple of hundred chasseurs and brought in or spiked six guns (and were required to be ready at once to do the same again if needs be), Hervey sat under an olive tree, put his sabretache on his knees and wrote to Wiltshire.
Talavera de la Reina
27th July
My dear Dan,
I enclose herewith a separate account of our progress to this place, which is the furthest we have advanced eastwards this time. But today we had an affair or two of cavalry, in which the regiment as a whole utterly routed two strong squadrons of Chasseurs à Cheval, and took six guns. Earlier this day I was so close to the Commander-in-Chief that he looked directly at me. He is smaller than I had imagined, compared with Sir John Moore I mean, but very active. He was almost captured, had he not been able to spring so fleet into the saddle! After our affair of the guns, which was by way of covering the retirement of a division of infantry most sorely tried in advance of the city, we crossed the Portina river, a dry stream about a mile to the north of the city, which the Spanish have garrisoned. It is not a little steep sided, about four feet deep, and more in places. One of the dragoons had a fall, his horse broke a leg and he himself has broke his skull, which was very ill luck since he had gone through the skirmish with the chasseurs with not a scratch. We are dismounted now and stood-easy (it is Six, and the sun is still high directly to our rear) amid olive groves, very extensive, so that one might ride to Talavera without showing oneself to the front. They extend half way up the Cerro de Medellin, which is a promontory, affording the same cover therefore. In front of us are the Guards and Col. Kemmis’s brigade, in which are the 40th, where John Ayling is ensign, for whom I was doul at Shrewsbury, and an excellent fellow. He hailed me as we rode in and I shall mess with them later if duties allow. We stand-to at Nine.
I did not say that a Frenchman cut Jessye’s ear badly, so that I feared she must lose a part of it, but our veterinary surgeon, John Knight, is so skilled with needle and thread that he has sewed her up admirably . . .
He wrote nothing of his own predicament. The wound he would not have dreamed of mentioning, and certainly not the prospect of a general court martial. The one would have caused anxiety to the old man, the other dismay, and Hervey could not be sure that he would not speak of it with his people at Horningsham. And in any case, the wound was nothing that the surgeon’s needle – as John Knight’s with Jessye’s ear – had not been able to repair. His tunic was another matter, but Private Sykes had found the baggage animals and brought his second coat forward. Hervey had wanted to keep it for the court martial, but Sir Edward Lankester’s strictures would not now permit him.
It was a strange thing, he mused as he began readying himself for stand-to: he hoped fervently that the regiment would be in the thick of things tomorrow, yet he hoped as much that his uniform would not be spoiled. What queer things indeed an officer must be sensible of! But at least he would be well turned out to mess with the Fortieth. And after today, with the affair of the patrol and the charge at the guns, he would not trouble himself with thoughts of court martial. What could he do but smile at the peculiar fortunes of war?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TIMES PAST
Belem, the Feast of Stephen, 1826
Brevet-Colonel Charles Laming settled into the rear-facing seat of the Delgado travelling carriage, on the right-offside, as a gentleman ought, so that he faced Isabella diagonally, allowing her the forward prospect and the shaded side during the journey eastwards to Elvas. He had lost no time in securing leave of Sir William Clinton in order to go to the assistance of his old friend. The general, indeed, had been wholly supportive, declaring that if Hervey were not released very promptly then he would take it upon himself to effect his release by whatever means he thought fit. Sir William, as a lieutenant-general, had wide discretion (even if he could not be entirely certain what his orders from London amounted to), and he did not intend that any of this ill news should reach the Horse Guards until it was resolved satisfactorily, and to Hervey’s advantage, since the dispositions he was now making for the army of intervention were based in large part on Hervey’s own assessment of the situation.
In ordinary circumstances Sir William would not have been so sanguine about losing his deputy quartermaster-general. Laming had been promoted to the staff on account of his uncommon facility to render into few words, and with absolute clarity, the thoughts and intentions of politicos and senior officers. Throughout the years of unrest in England, which had continued in one form or another since the end of the war with Bonaparte, he had penned instructions to the army acting in support of the civil power, and his precisi
on and foresight had saved many an ugly situation from turning into disaster. It was said that if it had been Laming who had drafted the orders for the Northern District that day in 1819, when the crowds had gathered to hear ‘Orator’ Hunt, there would have been no occasion for the coining ‘Peterloo’. These talents had kept him from regimental duty, and then had come the opportunity for advancement, on the list of another regiment, and eventually a substantive lieutenant-colonelcy on the quartermaster-general’s permanent establishment. Laming had seen a good deal of action as a subaltern, but none since Waterloo.
The years of his cornetcy came easily to mind, however, as he continued his reacquaintance with Isabella. Her English was fluent, with nothing of the accent of someone who spoke it only occasionally. She was, after all, ‘Mrs Broke’, as well as ‘Dona Isabella Delgado’.
‘Colonel Laming, this is very good of you – to accompany me to Elvas, I mean,’ began Isabella, as the travelling carriage picked up speed. ‘And to have Major Hervey’s corporal, too. We have lost a little time by this delay, but my father says we may journey through the night. He would not hear of it before, when I had no escort.’
From what Corporal Wainwright had told him of the first affair in Elvas, when Hervey and Isabella had confronted the Miguelites in the middle of the night, Laming scarcely imagined she had need of an escort. ‘I am glad you waited, ma’am. This is a more agreeable way to go than posting astride.’
She smiled. ‘I was speaking with my father last night, Colonel, and he seemed to recall that you once shot one of his footmen?’
Laming turned bright red. The mess had never let him forget it. ‘Ma’am,’ he spluttered, ‘I—’
She smiled the more. ‘Do not trouble, Colonel. I merely wanted to know if it were you. I recall that you were very kind to the man.’
‘Kind, ma’am? I had filled his back with shot!’
‘Oh, come, Colonel. It was a very little shot and he made a rapid recovery. I meant that you sent him comforts, and visited him.’
Laming was now more composed. ‘I did what any man should, ma’am. And I must protest, as everyone at the time was quick to point out to me: the footman had strayed far from his line.’
‘Yes, Colonel; my father reminded me of that, too.’
Laming settled back into the plush of his corner again. ‘We were all most grateful for your father’s hospitality. Some of the best sport I ever recall, partridges faster than Congreve’s rockets!’
Isabella nodded, approving. ‘And, now, I recall it was you whose sister came to Belem?’
Laming was at last able to smile. ‘Indeed, ma’am. She spent a very happy winter here.’
‘I believe I recall, too, that your sister . . .’ She inclined her head.
‘Frances.’
‘Yes. That Major Hervey was much taken with Frances.’
It was true. And Laming had been hopeful that the affection might become something more, for although his fellow cornet had not had a penny to his name, he was a man he would have been pleased to call brother-in-law. ‘Yes, there was a strong affection. But we were very young!’
‘Indeed we were, Colonel!’
Laming was discomfited again. ‘Ma’am, I did not mean that—’
‘Colonel, do not trouble yourself. We are none of us in our première jeunesse!’
Isabella’s smile was so warm, Laming could not quite catch his breath. So used was he these past few years to fashionably tight lips that her want of inhibition caught him off-guard. He had never married, and such intimacies had been largely denied him. His pleasure now was more than he had imagined.
‘Major Hervey’s wife, Colonel – can you tell me anything of her?’
Laming regained his composure. ‘I can indeed, ma’am. She was a most excellent woman. If I tell you she chose to accompany the regiment to Canada in the depths of winter, while she was with child, that will speak of her quality. It was, of course, that which occasioned her death.’
‘I know a little of it, Colonel. Would you tell me more?’
Laming unfastened the front of his pelisse coat. The carriagewarmer had taken the chill off the air, and he found himself able to relax more. ‘I will tell you what Hervey himself would approve, ma’am, but there are some things which go profoundly hard with him, even after the passage of ten years.’
‘Of course.’
He took off his gloves, looking pensive, then tapped his knee with them, as if signalling for the off. ‘At that time, the regiment was commanded by the most disreputable man I have had misfortune to meet – a coward, jealous of Hervey’s reputation and ability. They were soon at odds. He sent him across the border into America, to co-operate with their army against the native Indians. Henrietta joined him at a later date, leaving behind the child with a nurse, but the commanding officer took objection and sent her away from the fort back to Canada. She was not long gone when her party was ambushed by Indians.’
Isabella’s face betrayed her horror. ‘I did not know the end was so . . .’ She looked out of the window for a long moment. ‘And I imagine that Major Hervey blames himself in some part?’
‘You have it perfectly, ma’am. He cannot quite get it from his mind that had he been either more obliging to the lieutenant-colonel, or else had exposed him for the villain he was, then Henrietta would be alive today.’
Isabella nodded. ‘I can see that it would go very hard with a man like Major Hervey.’
She took off her gloves, revealing elegant hands. Laming found it difficult to picture them holding a foil, as Wainwright had spoken of. He saw the rings that showed she had once been married – perhaps married yet, in her own mind.
‘And what of the child, Colonel?’
‘What? Oh, the child . . . yes – a daughter. I confess I don’t recall her name. Hervey’s sister is guardian.’
‘She lives with Major Hervey?’
Laming raised an eyebrow. ‘There again, ma’am, you touch on a nerve – although you must understand that he and I have not been close these past years. Our duties have taken us different ways, he to India, principally. But those who know him better say that their separation causes him much unrest.’
‘Of course, of course. I imagine Major Hervey is the sort of man who is torn by . . . conflicts, do you say?’
Laming nodded; it was the most apt word.
‘By conflicts of his duty almost every day!’
Laming smiled, ruefully. ‘You are most perceptive, ma’am. I am of the opinion – as are many – that if Hervey were able to find it in himself to be a little more accommodating to those superiors he finds himself in disagreement with, he would by now be brigadier-general.’
Isabella returned the smile. ‘I can suppose it. But then, my own country would now be sorry for it, since Colonel Norris, evidently, was incapable or unwilling to do more than rebuild a few old forts!’
‘No doubt, ma’am. It seems a pity, though, that it should come to this: you and I having to travel to Elvas.’
Isabella frowned. ‘It is no hardship for me, Colonel, I assure you.’
Laming let the remark go. It was no hardship for him either. Indeed, rather the opposite. His worry was that, from all he had heard in London and Hounslow, his old friend’s restlessness was manifest in the situation before them now at Elvas; or, more to the point, at Badajoz. He had seen others the same; not men with Hervey’s capability, that was for sure, but others who had let some deep disquiet in their lives run them hard against everything that ought to have been their support. Ultimately, they had fallen apart, like a horse that would not take the bit. He smiled to himself, for the remedy was plain – even to him, a bachelor.
He looked out of the window at the once-familiar road. It was far from hardship to take it again to Elvas. They had marched this way with Sir John Moore (and in this season), and he had thrilled to the sight of the mountains, the rivers, the forests, and to the call of the eagle – everything that had been so different from the green face of England,
which to that date had been his sole experience. Elvas, he fancied, he could remember well: they had rested there a good deal. Badajoz less so. Badajoz had given them comfort after Talavera; that much he could recall perfectly. But Badajoz had also been the place of sheer, bloody murder, and he could scarce bare to think of it.
His eyes began closing – the little stove, the gentle rocking of the carriage. Forget Badajoz the night of the storming; obliterate the memory. Think on Badajoz as it had welcomed them after Talavera. Think on Talavera! What a battle to have shared with his old friend: nothing its like until Waterloo!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE NIGHT HORSE
Talavera, late evening, 27 July 1809
‘Stand down one in three, off-saddle and feed by half-sections.’
Sir Edward Lankester, pleased with what he saw at evening stand-to-arms after their fighting withdrawal, and that Lord George Irvine had seen likewise, patted his handsome sorrel on the neck as the squadron officers closed to him. Drawn up to the west of the dry riverbed of the Portiña, beyond a screening line of olive trees, willow and cork oak, they might be in a different world from the infantry’s. Here they could rest, unobserved by the enemy, his guns unsighted. The other side of the trees, the domain of the redcoat, there could be no such ease; not, at least, until darkness, and even then the regiments would have to picket strongly, for the French might think the day had been theirs, and victory only a night attack away.
‘A memorable day, I think, gentlemen. But it will be the more so tomorrow, I’ll warrant. For tonight, we shall stand down the remainder after dark, and I would that the men get a good sleep. The regiment is to send additional gallopers to each of the divisions, our squadron one each to Hill’s and Campbell’s. Hervey to the former, if you please.’ He paused, looking at him, as if to ask if he felt up to the exertion.
Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage Page 18
