Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage

by Allan Mallinson

  *

  Ensign Davies was sure-footed about the olive groves. It was not long before they found the Twenty-fourth’s lieutenant-colonel, General Mackenzie with him. Davies stood to attention, and saluted. ‘Picket-officer, sir. A galloper from the Second Division.’

  General Mackenzie turned. ‘What is the alarm up there?’

  Hervey saluted. ‘The French have the summit of the ridge, sir. General Hill is driving them off. He has sent me to find the commander-in-chief, sir.’

  ‘He went there the minute the firing began.’

  Hervey checked himself, somehow disbelieving that Sir Arthur Wellesley had been ascending the cerro as he himself had been descending. He almost asked, ‘Are you sure?’ Instead he saluted again. ‘With your leave, sir.’

  The general nodded. ‘My compliments to General Hill. He shall have my best support on his flank.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Hervey picked his way back with Ensign Davies, easier now that his mission was accomplished – or, rather, obviated. ‘You had hot work of it this afternoon,’ he tried.

  ‘We did, by God! You saw?’ replied Davies, sounding as if he would go again this instant.

  ‘We were on your left flank.’

  ‘I did not see it. I did not see anything but smoke and shot. You fellows have the better view of things astride.’

  Hervey hoped he did not mean they merely looked on, especially since things would have gone so much the harder with the Twenty-fourth had the Sixth not charged. But it was scarcely the time to put him to rights about that. ‘The work of cavalry is for the most part unobserved,’ he consoled himself.

  Loyalist was waiting quietly as they got back to the picket’s fire. Hervey took the reins and thanked the holder, a private man who looked surprised to be addressed directly. Then he turned to Ensign Davies again. It was a strange feeling, for he knew there was every chance he would not see him again: an ensign in the centre of the line during a general action would face a great deal of metal. ‘I hope you have a quiet night. And good fortune for the morrow.’ He held out a hand.

  Davies took it. If he feared for the morrow he did not – would not – show it. ‘As long as we have powder enough it will be well. Come and dine with us afterwards.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Thank you. I shall.’ He climbed into the saddle (Loyalist preferred him not to vault, as Jessye allowed), touched his peak, and turned back the way he had come.

  The moon was an hour and more away yet, but the sky was lightening. When Hervey found the same tree-line he had taken east, he squeezed Loyalist to a trot – quick, but in-hand. The horse started napping again, and Hervey began wishing he had taken Jessye instead. Loyalist had done him well in the gallop on the cerro, but there was no surety in a charger half trained, and picking about the army in the middle of the night was not a thing to be doing with a nappy gelding. The musketry atop the cerro was increasing. There would be nothing he could do, but his every instinct was to gallop there. Loyalist sensed it and broke into a canter. Hervey would not allow it, though, checking with rein and leg until the horse was back in-hand again. Half trained Loyalist may be, but there was no excuse for bad manners. But he lengthened the stride a fraction: General Hill might have more duties for him – he ought not to delay beyond a safe moment.

  In a few minutes more he saw the open pasture. Then he heard the crack as Loyalist squealed and faltered. He pulled up at once and sprang from the saddle. Loyalist stood calmly as Hervey felt around the impaling: twelve inches of olive branch the diameter of a musket ball stuck-out from just beneath the sternum like a bolt from a crossbow. How deep it had gone he could not know, but blood was already oozing from the wound. He realized there must be force to it, for the entry was clean, no tearing.

  What could he do? Could he find John Knight? Where was the regiment? If he left the shaft in, would it help staunch the flow? But what damage did it do inside? If only John Knight were here . . .

  He must pull out the shaft. The surgeon always removed a missile. That was the way, was it not? Thank God Loyalist stood calm! Perhaps, then, the damage was not so great? But then, when he got the shaft out – and he must have it all out, and cleanly – he must staunch the bleeding somehow. How could he do it without someone to hold Loyalist still? And he had nothing but his blanket to staunch with. Perhaps if he cut it up . . .

  Loyalist was grunting now, but he stood motionless. Hervey slashed the blanket into handy rags with his sabre. When he was done he felt the wound again. The blood was copious. He was sure the shaft had gone deep. And now it was wet and he would not have the purchase on it . . .

  Should he pull fast or slow? If he pulled fast it might break; if slow, Loyalist might shift with the pain and break it anyway. He dried his palms as best he could, looped the reins round his right arm and grasped the shaft with both hands. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered, then drew firmly and evenly, praying it would come out in one.

  Loyalist grunted but stood stock-still. Hervey felt the point of the shaft anxiously: it was sharp – it hadn’t broken inside. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. But a good six inches had penetrated. If four inches would kill a man, it did not take a horse anatomist to understand the damage.

  Blood was running freely now. Hervey pressed the rags into the wound as best he could, but at once they were soaked through, so that in a few minutes he had used every piece of his blanket. The horse was becoming unsteady on his feet; Hervey had to lean hard against him. In a few minutes more, Loyalist dropped to his knees; the hocks followed soon after, and then he rolled to his left side, breathing shallow.

  Nothing Hervey could do would staunch the blood. Could John Knight have done anything? Knight could clamp a vein or an artery – he had seen him do it – but how could he here? He couldn’t see anything, even if he had had clamps – or even a knife to make an incision. All he could do was kneel by Loyalist’s head as his lifeblood emptied into the earth. There was musketry all about the cerro, men dying alone in the dark; he did not think about them, only that a noble animal like Loyalist should not die ignobly or alone. He thought to finish things with a pistol, but there had been enough of that at Corunna (and the shot would likely raise alarm with General Mackenzie’s brigade). No, there would be no ball in the brains, for Loyalist was not in pain; that was evident. He must stay by his side, reassuring, until the time.

  In half an hour Loyalist was quite still; there was no more breathing. Hervey struggled with the lump in his throat, and cursed. There was nothing he could do now but salvage what furniture he may and make his way back to the cerro. There he would take Sykes’s trooper and send his groom back to the Sixth for Jessye. The moon would be up soon: Sykes ought not to have too hard a time of it. He envied him, indeed, for what was there for a cornet to do in the thick of night among infantry? There hadn’t even been need of him to fetch the commander-in-chief. He swore. Galloper duty, the cornet’s thrill, had been a pointless affair. But that, he knew (because first Daniel Coates, and then Joseph Edmonds, had told him), was one half of the true nature of war – a terrible, pointless wasting. He cursed again, and stopped struggling with the lump in his throat.

  And he had thought himself steeled by Corunna!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WORK OF CAVALRY

  Next morning, 28 July 1809

  A hand shook his shoulder, roughly. ‘Reveille!’

  Hervey had sweated through the day before, and through the night, but now he shivered, his instinct to pull the cloak about his shoulders again. He sat up. The moon had set, but the sky was lightening in the east: it would be full dawn inside half an hour. He had slept for three hours, perhaps, and he ached for more. His shoulder throbbed. The wound had been nothing, but the stitching had been rough. He was hungry, too. He had with him some liquorice sticks and a flask of brandy, nothing else. The supply animals had not come up by the time he had left for the Second Division, and General Hill’s infantrymen had no rations to spare. But the night’s alarms had thrown everythin
g into confusion; it looked as if no one on the Cerro de Medellin would fight his battle today on a full stomach – or even half of one.

  He got up, folded his cloak and started to saddle the little trooper Sykes had handed over to him. Trixie, his groom had called her, after his sister. Poor Sykes: he had drawn the mare only the day before, John Knight having cast his post-Corunna remount on account of bog spavin. Loyalist had been almost a hand higher, but Trixie was sturdy enough, and steady, reckoned Hervey. She stood loosely tethered where he had slept, calmly cropping the rough grass. Her belly at least would be filled, even if with poorish fodder. He was relieved that Loyalist’s saddle fitted well, and he managed to get the girth and surcingle tight without the biting that some of the older troopers were prone to. She even lifted her head for the bit. A very tractable mare, she was. It pleased him, drawing the sting of the night somewhat. He hoped she was as handy.

  He buckled on his sword, tidied himself – ablutions waited until stand-down – checked the girth again and climbed into the saddle. She stood still for him, a good sign; he flexed the bit, she dropped her head nicely, and he squeezed his legs just a fraction. She answered well. Hervey had no idea of her provenance – even if she were country-bred – but he was relieved at her quality: he did not fancy seeing out his duty with the Second Division astride a screw. He was only surprised she had passed into the riding-master’s hands and then out again.

  He saluted the AQMG and nodded his ‘good morning’ to an aide-de-camp he had not seen before. General Hill was just mounting, so he halted at a respectful distance with his dawn thoughts. The sky was no longer black but grey, the urgent time when the minutes seemed to race. When daylight came, the country would be exactly as yesterday, the lie of the land unaltered in a single detail. But the enemy had not been inactive during the night: what would be the scene before them? How many French would be drawn up ready to attack? How many guns would there be on the Cerro de Cascajal? More, for sure, than the British disposed here.

  Half a dozen other mounted figures now rode up. Hervey strained to see who. He braced as he recognized the profile of the commander-in-chief, cloaked and wearing a bicorn. What had kept him here the night? Had the Cerro de Medellin been in such peril that the commander-in-chief had kept vigil while he himself slept? He felt a sudden guilt; but, then, no one had told him to do other than sleep. No one, indeed, had told him anything at all. Or had Sir Arthur Wellesley come up to the cerro for the dawn stand-to? In which case it could only mean that it was here he expected the French to show themselves first. Hervey felt the thrill of a man discovering he was unexpectedly in the place of decision.

  It was so obvious, now that he thought about it: here was the place to see the battlefield, not down among the olive groves. Here, the commander-in-chief could direct his battle, seeing the moves the French made, judging which were real and which were feints, speeding gallopers this way and that with his orders. But Hervey supposed he would see none of it, for his own orders were to return to the Sixth as soon as daylight was come. Could he do so without General Hill’s leave? But could he remain here longer without incurring his troop-leader’s wrath? There would be nothing for the cavalry to do until the infantry had clashed. In any case, had not the order gone out for the cavalry brigades to forage after dawn? He would hardly be missed in foraging . . .

  He could not yet make out the hands of his watch face; by the look of the sky, he reckoned it must be half-past the hour, perhaps even a quarter-to, for first light was at five. And at first light a white horse was grey, not black: the staff dragoon’s with Sir Arthur Wellesley, now, was black (if, of course, it was the same animal he had seen yesterday). First light was the time when the routine of the night – pickets, sentries, sleep – changed to that of the day, when regiments mustered and stood-to their arms, when the pickets and sentries came in, when general actions began. He calculated that it would be two hours and more before the first dragoon drew his sabre to cut anything but grass. He hoped fervently that General Hill would not dismiss him now, therefore.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley and General Hill moved off with their staff towards the eastern crest of the cerro. Hervey followed hesitantly, expecting at any moment to be told to rejoin his regiment.

  One of the aides-de-camp, a lieutenant from General Hill’s own regiment, rode up alongside him. ‘Was it you with the general last night?’

  Hervey was cautious, uncertain of the ADC’s purpose. ‘If you mean when the French first attacked, yes.’

  ‘Then I am especially pleased to make your acquaintance. Gartside, Ninetieth,’ said the ADC, holding out a hand.

  Hervey took it. ‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons.’

  ‘The general owes his liberty to you, I understand, if not his life.’

  In truth, he had not given it much thought, such was his dismay at losing Loyalist. ‘It was a close shave, I own. I am sorry for your major, though. He must have been hit by a ball as we galloped home.’

  ‘He was dead when we found him. I’m only sorry I was not with you: the general had sent me to Tilson’s brigade for their evening state, which we’d not had.’

  Hervey nodded in commiseration. ‘What I don’t understand is why we were surprised. How had the French passed through the first line? And with scarcely a shot?’

  ‘There wasn’t a first line, not to speak of. The brigades had been posted very ill.’

  ‘I imagine they’re better posted now?’

  ‘Indeed. Wellesley and the general were abroad for two hours after we pushed the French off the ridge. Both our brigades are now forward. Tilson’s is right, on the crest, and Stewart’s left so the French can’t envelop the wing. There’s supposed to be a brigade of cavalry in the valley over yonder to support him, but I don’t know who.’

  Neither did Hervey. Cotton’s, with which the Sixth were brigaded, were covering the junction with the Spanish on the right, and Fane’s heavies would surely be needed in the centre? ‘Anson’s, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, when they show, no doubt one of us will be sent to them. But I should say, the general spoke very favourably of you, you know – after the skirmish last night, I mean. There’ll be a promotion in it.’

  Hervey was flattered, if doubtful. ‘Really, Gartside, it was nothing out of the ordinary. We must have made two dozen cuts apiece in the Sixth yesterday afternoon!’

  Lieutenant Gartside put a hand to Hervey’s shoulder. ‘My dear sir, we all of us know the work of cavalry goes unobserved. When it comes to promotion, one cut in the right place is worth a hundred out of sight. Be pleased you have made both sorts!’

  Hervey was still doubtful, but he would hope. If it did not bring promotion, it might at least serve his reputation when it came to the court martial and Daly.

  Ten minutes later, with the sun flushed up, Lieutenant Gartside pronounced his final words on the matter. ‘See, Hervey: those are the fellows who will give us our opportunity!’

  The sun was full in their eyes, but Hervey could make out the French well enough. Opposite the Second Division, on the Cerro de Cascajal, were more guns than he had ever seen. He took out his telescope to observe. The gunners were standing to attention by their pieces, as if all was ready and waiting for the command ‘fire’. He scanned right, to the low ground the other side of the Portiña. Regiments of blue-coated infantry stood facing the British line as far as the redoubt at the junction with the Spanish, all ranked in column of battalions for the attack, guns to the fore. Behind them were cavalry in numbers he could not begin to calculate. Corunna looked but a skirmish compared with this! The rats in his stomach began running again.

  Lieutenant Gartside beckoned him further forward until they drew close to one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ADCs. ‘Gordon, my dear fellow!’

  A captain, four or five years Hervey’s senior, no more, wearing the uniform of the Third Guards, turned in the saddle. ‘Gartside – good morning.’

  To Hervey, he sounded as cool as the commander-in-chief looked.

/>   ‘I heard you were come out,’ said Lieutenant Gartside, with an easy smile. And then he looked at him more intently. ‘My dear Gordon, are you quite well?’

  ‘The devil, I am, Gartside. I’ve not been well since leaving Lisbon. Something has taken hold of me, and I wish it would leave go!’

  ‘I am sorry for it. It’s deuced noble that you should turn out, feeling so out of sorts. May I present Cornet Hervey, of the Sixth.’

  The ADC turned further in the saddle, and nodded. ‘How d’ye do, sir.’

  Hervey touched his peak.

  ‘Gordon was with Sir David Baird at Corunna,’ explained Gartside.

  Hervey at once knew all. Baird had been Moore’s deputy at Corunna. This was the Gordon who had taken the victory despatch to London, and got a brevet for it. It ought to have been another’s honour, they had all said, since Baird himself had been carried from the field early in the day, and General Hope had seen the battle to its end. But Baird had insisted that his nephew take the despatch – and, no doubt, had arranged this appointment to Sir Arthur Wellesley, too. But Hervey was not disposed to dislike a man merely for his good fortune. After all, Captain the Honourable Alexander Gordon had paraded this morning, in the most evident discomfort, and that said something of his quality, did it not?

  Gartside was not deterred by either Gordon’s reserve or Hervey’s. He knew the one well enough, and was already coming to like the other. ‘Gordon, are you able to tell us what are the army’s dispositions? We came up here last evening and saw nothing.’

  Captain Gordon, while keeping a sharp eye on the commander-in-chief, was happy to oblige his old-schoolfellow. It was simply explained, he said. From their vantage point, here on the Cerro de Medellin, they could see the mile of British line along the Portiña clearly enough – and with a good telescope they could see the Spanish, too, three-quarters the distance again to the walls of Talavera. The junction was guarded by the bastion of Pajar de Vergara and its batteries (Hervey had seen it the evening before) and the divisions were formed, conveniently alphabetical, right to left from the bastion to the cerro: Campbell’s on the right, then Mackenzie’s, then Sherbrooke’s; and then Hill’s on the left flank. Two brigades of cavalry – Fane’s and Cotton’s – would stand in the centre of the second line between Mackenzie’s division and Hill’s, while Anson’s was ordered to the north valley.