Indeed, Reynell seemed possessed by the need to preserve the regiment’s reputation, as if it were a sacred trust. No officer could be in any doubt as to the sovereign importance of the task; and no NCO could be in doubt of the wrath awaiting any who sullied the name of the Sixth. Every officer and NCO must do his duty to the utmost, Reynell demanded, every dragoon must follow his orders faithfully, for that way lay not only the saving of the army and the honour of the regiment, but their own survival. Ney’s cavalry might not yet have been emboldened, but soon they would be, when they learned that those opposing them were not nearly as strong as Lord Paget was having them believe. And then, said Reynell, the French would have a terrible wrath and a lust for blood, and would sate it on any stragglers. Woe betide any who brought disgrace to the name of the Sixth: that was the import of Colonel Reynell’s rounds.
‘Ay, but where’s Boney, Colonel?’ asked the bolder sweats.
‘I do not know, and I doubt that Sir John Moore himself knows with any precision,’ replied Reynell, happy to engage in any banter that revealed a proper spirit. ‘But Bonaparte does not give away time lightly. You may be sure he is scheming to fall on us.’
‘Let’s have a go at him, sir!’
‘Steady your ardour, the Sixth!’ He smiled proudly to himself. ‘When the time is right you may be certain Sir John Moore will strike. Only meanwhile let us bloody the Disturber’s cavalry, his eyes and ears!’
*
Next morning, after stand-to, the regiment left Valderas for the Esla, four leagues off, the same distance they had marched the previous afternoon from Mayorga. Lord Paget had ordered the Tenth to do rearguard, and the Sixth to make haste to cross the bridge at Castro Gonzalo, which General Craufurd’s light brigade was holding. By now the three ‘fighting’ divisions would be west of the Esla and taking up positions at Astorga, and there was no profit in losing any more men this side of the river.
The rain fell heavier even than the day before. The Sixth slipped and slid all the way, past villages ravaged as bad as anything they had seen so far, object lessons to Hervey and his fellow novices of the malevolent potential of men under arms but not under discipline. It was a gloomy ride, no one speaking much, leaving ample time to ponder their situation. But just after midday, as the point men were approaching Castro Gonzalo, with its fine bridge over the Esla, spirits began to lift again, for such a crossing would be a grand prize for Ney’s cavalry, and doubtless he would be pressing his chasseurs to hazard all in seizing it. Here, there must surely be more action.
Almost the first man Colonel Reynell saw was Major-General Robert Craufurd – ‘Black Bob’ – brooding astride a big brown gelding, in long greatcoat and cape and plumeless bicorn pulled well down, so that he appeared to scowl even worse than he did. There was no general whose will was stronger, whose tongue was harsher and whose discipline was more unvarying, and this morning he was the very picture of it. Black Bob Craufurd flogged, but he did so out of the very deepest conviction that men’s lives were saved by it. The Sixth did not flog, but seeing what some regiments had become already on the march, Hervey was beginning to understand that the proponents of the lash could make a powerful case.
Reynell saluted. ‘Good morning, General.’
Craufurd touched the point of his bicorn by return. ‘Good morning, Reynell. How is Lord Paget?’
Reynell eased his weight in the saddle. ‘We had a sharp contest with Ney’s cavalry yesterday, but they did not press us during the night. We came away this morning at nine, and it was quiet still. We saw not a Frenchman on the way here.’ Reynell’s report was dispassionate, but his voice could not conceal a certain disappointment, even contempt, for Ney’s absence. ‘Lord Paget and the Tenth intend crossing just before last light. Where do you wish me to dispose the regiment?’
‘One squadron either side, if you please, Reynell. The other as you wish. Once Paget is across tonight I shall blow up the bridge with all haste.’
Reynell disposed Third Squadron, which had seen the least of the action so far, to the east of the river, and led the other two across the graceful five arches that spanned the swollen Esla. He left Second Squadron to the immediate support of the bridge garrison, and took on First into reserve in one of the religious houses at the western edge of the town.
Hervey took careful note as they rode through. The place was scarcely more than a village, with fewer people left than he would have seen in one of the winter foldings on Salisbury Plain. Here and there a rifleman cradled his piece as though it were a baby, the rain beating down on his sodden green, but he seemingly indifferent to it all. How would his rifle fire, wondered Hervey? And yet the sullen look said that the laws of chemistry would somehow be overcome, that the curse of damp powder was nothing to a rifleman.
It was the same with the men labouring under the arches, red-and green-coated alike (there were never enough sappers for such work, so the infantry invariably found themselves impressed). There were dozens of barrels of powder to be packed into the stone once they had dug out chambers deep enough for the explosion to have effect. Two Royal Engineers officers directed the work, their blue coat-sleeves rolled up. Next year the Ordnance would have them change from blue to red to save being confused for French, but today they could have been ships’ officers supervising victualling as they went about the work with cool method.
The river, if not as wide as the Severn at Shrewsbury, was nevertheless an obstacle to marching infantry; Hervey could see that full well. But cavalry ought to be able to get across, he reckoned, perhaps with a bit of a scramble, although they could not do so in any order. Nevertheless, if this General Ney, of whom he had read a deal in England, pushed all his cavalry at the river, Lord Paget and his two regiments would be sorely pressed to drive them back into it, even with the help of General Craufurd’s admirable riflemen. Hervey wondered how long they would have before the French realized what a prize lay waiting for them. Long enough, he hoped, to have his Bel’s lost shoe replaced; the mud as they came up the last half mile had sucked off the near-hind as if it had been a child’s boot. In fact, the troop wanted the farrier now more than it did the commissary. ‘No foot, no horse,’ said the veterinarian; and there would be no remounts this side of the mountains, for sure.
Third Squadron threw out its pickets, while First and Second found shelter as best they could, Hervey’s in the deserted convent on the Benavente road. They were evidently not its first lodgers, for there was no food to be had, and anything that could be burned had found its way onto bonfires. Colonel Reynell could not be greatly dismayed at that, for the men who did it must have been pitifully cold, and the French would have done the same. The destruction elsewhere about the place was harder to fathom, and he wondered at the address of the officers. He had no idea if the more portable contents of the convent had been taken to safety by the nuns. In any case, he wanted fires lighting so that his dragoons could hot the salt beef and boil the biscuit they had been carrying since Valderas, and he gave orders to forage free, short of tearing down the outer doors and windows.
As they set about it, the first of the regular rations came up: two carts drawn by pairs of bullocks, led in by a commissary officer and a German hussar. Hervey watched from the shelter of the reredorter as the quartermasters told off details to unload the biscuit, seeing it into shelter as if it were gold. Then the pairs were uncoupled and led away. They were puny, stringy beasts, he thought, not up to a great deal more work. That, indeed, was the commissary’s own opinion, and there followed a bloody few minutes of shots, misfires, bellowing, cursing, and then sabre work, until the bullocks were turned into fresh rations amid gory excrement.
In fifteen minutes the chops and beefsteaks were all gone, in ten minutes more the offal, and then the rain washed the carcasses clean in another five, so that any man might come and take a bone to gnaw on later. And what was left, with neither head nor tail, the birds could pick at when the squadron was gone. The commissary was delighted the French would not
have a thing.
Hervey’s portion, served up in a quarter of an hour, was tougher than anything he could remember on a plate. Hanging for a month might have tenderized it, but he had his doubts.
‘Good prog this, eh, Mr Hervey, sir?’
It was possible that Private Sykes’s portion qualified for that verdict – his had been the choice, after all, since he had cooked both – but again Hervey somehow doubted it. Sykes, as most of the dragoons, took a pride in cheery irony. It was beef, however, and it was hot; Hervey knew it would fortify, no matter how hard it was to chew. The biscuit was its usual iron constitution, in spite of its ichorose marinade.
‘That’s it, then, Mr Hervey, sir.’
It was a phrase he would become used to in the days ahead.
Two hours later, Hervey watched as the troop farrier cold-shod his march horse with copy shoes made at the last hot-shoeing, for which he had had to pay the customary half guinea. Bel stood quietly as Corporal Lambe worked away with the rasp. Lambe had put on the lost iron not ten days before, so there was little growth in the hoof to file down or sole to pare away, and he said nothing as he worked: a lost shoe was invariably blamed on the shoeing-smith. But although often as not the blame was deserved if a horse cast a shoe so soon, Hervey was not of a mind to think that way now.
‘That mud would have taxed the farrier royal,’ he tried, helpfully.
Corporal Lambe was not impressed by the comparison. ‘It might, sor,’ he replied, in an accent from west of the Pale.
In went the six nails, and then down went the foot.
Hervey tried again. ‘Thank you, Corporal Lambe. I hope she can keep them on this time until her month’s due.’
‘I hope I’ll see me waggon again afore then, sor; that’s all I hope. I’ll be needing the bellows soon enough. Captain Lankester’s lost one an’ all.’
Hervey wondered if any of them would see the waggons again if the draft animals were to be turned to meat and the waggons to firewood. He had so much stowed by way of uniform; and all of it new, the account barely settled.
‘What about that galloper mare, sor?’
‘All secure, thank you.’
‘Right. Then I’ll make a start on the captain’s. Sor, could I—’
‘Officers’ interrupted him, the trumpeter playing the call fast but sure.
Hervey set off at once to the adjutant’s.
The orderly serjeant came doubling along the cloister. ‘Mr Hervey, sir, officers to orderly room!’
‘Yes, I heard, Corporal. What is it? The French?’
‘Don’t rightly know, sir. But an orderly come in from the bridge says the engineers can’t get it down!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE ENGINEER’S SPORT
Castro Gonzalo, later the same afternoon
There was at least shelter from the downpour under the arches. Hervey and his working party trod gingerly along the ledge; a false foot and they would be in the river. The stone had defied the picks and crowbars all day, and Lieutenant Herbert, the senior engineer officer, had decided on another ploy. But he needed more hands.
Colonel Reynell’s guidon had been planted at General Craufurd’s headquarters, a police house near the bridge on the west bank of the river. Craufurd was reading the latest despatches from Sir John Moore, who had evidently reached Benavente but in poor spirits. Black Bob’s look was blacker than ever; thunderous indeed, reckoned Reynell.
‘Read that, Colonel.’ Craufurd thrust a sheet of print at him.
Reynell took it and remarked that it was a fine thing to be able to have General Orders printed in such exigent circumstances. He began to read:The Commander of the Forces has observed with concern the extreme bad conduct of the troops at a moment when they are about to come into contact with the Enemy, and when the greatest regularity and the best conduct are the most requisite. The misbehaviour of the troops in the column which marched by Valderas to this place, exceeds what he could have believed of British soldiers. It is disgraceful to the Officers; as it strongly marks their negligence and inattention. He can feel no mercy towards Officers who neglect, in times like these, essential duties, or towards Soldiers who disgrace their nation, by acts of villainy towards the Country they are sent to protect. The situation in which they are placed demands qualities the most rare and valuable in a military body; not bravery alone, but patience and constancy under fatigue and hardship, obedience to command, sober and orderly conduct, firmness and resolution.It is impossible for the General to explain to his army the motive for the movement he directs. The Commander of the Forces can, however, assure the army that he has made none since he left Salamanca which he did not foresee, and was not judged prepared for; and, as far as he is a judge, they have answered the purposes for which they were intended.When it is proper to fight a battle he will do it; and he will choose the time and place he thinks fit: in the meantime he begs the Officers and Soldiers of the army to attend diligently to discharge their parts and to leave to him and to the General Officers the decision of measures which belong to them alone. The army may rest assured that he has nothing more at heart than their honour and that of his country.
‘A communication of most singular asperity,’ Reynell concluded.
‘The latter part was especially ill advised,’ said Craufurd plainly, glowering at the bridge through a broken window. ‘It does not serve to explain things, or to be speaking of honour to these men. Those who would not do their duty must be compelled to.’
Colonel Reynell had no doubt of the means by which the general intended to have compliance. ‘Which are the regiments he refers to?’
‘God knows, for it could be any one of them seeing the condition of their stragglers. The Sixth and the Ninth – Beresford’s brigade – were a shocking sight. And we have only just begun.’
The Sixth and the Ninth of Foot: the 1st Warrickshire and the 1st East Norfolks. Hardly battalions with a poor reputation, thought Reynell. He shuddered at what could become of a regiment if the officers dropped the reins. ‘I will take a turn around the outposts then, General.’
Craufurd nodded. ‘You may tell Lord Paget, if you will, that I should greatly appreciate his support here until we have the bridge down. I would be obliged if he did not come galloping over until I send him word.’
‘I understand that is his design, General.’ Sir John Moore’s pessimism must be infectious, thought Reynell. ‘But I will convey your sentiments at once.’
And he would renew his own exhortations too.
All night the sappers and their auxiliaries worked at the bridge, tying barrels to the supports and packing smaller kegs into chambers hollowed out with pick and crowbar. Lieutenant Herbert had decided not to put the matches in place until nearer the time, except the quick ones under the arches (and these doubled, just to be on the safe side), for he feared a soaking would lead to misfire. They finished the work – two arches chambered and packed with powder – just before dawn. And not an hour too soon, Hervey imagined, since the French had been probing hard, sometimes dismounted, since the early hours. But each time the pickets had seen them off, and they had been able to continue the work without once having to check. As he surveyed their night’s labour, Hervey thought it must all be done with before breakfast.
Major-General Craufurd knew different, however. One of Lord Paget’s gallopers had come a little before stand-to and reported that there were still a good many baggage waggons and stragglers on the road, including a fair number of women. ‘His lordship is of the opinion that since the French do not press us very hard, he is able to hold them distant a further day, and proposes therefore to withdraw this night instead.’
Craufurd was content enough; his brigade was at least rested. The odd chasseur was bound to slip through Paget’s line, but his own men would be able to see them off. And it would give the sappers more time; Lieutenant Herbert said he could demolish two arches now, but with another day he could prepare a third, and that would double the repair time the Fre
nch would need.
Hervey was disappointed when he heard. He wanted to see their good work. But at least they might have a little sleep this way. ‘Have the men return to the troop, Corporal Armstrong,’ he said, putting his coat back on. ‘I shall report to the bridge garrison captain.’
After taking proper leave of the captain, Hervey set off on his own, on foot, back to the convent. The rain had eased a little, but still it drummed noisily. The place was quite deserted now but for a roadblock manned by the first battalion of the 43rd (Monmouthshire), one of the army’s best light infantry regiments, said those in the Sixth who knew about these things. Their uniform was in a poor way, though – sodden, with red dye running from the tunics, and their faces black from carboned shakos. But they looked sharp enough, with an ensign and three NCOs to the fore. Hervey saluted (it was their bridge) then made his way through the chicane, taking a closer look at the faces of the private men. They were hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, but they spoke more of grim determination than defeat. As he walked away, he wondered how long it would be before the Sixth’s men began to resemble the Forty-third’s. How many nights without sleep did it take? How many miles marching?
*
There! A glimpse only, but he was sure: a blue coat, and not thirty yards away! The man had darted across the street and into one of the bigger houses.
Hervey checked. What should he do? Go back and alert the Forty-third’s picket? What if it weren’t a Frenchman, though? What if it were a Spaniard? Should he not first make certain?
The street was empty. He drew his sword and ran to the house.
It was open, the windows unshuttered and broken. He went in silently. The blue-coated figure had evidently not been the first, for the house looked well looted.
Hervey advanced cautiously, wishing he had his pistols primed and dry.
The man spun round at the scrape of Hervey’s boot.
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