A Call To Arms (12 page)

Her look at once became distant again. ‘Why do you wish to know?’

‘Well,’ he began, with a smile, ‘we are detained by you, and might wish to know what shall be our end, and when.’

‘You will come to no harm, messieurs.’

‘But why was the comandante so sure we had seen Austrian troops on the road?’

The woman hesitated at first. ‘There is a company in the town a mile or so along the road from here to Napoli. We intend capturing their weapons. They send patrols along the road to the frontier each day. They return about this time. You should have seen them.’

‘Well, we did not. How many men does the comandante have, mademoiselle?’

She did not answer.

‘Mademoiselle, I am a soldier. It is my interest to know, that is all.’

‘Enough,’ was all she would say.

Hervey thought for a moment. ‘Has the comandante placed pickets about the camp?’

The woman looked uncomprehending.

‘I mean, has he placed sentries all around the camp, at a distance, beyond the range of the camp’s noise?’

Again she looked as if she did not grasp the intent.

‘So that an enemy’s approach might be detected in time to have the comandante’s men take post.’

Hervey’s question was answered in part by a distant welter of musketry. He sprang up and past the woman in an instant. From the mouth of the cave it was clear the firing came from the direction they had travelled, but from up the hill rather than the road below.

The camp was now all alarm, running, cursing and shouting the order of the moment –
a posto! avanti! presto! presto!
Peto looked about with a disdain bordering on contempt. Drill was what they needed at a time like this, and drill was very patently not what they had ever tried, let alone perfected.

Hervey moved instinctively to the protection of a tree trunk, taking his pistol from his belt and porting it high. He called and beckoned to Peto, who was still standing at the mouth of the cave as if on his quarterdeck, for a naval officer did not seek cover in an engagement.

Peto almost strolled to the tree.

‘As soon as they’re all atop that rise’ (Hervey pointed with the pistol to where Carbonari were scrambling for all they were worth) ‘we can steal back down the hill and try to find the carriage.’

‘Very well,’ said Peto, as if he were agreeing to nothing more exacting than a change of sail.

The firing was now intense, perhaps no more than a hundred yards off. It was volleying for the most part, and regular enough for Hervey to estimate there was a full company, for no foreign troops could volley at that rate in a single rank.

Shots peppered the silence between volleys, the Carbonari answering defiantly.

‘We must grant they have pluck,’ said Hervey to Peto.

But Peto was dismayed to find that sticky pine sap had dripped onto the shoulder of his coat. ‘I had this made only last month in Naples,’ he complained.

Hervey turned to look, but a ragged volley from atop the hill took him by surprise. A ball hit the branches overhead, sending down pine needles and bits of bark. He looked back to see white coats coming over the crest. Carbonari, until that moment unseen, rushed forward past him, taking cover behind the rocks and returning the fire determinedly. He saw one whitecoat fall to what looked like a Baker rifle. Now was the time to slip away. He turned to search for his line, but shots over to the right made him look back.

The fierce-eyed woman fell as if dead not thirty yards from them.

As one Hervey and Peto sprinted to her. She lay moaning, blood spread the length of her back.

‘We can’t move her,’ said Hervey.

‘I think we must,’ insisted Peto. ‘To the cave, at least.’

They made to take her by her arms and legs, but lead whistled their way again, and bark flew from the tree next to them. ‘Christ!’ cursed Hervey, reaching for his pistol. He swung round to see a whitecoat rushing them with the bayonet twenty yards off, another close behind. Had he any choice? He levelled his pistol and fired in one movement. The first man fell stone dead.

Peto took aim at the second, fired, then cursed. Hervey dashed to the dead man, seized up his musket and rushed at the second with the bayonet. They met at the charge, but the whitecoat flinched at the last minute and Hervey’s blade drove in beneath the ribcage, running the man back a full six feet before he fell.

Out came the bayonet – easily enough, thank God – and Hervey stood on guard as other whitecoats came over the ridge. Shouting behind him, Italian shouting, made him glance over his shoulder. He flung himself to the ground just as the gun fired. A hail of metal whistled over his head and scythed through half a dozen whitecoats who had left the cover of the trees. He got up and scrambled back to find that Peto had all but reached the cave with the woman.

Carbonari were now swarming up the slope from the road, three
dozen of them, perhaps more. Four giants of men hauled the gun back into alignment – it looked as big as a carronade – as women little more than girls carried powder from the cave.

A line of Carbonari now faced the attack, taking standing cover in the trees. Down the slope in a headlong rush came what was left of their picket – half a dozen men – to rally behind the firing line. Last man down was the comandante, his cloak and hat still in place, ribbons flying loose, the lurchers loping along at his side. As he reached the line he saw the woman lying at the cave’s mouth, and Peto kneeling over her trying to stem the bleeding. He called to Hervey. ‘Save yourselves, signori. This is not your fight.’

Peto took no notice, even if he understood. Hervey was repriming his pistol. He looked up and called back, ‘Have a care of your flank,’ indicating the direction of his skirmish.

The comandante looked right, saw the whitecoats lying dead, and beckoned the picket to that quarter. They were firing within the minute. The comandante looked round and nodded to Hervey grimly.

Soon there were whitecoats the length of the crest not seventy yards away. They presented, fired as one, but too high to have effect. A shower of needles and bark fell on the Carbonari line, then the whitecoats gave point with the bayonets and began doubling down the slope.

‘
Aspete, aspete!
’ called the comandante, glancing left and right to reinforce the command.

Hervey wondered where he had learned his nerve; it took a practised eye to await a bayonet charge.

‘
Aspete, aspete
,’ he continued, as the whitecoats quickened their pace. Then, at thirty yards, ‘
Fuoco!
’

The effect astonished Hervey as much as it shocked the Austrians. Hardly a ball failed to find its mark. The few whitecoats not hit seemed to falter, the touch of cloth now gone from left and right. Carbonari stepped boldly from behind the trees and began taking careful aim with pistols. It was over in a minute.

There was no despatching of the wounded, though, as the Spanish
guerrilleros
would have done. Hervey watched as Carbonari who had fought desperately now sought out those of both sides with life remaining, staunching blood, offering water. By rights they should have picked up their wounded and gone, for
there was no knowing what other troops were even now marching towards the sound of the gunfire. Having once been caught off guard, it was, thought Hervey, imprudent to remain.

‘She needs forceps,’ called Peto from a few yards away. ‘I can feel the ball but it’s tight-lodged.’

The woman was conscious but perfectly still, making not a sound. Where he might find a surgeon’s bag, Hervey had not the first idea. ‘Do not trouble, signori,’ said the comandante in broken French, pushing new cartridges into the bandolier beneath his cloak. ‘The
muli
will come soon, and Maurizia she is strong.’ Hervey did not doubt it, though he thought that neither mules nor the woman’s strength would be enough. Her colour had turned almost grey.

But the stretchers came soon, and with a string of mules; their
sconci
ran ahead with long lead ropes, letting the animals extend up the uneven slope. For Maurizia they lashed a stretcher between two mules, and Peto, Hervey and the comandante lifted her into it and lay her face down, head to one side. She managed something which passed for a smile at her deliverers, a smile which plainly said her thanks. Then she turned her eyes to her comandante; they spoke of defiance still. She coughed the words, ‘
In bocca al lupo, Domiziano. In bocca al lupo.
’

The comandante took the ribbons from beneath his cloak, red, blue and black, and pressed them into her hand. ‘
Crepi il lupo, Maurizia. Crepi
,’ he said softly.

At his nod the
sconci
led the tandem off, up the slope and towards the mountain fastness. Not for Maurizia and the wounded Carbonari the hospital of the town below. That was for the whitecoats. They would take them to the road and leave them for their comrades; and better would be their chances than those of Maurizia and
her
comrades.

Hervey watched the comandante as the train of mules passed. The man’s lips moved, but without a sound. Was he cursing, or praying? As the last mule passed him he made the sign of the cross then turned back to his unlikely comrades-in-arms. ‘Signori, you have done more than I can thank you for. Only it is time for you to leave now, or you will be fighting more.’ He spoke slowly and carefully, his French well chosen.

Hervey understood. He held out his hand.

The comandante took it, and Peto’s, then beckoned to a Carbonaro and gave him instructions to take
nostri amici
to where the carriage had been concealed.

Hervey looked about as the last Carbonari began striking their meagre camp. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. It was strange to see the streaks of powder smoke after so long. His clothes were blood-spattered, his hands too. He pulled the pistol from his waistband to draw the charge. How strange it all felt. But it felt strange because it was so familiar, almost comfortable.

‘Time for us to be hove off, Hervey,’ said Peto, guessing his thoughts.

‘Ay,’ nodded Hervey. ‘I’ve seen ghosts here.’

They spent the night in an uncomfortable
hostaria
not two hours’ drive from Naples. The horses were tired, and the coachman had had enough of a fright not to want to risk more by continuing in the dark. And both Hervey and Peto felt the need of a bath. It was nearly eleven the following day, therefore, when they reached the place just beyond Capodimonte which first afforded a view of the bay. Peto was soon searching with his telescope for sight of his squadron’s tops, and Hervey saw an already happy man become perfectly content when at last he saw his frigates’ ensigns. He himself had already concluded that his only chance of peace lay, ironically, with his return to arms. He would not say at once to Peto why, but he would ask him if they might go first to the post office before rowing out to
Nisus
.

London, two months later

Horse Guards Parade of a sunny July morning was a sight which both commanded attention and pleased the eye. After all the grand places they had visited in Rome, Hervey was unsure how the capital of the greatest military power in the world would compare with that which had once claimed the same title. It was only his fourth or fifth visit: he could hardly profess any certain knowledge. But his sister had been not once, and to her therefore he was an accomplished guide.

‘So this is where sits the Duke of York?’ she said, remembering the mixed fortunes it had spelled for her brother in the past five years.

‘It is,’ replied Hervey, taking out his hunter. ‘And not many minutes before we shall see the changing of the horse guards.’

They had walked from their respective lodgings in Charles Street, he at the new premises of the United Service Club, Elizabeth at a comfortable hotel for ladies, and she had thrilled at the elegance and pulsation combined that was St James’s. After crossing through the park to the parade, they now waited to see the daily spectacle
of colour and military discipline. A company of foot guards (to Elizabeth’s disappointment her brother confessed that he could not tell from which regiment) were drilling in the middle of the parade ground, their band, thirty-strong and more, using the echo from the buildings on three sides to swell their music so that it rose above every competing sound from the busy thoroughfares nearby. The march they played was Irish, thought Hervey, for he had heard it many a time in Irish bivouacs in the Peninsula, but he could not put a name to it. Five minutes before the hour by the Horse Guards’ clock, the old guard – a cornet, a corporal of horse carrying the cased standard, a trumpeter and seven private men of His Majesty’s Life Guards, three remaining sentinel at the Whitehall entrance – filed through the arch below and formed up in line, in close order, to await their reliefs. The horses were impatient for a good trot on the way home, having been confined to the little yard of the headquarters for a full twenty-four hours. They fidgeted and bobbed their heads until their riders managed one by one to collect them.