Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (24 page)

Lord Paget’s quarters would not have served the meanest of his father’s tenants in Staffordshire, but in this blizzard, with a roof and four walls and a pine log burning in the grate, it was as a palace.

‘Indeed I will, sir. And it’s a very great comfort for us to see you too. We have not had much of a go so far; the cavalry, that is. Stewart’s done splendid work, but we need to cross swords with the French instead of just stalking them. As I see it, we’re bound to turn for the sea before too long, and if we don’t fight them hard at some stage—’

Lord Paget held up his hand. ‘I know, Sir Edward, I know. Moore has been let down by that damnable junta in Madrid, and our envoy there’s an imbecile – he writes even now urging him to march there directly, as if it were an open city. Nor will Bonaparte sit there for long. He has eighty thousand, according to our latest intelligence. Whether he’ll turn these against the Spanish and finish them off, or drive for Lisbon, or come for Moore is the question.’

‘But our numbers, given that we are unable to make any useful junction with the Spanish, could not stand against such an onslaught. That is the material point, is it not?’

‘It is. But we can bloody Soult’s imperious nose before Bonaparte and he make a junction. We can even destroy his corps, with a certain address, and that could not fail to spoil Bonaparte’s plans. It might indeed buy the Spaniards a little time, though there’s no saying they wouldn’t then waste it. It might just save Lisbon, too – at least for a month or so.’

‘What a distance we have come since Vimiera!’

‘Heavy irony, Sir Edward –
very.
Cintra has done for Wellesley, I feel sure. The newspapers are very clamorous. Did you ever see the
Political Register’s
pieces?’

‘I don’t as a rule take instruction from Corporal Cobbett!’

‘He accused him of snugging it in to London.’

‘I think it a shame if we lose Wellesley,’ said Lankester, warming his hands with the cup. ‘He has his faults, God knows, but he does at least know when to fight. And, from what I have heard, Cintra was not of his choosing.’

‘No,’ said Paget, shaking his head sympathetically and sighing. ‘Those two old fools Dalrymple and Burrard were the cause. Burrard’s boy is one of Moore’s aides-de-camp. It must go hard with him. The inquiry cannot be much longer in the outcome, but I hazard, still, that it will be the end of Wellesley.’

Lankester finished his mess of tea. ‘But what may we say of this evening, sir? Can you stay your leave for two hours more? My dragoons will be the better for a good hash inside them, and some of the horses are in want of a nail or two.’

‘
As a rule
I wouldn’t wait on an escort,’ said Paget, smiling. ‘And neither would you. But I’m content on this occasion if it allows me to drive them all the harder in their turn!’

‘They would be discouraged if you did not!’

‘Very well. Send them word, and stay for some dinner. I have it on good authority the commissary has killed its several fatted calves.’

‘A treat indeed. I’ve had nothing but stirabout these three days past.’

Beef was what the dragoons had heard promised. But it was not steaks or even clod that the commissary issued that evening; rather was it ox tails and head, though this would make a welcome potage if they could find a few other things to throw in. Bread they had not seen since Salamanca, and the biscuit was as solid as the frozen ground. Hervey had eaten the last of his hard-boiled eggs that morning – half of one egg, for he had shared it with Private Sykes. Daniel Coates had told him to carry hard-boiled eggs always, as many as he could find space for. It had so far proved one of his best Flanders dodges. It would be a good while, now, before he ate another, for he had seen neither beast nor fowl in the last twenty miles.

A Troop’s dragoons had got themselves very fair shelter in one of the dorters, and half a dozen fires were giving good service. Where the fuel had come from Hervey wondered, but was not inclined to ask. If the friary was long abandoned, as it appeared to be, it was salvage wood whatever its first purpose. Camp-kettles bubbled away promisingly. It was impressive how quickly they came into action. The Sixth had dispensed with the big, iron ‘Flanders’ pattern, one for every ten men; the mules had carried them with the regimental baggage, and it could be an age before they came up. Instead the lieutenant-colonel, by judicious use of the grass fund, had replaced them with a much handier one made of tin, which a man could carry on his saddle, one between six. They could thereby have a brew of tea without every man having to make his own fire and use his own mess tin.

Hervey stopped by a kettle where a dragoon called Knowles, known universally as ‘Knacker’, was making dumplings of Indian corn and dropping them into the boil.

‘Are you going to try one of Knacker’s doughboys, Mr ’Ervey, sir?’ asked Private Harris, a cheery sweat of a dragoon who was wont to say, whatever the vexation, ‘It’s naught compared to ’Olland.’

Hervey welcomed the offer, as much for its comradely purport as its nutrition. He imagined himself not so much ‘Cornet Newcome’ any longer.

Private Knowles had been called ‘Knacker’ since the Duke of York’s ill-starred landing in Holland in the last year of the old century. He and Harris had been greenhead dragoons together, both having enlisted at Kingston the year before. They had learned fast but hard on that campaign, and when the regiment had had to destroy so many of its horses because there was not room for them on the transports home, Knowles had used his pistol on behalf of many a man who could not face shooting his own trooper. There were not many left in the regiment who had been in Holland, but the alliteration served to keep the nickname popular. Hervey had shivered at the story when first he heard it. It was one thing to have to shoot a lame animal (and Daniel Coates had made sure he knew how), but to put down good horseflesh to keep it from the hands of the enemy was a sorry business for an Englishman.

Knacker was not his half-dozen’s cook that evening on account of any culinary skill. Each man who chummed together took the chore in turn, and given the unvarying ration and the means to cook it, there was little to be had between any of them in terms of proficiency. The issue biscuit came in three conditions: hard, jaw-breaking or maggoty. The maggoty made the better stirabout, but it was not always palatable to those who had first seen the ration live.

This evening the biscuit was jaw-breaking, and Harris for one decided to put his in a pocket for another day, one when he might have an afternoon to let it soak in a mess of grog. ‘I reckon the artillery could fire it, sir, if they was short of case.’

Hervey smiled. He liked the way the best men made fun of their hardships. There was infinitely more comfort in it than grumbling, although, in truth, there was little enough of that except when it looked as if there would be no going at the enemy. And then there could be any amount. Marching away, ‘like licked men’: they could not contemplate it.

But not tonight. Tonight they were happy. All they needed was a warm bellyful of something, and then they could be off with Lord Paget to have a go at the French.

‘I’ll take a doughboy, thank you, Harris, but I would not wish for someone to go short on my account.’

‘They won’t do that, sir,’ said Knowles, pulling out the first of the dumplings. ‘We found a whole sackful of corn, we did.’

Hervey took it in his gloved hands. It looked like a little frightened hedgehog, and he had to remove a glove so as to pick out the prickles.

‘What’s it like, sir?’ asked Harris, taking his.

‘I can taste the beef,’ replied Hervey. Which was to be expected, for the extremities of the butcher’s art were having a good boiling in the kettle too. ‘What is the corn you have?’

‘Here, sir,’ said Harris, pulling open the sack.

Hervey took a handful. ‘Mm; like barley meal, unsifted.’ Later, the commissaries would issue the same to the troop quartermasters for stables. But he picked out all the prickles and ate the doughboy just the same.

‘Shall you be coming with us, Mr Hervey?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, very decidedly.

Harris seemed to nod, and Knowles too. ‘Chokey’ Finch arrived with an armful of wood.

‘A good find, that, Private Finch,’ said Hervey, mindful of how the dragoon had got
his
nickname.

‘Ay, sir,’ said Chokey, looking pleased. ‘Serjeant Grady gave it me. He were giving away lots of it. The commissaries bought an ’ouse that no one were livin’ in – all ruined an’ that – and broke it up for firewood.’

Hervey was impressed by the enterprise; the commissary-general’s department had been the butt of much criticism from regimental officers of late.

‘Is everything in order, Mr Hervey, sir?’ came a deep Welsh voice, a touch of anxiety added with careful measure.

Hervey turned, a little sheepishly. ‘Ah, Serjeant Ellis.’

‘Captain Lankester’s compliments, sir, and could you join the officers for tea before the escort musters.’

‘Yes, serjeant, of course.’ There was an implied rebuke – from Lankester or Ellis, he did not know. Perhaps it was from both; but there was nothing to be done save do as bidden. Certainly there was nothing to be said, except thanks to the dragoons for their hospitality.

Serjeant Ellis waited until Hervey was gone, and then he eyed Harris, Knowles and Finch in turn. He did not actually say the words, but ‘watch yourselves’ came to their minds. When he was gone, they screwed up their faces in various gestures of disapproval or self-pity.

‘What did the chaplain say last Sunday?’ grumbled Knowles: ‘ “God loves a cheerful giver”!’

‘Ay, Knacker,’ replied Chokey Finch. ‘But Ellis doesn’t. And ’e’s got more say ’ere than God ’as.’

‘He likes it enough when
he
takes it from us. He always wants summat. It’s not right.’

‘He wanted Maureen Taylor an’ all.’

‘Bell-bastard!’

‘Ah, Hervey; you will have some tea ere you go?’

Lankester spoke as if it were his drawing room in Hertfordshire rather than the troop mess, though without the least degree of affectation. But instead of china and silver, Lankester indicated the blackened camp-kettle hanging above the fire, the tea much sweetened with treacle and turned to the colour of saddle leather by the addition of goat’s milk. Private Sykes dipped in an enamelled cup and handed Hervey a quart of the scalding brew.

‘I fear there will be no dinner unless your servant has been uncommonly active,’ said Lankester, a shade wearily. ‘We have just, I understand, taken receipt of some fine pork, but it is as yet on its feet.’

From the other side of the cloisters came squealing, as if Lankester’s word had been the command.

‘A pig becomes pork,’ said Lieutenant Martyn, smiling ruefully and relighting his cigar.

But the squealing continued too long.

Lankester grimaced. ‘What in the name of heaven is yonder butcher doing?’

It stopped suddenly; then there was musketry – ragged, perhaps half a dozen shots.

Lankester put down his basin. ‘Stand to arms, then, gentlemen. Hervey, go and see what is the cause.’

Hervey refastened his cloak and hurried outside. He saw the trail of blood before he reached the infirmary, where the inlying picket was quartered. There were dragoons milling about, and the picket-commander, but no semblance of order.

‘What is happening, Corporal? What is the alarm? Why are you not stood-to?’

‘A pig got loose, sir.’

Hervey scowled. ‘The
firing,
I mean! Corporal, be good enough to give me a report of the alarm. Where did the firing come from?’

‘The men, sir. They’s ’ungry!’

Hervey’s mouth fell open as he realized what had happened. ‘You mean they fired on a pig?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you approve it?’

The corporal hesitated.

‘Come, man! Did you have them fire?’

The same Welsh voice as before intervened. ‘Is there some difficulty, Mr Hervey?’

To Hervey’s mind the question smacked of wilful obtuseness. Ellis was picket-serjeant; he ought himself to be rousting them about. There was a hint of insubordination in the absence of the ‘sir’ after his name too. There had always been a resentful edge to Ellis.

‘I am waiting for an answer, Corporal!’

‘I said as we should shoot the pig, sir. The men is ’ungry, like Serjeant Ellis says.’

Hervey was dumbfounded. They had had a hard march of it, and rations were short, but was that just cause? The picket’s orders were exacting, especially in the matter of opening fire; the whole billet was now standing-to. ‘Place the corporal in arrest, Serjeant Ellis.’

‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’

Hervey braced himself. He had no wish to upbraid a serjeant in front of dragoons. ‘I note your advice, Serjeant, but I would have you place the corporal in arrest for disobeying his standing instructions.’

‘Mr Hervey, a pig is fair game, I should say. There’s not a deal of rations otherwise.’

Hervey blanched. What did Ellis think he was doing? The corporal had disobeyed regimental orders. It was not for the picket-serjeant or anyone else to question them by winking at the breach. The pig-shoot may have been of absurdly little moment, but if standing instructions could be disobeyed without remark, then the Sixth would soon be a convention not a regiment.
And,
Ellis was challenging him in front of dragoons.

He would not bridle, however. He would explain himself clearly, and then put it to the test. ‘Serjeant Ellis, Corporal Cutter is in disobedience to regimental standing instructions. It is for the adjutant to decide if there are mitigating circumstances. You are to place the corporal in immediate arrest.’

‘Look, Mr Hervey, Corporal Cutter was only—’

Hervey boiled. Ellis had gone too far. And all over a pig. ‘And you are to report yourself to the serjeant-major.’

Ellis looked black.

Hervey turned on his heel and marched away, just as Daniel Coates had told him. Make the order plain, he used to say; give it decidedly, and then leave the man to it, for then he could only obey or disobey rather than argue.