Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (38 page)

‘Ah, Sir Edward,’ said Paget, as terse as usual, slipping his telescope back into its saddle holster.
‘Chasseurs,
a couple of squadrons. They’ve retired to the high ground yonder.’ He pointed to the snowy pasture north of the town.

Sir Edward took it all in at once: two squadrons of
chasseurs à cheval
on the commanding ground, carbines loaded and powder proven, and no other approach but front and uphill. ‘I fancy a squadron should manage it, my lord,’ he said, with a somewhat exaggerated formality. ‘I shouldn’t think it necessary to trouble the gunners in this.’

Paget smiled. ‘No doubt, Sir Edward, but the Tenth shall support you. And Hay will bring up two guns.’ He turned to General Slade and inclined his head very slightly to ask if it was understood. All the brigadier had to do, indeed, was lead them to their objective.

‘Very good, my lord.’

Sir Edward Lankester cantered back and began putting his troop into line two ranks deep, in the prescribed manner. Captain Worsley’s came up and began the same. There was no need of words. B Troop was to follow in support of A, as they had done many a time on Wimbledon Common. A would advance and B would follow at fifty yards, close enough to lend weight to the clash, but far enough to allow A to clear the line of the charge, either by pushing on through the mass of the enemy or wheeling to a flank. And then behind the Sixth’s squadron would come the Tenth’s, disposed in the same manner.

General Slade rode to the front with his trumpeter, and drew his sword. ‘Walk-march!’

The squadrons swelled forward, like a sail catching the wind, but after a dozen paces Slade held up his hand. ‘Halt!’

‘What in God’s name . . .’ Sir Edward could not believe that Slade would check an advance in the face of the enemy, even one that stood four furlongs away.

An orderly began adjusting the brigadier’s stirrups.

‘I am astonished!’ gasped Sir Edward, in a voice to carry to where Slade dallied.

Lord Paget was no less dismayed. ‘The damned fool!’ he spluttered, in the hearing of all about him.

Slade raised his sword again. ‘Advance!’

The squadrons surged forward, eager to be on with it.

But in another twenty yards Slade halted again, and the same orderly began fussing with the stirrups.

‘Great heavens!’ exploded Paget. ‘Reynell, go take the reins from that damned bungler!’

Colonel Reynell saluted, drew his sword and spurred his big chestnut mare into a gallop. He wheeled in front of A Troop and, without checking, stretched out his sabre towards the
chasseurs.

The whole line took off with him, swords high, as the manual prescribed. It was not the way of Wimbledon Common, with steady approach, gathering pace, then the final charge; but Reynell was as frustrated as Paget.

Hervey struggled to keep a semblance of control over Stella. He was not in the least concerned for the clash of arms to come, only that he should not overtake his troop-leader. And struggle it was, for the mare’s bloodlines were the sprinter’s, and half a mile was her distance. With thirty yards to run, he saw the French front rank erupt in black smoke, as at Sahagun. He glanced left and right: the fire, thank God, was no more effective. But the smoke obscured his man. He just galloped headlong.

A Troop crashed into the French like a wave on a seawall. Two dozen
chasseurs
fell at once, not a man to the blade. The dragoon nearest Hervey tumbled from the saddle as his horse pecked, the head of another striking him square in the chest. Hervey slashed wildly at its rider, but missed. He dared not look round for his coverman but lunged in further, through the front rank now, sword at ‘Guard’, three sabres threatening. He dug his spurs hard into Stella’s side, stopped two cuts with his blade, so hard they almost dashed it from his hand, gave point front and broke the man barring his way out. He emerged the other side without a drop of blood on his sabre but three prisoners to claim.

‘Huzzah, Mr Hervey, sir!’

He turned to see his coverman break surface, blood the length of his sword.

‘Cut through that muff like it were a cabbage!’

‘Brayvo, Corporal Bain! Brayvo!’

Bain was twice Hervey’s age, but he thought nothing of a boy praising him. Neither did Hervey feel reluctance. Two charges, knee-to-knee, in one week: he was no longer a boy.

The 15e Chasseurs à Cheval of Marshal Michel Ney’s VI Corps lay about the frozen ground like toy soldiers tipped from a box, or else scattered beyond Mayorga like sail in a sudden squall. Some were made prisoner, lodgers for the hulks on the Medway or Thames, or for the new stone walls rising on Dartmoor. A hundred prisoners, at least, and their horses: a little prize money, perhaps, but a good deal more glory.

The Sixth’s own casualties had been mercifully light – one man dead and half a dozen with the surgeon. One of them was about to feel the saw at that moment, a decent man from A Troop, Private Walton, not many years enlisted, whom Hervey liked for his clear and steady eye when spoken to. Sir Edward Lankester and Corporal Armstrong stood with him too.

‘You won’t leave me behind, Captain Lankester, sir?’ His voice was composed, scarcely betraying the pain the mangled arm must give. Neither was it pleading, simply an emphatic request.

Sir Edward looked at the surgeon, who raised his eyebrows, as if to say he might not be able to leave him alive.

‘Not if I can help it, Walton.’ He laid a hand on his other shoulder.

An orderly put a cup of opium tincture to Walton’s mouth, and then a bottle of rum, but he shook his head at the strong drink.

‘Take it, bonnie lad,’ said Armstrong. ‘Best way.’

Walton did his bidding, in big gulps, coughing and choking until half the flask was gone.

‘That’s the way, Wally, lad.’

An orderly put a leather strop in Walton’s mouth and tried to place a handkerchief over his eyes.

‘No, no, no,’ slurred Walton. ‘I’ll see the captain.’

The surgeon nodded; his assistant applied the tourniquet. Two orderlies held Walton’s legs down, and another pinned his shoulders.

First the knife went to work. Sir Edward and Armstrong would have looked away, but Walton wanted their assurance. Sir Edward was surprised by how deliberately the surgeon made his incision.

‘Brave lad, Wally. All the troop’ll hear of it!’ said Armstrong.

The surgeon took up the arteries with silk ligatures, then set to with the saw.

Walton bore it well, gagging and struggling very little.

Both Lankester and Armstrong felt their gorges rise at the rasping of saw teeth on bone. Hervey closed his eyes.

‘There’s a good fellow, Walton,’ said Lankester softly.

But it was all done in minutes. The surgeon threw aside the arm and stood back. Then it was more ligatures, and suturing and taping.

‘Is it off, Mr Williams, sir?’ The words rolled drunkenly.

The surgeon frowned. ‘Yes, my boy. Your sufferings are over. I’ve to take up the arteries, but you’ll feel no pain.’

*

Mayorga 26th December 1808

My dear Dan,

I write to you with some apprehensiveness, for since my last letter we have begun what may be a long retrograde movement, whose object and intention you will understand I cannot be permitted to reveal, and I do not know when next I may have an opportunity to pen any lines whatever. After leaving Sahagun we were very promptly in action once more not many miles to the west, whence I write this to you. There was a very fine affair of Cavalry this day here, in full view of Lord Paget, in which we overturned a substantial force of what is believed to have been Bonaparte’s own men hastened to intercept our rearward movement. I am proud to say that one squadron of the regiment distinguished itself greatly, though it is very unfortunate that General Slade, our brigadier, again displayed poor address, just as they say he did at Sahagun. All the officers say he cannot be long for his command once Sir John Moore hears of it.

But now we rest in the expectation of being further pressed by the French as we cover the remainder of the army in its efforts to get across the R. Esla and to Astorga, where it is confidently expected that Sir John M. will make a stand. We have taken possession of excellent supplies which the commissaries had no option but to give to us or destroy, for they have not the means of transport, neither the mules nor the oxen nor the carts to carry more than a portion of it away. Earlier this day the French had possession of it, for not long had our baggage-master and his party taken possession than Marshal Ney’s Chasseurs galloped into the town and made them prisoner. But then the Hussars of the King’s German Legion re-took the commissary stores and set free the baggage party, before in turn being driven off west towards the Esla. So now we have free issue of boots, biscuit, powdered meat, shirts, blankets, stockings, belts, oats, hay, lamp
oil, candles and all manner of things, as if it were the trump of doom, when the graves come open and all is let loose! However, the rum has been placed under guard. The officers are to appeal for moderation in this making free, for the horses already carry too much, but it is a deal to ask of a man whose clothes are wet and threadbare, his boots likewise sodden and his belly hurting, and it is so very cold. My own groom has brought me three shirts, a black pudding and a good many other things, but since my own bat-animals are by now, I trust, with the regiment’s mules and cart beyond the Esla, I may not be able to take away much.

Since beginning writing this we have proceeded west, for Lord Paget decided we must make contact again with the reserve division, and bivouac at Valderas, and so by two o’clock we were marching again, Lord Paget certain, it was said, that Ney’s cavalry would press us hard every one of the dozen miles to Valderas, but they did not, which all say is most curious. It rained heavily all the way here (to Valderas, I mean), and I shared my prized black pudding with Cornet Laming as we marched side by side. I rode La Belle Dame, and Private Sykes led my new liver chestnut, Stella. Bel has a most comfortable gait, as good at the trot as the walk, and I consider myself most handsomely equipaged now, with a good march horse and a good battle charger. Although it was raining very heavily, we left Mayorga with spirits high and all fed well, man and horse. But I am very sorry to say that Private Walton has died, the first man of our troop to the enemy.

The country was very ill used between Mayorga and here, where we bivouac, exhibiting melancholy proofs of the devastation committed by the infantry which had preceded us. We observed one village in flames whilst we were at a considerable distance, and it was still burning when we passed through it, though the rain fell still heavy. The people there, who were very poor, shouted ‘Viva los Francésces!’ and we overtook some stragglers who had been stripped and maltreated by the Spaniards . . .

*

That night, Colonel Reynell visited every one of the Sixth’s outposts and spoke the same to each of them, enumerating the outrages and deploring the state to which parts of the army had so rapidly descended. ‘It is shameful indeed, men, to own that these things have been done by those who wear the King’s uniform. We must give not a single Spanish peasant any cause to speak against the regiment.’

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.