Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (28 page)

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.

‘I am very much obliged, Gordon,’ said Gartside, turning to Hervey.

Hervey imagined himself as well served now as any galloper in the army. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain Gordon.’

The ADC turned and looked at him. ‘Was it you who cut out Hill last night?’

Hervey was surprised the news had travelled. ‘It was.’

The ADC nodded, and with just a suggestion of a smile. ‘Then you did the army a service, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

A thunder-blast of cannon seemed to rock the entire
cerro
. Then came the whistling-buzzing shot, tearing the air about them, pounding the forward slope and throwing up fountains of earth, showering the commander-in-chief’s party with sods and stones – and worse. A bloody arm fell in front of Hervey, its fingers stretched out like a fan. Instinctively, for it was the way Joseph Edmonds had trained them (and to take his eyes from the disembodied limb), he took out his watch: it was twenty minutes past five o’clock.

The redcoated battalions of the forward brigade swayed visibly under the bombardment – thirty guns were firing, by the ADCs’ common reckoning. But the batteries were now joined by others further down the slopes of the Cerro de Cascajal, so that soon there was a continuous fire, and all concentrated on the eastern end of the long ridge of the Cerro de Medellin.

Sir Arthur Wellesley turned to General Hill. ‘Very well, have them withdraw behind the crest and lie down. But have the light companies hold their ground: I must have skirmishers to break up the columns when they advance.’

General Hill had taken the precaution of having the brigade-majors join him for stand-to. He nodded to them, no words necessary, then he touched his hat as the commander-in-chief spurred off to inspect his other divisions.

Smoke drifted across the valley of the Portiña, obscuring their view of the batteries, but likewise spoiling the gunners’ aim. General Hill sat coolly astride his black gelding on the reverse slope, far enough behind the crest for protection, but, standing in his stirrups, able to observe the movement of the French – and his light companies. After twenty minutes without flinching in the storm of shot, he snapped shut his telescope suddenly, and scowled. ‘The French have excess of fortune this morning. So many guns firing blind and still telling! And every shot thickening the smoke. I can no longer see the light companies!’

‘Recall them, General?’ asked his AQMG.

‘Ay, George; let us have them in. And quick about it.’

The AQMG reined about and repeated the order to the brigade-majors.

In less than a minute the regimental buglers were sounding ‘retire’. As a rule, General Hill did not permit field orders to be passed by bugle. The drill book was emphatic on the matter:
Signals are improper in exercise, because dangerous and apt to be mistaken in service
. Except that in his experience signals were rarely mistaken by the enemy! But what alternative did he have this morning, with so much smoke? This morning he did not mind by
what
means his skirmishers were recalled. If the French heard the urgent, repeated Gs, so be it! The light companies would be sure to.

Ten minutes later, Hervey saw the first men filing home through the blackening smoke, arms sloped, regular as if on parade.

General Hill exploded. ‘Damn their filing! Let them come in anyhow!’

Lieutenant Gartside blinked. ‘I do believe that is the first time I have heard the general swear.’

With so severe a cannonade, Hervey could not but imagine the general had cause.

Then, in a few minutes more, the fire abruptly ceased. The only sound was of the wounded, and these remarkably composed. After such thunder, the silence was eerie. Hervey felt his stomach tighten.

‘There can only be one reason,’ said Hill, standing tall in the stirrups, and shielding his eyes from the already strong sun as he peered into the smoke. ‘The gunners’ll not be able to see their own men. Their infantry must be half-way to the top.’

‘Bring forward the brigades, sir?’ suggested the AQMG.

‘No, George, not yet. I want to see the colour of their facings before I stand ours up. The smoke’s to our advantage now.’

Anything
that hampered the gunners’ aim was to their advantage, thought Hervey. He wondered again if he ought not to be seeking his leave: the Sixth would surely not be foraging long, now that action was joined?

The guns did not remain silent for long, however. They commanded more than just the forward slope of the Cerro de Medellin: they could as easily enfilade the Portiña. But they were not yet ready to switch from the Second Division entirely. The right flank of Colonel Stewart’s brigade, extending partway down the southern slope of the
cerro
, stood exposed, the only troops of the division not concealed on the reverse slope or masked by smoke. Two guns on the left of the French battery had direct line of sight, and these now opened an unnervingly accurate fire on the first battalion of the 48th (Northamptonshire) Regiment, followed by others firing blind – and lucky.

‘They shall have to bear it,’ said Hill resolutely, but sadly. ‘Either that or lie down. The French will be upon them soon.’

Hervey watched, appalled, as shot tore into the Forty-eighth’s ranks, the men dragging their fallen comrades rear and then closing the gaps, so that with each minute the line moved a little further to the left. ‘Why do they close up? Why do they not lie down, or stand open so the shot has less effect?’

‘Because they might not stand at all unless in close order,’ replied Lieutenant Gartside, grimly.

Hervey could scarce believe the steadiness. These men would rather stand shoulder-to-shoulder and suffer the consequences than disperse and suffer less! He began praying the cannonade would cease; the Forty-eighth had already borne more than a regiment ought to endure.

General Hill judged it the moment. ‘Now, George!’

Hervey saw the French helmets cresting the ridge as Major-General Tilson’s brigade rose to its feet, followed by Stewart’s and Donkin’s. The French had suffered not at all as they ascended the slope;
now
the ranks of redcoats would exact their revenge.

Hervey heard the first command – ‘Fire!’ – and then all hell itself seemed let loose.

Five minutes, ten, fifteen . . . he had no idea how long it was. The French tried to answer, but in close column of divisions they could not bring enough muskets to bear against battalions in line only two ranks deep. And even as the columns tried to deploy, riflemen of the German Legion came doubling up the south slope to pour well-aimed fire into their flank – General Mackenzie and his promised ‘best support’.

‘
Bayonets!
’ shouted Hill.

In an instant, four thousand muskets were turned into pikes. The lines of red surged forward, the columns of blue wavered, the British charged – and the French broke. They ran back down the slope to the Portiña, but not fast enough. Hundreds of them fell to the points of steel which pursued, half crazed.

General Hill and his staff followed as far as the crest of the
cerro
. Smoke hung about, if patchy, but Hervey could see redcoats at the Portiña, and some even across it, hunting their quarry right back to the reserve line. He had seen nothing its like before, but his instinct told him what must happen next: the whole of the British line would advance, and the whole of the French line would break.

He was wrong. As suddenly as the French had broken at the crest, the reserve line sprang to life, and the fleeing bluecoats turned on the hunting bayonets, as a wildcat turns on its pursuer.

General Hill saw but the one outcome. ‘Curse their ardour, George! What
do
the officers do there? Sound “recall”!’

In the relative peace of the olive groves, Hervey, now returned to duty with the Sixth, sought to recount what had happened. ‘They were horribly pounded by the artillery as they made their way back up the hill, Colonel.’

‘And there was no opening for cavalry?’ Lord George Irvine wanted to know every detail.

Hervey shook his head. ‘I do not think two horses could have crossed the Portiña together at that point, Colonel. Where they
might
have served, perhaps, is in the valley north of the ridge. There was a whole regiment of
chasseurs
there, and able to withdraw in perfect order.’

Lord George frowned. ‘Anson’s supposed to be there. He’s still foraging, I suppose. There’s nothing for us here the while. I believe I shall go to Cotton and propose taking the regiment instead. Has Hill applied to Wellesley, do you know?’

‘I do not know, Colonel. The general was obliged by a wound in the head to leave the field. That is when his colonel ordered me to return here. General Tilson has taken the command.’

Lord George nodded. ‘Very well, Hervey: you may rejoin your troop. Doubtless you were of use to Hill, but I can ill afford any more detachments.’

Hervey took his leave a shade disconsolately. Lord George seemed peeved that he had been absent on duty – why else complain of detachments? – and appeared to imagine he had been but an observer. With General Hill
hors de combat
, perhaps invalided home even, what chance was there of any recognition now?

Half an hour later, with no move by the enemy except the continued pounding of the Cerro de Medellin, Lord George Irvine received the nod from Major-General Stapleton Cotton. He summoned his troop-leaders and gave his orders in the space of but a minute. The squadrons were well drilled, and the skirmishing of the day before had put a confident address into them, too.