Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (32 page)

My dear Dan
,

I cannot know if this letter will arrive before my last (on 27th July) wherein I told you of the day’s skirmishing with the French before the city of Talavera de la Reina. Hereafter I shall number these so that you may tell at once when there is an interruption in my reports. Since that letter, as well you may have read in the newspapers, we have fought a general action, which is to be called Talavera, and they say that more men fought here than at Blenheim! Think of that, Dan, for your own cadet has seen a battle as great as that. They say that Sir Arthur Wellesley will be made an Earl! I send you herewith a fair copy of my journal for the day, which I was able to set down within forty-eight hours of the end of the action, for the army was greatly knocked up on account of the fighting, and there was some rest. General Craufurd came up from Portugal with the Lt Brigade which they say made a most prodigious march as fast almost as cavalry, and they were received with great cheering all across the field, the like of which I never heard. And it was as well that they did for the Army has lost five and a half thousand. It was the most dreadful business, and the collecting of the wounded and burying the dead fair wore us out. The ground was so hard we could not dig, and so many dead we had to place in dried beds of winter torrents and cover as best we could, while many more and the horses were gathered in heaps and burned, a dreadful thing to do, but there was no other course for the sun was very hot. I confess the smell was intolerable. And many of the wounded, British and French, for both were treated the same, perished while lying in the blazing sun, in want of water, dressing, and shelter
.

The excitement of battle over, we all felt severe stomach cramps. But for some bread and peaches we had nothing for most two days. We cursed the commissaries greatly, but it was not all their fault, for bread had been baked for the Army before the battle, but the Spaniards had broken into the stores and made off with it, and many of these left the field altogether. Early next morning about 25 of the Spanish deserters, all dressed in white and accompanied by priests, were marched up in front of the Army and shot. One was a young lad, and he dropped before the party fired, but it was no use, for after a volley at 10 paces distant had been given by about 50 men, the whole party ran forward, and firing through heads, necks, breasts, &c, completed their grisly work
.

Since then we have been much about the country between Talavera and the Portuguese border, for Marshal Soult has marched from the north of the country where he had been reinforced since the battle at Oporto, and has collected an army of fifty thousand, which greatly threatens our lines of communication with Portugal since General Joseph Bonaparte has not been besieged in Madrid as it had been thought after the battle, and is able to fasten the Spanish of General Cuesta at Talavera, so that in dividing our forces we should be very materially at risk, and especially so now that it is certain that Soult has
fifty
thousand not twenty as was first supposed. We have marched up and down but now we are where Sir Arthur Wellesley intends staying. It is said that we should have marched on to Elvas, which is not many miles westwards of here, but that abandoning altogether Spanish soil was too hard a thing for the commander in chief after such a victory as Talavera . . .

Hervey wrote three pages of news, attached four more (the fair copy of his journal account of the battle), and then composed a second letter, to Horningsham. This was an altogether less dramatic account of the past month, with little narrative of the action to and fro, and even less of the battle itself, merely a line that ‘I was much about the field with my regiment but never in any danger’. One event he felt compelled to write of, however, even though his people knew nothing of the man, for he had never before mentioned him.

Late in the day of the battle we were obliged to advance across country which had not previously been spied out, and which proved to have several hidden watercourses, some quite deep, and the brigade ran faster than was prudent, so that one regiment (the 23rd Lt Drgns) lost so many men fallen as to be severely disordered, and ours coming up in the support line lost some as well, on the left flank, and one cornet, Quilley, I am afraid broke his neck . . .

He wrote by way of expiation. Such had been the contempt for Quilley by the time of Talavera that there had been a general sneering at the news of the fall, ascribing it to a ‘what can be expected?’ lack of horsemanship. But when it became known that Quilley was dead, a certain sense of guilt – or perhaps it was merely distaste – had silenced all comment.

Hervey, indeed, had felt a good deal of shame at his first thoughts (that he wished it had been Cornet Daly instead). That was a part of his news that he could not impart to Wiltshire, either to his family or to Daniel Coates. For Talavera, for all that the steeples might be rocking in England now, had not been the occasion for amnesty: the court martial merely awaited opportunity. Hervey’s pleasure in going into quarters at Badajoz was therefore greatly tempered by the knowledge that at last there
was
the opportunity.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AN OFFICER’S WORD

Badajoz, evening, Innocents’ Day, 1826

Hervey looked at the letter from Elvas again. It had been in his hand not a quarter of an hour, but it was intriguing him the more with each minute. The veiled speech and the knowledge that it was not the writer’s mother tongue – although as fine as ever he would expect to read from someone whose first language was not English – was increasing his doubts.

Elvas
28th December

My Dear Friend
,

It pains me greatly that ten whole days have passed since your noble act, and yet you are still confined. I assure you, as I have each time, that I do not spare myself in seeking your return to Elvas in accordance with what I trust are your wishes. I am comforted to know that you are well treated, as I would expect of our great neighbour, Spain. These are confounding times, and I pray that proper relations shall be restored before long between two countries which are of one Catholic heart
.

Hervey shook his head again as he re-read the sentiment. He recognized both the sincerity and the need to assure the censor – to engage his sympathy, even – but the words, truly, were too finely crafted, even for Dom Mateo, though he had no reason to suppose the letter was not his. In any case, the news it brought, heartening as it was, could scarcely have been from another, even if the singular puzzle over the identity of the ‘fellow of long acquaintance’ would now vex him. At least the identity of the other arrival at Elvas could be in no doubt:

I am overjoyed to tell you that unofficial and friendly emissaries from Lisbon have arrived here this very hour. The one who has connections here, and in whose company we first made our acquaintance, shall be of exceptional assistance on account of family. The other is a fellow of long acquaintance to you, in a position of some authority and influence now. But more I cannot say until the greater comings are made generally known, for to do so might tempt hasty action, or diminish the consequence at the highest level
.

So, Isabella Delgado was in Elvas! Hervey felt more reassured than he had in days. Why, he would have been hard put to say; except that there was about Isabella a great air of capability and judgement, as well as connections with the bishop’s palace in Elvas, which in turn meant connections in Badajoz – perhaps even in Madrid. However, such an oblique reference to the identity of the second arrival could suggest no name to him more likely than any other, except the mention of authority and influence. ‘Authority’ ruled out Kat.
Thank God
, for Kat’s charms and talents did not seem to him well matched to the frontier. There were any number of officers who might answer to the description, especially since he had no idea of the magnitude of the authority and influence Dom Mateo had in mind. There were
generals
, indeed, who might feel some slight obligation to him. But could a general be an ‘unofficial’ emissary? He thought not.

‘The greater comings’ was maddeningly ambiguous. Hervey saw perfectly well that the words could refer to the visit of senior officials (and with that, public humiliation and the Horse Guards’ discipline). But might they refer to comings to Portugal, rather than to Elvas? And might ‘greater’ mean greater in number rather than rank? In other words, had a British army landed in Lisbon?

Dr Sanchez came about six. Hervey did not know if he had seen the letter (Sanchez had brought all the others, but this one had come by an orderly – which had first put Hervey on his guard somewhat). He thought to judge his moment before revealing its receipt or contents.

They sat down to wine, the physician in distinctly good spirits.

‘You know, Major Hervey, I have been thinking about Talavera since you recounted it to me. I believe I must have seen your regiment that day. The Duke of Albuquerque’s corps stood in the valley north of the ridge you spoke of. I confess I recall it very well, in fact, since I was astonished – and I was not alone in that sentiment – that our corps made no move.’ Sanchez shook his head, not pained, but evidently embarrassed. ‘But what did
I
know, a mere regimental surgeon? And it was a long time ago.’

To Hervey, it was
not
a long time. A year ago he might have thought so, perhaps, but not now, not cloistered, incarcerated – whatever might be the word – in Badajoz. He was troubled by the good doctor’s perspective. If he were to enlist his help, he had to persuade him that the alliance of their two countries was of recent mind –
continuing
, indeed. In fact, he had to convince him that the two of them were men of one body.

He believed he could, for the sense of obligation to one who had shared the dangers of that day at Talavera would be profound in a man of Sanchez’s manifest sensibility. Sanchez, the regimental surgeon, may have carried a scalpel rather than a sabre, but he was of the ‘Yellow Circle’ still.

His very next words appeared to prove it. ‘You did not say what of your wound. I imagine it was but superficial?’

Hervey smiled. ‘The shoulder blade prevented the sword from cutting too deep. Our surgeon said I was lucky, although I did not feel it, for it hurt like hell, and I could hardly flex my rein-arm for days after.’

‘I imagine there to be no ill effects now?’

‘No, none at all. Indeed, it was all quite better before we reached Badajoz.’ As he said it, he felt the smile turn hapless.

Sanchez nodded. ‘Until you reached here. Just so. But not for the last time, of course.’ He looked saddened.

Hervey imagined he knew the cause. His own remembrance of Badajoz, in spite of the pleasant days they had had on first reaching the city, was hardly agreeable. Some of the later memories haunted him yet. Sanchez’s own memories, even if hearsay, would be infinitely worse: four sieges (the first French, the others British), and the terrible final storming. It was not to be recalled. But – and here was the gamble – Hervey judged that it might serve his purpose to do so, for the very horror of the final storming of Badajoz might touch something deep in a medical man. It would be risky reminding a proud Spaniard of his ally’s depredations. But, as Sanchez himself had said, it was a long time ago. He might not recall too well the details; he might not even have been there.

‘Would you take more wine with me, doctor?’

Sanchez nodded. ‘I would.’

He had appeared to hesitate, as if overcoming a prohibition. Hervey sensed his purpose working out.

‘Major Hervey, there is something I should speak of.’

‘Yes, doctor?’ Was this the moment Sanchez would pledge himself?

Sanchez sighed, sounding heavy-hearted. ‘I am distressed to tell you this . . . I had hoped it not necessary . . . I . . .’

Hervey was now uneasy. ‘Speak, doctor; let us have the worst!’

‘Major Hervey, the authorities here are talking of bringing you before a military tribunal.’

Hervey’s jaw dropped. ‘On what charge?’

Sanchez shook his head again. ‘I do not know. I heard mention of . . . espionage.’

Hervey did not reply. The outcome of such a trial, if unfavourable, was known to them both well enough. He felt his spirits plummeting like a stone into a deep, dark well. A military tribunal at Badajoz: the wheel had come full circle. Nothing could be more painful to a soldier’s pride than to be arraigned before a military court. He had never spoken of the first time, with anyone – not with Daniel Coates, nor even with Henrietta. In a pocket of his writing case there was, still, a sheet of paper, a convening order for a court martial seventeen years old – his age, almost, at the time of its signing. He did not rightly know why he kept it. His penance, perhaps. But had he not redeemed himself a hundred times since then? A military tribunal – a court martial: the wheel had, indeed, come full circle, and he dreaded being broken on it.