A Close Run Thing (43 page)

‘Teufel! Gefährlicher als ich gedacht hatte!’ exclaimed the baron. ‘
Much
more dangerous than I had imagined. Come; we must make straight for Prince Blücher.’

Hervey sighed, relieved that Müffling had grasped the danger and was prepared to act. Indeed, he was
first
relieved that he took him at his word, for he had no written authority, nor was he an ADC. And, as they quickened on, the general’s eyes widened in astonishment when Hervey recounted how he had discovered the ruse. The general kept repeating his assurance, however, that all would now be well just as soon as they found Prince Blücher. Hervey believed him.

But his confidence faltered on first seeing Blücher’s men a half-hour later, for where he had been expecting to see a military machine, the legacy of Frederick the Great, he saw only …
disorder
(some would say
chaos
).
Never
– not even during the worst moments of the long retreat through the Astorgias to Corunna – had he come upon anything so disheartening. Was ‘rabble’ too extreme a word for this mass of soldiery, guns and waggons toiling through mud axle-deep? It was as if the entire army had become stragglers. Müffling, however, knew both his countrymen and his allies, and perceived well enough Hervey’s dismay. ‘It is true,’ he conceded, ‘we were evilly mauled yesterday at Genappe. But do not underestimate the hardiness of these men, Mr Hervey. “Alte Vorwärts” has given your Duke of Wellington his word, his
sacred
word, that he will come to his aid. You do not suppose that these men will be unworthy of it?’

This pledge of constancy, and of the spirit that animated the Prince, was heartening, but it seemed unlikely. Yet soon it proved true, for when they found Prince Blücher he was encouraging his weary infantry in person. ‘Kommt, meine Kinder, noch einmal!’ he
exhorted
them, slapping his thigh and waving his hand. His intent could be in no doubt, and his energy was at once imparted to the jaded foot-soldiers. When he saw his old friend, however, he turned his horse and rode up in a welter of earthy opinion. ‘Mein Gott, Müffling, es ist Scheisse, reine Scheisse!’

Hervey fought hard not to laugh. Field Marshal Blücher, the veteran hussar and fighter of the French: warm, emotional, with a soldier’s vocabulary – and reeking of onions and gin. What greater contrast with the duke could there have been? Blücher even apologized for smelling so rank (having dosed himself, he explained, after a fearsome fall at Genappe), and shook Hervey’s hand so vigorously that he thought his wrist must crack.

‘This officer bears extraordinary intelligence of a ruse by the French,’ said Müffling. ‘I consider that you should hear it before my own.’

The marshal listened to Hervey’s report in frowning silence and then turned to one of his ADCs, instructing him to hasten General von Ziethen’s corps to the duke’s flank.

‘And, sir,’ ventured Hervey in textbook German, animated by Blücher’s determination to foil this stratagem, ‘may I propose one additional order? May I suggest, sir, that General von Ziethen opens fire as soon as his men debouch from the forest, for although they will be half a league or more from the French the firing will signal hostile intent and should therefore confound Bonaparte’s ruse.’

‘Ja, ja, richtig; das ist eine exzellente Idee,’ replied the field marshal excitedly. ‘Vieles Schiessen!’ he shouted, slapping his sides as if about to take off after hounds. ‘Vieles Schiessen, Lutzow!’ he called after the ADC.

Hervey was as anxious to be away as the ADC (for, his business concluded, he wished to search for Serjeant Strange), but he saw that his progress would be quicker in the company of Baron Müffling. Yet Müffling showed no enthusiasm for an immediate return, Blücher and he withdrawing for a full quarter-hour to confer alone. He dismounted and fed Jessye some corn which a commissary was content to give him, and as he sat on a fallen tree holding her reins he began to study more closely the men who filed by. And what he saw began to encourage him; indeed, inspire him. These men – as a body – looked as if they had had a mauling, and yet they had with them all their personal equipment. What was more, it was as serviceable as he had seen –
more
serviceable even. And the faces of the musketeers of the Silesian Regiment trudging past, though tired-looking, had a fearsome aspect: Hervey thought he saw in them a positive lust to be at the throats of the enemy.

The cavalry carefully picking their way around the infantry were even more convincing. They, too, bore the signs of battle, but they carried themselves with the same grim determination. These hussars knew what they were about. How proudly the black-and-white
shako-cockades
bobbed with their horses’ action. And what horses!

‘Zey are fine, are zey not?’ said one of Müffling’s ADCs, who had come over to share his tree, handing him a silver flask.

‘Yes,’ said Hervey. He could not say other, for they
were
fine horses, in the finest condition – and this despite their exertions of the past week. ‘Trakheners?’

‘Ja, Trakhener. Do you know ze breed?’

‘No, I have heard much of them but I have never before seen one.’

‘You admire zem, ja?’

‘Very much. They are bigger, I think, on the whole than our troop horses – half a hand, I should say. Plenty of bone, and beautiful heads, too,’ he smiled, thinking how much Jessope would approve of them.

‘You do not have a cavalry stud in England, I understand?’ continued the ADC, offering his flask again.

‘No, we buy from dealers. There never seems a want of good horses.’

‘Ja, I admire much your zoroughbred. Ve are using some zoroughbreds now at Trakhenen Stud, I am hearing. To give more speed. But your horse is not a zoroughbred, I zink?’

‘No,’ replied Hervey with a wry smile, facing the hopeless task of explaining Jessye’s breeding. ‘Her sire was a thoroughbred, but her dam was a Welsh Cob, an old breed from—’

But the ADC needed no priming. ‘Ze Velsh Cob I am admiring very much!’ he said in delight. ‘Ze hardy
native
pony und ze Andalusians make zis cob four or five hundred years ago, I zink. Ze ambassador in Berlin has von of zese ponies for his son, und it is – how do you say? – ze handiest little horse in ze Grünewald.’

‘And I fancy that mine, too, is the handiest in
this
forest!’ laughed Hervey.

When at last they began back for Mont St-Jean it took them all of two hours through the mud, and the press of men, horses and waggons, to reach the edge of the forest. Yet in that time he became confident at last that the Prussians would assail the French, as they had promised, with all vigour and dispatch. It only remained to see how soon this would be.

But searching for Strange was not possible, for as they emerged from the tree-line they saw more French cavalry, forcing them on a wide detour. ‘Herr General,’ began Hervey as they reached Vivian’s flank pickets, ‘may I ask you the favour of reporting to Lord Uxbridge that I have done what he commanded: I believe my duty now is to rejoin my regiment.’

‘Of course, Mr Hervey; you have done your duty admirably. And I must apologize again that my hussars mistook you for a Frenchman,’ he smiled. ‘Do not concern yourself about Prince Blücher. He is above seventy, you know, but still he is a tenacious soldier,
ein treuer Husar
as we say. He will never give up!’

Hervey had half-expected to find the Sixth gone from above La Haye. Instead he found Vivian’s same pickets
on
the flank; but although the regiment had dressed a little towards the centre, as the brigades had tried to close the gaps, they held the same ground as four hours before. ‘Has, please God, Serjeant Strange ridden in, sir?’ he asked, hoping against hope that he had somehow made his escape.

‘I fear not,’ replied Lankester, holding out a flask. ‘You had better take a draw on this brandy and tell me all that has passed.’

When Hervey’s account was ended the captain turned to Adjutant Barrow who, though Hervey had not observed it, had been active once more with his pocket-book. ‘Is there anything more for the record, Barrow?’ asked Lankester.

‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘except that, if I might be allowed to say so, this seems uncommon service. I am sorry for Serjeant Strange; but Mr Hervey should not, in my judgement, let it rest upon his consciousness, for it was noble necessity.’

Hervey might have resented so cold a dismissal of Strange, but he recognized the adjutant’s purpose well enough. And Lankester voiced the same: ‘Indeed so, Barrow, and very aptly put,’ he nodded. ‘Well done, Hervey. You cannot grieve, for there has been no deficiency in your conduct. And now, if you please, I desire that you resume command of your squadron, for there will soon be hot work to be about.’

Hervey was grateful enough for their solicitude, yet it did little to reassure him as he rode over to his squadron. Cornet Seton Canning greeted him with
evident
relief as he resumed his place at the head of First, for Canning had joined the regiment just before they had left Cork, and after only the first field day he had grasped for himself the extent of his inexperience. Command of a squadron had sat uneasily with him for the past few hours.

Armstrong’s relief stemmed from a different impulse, however, for he counted his lieutenant more than a mere squadron leader. ‘Thank Christ, Mr ’Ervey,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is worse than Salamanca!’

‘Tell me of it, Serjeant Armstrong! For I do not wish to dwell any more on
my
past hours. Serjeant Strange is dead – I am certain – and I had to leave him in the field.’

Armstrong paused, but (and Heaven knew how much he wanted to know of the circumstances) he held his peace, and began instead to rail against their own inactivity. ‘Not fewer than twelve Frog charges in a row!’ he thundered, recalling with startling imagery the attacks on the centre by the masses of
cuirassiers
and
lanciers
. ‘They ’ave tried to break them squares all afternoon. Every time they came on they’ve been seen off by the guns or Lord Uxbridge’s men in the middle. The ’ussars on the other flank ’ave been all over the place – and yet we ’ave sat ’ere idle as a monk’s prick. One paltry gallop in the whole day!’

‘The duke’s express orders, Serjeant Armstrong,’ Hervey sympathized. ‘We are rooted to this flank until relieved by the Prussians.’

Armstrong shook his head in despair. ‘And what
good
might that do? Look yonder,’ he spat, pointing to La Haye Sainte. ‘
There!
The French ’ave taken it at last! What’s the sense of us sitting here, then, with the centre about to give way?’

Half a league hence the Duke of Wellington turned to the Earl of Uxbridge and said calmly: ‘Night or the Prussians must come!’

XVI

NIGHT OR THE PRUSSIANS

Overlooking Papelotte and La Haye, Evening

HERVEY TOOK OUT
his watch. The smallest of shell splinters was embedded in its face, neatly piercing the letters
d’A.J
. on the cover and arresting the hands.

‘Aren’t you the lucky one, Mr ’Ervey,’ said Armstrong. ‘That would’ve made the eyes water!’

How
was
Jessope? he wondered as he examined the watch, puzzling whether the mechanism was still intact. How he envied him his situation, in the thick of the fighting, with Lord Fitzroy and the duke.

‘Half after six,’ said Armstrong, looking at the watch he had found at Vitoria. ‘Where are them Prussians, then?’

Hervey had no answer. Then Brigade-Major Harris came galloping along the line, the tails of his red staff-coat flying like an express boy’s.

‘Hallo, somethin’s up!’ said Armstrong hopefully.

Hervey agreed, and rode up to Lankester in anticipation.

‘The flank pickets report that Prussian hussars are approaching. Both brigades are to move to the centre as soon as relieved,’ said Harris.

Lankester merely looked at Hervey for an acknowledgement, confident that there was no need of elaboration. Hervey nodded, saluted and trotted back to his squadron, his broad smile at once conveying the intention through the ranks.

‘Are we to ’ave at ’em at last, Mr ’Ervey?’ someone called.

‘Yes, boys, now’s our time!’

Later he would ponder on that familiarity. It was what Edmonds, for sure, would have said, and Lankester, too – although the captain would more likely have said ‘
my
boys’. But Hervey had done so unaffectedly, and the squadron accepted it – as an unbroken horse at last accepts the bit.

Ten minutes later, with the first green jackets of the death’s-head hussars coming on to the ridge, Vivian’s brigade began its move. Lord Uxbridge rode up. ‘Well done, Vivian,’ he began. ‘You have anticipated the duke’s intentions precisely. A gap is opening in the centre, and some of the foreigners are beginning to waver. I may tell you, it is damned hot work there!’ Hervey’s mare squealed suddenly as his trumpeter’s grey fly-kicked and threw his rider, causing Uxbridge to turn. ‘Mr Hervey!’ he exclaimed, ‘we must speak of certain matters when there is opportunity – if your
trumpeter
leaves you in one piece, that is!’ And Hervey flushed bright red as the wretched dragoon attempted to remount in a profusion of apologies.