Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (40 page)

Hervey was disappointed when he heard. He wanted to
see
their good work. But at least they might have a little sleep this way. ‘Have the men return to the troop, Corporal Armstrong,’ he said, putting his coat back on. ‘I shall report to the bridge garrison captain.’

After taking proper leave of the captain, Hervey set off on his own, on foot, back to the convent. The rain had eased a little, but still it drummed noisily. The place was quite deserted now but for a roadblock manned by the first battalion of the 43rd (Monmouthshire), one of the army’s best light infantry regiments, said those in the Sixth who knew about these things. Their uniform was in a poor way, though – sodden, with red dye running from the tunics, and their faces black from carboned shakos. But they looked sharp enough, with an ensign and three NCOs to the fore. Hervey saluted (it was
their
bridge) then made his way through the chicane, taking a closer look at the faces of the private men. They were hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, but they spoke more of grim determination than defeat. As he walked away, he wondered how long it would be before the Sixth’s men began to resemble the Forty-third’s. How many nights without sleep did it take? How many miles marching?

*

There! A glimpse only, but he was sure: a blue coat, and not thirty yards away! The man had darted across the street and into one of the bigger houses.

Hervey checked. What should he do? Go back and alert the Forty-third’s picket? What if it weren’t a Frenchman, though? What if it were a Spaniard? Should he not first make certain?

The street was empty. He drew his sword and ran to the house.

It was open, the windows unshuttered and broken. He went in silently. The blue-coated figure had evidently not been the first, for the house looked well looted.

Hervey advanced cautiously, wishing he had his pistols primed and dry.

The man spun round at the scrape of Hervey’s boot.

‘Serjeant Ellis? What—’

Ellis stared back defiantly, sack in hand.

‘What is it you have, Serjeant Ellis?’

‘Why don’t you run home to your mother, boy!’

Hervey angered, whether at the affront, the insubordination or the looting he did not care. ‘You are in arrest, Serjeant Ellis!’

‘You little bull’s pizzle!’

‘You are to report yourself at once to the serjeant-major.’

‘What a right little fuck-beggar you are. I’ll do no such thing! And you aren’t going to do anything either, Mr-bloody-Newcome!’ He pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it straight at Hervey’s chest.

‘Put it down, serjeant,’ came a voice from the door.

Ellis looked across. ‘Armstrong! I’ll not hear that from a jumped-up chosen-man!’

‘Come on, Serjeant; you’re in enough trouble without that.’

Ellis knew the trouble he was in all right. He could have but one shot, and either way there was a witness to his crime. It would only be the difference between rope or firing squad, though. But he might need the shot later. He threw the sack at Hervey and ran.

‘Leave ’im, sir!’ called Armstrong, pushing past and seeing Ellis making off towards the river. ‘He’s as good as dead.’

Hervey returned his sword. ‘What on earth do you suppose has possessed him?’ He was incredulous, but not a little conscious of his own part in the serjeant’s destruction.

‘I reckon his true form were let slip, sir. He were on the pad and taken red-handed. He were a bad ’un, sir. He’d take anything he liked from a man when the quartermaster weren’t looking. And one of his corporals said as how he’d seen ’im drawing his yard with one of C’s wives at Valderas; and rough with her an’ all. The poor lass were so ’ungry she’d do owt for a bit o’ bread.’

Hervey felt better at hearing of the delinquency. ‘Well, he shan’t get back across the Esla without a horse, and he’ll be lucky if the French take him prisoner.’

Colonel Reynell had not known whether to be in despair at having a serjeant found so delinquent, or cheered at having a cornet and a corporal prepared to do their duty. And Craufurd had merely scowled throughout the report. ‘There can be only one way, Reynell: the rope.’

But there was not the time to brood, nor even to imagine where Ellis might be, for it had not been long after breakfast that First Squadron, Hervey’s, had been called up to reinforce Third across the bridge. All day they had exchanged shots with Ney’s scouts, charging them at every opportunity. Time and again Lord Paget galloped up to a vidette, exhorting them to one more effort. They cheered him as he spurred off to the others, and then fell savagely upon the next French scout hapless enough to show himself. But no matter how hard Paget and his men worked, the ‘mask’ was in the end as porous as the clothes on their backs, and from time to time Craufurd’s men at the bridge found themselves in a brisk exchange of fire with Ney’s best scouts. Not once, though, were the French able to combine into any force strong enough to bustle the sappers from their work.

*

Just before dark, Lord Paget, like a seasoned huntsman deciding to blow ‘home’, turned to his brigade-majors. ‘I think we shall now give ground to the marshal. Let us see what he makes of it, what?’ Without another word he reined about and left his staff to the recall.

As he trotted into Castro Gonzalo ten minutes later he found Craufurd standing behind the semi-circle of riflemen who constituted the close bridge garrison. He touched his bicorn with his right index and first fingers. Craufurd returned the greeting, and they shook hands.

‘You come most carefully upon your hour, my lord,’ said Black Bob, his face creasing into something that might pass for a smile.

Paget looked exhausted. ‘Ay, General. And for this relief, much thanks. There are stragglers on the road, still, but we should be awaiting them for ever. The Tenth will come through first, then the Fifteenth just after dark. The French are not pressing us that hard, but it’s as well not to let them know they can close up. Slade will report when the last is through.’

Craufurd grimaced. ‘I suppose he’s capable of following his own men!’ He turned to his brigade-major. ‘As soon as the last of the Fifteenth is across, the outlying pickets are to withdraw.’ Then he turned back to Paget. ‘You are welcome to my table, such as it is, in yonder house. But I beg you would first excuse me.’

They shook hands again. ‘I’ve commanded Slade’s pickets for him all day; I’m damned if I’ll be his march orderly! I accept your hospitality with pleasure, Craufurd.’ And Lord Paget rode across the bridge.

Black Bob took out a canteen of rum and a cup from his saddlebag, pressed his horse forward to where the semi-circle of the Ninety-fifth stood, immobile, the rain running out of the muzzles of their rifles, and beckoned forward the serjeant. ‘Judge who best has need.’

The man took the canteen and cup and touched his stovepipe shako – cap, as the Rifles called it – its stubby green plume beaten down by the rain, but the silver bugle badge still shining. ‘Ay, sir,’ he rasped.

‘When all is ready, riflemen,’ began Craufurd, raising his voice high to reach both ends of the semi-circle, ‘you will immediately get the word and pass over the bridge. Be careful, and mind what you are about!’

Hervey was the last cornet to cross the Esla, and Sir Edward Lankester, behind him, the last mounted officer, General Slade having decided to go straight to the bridge to watch his brigade over. In the firelight he saw that the Ninety-fifth were minding very carefully indeed what they were about, and he prayed that when the engineers had done their work the riflemen would be able somehow to cross safely. He asked Sir Edward for leave to watch. ‘We toiled a good many hours at that stonework. I should like to be able to tell them just how it went.’

Sir Edward saw no reason to refuse him. ‘But an hour only, mind, lest we march straight to Benavente. Though pray God we don’t, for every man would be asleep in the saddle after a mile.’

On and under the bridge the artificers were finally laying the matches. Lieutenant Herbert said he intended first to fire the charges under the two arches adjacent to the central one, giving the bridge garrison the chance then to cross the gaps by ladder. ‘Then when they’re the other side I shall fire the charges under the central arch to extend the breach such that a crossing can’t be improvised. The French will have to send their engineers up, and that will delay them very considerably.’

Hervey kept watch for a quarter of an hour from the saddle. It was so dark he neither saw nor heard anything but the rain, not even the Esla, in spate now. Then he saw a lantern on the bridge, and coming closer, until by the light of the picket’s brazier at the near end of the bridge he could see Lieutenant Herbert and one of his artificers. He dismounted, handed the reins to his coverman, and walked towards them. He was determined to see the engineer’s science as close as may be, his first demonstration of what powder could do in the hands of skilled fireworkers.

‘Ah, Hervey; you come to see the melancholy side of our art, do you?’ said Herbert, placing down the lantern. ‘It is a fine work, too, the bridge. Really a very handsome thing.’

Hervey noted the cautious preference for the word ‘art’ rather than ‘science’. ‘Have you lit the charges, then, sir?’

‘Yes. And there is about five minutes to burn,’ said Herbert, looking at his watch. ‘I should have been proud to have built a bridge like that. Such solidity. I fear long odds for our chances of knocking down those arches perfectly.’

They walked a little way further, crouched behind a low wall, and waited in silence.

Then it came: first like a rumbling of distant thunder, not very greatly audible above the rain and the river, and not at all as Hervey had imagined. There were no jets of flame, no showers of sparks, no streaking rockets; the charges were packed so deep into the stone supports. But the ground shook.

And then he could make it out, just: the nearest arch had collapsed.

Herbert and his artificer set off at the double, followed without a word by a dozen sappers carrying the footway. Hervey followed too. The nearest arch had become a chasm twenty feet wide, and he could now see that the further one had fallen as well.

The sappers had the footway down in no time. It was barely more than a ladder’s width, yet Lieutenant Herbert walked it as if he were on stepping stones across a brook.

From the middle arch he could see his sappers laying a footway from the French side. In another minute the riflemen of the close bridge garrison would be able to cross. First, though, he needed to make sure the matches were in place for the charges under the centre span.

The ladder on the buttress was still tied fast. Herbert clambered down into the darkness with a rope round his middle and the other end held tight by his artificer. Hervey lay down to see if he could see the work, but it was too dark.

In a few minutes more, Herbert climbed back up the ladder and called to his sappers on the other side to send the riflemen over.

It took almost an hour for them all to cross. The footways were mere planks, with no handholds. They were narrow and slippery, and it was pitch black. In truth, Hervey thought that if a man could see what he stepped along, and over, it would have taken at least twice the time. And the night was doubly welcome indeed, for if the French saw now they would surely attack, in even modest strength? Hervey thought the bridge would easily fall to them.

He counted forty-one in all, thirty-three riflemen, their officer, holding out his sword for balance, and seven of Herbert’s sappers. It was all very neatly done.

Then came the artificer, and then Herbert himself. Hervey helped them push the footways into the river.

‘Double away, Hervey. This will be a noisy affair!’ called Herbert, and with some relish.

A noisy affair: Hervey would never forget it. They were not long at the end of the bridge when a blast like the crack of doom threw them flat on their faces.

When the shower of masonry was over, General Craufurd loomed out of the dark. ‘Your report, Mr Herbert. And quick about it, if you please.’

‘He is gone for a look, sir,’ explained Hervey.

‘Hah! You sappers like nothing more than to get among the trash!’

There was levity in his voice, but Hervey thought better than to disclaim Black Bob’s dubious accolade.

In another minute, Herbert was back. ‘Two arches gone in the first explosion, sir, each of twenty feet. I’ll need to survey the centre span more fully, but it has fallen, for certain.’

‘Good work. Did you get all my riflemen back?’

‘All present, sir,’ came a voice from behind.

‘Mr Hill?’

‘It is, General. And thirty-two riflemen.’

‘Good. And
your
men, Herbert?’

‘Seven of them, sir. The other three, the second firing party, will be crossing by wherry as we speak: Mr Gilbert and two men remained on the French side in case the matches could not be lit from here.’

Hervey did the sums again; he found he had counted one too many. But better that, he thought, than the other way round.

CHAPTER TWENTY
AN AFFAIR OF CAVALRY