Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (41 page)

Elvas, 1 November 1826

Dom Mateo was unwavering in his determination to take whatever cavalry he could muster to confront the rebels; and the Spaniards too, for that matter. The more Hervey told him of the affair at Sahagun and the fighting withdrawal to the Esla, the more he became convinced that it was the only way for them now.

‘The fortress will hold, Hervey,’ he said assuredly, as they walked together along the eastern ramparts in the early sun. ‘Look around. See how thick the walls are. These Miguelistas would have to assemble a very great siege train. With cavalry we could at least prevent them.’

‘With
enough
cavalry, Dom Mateo. And the walls would have to be defended truly.’

Dom Mateo waved a hand dismissively. ‘The commanding officers are good men.’

Hervey had no doubt of it, nor that Major Coa was a most capable staff officer, but with the possibility of mutiny in the garrison (an acknowledged if scarcely spoken threat) he was still doubtful that dividing their efforts so was prudent. He sighed. ‘Dom Mateo, don’t mistake me; I believe your resolve admirable, but I do not see that our condition here is at all to be compared with Lord Paget’s at Sahagun. The French believed Sir John Moore was about to attack them at Carrion; Paget was therefore merely playing to their expectations. It is true that he was so vigorous thereafter that they thought he had many more cavalry than he did, but they were themselves very hesitant in advancing to the Esla, as if fearing a trap.’

Dom Mateo raised both hands. ‘But why should the rebels be any bolder?’

Hervey did not answer at first. The question was a fair one. In coming to his estimation, he had supposed the worst (it had always served him well to do so), yet it did seem more likely that an advance would be hesitant, especially one intent principally on probing. He began nodding his head. ‘It is a pity that we do not have the means of increasing the rebels’ trepidation.’

Dom Mateo inclined his head, and smiled. ‘You see, Hervey; my scheme
is
possible. All we must do is find a means, a ruse even.’

Hervey was somewhat abashed to realize that Dom Mateo displayed more spirit for the fight than he did. But he had come to distrust mere fighting spirit, when it was a substitute for thinking, though it sometimes revealed possibilities that would otherwise not occur in cool calculation. He saw that Dom Mateo was determined, and decided to throw in with that spirit. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘General, you are right. All we must do is find a means. I distrust ruses; they depend too much on fortune. But if there are not the solid means, then humbug it must be.’

Hervey began to wonder how Lord Paget had found the means. Looking back on it, he supposed it must have been the affair at Sahagun that decided matters. The French, even knowing their own superiority in numbers – which by then they must have had a very clear idea of – had neither counter-charged nor manoeuvred that morning. There was no lack of personal courage in the ranks of
chasseurs
and
dragons,
as the affair at Benavente later had shown, but their commanders lacked confidence, or skill; perhaps both. Paget must have calculated that
any
blow, however weak, could only serve to increase their disquiet. By rights, had Debelle been a commander of any dash, Soult’s cavalry would have beaten him to the Esla, taken the bridges and cut him off. Paget must have had nerves of steel to remain east of the river for so long, especially once night had come.

How
had
Paget found his way to the bridge that night? Hervey remembered full well how he himself had had the very devil of a job finding the Sixth after the engineers had fired the charges, when General Craufurd had at last dismissed him. Just before midnight, orders had apparently come for the regiment to proceed with all haste to Benavente, about eight miles to the north-west, and Sir Edward Lankester had at once sent an orderly to the bridge with this intelligence, but somehow Hervey had not received it, and he had returned in the early hours to an empty monastery rather than a welcome billet. There had been but one road for the regiment to take, however, and so Hervey and his little party – the men tired and disgruntled by this time rather than exulting in their work at the bridge – had plodded for another three hours until they reached the outlying pickets at Benavente.

‘All the cavalry is at the castle,’ said the picket-officer, who seemed not entirely sure of his information – nor, indeed, too certain of his own courage; and for the first time, Hervey was aware that all might not be well.

The castle was easy enough to find, for it stood on a rocky outcrop high above the town, a blaze of light compared with the darkness of the mean streets below. Hervey and his men dismounted short of the gate and the inlying picket.

‘Corporal Armstrong, have the men stand easy while I get orders.’

‘Ay, sir. But I hope they’ll be orders to bed down. There’s not much left in neither man nor beast.’

Hervey was inclined to say that he imagined what little remained would soon be the difference between getting through the mountains and falling prey to the French; but he supposed that Armstrong knew it too. ‘I’ll see to it, Corporal. It might be the last straw we have in many a night.’

As he walked away he cursed himself for doubting – or, rather, for giving voice to those doubts. Daniel Coates had said it time and again, and he knew it of his own instincts too: an officer ought never to show his uncertainty. Indeed, he ought never to reveal his thoughts at all. It was all of a piece with Sir Edward Lankester’s warning to keep a distance always. Hard words, Hervey knew full well, but learned over a fair few years, and kindly meant.

As he rounded the corner into the bailey, however, he found that Sir Edward was differently occupied this morning. He was angry, and – most unusually – it was apparent.

‘Infamous! I never thought to see its like!’

Even Colonel Reynell seemed surprised by his agitation. ‘I fear we’ll see worse, Lankester. I pray not at the regiment’s hands, that is all.’

Their grooms were hurriedly tightening girths and surcingles, the chargers pawing the ground or dancing on their toes as the two officers stood impatient to be mounted. Dragoons were standing to their horses all about the flare-lit cobbles. Hervey caught the tone of the serjeants, too, as commands flew left and right. If this were not exactly an alarm, then it was an unexpected turn-out for sure.

‘Is that you, Hervey?’

‘It is, Sir Edward.’

‘I suppose the bridge is destroyed then?’

‘It is.’

‘I had imagined the French had taken it.’

Was this why Sir Edward appeared so liverish? Hervey had not observed any tendency that way at earlier turn-outs.

‘Decidedly not, sir.’

‘We are bidden down to the Esla. You had better take your ease for a few hours. At least until daybreak. I’ll send word.’

Hervey was too tired to be disappointed at the prospect of missing an affair. He saluted to acknowledge, and turned about.

‘But keep the men from inside the castle,’ snapped Lankester after him. ‘Those infamous devils have disgraced the name of soldier!’

Hervey turned again and acknowledged, though he had no idea what his troop-leader referred to, especially
which
soldiers had earned so black a name.

‘Pull it off; he’ll not want it till morning,’ he said, looking at one of the trooper’s feet. The shoe was loose, and if it came off with the horse still tethered there was every chance the wretched animal would tread on a nail. ‘And do it now, while we have the lantern.’

Tired though he was, and recalcitrant his dragoons, Hervey had decided to look at each horse now rather than wait for daylight, for he reckoned there was no knowing what alarm first light would bring.

‘Otherwise all look sound, Corporal Armstrong.’

‘A peck o’ corn then, sir?’

‘Yes. You would imagine a place like this would have some hay, too.’

‘I’ll go and look, sir.’

Armstrong could be no less tired than he. It wouldn’t do to turn in and leave him to it. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, sir. It doesn’t take an officer to find feed.’

That was true. But Hervey was intrigued, also, to know what had made Lankester boil. ‘I shouldn’t be able to sleep right away. I’d like to have a look in yonder place.’ He nodded towards the keep. It was an imposing sight, even when the spirits were lowest.

Armstrong would have settled for a full hayloft, to go half shares with the horses for bedding or food, but there was time for that yet; he would go with his officer. He put Private Brayshaw in charge, next for chosen-man, threatening dire consequences if he didn’t keep a good watch.

‘He’ll not make a bad corporal, sir, that Brayshaw. He’ll never take an eagle, but he’ll not lose ought either.’

‘I have a feeling we shall have want of the latter more, these coming days, Corporal.’

‘Ay, sir.’ The disappointment in his tone was marked; Armstrong was not a man for losing things, but his talents undoubtedly inclined more to wresting emblems from the French.

The ramp from the bailey to the keep was steep, and the cobbles smooth. They had to watch their step. ‘He was handy with the shovel, I would grant you that,’ said Hervey, using his scabbard as a walking stick.

And in the peculiar way that tired men’s thoughts roamed, he began wondering by whom, and by what process, Private Brayshaw had been picked in the first instance. He supposed it must be the quartermaster who first brought a man to the captain’s notice. And that would be perfect sense, for it was principally the quartermaster who would have to rely on the man, except in the field, where the officers had an equal call on an NCO’s facility. Hervey supposed that in practice the choice was probably not so difficult. A corporal must be a true proficient with his arms, a good horsemaster, smart and active, correct and faithful. And he ought to be intelligent. He must certainly be able to read, and preferably to write. No, indeed: the choice at any given time could not be excessively difficult. But how could it have been that Ellis was first chosen, and then advanced?

The smell of smoke was strong as they made their way past none-too-alert sentries into the courtyard, where bonfires blazed in every corner. It was indeed a majestic place, thought Hervey, half palace, as arresting as any he had seen since landing in the Peninsula – the soaring turrets, the towers bound with massive chains of sculptured stone, the fretwork as fine as any he had seen in an English cathedral. This was the seat of the Duchess of Ossuna, and the stuff of fairy tales.

But then he saw how the bonfires were fuelled, the windows shutterless and a good many without their frames. He wondered where the duchess was now – many miles away, he hoped – and if she knew of the heavy-handed requisitioning.

‘Can hardly blame the poor beggars, sir,’ said Armstrong.

‘No, indeed not.’ A year ago, from the comfort of a Wiltshire fireside, or even a Shrewsbury dormitory, he would have found it hard to understand. Was this what Sir Edward called ‘infamous’?

He saw the open door to the grand entrance, and soldiers passing in and out freely. ‘It’s not every day a duchess opens her doors to us, Corporal Armstrong. Let’s take a look.’

As soon as they went inside he saw the occasion for Sir Edward’s anger. And with each room they passed through – without the slightest let or hindrance – his revulsion increased. He could not have imagined it. Indeed, he could hardly believe his eyes. He was witnessing a scene of criminal despoiling no less, a site of conduct repellent to his every instinct. In the ballroom, he stood speechless.

Corporal Armstrong’s upbringing fitted no image of the English pastoral, but he too found his gorge rising. ‘Bastards! I’d happily lay on with the cat to any one of ’em.’

Hervey would not have dissented. Not at that moment, for sure. The broken glass everywhere – windows, mirrors, fine crystal – the silk panelling, gilt furniture and tapestries lying burnt or splintered, wanton destruction, defacing, theft; he was ashamed at the name of soldier, and
English
soldier at that. ‘Do you think
our
men capable of this, Corporal?’

Armstrong looked at the scratches and incisions of a hundred bayonets, then spat. ‘Not so long as there’s NCOs who’ll do their job.’

Hervey had already formed the deepest regard for Armstrong sword-in-hand, but he now saw in this bruising man that other element which constituted the truest non-commissioned officer: the complete understanding of where duty lay, not just because it was learned by rote or experience, but because it was instinctive. If there was any good to be had from the testimony of disgrace before them now, it was that he, Hervey, saw a man he could trust absolutely. Daniel Coates had told him he would; but he had said that he might have to wait many years for it.

‘Alarm! Alarm!’

They had stood-to later than they ought; the horses were still unsaddled, even with the first signs of daylight towards the Esla. Hervey grabbed the surcingle from his groom and threw it over the saddle himself. ‘Do up the bridle tight, Sykes,’ he snapped.

Pounding hooves added to his dismay.

‘The French are crossing the river!’ shouted a hussar as he galloped into the bailey, his horse’s shoes sparking on the cobbles and sliding to a halt. The man jumped down and looked about, surprised by the absence of orderlies eager for his intelligence. He saw Hervey and made for him instead. ‘Sir, the French are fording the Esla. General Paget wants all his cavalry to rally at once!’

It didn’t take an order to have the men mounted. Indeed, Hervey was last into the saddle.

‘Where exactly are we to rally?’

‘Straight down the road, sir, towards where we crossed last night.’

Hervey would have liked something more precise, but it was clearly not to be had. His men were moving, too. They would have pressed straight into a gallop if the stones had not been so worn. Every vestige of weariness was gone. All they wanted was to have a go at the French again.

But how had the French been able to cross? Hervey struggled to imagine, just as he struggled with Stella’s plunging; she was hotted as if she’d had racing corn for breakfast. Why had they spent so long blowing up the bridge if all the French had to do was trot upstream a few hundred yards and ford across?