Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (45 page)

‘Sentenced this very morning,’ said Izzy Banks, loud enough for those dragoons nearest to hear and relay it to the extremities of the troop.

Speedy justice, as well as the remorseless kind, was a powerful reminder.

Hervey strained to hear more.

‘Mutiny.’

The dread word; Hervey tried hard not to flinch as he turned back to see the condemned man brought out of the ranks and made to stand in full view of the parade.

The provost marshal began to read. ‘Given this thirty-first day of December, eighteen hundred and eight, by order of Major-General the Honourable Edward Paget, Private Leechman of His Majesty’s Fifty-second regiment of foot is hereby sentenced to death by shooting for the offence of mutinous conduct contrary to the provisions of the Mutiny Act, in that he at Benavente on the thirtieth day of December eighteen hundred and eight did strike his superior officer, namely Serjeant Hamilton of that regiment. The sentence to be carried out without delay.’

General Paget turned to the Fifty-second.

Private Leechman’s commanding officer now spoke up. ‘Sir, the man’s previous record has been exemplary, as stated at the court martial, and his officers respectfully request for clemency to be given on this occasion. He wishes to admit his guilt before the parade assembled.’

General Paget nodded.

Private Leechman began in a loud but faltering voice. ‘I am brought to this by my own devices and through drink. And the justice is fair. If I might be spared my life I resolve never to falter again, and to serve my King and country faithfully, as I have always endeavoured to.’

‘That will do it,’ said Lieutenant Martyn in the Sixth’s front rank, just loud enough to carry to the cornets. ‘A clean breast of it and an oath to the King.’

Hervey hoped so. The offence was not perhaps so great, he imagined, for no doubt the serjeant had been harsh, and the man was of previous good character.

The provost marshal turned to General Paget.

‘See,’ said Martyn. ‘Paget will turn to Sir John Moore, and in so doing accept the petition for clemency.’

But the general did not. ‘No man who has previously been of good character may escape the consequences of an offence. By that method the whole army shall be undone. Carry out sentence!’

The universal shock was audible. The depravity of the offence and the severity of the discipline were at once imprinted on every mind.

The provost marshal nodded to the field officer of the Guards, who in turn nodded to the serjeant of the escort.

The serjeant tied Leechman’s arms to his side, bade him kneel down as the escort cleared the line of fire, and placed a sack over his head.

The square fell silent again.

The drum-major nodded to the firing party. Sixteen guardsmen filed in front of their target at a distance of ten yards.

There were no chaplain’s prayers this time, perhaps, thought Hervey, because the man had committed no crime against God; only the drum-major’s presiding over ceremonies.

Silent presiding; the muskets were loaded ready. There would be no awful clattering of ramrods. And all the words of command, which as a rule were barked out, the drum-major gave by hand. It was a gesture of mercy towards the condemned man, for Leechman was of previous good character and his offence was military rather than the common felon’s. This, then, marked Hervey, was General Paget’s clemency. His discipline was harsh, but not cruel.

The drum-major lifted his hand, as if beckoning someone to rise. Up to the aim came a dozen muskets.

Hervey felt his every muscle tense.

The hand fell.

The volley was as near perfect as might be. Smoke rolled back over the firing party, leaving Private Leechman’s bulleted body to the parade’s view. Half a dozen balls had struck, throwing him heavily onto his back, but his arms, pinioned by the serjeant’s cord, quivered like the fins of a fish before the gaff’s merciful release.

The drum-major, silent yet, summoned forward the other four guardsmen. It looked a well-practised drill. They placed their muskets to Leechman’s head and fired, at last putting the man from his agonies.

There was the sound of retching from all sides of the square. Hervey felt a tear in his eye. Only a passing bell could have made the moment sadder.

Afterwards, a full hour later, for Sir John Moore had all his regiments march past the salutary display of mutilation and death, Hervey went quietly to his duties. For once there was no idle talk about the horse lines.

‘There are always bad ’uns, Mr Hervey, sir,’ said Corporal Armstrong, finding him to one side, and sensing perhaps his preoccupations.

Hervey was drawing-through the barrel of one of his pistols. ‘I beg your pardon, Corporal Armstrong, I did not quite hear.’

‘There are always bad ’uns, sir. Anywhere. Any rank. I reckon it’s a mercy yon serjeant was found out now. No knowing what he might’ve done.’

Daniel Coates would have said the same. Hervey could hear the old dragoon’s certainty, learned the hard way in so many years’ campaigning. ‘Let us hope there are not too many, Corporal Armstrong.’

He did not add ‘and with rank’, though Armstrong might well have imagined the sentiment. To Hervey, the notion of being failed by a man on whom he was meant to rely was peculiarly repugnant, contrary to every instinct and to what he understood was the tradition not just of the regiment but of the service. The Ellis business put him on his guard. In what lay ahead – and there could be no doubt now what a trial it would be – he meant to maintain that guard, for Sir Edward Lankester’s words rang in his ears: ‘Do not become close.’

It had been a hard lesson of late. But not too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LETTERS OF INTENT

Elvas, 1 November 1826

‘A terrible thing, Hervey,’ said Dom Mateo as they returned to the Ordnance store later in the afternoon, frowning and shaking his head as if he had witnessed the execution himself. ‘I cannot but admire your Sir John Moore and those Pagets for their strength of mind. It was the want of it in so many of the other regiments, by your account, that served them so ill in the end. I pray that I would myself have such iron when the moment of testing came.’

The storekeeper was ready with his scissors by a bale of red cloth.

‘Your regiment, at least, retained its good order.’

‘It did. But our getting away from Corunna was a sad affair. I don’t think I ever saw a sadder one.’

The smell of camphor was almost overpowering. Major Coa nodded, and the storekeeper cut through the thick twine. He unfolded a jacket and held it up proudly. It looked as good as new, for all its years’ unintended conservation.

‘Excellent!’ Dom Mateo slapped the storekeeper’s back boisterously. ‘We need only buttons, I think,’ he added, turning to Hervey.

Hervey allowed himself a momentary expression of uncertainty: ‘And luck.’

But Dom Mateo did not recognize the difficulty. To him, luck was an everyday requirement, which he called instead God’s providence, and for which he prayed faithfully. He rattled off more orders to Major Coa and the garrison officers accompanying them, then left them to the work of the ruse.

Outside, he took Hervey by the arm. The question of luck was one thing, but he had another concern. ‘Tell me, my friend. This is a bold stratagem, and one not without its hazards. Political hazards, I mean. Should you not seek the permission of your Colonel Norris?’

Dom Mateo’s solicitude did him credit, thought Hervey. But he knew his King’s intent, and Mr Canning’s; he fancied he even knew the Duke of Wellington’s. And he considered that his colonel was but another General Slade. ‘Dom Mateo, I care not
a fico
for Norris!’

He meant it. But he knew he must hope that Norris’s vindictiveness and reach were not a match for Slade’s in those months in Ireland before Waterloo.

A letter came for him later as they stood with the camphor and the red bales. He had an hour in which to read it and pen a reply, for after that the courier would be obliged to return to Lisbon, and he would have to engage another at twice the price. Recognizing the handwriting, Hervey excused himself and retired to his quarters, and there sat by a window, broke the seal and began to read. He knew it was sent from the Rua dos Condes, and the date told him the courier had travelled post, but the salutation disturbed him nevertheless, for despite both their physical and vocal intimacy, seeing the evidence of it on the page was a different matter.

My Darling Matthew,

I write to put you on your guard in the case of Colonel Norris, who is speaking very intemperately about your going to Elvas without his leave, or without at least first speaking directly with him. He makes trouble for you with Mr Forbes, though I do not believe that is of any moment. I am doing what I can to humour the colonel, and I believe I may know if he intends writing ill of you to the Horse Guards, in which case I shall go and see Mr Forbes and enjoin him as best I may to write on your behalf to London. Meanwhile I myself shall write to the Duke of Wellington, for I am overdue in that regard, and shall mention your services. I trust this will all meet with your approval, for I do it only from the very greatest concern for your wellbeing and happiness, and if you should want that I did not exert myself in any or all of these directions then I shall await only the return of the messenger by which this is sent.

Matthew, my love, I do so long for your return to me. I have engaged a very pretty place in the hills near Sintra, shut away from sight by lemon trees and laurels, with a little stream at the door, where we may be by ourselves . . .

There were two more pages. Hervey read them with a growing sense of despair. He wondered how it had come to this. The physical process he knew very well, but somehow the train of events, the promises and understandings that had made him so . . . beholden, was of very uncertain memory. He even grew alarmed. Here, too, was another man’s wife; he might push that fact to the back of his mind, but fact it still was. One day he would be brought to account. And in that he ought to have especial regard for what would be the consequences with his family, his daughter in particular. Georgiana needed a mother, not a father with a mistress who was wife of another.

He looked over the letter again. Colonel Norris was in a dangerous frame of mind, and only Kat was in a position to do anything. Should he reply saying he wished her to do nothing on his account, that he would stand trial on his own record? Had he not, after all, said to Dom Mateo that very hour that he cared not what Norris thought or did? He went to his writing table and snatched up a pen.

My dear Kat,

This must needs be a very rapid and incomplete communication in order to have the courier bring it you by return, and because also I am so very engaged upon business here that every minute might be of the essence in achieving our design.

I am ever grateful for your solicitude on my behalf. If you believe Colonel Norris to be engaged in activity that would subvert what I am about here (and you know the principles upon which he and I disagree) then I beg you would take what action you think fit, for I am ever of the opinion that the King’s will is not to be done by sitting in Torres Vedras as Norris imagines.

I am not able to say more, for so very pressing are the circumstances, except to assure you of my great affection, always.

Yours most sincerely,

Matthew Hervey.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘GROYNE’

Corunna, 12 January 1809

‘And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Command the children of Israel, and say to them, When ye come into the land of Canaan, this is the land that shall fall unto you for an inheritance, even the land of Canaan with the coasts thereof.’

The regiment had crested yet another hill that promised a view of their deliverance, but this time it did not prove false, and Hervey was moved to quote Scripture.