Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (46 page)

Cornet Laming shook his head. ‘I confess the children of Israel cannot have felt greater relieved than I at this moment.’

Both of them knew the sentiment was shared by every man in the Sixth, and would in turn be shared by every man in the army. It seemed an age since Sahagun: the high-water mark of their sojourn in the Peninsula, Sir Edward Lankester had called it. Everything after Sahagun had been on the ebb, a tide that at times had run so fast it threatened to leave them high and dry.

And the sense of deliverance was made greater by Nature’s change. It had, perhaps, been more gradual than they supposed, but suddenly there was no longer the rain and the snow, the mud and the barren fields, the fatigue and the numbing cold. Before and below them, on Corunna’s plain, were orange trees already in blossom, rye in ear, and everywhere wildflowers. But for the orange trees they might be in a country lane in England. And as if to welcome them the more, the clouds had blown away, and the sun was warm on their backs.

Lieutenant Martyn peered through his telescope at the distant sail. ‘Our ships, no mistake.’

There could have been no doubt of it. The Royal Navy had every Frenchman blockaded in his port, and after Trafalgar they had not been keen to force the issue again. The important thing was that there were ships. The navy had never let them down, that was for sure, but January was a stormy month: they might have been blown west, and away from Spain. It had played on many a man’s mind as they got nearer the promised haven, even Hervey’s, for he did not yet know that His Majesty’s ships could keep station or make headway as they pleased in the worst of weather – or so it seemed.

Hervey and Laming took out their own telescopes. ‘Not so many as I had imagined,’ said Laming. ‘There were many more, I think, when we sailed here.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Martyn. ‘But ships enough I’ll warrant. I expect we shall be away tomorrow.’

‘How shall we have the horses aboard do you think?’

‘Tricky,’ said Martyn, closing his glass. ‘Lighters, for certain. But yon ships’ll have to stand in a bit closer, else the swell will make it a deal too hazardous.’

Hervey supposed that Martyn knew of these things. But for the meantime there was the prospect of food and rest, and making and mending, with Sir John Moore’s army between them and the French. Although the Sixth might have fretted for action when ordered to make straight for Corunna, they had conducted themselves honourably, enduring long night-watches, freezing pickets and lonely videttes, fighting when they had the opportunity, and standing ready at any time to rush this way or that, as the roads permitted (and often as they did not) to some alarm or other. It had been scrappy work, never more than a troop at most, and often as not the business of a cornet or a corporal. By its very nature, no one saw the work of outposts and patrolling; there were no laurels to be garnered. But the regiment’s appearance this morning spoke all that Lord Paget or Sir John Moore could require: the Sixth were well found, as well found as any in that army might be, and a good deal better than most. Colonel Reynell thanked God the regiment had done its duty.

Duty:
Reynell had not spared himself in making sure the Sixth could be weighed in the balance and not found wanting. Not a man would begrudge him his ease now, or his reward on the judgement day. His comfort was short-lived, however. The officer in charge of embarkation, an assistant quartermaster-general, shook his head: ‘I’m sorry, Reynell, those are hospital and store ships only. By all accounts the transports are still trying to double round Finisterre. And there’ll be no room for the horses.’

Colonel Reynell’s face fell. ‘You mean we’re just to leave ’em here, after all we’ve just—’ He checked himself, sensing he betrayed a sentiment that belonged within the Sixth only. ‘It has taken a pretty few pennies to mount the regiment, and a good deal more time. We shall be in no state to go at Bonaparte again inside of twelve months!’

‘Colonel,’ began the AQMG wearily, though not without sympathy, ‘there are horses enough in England to mount the entire army. There are not, however, so many stout hearts in red coats!’

‘And who is to take my horses?’

The AQMG hesitated. ‘I am very much afraid, Colonel, that the orders are that they be shot.’

‘Shot? All of them?’ Reynell’s face looked like a man’s suddenly bereaved.

‘I am very much afraid so. To save the French having them. The Tenth are to make a start with theirs this afternoon.’

Reynell left the AQMG’s office without another word. The adjutant, who had been speaking with the commissary officers outside, and who had learned from them of the intention for the army’s horses, noted a man who seemed confused, as if he were in another place, not the indefatigable commanding officer of the last two weeks. ‘Colonel, shall I assemble the captains?’

Reynell seemed not to have heard.

‘Colonel?’

Reynell narrowed his eyes. ‘They say we are to destroy the horses,’ he replied, as if scarcely able to believe the words.

‘Yes, Colonel, I heard. Shall I assemble the captains?’

There was a long silence.

‘I think I shall ride over to the Tenth.’

The adjutant could not imagine for what purpose. He had been many years in the ranks, some of them in Flanders, where he had seen things too infamous to contemplate, and he knew an unpalatable order was best executed without delay or introspection. ‘Do you wish me to accompany you, Colonel? Or shall I give the captains the orders on your behalf?’

Reynell emerged from his thoughts. ‘Orders? No, decidedly not.’

Without speaking, they rode to where the Tenth were bivouacked, in a meadow on the cliff tops overlooking a sandy beach. In ordinary times there would have been no pleasanter spot or happier sight. As they approached they heard the shots. Later they saw men leading the troopers to the edge of the cliff, where the farriers did their pistol work with varying degrees of skill, then heaving the animals over to the sands below, where other hussars with hammers and axes despatched those which landed alive through a badly aimed shot.

Some of the horses had broken loose. Their heads were down, and pulling greedily at the green shoots in the stony till, their handlers making no attempt to recapture them. Others, with the smell of blood in their nostrils, bolted from the meadow towards Corunna, or down the cliff path to the blood-splashed beach, which only increased their terror. Everywhere, there were men sitting weeping.

‘Colonel?’ The adjutant could see no purpose in staying. There was nothing to learn by way of good practice here.

Colonel Reynell said nothing. It had been his sole concern for a fortnight and more to preserve the reputation of the regiment, to earn not a single rebuke from Paget or Moore, knowing that when they reached England there would be recriminations enough. And it was come to this. He looked around at the Tenth, as proud a regiment as any in the Line: they were unhorsed, and bloodily, by their own hand. It was not to be borne.

A trooper, a bay mare, came hobbling towards them, seeking perhaps the comfort of two animals quietly composed. Her off-fore was broken at the knee, though she made no sound in pain. Reynell looked at her, disbelieving. No regiment’s horses could be allowed to end this way.

The adjutant reached for his pistol.

‘No, Frank. I’ll do it,’ said Reynell. ‘Take my reins.’

Colonel Reynell dismounted and took his service pistols from their saddle holsters, pushing one into his swordbelt. They had been primed at first light, and the day was dry. He had no fear of misfire.

He took the mare by the long lock of her mane, which fell full across a handsome blaze, and led her away from the chargers. He stopped, cocked the pistol and raised it to her head, she nuzzling him the while, content to be in caring hands. He pressed the barrel into the fossa above her left eye, aiming at the base of the right ear, and pulled the trigger. The mare fell before the smoke filled his nostrils. He stepped back as she lay twitching.

The adjutant saw him take the second pistol from his swordbelt, though to him it looked a clean despatch.

Colonel Reynell walked a dozen paces towards the sea, stopped, put the pistol to his head and fired.

While the regiment buried its lieutenant-colonel that afternoon, Joseph Edmonds, the senior captain, was at the AQMG’s. He had taken Hervey with him, officer of the day. Hervey was still numb with the realization that a man such as Reynell was flesh and blood enough to act as he had. Somehow he had imagined that senior officers possessed a sort of invisible armour against the trials that troubled their juniors, a sort of waterdeck mantle that made them impervious to fear and the vexations of the field. How could a man like Reynell, who had spoken so eloquently of the journey before them, who had worked so tirelessly to keep the regiment together – how could such a man put a bullet in his head, and at the moment of deliverance? Was it that a man had only so much strength, and that it could seep away fatally, just as blood from a wound? He shivered at the thought of where his own measure lay at this time, and tried to concentrate instead on what was being said the other side of the door to the AQMG’s office.

It was not difficult, for the voices within had been rising for some minutes. ‘I do not care if Sir John Moore himself gave the order, I will not destroy three hundred and more horses!’

‘Captain Edmonds, may I remind you to whom you speak! Indeed they
are
Sir John Moore’s orders, and they are to be carried out at once.’

‘Do you tell me, sir, that none of those ships there’ – he pointed at the window with its view of the harbour and beyond – ‘has space for troopers?’

‘I do, sir. They are store ships, or hospitals.’

‘And what of the transports that come. Are they empty of all space?’

The AQMG, who was inclined to be peremptory with the obstinate captain before him, somehow managed to keep his countenance. ‘That is what I am informed.’

‘What is in those store ships?’

The AQMG half smiled in astonishment. ‘Really, Captain Edmonds! It is not for you to question the arrangements for taking off the army.’

‘And why not? This has hardly been a model expedition. I think it reasonable to ask certain questions. What stores are deemed more valuable than the cavalry’s horses?’

‘I’m afraid I do not know. But the ships are
not
at the disposal of the army’s horses. Now, if you will, Captain Edmonds, I would be obliged if—’

‘Does Lord Paget know of this?’

‘I cannot say.’

Edmonds grunted, gathered up his helmet and sword, and left.

Outside, he strode angrily to where their chargers stood, cursing anything and everything. ‘It’s madness. I shan’t do it. Not till the French are about to snatch the reins from us! Not, at least, unless Paget himself gives the order. In any case, Moore will want cavalry here. The French are not going to let the army get into its boats as if we were off fishing!’

Hervey said nothing. He was still too numb, and he sensed that Edmonds would not want a cornet’s opinion. Certainly not one that merely expressed revulsion at shooting their horses, which was all he could think of.

Edmonds took the reins from his coverman and sprang into the saddle as nimbly as a man half his age. ‘Hervey, go and find the rearguard here and tell them the Sixth are placed under their orders. Then come back and tell me where we’re to take post.’

Hervey tried hard to hide his surprise, gathering up his reins and saluting.

‘Do you think you can manage that, Mr Hervey?’ glowered Edmonds as he turned.

‘Yes, sir; of course.’

‘Then go to it. At once!’

*

It was the very best thing that Edmonds could have done, Hervey would confide in his journal within the day. He set off feeling empty at the thought of Colonel Reynell’s despairing act, and what faced the rest of them when the time came to put Sir John Moore’s orders into effect. Shooting a horse was not so very difficult, although it was always a sad affair; shooting three hundred horses was to destroy the very spirit of a regiment, was it not? He dared not picture the sight, for it had evidently been too much even for Colonel Reynell.

But after a mile or so these thoughts were displaced by increasing anxiety at not finding the rearguard. He had imagined it a simple enough mission when Edmonds had instructed him: a matter of making best speed back along the high road until he found them. But the army was still making its slow way west. A commissary officer told him they had reached Betanzos, a dozen miles due east, and it seemed that Sir John Moore did not intend sending troops in advance to hold his perimeter at Corunna. Hervey rode as far as the village of Burgos, four miles east of Corunna harbour, the last bridging point of the Rio del Burgo before it opened into wide estuary and thence Corunna Bay, but he found no redcoat with any orders for the rearguard. There were Spanish pickets aplenty, but not in numbers that suggested they might fight a delaying action. In any case, the Spanish effort, as he understood it, was now concentrated on the walls of Corunna itself, and he concluded, in the absence of any evidence otherwise, that the road into Corunna was unguarded. According to his map, sparse though its detail was, the French could outflank the army at Betanzos; there was nothing to stop them marching to the very wharves of the harbour.

‘Good God,’ groaned Edmonds when Hervey told him. ‘You’re sure?’

Hervey’s appearance, sweated and begrimed, did at least speak of some effort in his reconnaissance. ‘Yes, sir.’

The adjutant looked worried. His was the responsibility for executing a regimental order, and things were getting more complicated by the minute. The serjeant-major stood impassive. He was responsible for
supervising
the execution of a regimental order, and it mattered not to him what the circumstances were; he would bark and harry whether it was shot and shell or wind and waves that tried to confound them.

‘Very well,’ said Edmonds; growled almost. ‘I see no profit in going as far as Burgos, though I will say it tempts. I recall, as we rode in, a stream and a little bridge, about a mile from here, no more. The regiment will stand rearguard there. Have the squadrons form up, please, Mr Mace.’