Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (17 page)

‘Ah,’ said Hervey, supposing he had been nodding for several minutes. ‘The infantry – they’ve found some boats and are crossing the river.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Martyn, sounding almost accusing. ‘No matter. That is what
we
are supposed to be about. Somewhere upstream, a ford or something. Do you not know of it?’

Hervey had to think; he was still not wide awake. ‘No, I . . . that is, we didn’t patrol east of the city. I don’t recall why. I think the French were quite strong there yesterday.’

‘The Sixteenth had a bruising, yes. We saw them on the way up. They say Stewart mishandled it.’

Hervey found himself unusually without appetite for Martyn’s news. He wanted only to nod in the saddle. For some reason, Brigadier-General the Honourable Charles Stewart was not popular with the regiment. Martyn had never ventured any opinion, only fact, but others had voiced theirs – that Stewart was a young man who owed his rank and place to the influence of his brother, Lord Castlereagh, the man who had secured command of the army for Sir Arthur Wellesley. To Hervey, General Stewart was not an especially young man – thirty-one, closer in age to Sir Arthur Wellesley than
he
was to Stewart; but others believed he had neither experience nor aptitude for generalship. That much was the common tattle of the mess, among the cornets at least, who after all only repeated what they heard.

‘How so?’ he answered, but with little enthusiasm.

Lieutenant Martyn shortened his reins as the troop broke into a trot. ‘Don’t know the particulars, but I had it from one of the Sixteenth yesterday that he ordered them to charge in the most unsuitable country. They were really quite badly cut up.’

Hervey wondered whether that meant as badly as the Buffs might be cut up, for the cannonade at the river was intensifying by the minute, and it could only spell the hottest fighting at the quay. The cavalry could have its tribulations, and bloody ones too, but they were not the normal currency of their trade. The Sixteenth were cut about, but it was by some mishap, a thing infrequent enough to provoke comment such as Martyn’s now. The infantry, on the other hand, found heavy casualties an attendant misfortune. The cornets might disdain their legionary ways, thinking the cavalryman superior for his independence – or rather, for his worth other than mere volleying – but when Hervey saw a company going to it as he had the Third’s grenadiers, he could not but admire them.

They rode east and a little north for a full five miles, in dead ground so as not to be observed from the far bank of the Douro, at the main in a trot, cantering occasionally where the going favoured it, and pulling up to a walk once or twice in broken country among the vineyards. It shook Hervey back to life, and while he had started the ride fretting for the action at the crossing, by the end he was seized again with the peculiar thrill that was the cavalryman’s, riding not to the sound of the guns, but to some bold and distant deed that might make the work of the infantry easier – or even unnecessary.

They were not too late reaching Avintas, as Sir Edward had feared they might be, and as they slowed to descend to the Douro, they saw the little force which Sir Arthur Wellesley had hastened there, to the one crossing-point upstream of Oporto of which he had certain intelligence. A squadron of the 14th Light Dragoons stood in line in the shade of some cork oaks by the river, while two six-pounders from the horse artillery were unlimbering to the rear. Their purpose was not immediately apparent, however; at least to Hervey.

‘What do you suppose is afoot, Martyn?’

‘Deuced if I know,’ replied the troop lieutenant, shielding his eyes from the bright, overhead sun. ‘I can’t make out any French at all.’

‘I don’t imagine they’ll have given up a ford without a fight. Shall the Fourteenth dismount to flush them out?’

‘What choice do they have? As far as I can see, it’s a deal too trappy for saddlework.’

Hervey had thought the same.

‘Ah, there’s Stewart, by the look of things,’ said Martyn suddenly.

Hervey saw a hussar officer cantering the length of the Fourteenth’s line. From the animation which followed he concluded that the enemy was close. He wondered if General Stewart had seen their troop approaching. If he had, would he wait for them?

He saw him raise his sword arm and wave his sabre in the direction of the village, and the Fourteenth take off into the trees. Perhaps there were but a few French, and the going not so trappy after all?

Musketry began at once. A Troop, with the advantage of high ground, saw it all: powder-smoke inside the grove – the French must have had sharpshooters not fifty yards from where the Fourteenth had stood! And the squadron’s six-pounders could not support them; they had neither target nor clear line of fire.

‘Christ!’ snarled Martyn. ‘Don’t they see how
deep
is that wood? The deuced fools!’

Sir Edward Lankester saw. ‘Into line! Draw carbines! Load!’

A hundred rammers clattered like a water frame.

‘Advance! Right wheel!’

It was done adequately rather than neatly. The slope did not permit of the usual pivot, but with the aid of a deal of cursing by the NCOs, the troop managed to deploy in two ranks knee-to-knee. As junior cornet, Hervey took post on the right and rear of the second serjeant, in the second rank. He had no line of fire, but the job of the rear rank was to support the front, either with the sabre if the enemy closed, or by taking their place with loaded carbine if they were too hard pressed. He had no idea what they faced. Even to his subaltern eye the prospect of launching after the Fourteenth into such country was perilous to say the least.

In five minutes the first of the Fourteenth’s men came staggering from the wood, unhorsed and bloody. In two more, half the squadron were out, badly bruised. The quartermaster spurred from the trees, bellowing at them to clear the front. Others followed, and loose horses – and then
voltigeurs
, emboldened by the effect of their musketry. At a hundred yards, Hervey knew, the advantage was all with the French. To close with them now would take the strongest nerve.

‘Return carbines! Draw swords!’ barked Sir Edward.

Nerve indeed, gasped Hervey! Out rasped a hundred sabres. His heart began pounding.

‘At the trot, advance!’

The French opened fire immediately. The shooting was wild, but there was plenty of it. More than one ill-aimed ball struck. The horse next to Hervey’s squealed as a bullet gouged through its mouth. A dragoon in front of him toppled forward stone dead. Others fell to his left – he couldn’t make out who. It was like a parade in slow time. He wanted to dig-in his spurs and close with the
voltigeurs
– they all did – but Sir Edward Lankester knew what would follow if they galloped at the wood. He wanted his troop in hand. He had panicked the French into firing early, knowing he could close the distance at a fast trot before they could reload. He was gambling, but what choice did he have?

A ball ricocheted off Hervey’s scabbard and hit the man next to him painfully but harmlessly in the thigh. Another struck the dragoon next to the right marker in the throat. He made a noise like a hissing kettle as he fell from the saddle, sword hanging from his wrist by the leather knot as his hand tried to close the wound. Hervey winced: Meadwell, a good man, smart and decent. Would someone help him?

Too late: the front rank was into the trees, sabres slashing. Hervey looked for a mark as they closed up behind them, but there was none. The
voltigeurs
wouldn’t stand against steel. No one would if they could run instead.

‘Halt! Halt! Halt!’

The rear rank pulled up just short of the trees. Hervey glanced left: it was a good, straight line, ready to support the front rank if they pressed into the wood or cover them if they withdrew.

‘Front rank retire!’

Sir Edward burst from the trees, his expression keen, but for all the world as if he were drawing a fox covert. There was blood on his sabre, and on a dozen of the dragoons’ that followed him out. Two or three had lost their Tarletons – not the best of caps for a fight in the woods – but they all looked in good order and high spirits. Hervey cursed his luck.

More dragoons began tumbling from the wood – the Fourteenth’s. Many were bloodied, others bewildered-looking. It was plain to him: they had had a mauling. He was not surprised; none of the Sixth was. To plunge into a wood, mounted, was to give the advantage to the man on foot. Surely the Fourteenth had seen that, even without the benefit of high ground?

At last, General Stewart came galloping out, his two aides-de-camp hatless and blood-spattered. He looked like a man who knew things had gone ill. He sought to congratulate someone. ‘Sir Edward! Splendid work! Capital! The French are driven back. We shall push them across the river just as soon as the infantry come up!’

Sir Edward Lankester returned his sword after dropping it to the salute. ‘When the Fourteenth are all out of the wood, General, I propose we retire so that the guns have a clear line.’

‘Just so, Sir Edward,’ replied Stewart, looking over his shoulder at the Fourteenth’s disordered squadron. ‘And, I might say, one of your corporals deserves promotion as soon as may be!’ He looked along the front rank. ‘There, the right marker! He cut down a sharpshooter who’d have put a bullet in me for certain. Admirable address! Admirable!’

Sir Edward knew who was his right marker well enough, but he turned to see the object of the general’s favour. With a nod, and in a voice just loud enough to carry to each flank, he announced, ‘Corporal Armstrong, by desire of General Stewart, you are promoted local serjeant herewith!’

CHAPTER TEN

THE KING’S COMMISSION

Badajoz, late afternoon, Christmas Day, 1826

Hervey began peeling his last orange. They had been cork oaks at the affair of the Douro, good for
voltigeurs
to take cover behind, and low branches to entangle the unwary dragoon, Absalom-like. But when they had got to the other side – when the infantry had come up and swept through the wood – there had been orange trees; and what a feast they had had! Stewart had far exceeded his authority in promoting Armstrong, but that had been the least of his faults. The Fourteenth had lost half their men in that bungled affair. If the French had counter-attacked before the straggling squadron had cleared the gunners’ line, there was no knowing how things would have gone. But they hadn’t, and the infantry had come up, and the day had ended well. And not least for General Stewart, who had already botched things on the march north; another reverse might have proved fatal.

Hervey sighed. No, it would not have been fatal for Lord Castlereagh’s kin, not for the brother of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s supporter in London. There had been many, and greater, names in the pantheon of incompetence, secure in their positions in spite of any calamity because of some influence at the Horse Guards. In any case, Sir Arthur Wellesley had known how to deal with the problem of the Honourable Charles Stewart: he had checked his impetuous confidence by hobbling him to the duties of the staff (and even there, Hervey learned years later, Stewart had been more hindrance than help). But checking Stewart had not been the end of it: there had been others who had sent brave men needlessly to their deaths. Slade, for one. What had Slade ever done but bungle things? And with a streak of malevolent cowardice that singled him out as being in a special category. Now he was lieutenant-general, with the rank to make war on his own, to dissemble and bungle on a campaign scale, to send men to their deaths in thousands.

Hervey angered, even as he sat confined. Would it be always thus? Would advancement in the army forever depend on this rotten system of purchase and patronage? Parliament couldn’t care less: the nation won its wars, eventually; did it matter at what cost? Evidently not, for neither house showed any appetite for demanding generals’ heads in return for soldiers’ bodies –
legions
of bodies. Unless, of course, the general was known as a party man: there had been baying enough as the army stumbled back to Corunna, for Sir John Moore had been a Whig. The Tory Wellesley had heard party baying too, on occasion.

How different it had been at regimental duty in those early days in Portugal, with Armstrong promoted serjeant. There was scarce a man that had not lifted a glass to him – not because Armstrong had especially deserved it in the confusion of the cork grove (there was nothing singular in saving a comrade, except that Stewart was Stewart), but because of the aptitude he had shown on countless occasions since their first footing in the Peninsula.

Hervey smiled as he took the last of the peel from the orange. It had been a short-lived celebration, Armstrong’s third stripe. Three days later, before the local rank could even be confirmed, he had been reduced to corporal again. A dispute in a Porto
tasca
over who was more use, infantry or cavalry, had come to blows, the sort of pointless debate in which no speaker could entirely believe his own proposition, yet each would submit to trial by combat to settle the question of honour. A serjeant of the 29th Foot (Worcestershire) had been chastened by a bloody nose, and the town commandant, charged by Sir Arthur Wellesley to maintain the strictest discipline, had insisted on condign punishment. Sir Edward Lankester had only been able to spare Armstrong from a regimental court martial by summarily removing the unsubstantiated chevron. Hervey smiled again, and wryly.
That
, he reminded himself, was regimental duty.