Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (7 page)

M.P. Hervey
Bt-Major
Lisbon, 26 October 1826

Colonel Norris turned the pages of the memorandum, and its detailed annexes, with increasing alarm – and anger. It was familiar enough, but no more welcome than on the first occasion he had seen it. ‘No, Sir William, I did
not
send this to London. I considered it, as I would a submission from a subordinate, and dismissed it as unfeasible. I am greatly dismayed that Major Hervey should have sent this to London without my leave. Indeed, I regard it as—’

Sir William turned to the chargé, as though he did not hear. ‘Mr Forbes, I should like to go at once to meet Senhor Saldanha.’ He rose and walked from the room without a word.

CHAPTER FOUR

REPUTATIONS

Badajoz, the same day

Hervey sat down again as the door closed. It had been three days since he had given Dr Sanchez his letter for Dom Mateo, and there had been no acknowledgement from Elvas. Sanchez had assured him he need not worry: the ‘authorities’ had no objection to a reasonable correspondence. Indeed, they believed it would help secure his prompt release – on the proper terms. It was just that the couriers were slow; and, no doubt, the censor too. But to Hervey there could
be
no terms. He could no more give his parole than he could turn and run in the face of the foe. It was unthinkable to promise not to bear arms against the King’s enemies merely to gain one’s release, prompt or otherwise. Parole was for dilettanti, not for ‘professional’ officers. And, as if to rub salt into the wound, although he did not truly imagine they intended it, by the terms of the parole which the ‘authorities’ had now placed before him, he was to quit the country by means of a merchantman from Corunna.

No place was calculated to stir memories of ignominy like Corunna. In all that had passed since, in his heights and in his depths, Corunna still had the power to shock him, to sadden him, to make him anger faster than most everything else. He had watched the heroes of his boyhood, His Majesty’s redcoats, behave with every perversion the Mutiny Act could name during that retreat to the sea. He had watched as officers turned their back on duty; he had seen the cruellest destruction of the noblest of animals; he had witnessed craven merchant captains abandon their ships and their human cargoes; and at Plymouth, when they had finally been delivered from the nightmare, he had seen the horror in the faces of his fellow countrymen as they beheld the condition of the nation’s soldiers. He had been but seventeen, and he had wondered if there could be any recovery from such a calamity – in his own regiment not least.

The recovery had been more rapid than anyone had supposed possible. In part this was due to Major Joseph Edmonds – or Captain Edmonds, as first he was when they came back from Corunna – whose unremitting exertions drove every man to the greatest effort. The best of the non-commissioned officers, too, had shown energy and enterprise of a high order, and the troop-officers themselves – denied leave even to
request
leave of absence by Edmonds – had achieved much by their mere attendance at parades. But it was the prompt appointment of a new commanding officer, and the nature of that officer, which turned endeavour into spectacular success.

Hervey could picture it still, as if it had been two, not eighteen, years past. Lieutenant-Colonel Lord George Irvine, second son of the Marquess of Tain, arrived at the Sixth’s Canterbury depot the fortnight following their own arrival, and it was at once evident that the new commanding officer was intent on gathering up the reins without delay. Instead of a stately progress from London by a Tain chariot, he arrived in a high tandem cocking cart covered in the mud of the Brighton road, for he meant business, and the earliest start to it. Hervey recalled Edmonds’s surprise as Lord George jumped from the box, in front of the officers’ house, and began brushing the mud from his hat.

Edmonds knew him by sight (and reputation) right enough, which was as well since Lord George’s plain clothes gave little clue to his rank. ‘Good morning, my lord,’ he said, saluting. ‘Edmonds, senior captain. We did not expect you so soon, else I should have turned out the quarter-guard.’

Lord George Irvine smiled as he took off his travelling coat. ‘It is of no matter. And “Colonel” will serve well enough.’

Edmonds took the outstretched hand. ‘Indeed, we had an express only this morning from Lord Sussex saying you were appointed to command. My congratulations, Colonel. I am sorry you will not find the regiment in hale condition.’

‘That is why I am come so soon. Tell me of it.’

‘You will want to retire first, Colonel. Will you come inside?’

Lord George Irvine, invigorated by the drive, was impervious to the cold of the early February morning. ‘I think I will take a turn of the camp, if you please, Edmonds.’

Edmonds smiled to himself appreciatively. ‘By all means.’

They struck off towards the horse lines.

‘I have the scrip for your majority, by the way.’

Edmonds guarded his relief. The promotion by death-vacancy was his by right and custom, but these were difficult times and there was no knowing what the Horse Guards might direct. Money might yet speak. He had advanced free the last time, when two captains had been appointed major on the raising of five new regiments, and before that to lieutenant when the Flanders fevers had laid low so many. A third time was fortune indeed.

‘I am gratified, Colonel.’

‘No, Edmonds, not “gratified”: you are
rewarded
, if all I hear is true.’

Major Edmonds allowed himself a moment of happy contemplation. Margaret would be as relieved as he at the improvement in their situation: it was no easy thing raising two daughters and keeping an establishment on captain’s pay and two modest annuities. It was a pity the three of them had quit the depot for Norfolk when the regiment sailed for Portugal, for he had seen so little of them in the decade of war with Bonaparte, and news by letter would be flat . . .

And then he remembered there were others who would benefit from his free promotion. ‘Lennox will be obliged, as senior lieutenant, Colonel. He is nicely fitted for a troop.’

‘Capital.’

Two dragoons approached, throwing up sharp salutes as they passed.

‘I would speak with them, Edmonds, if you please.’

‘Crampton, Hardy!’

The two men spun about and stood at attention.

‘Your troop, Edmonds, I presume?’

‘No, Colonel: D.’

‘Indeed?’ Lord George Irvine marked his major’s recognition of dragoons other than his own.

‘Both chosen-men; distinguished themselves in Portugal.’ Edmonds eyed them directly. ‘Your new commanding officer, gentlemen.’

‘Sir!’

Lord George Irvine looked them up and down, carefully. ‘The patching is well executed, I must say. There’s more of it than serge, though.’

‘We’ve had to scour the county for cloth to patch with,’ said Edmonds. ‘I’ve had promised an issue of cloaks by the end of the month, but coats and breeches there’s no sign of.’

It had been a point of some pride in the Sixth, even among those officers not usually given to administrative detail, that the regiment was able to patch itself into a passable state so quickly. For years after, Edmonds was as much revered for his address with interior economy as he was for the way he handled a squadron. But even Edmonds had not been able to restore the regiment’s spirits entirely, for something of their pride had gone, as it had, indeed, in the army as a whole. The retreat to Corunna had cost them dear, and the storm-tossed passage through Biscay had taken a heavy toll as well, so that all the army could do on landing in England was lick its wounds and hide from public gaze in the tatters of their regimentals. They would not be fit to send back to the Peninsula in six months, perhaps a year. Not even the cavalry, for their horses were but maggot-ridden meat on the cliffs of Corunna.

‘Which of you is Crampton?’ asked Lord George.

‘I am, Colonel.’

‘Do you have a cloak?’

‘No, Colonel. Lost it at Corunna.’

‘And you, Hardy?’

‘Lost mine an’ all, Colonel. We was in the same boat, an’ it tipped over.’

Lord George shook his head. ‘And your sabre and carbine?’

‘Managed to hang on to both, Colonel.’

‘Good man. And you, Crampton?’

‘The same, Colonel. I think we all of us ’ad us carbines clipped on us belts. That were the orders, Colonel.’

Lord George turned to his major. ‘Your orders, Edmonds?’

‘I’m afraid so, Colonel. I had assumed command the day before.’

Lord George knew the unhappy circumstances well enough; Colonel Reynell’s death by his own hand was remarked throughout the service. He turned back to the dragoons. ‘What else did you manage to save? Not much, I imagine.’

‘Nothing, Colonel, not even us small-pack things,’ answered Crampton for them both.

‘Half the regiment will say the same,’ added Edmonds. ‘We didn’t save a single trooper, burned every piece of leather, and we brought off only a few of the chargers. The paymaster has sent in a return, and we can draw from the imprest account until the losses are adjusted. But we’ve had few remounts so far. I’ve ridden as far as Lewes, buying.’

‘Mm. Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Lord George, turning about and touching the peak of his hat as they saluted. ‘Tell me of the captains, Edmonds.’

Edmonds took him by way of the empty manège to ensure a little privacy and freedom from salutes. ‘You may know that Rawlings advanced to major, and has gone onto half pay.’

‘Yes, and Sussex believes he will remain thus for a year at least. He is really quite ill. I know him a little: he will fight to get back on the Active List, but his doctor is adamant on the matter.’

Edmonds nodded, doubly grateful for the information, for even though Rawlings was senior, it confirmed him in the regimental (as opposed to the second) majority. ‘Twentyman has D. He boughtin a year ago from the Tenth. Very steady, he was, in Spain. Lennox shall have my troop, C. He will have a good lieutenant and quartermaster, which he will need. He is inclined to upset when things go wrong.’

Lord George made a mental note. ‘A
Richmond
Lennox is he?’

‘Old General William’s younger son.’

‘Very well.’

‘The best by a good many lengths is Sir Edward Lankester. He has A. I had a mind he would transfer to half pay when we came back: he’s not long come into his estate, but he says he will stay until Bonaparte is in a cage.’

‘We may all say “Amen” to that. His brother is
Ivo
Lankester, I imagine?’

‘I can’t say I know, Colonel.’

‘Cornet in the Royals. No matter. Who else?’

Edmonds cleared his throat. ‘E Troop is Underwood, who is sound, in a plodding sort of way, and F is Moore, who intends exchanging with an Indiaman. And there is Joynson, who formed the depot troop when we sailed. Since we are to re-form eight-troops-strong, he will have the seventh, and one of the captains from the Unposted List will return. Who, I don’t know.’

‘Joynson, I imagine, is . . . at home in a depot?’

‘At his worst he’s an old woman. At his best there’s no officer with a better facility for administration. The depot will be found correct to the last penny and nail.’

‘A most useful facility,’ declared Lord George Irvine, with perhaps more a note of determination than conviction. ‘And the others?’

‘The veterinary surgeon is, I’d hazard, the best in the service: John Knight.’

‘Ah, indeed,
Knight
. We are fortunate to be sure. Lord Paget spoke of him for Woodbridge, as I recall. I should be loath to lose him, even to there.’

‘He was the difference of a dozen remounts a month in Spain.’

Rounding the corner of a half-empty Dutch barn, they came on A Troop’s hutted horse lines. Fresh whitewash did not entirely disguise their rackety condition.

‘How many shall we see here?’

‘A Troop is remounted, the only one complete – fifty-five. We contracted with a good man in Arundel as a matter of priority, but Lankester paid twice the price.’

Lord George nodded. ‘
Fifty-five
: not strong. You didn’t lose many in Spain, though? Until having to shoot them all, I mean.’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘And men?’

‘We lost thirty-one, dead or invalide. But we’ve lost that number since. Five were dead of fever by the time we landed at Plymouth, and twenty-odd coming on here. I’m surprised it wasn’t more – filthy weather, ill clad, no shelter, poor rations. A dozen are absent without leave. They might return; they weren’t bad hats.’

Lord George shook his head; the story was not confined to the Sixth. ‘What is the sabre strength, then?’

‘At muster, and with local sick, we are four hundred and forty-six today.’

Lord George raised his eyebrows. The establishment for eight troops was twice that number.

They opened the door and went inside. At this time of a morning, between watering and second feed, the stables were quiet, with one dragoon on duty. The only sound was of teeth grinding hay, the odd chain running through its ring, and the occasional shift of a foot. Lord George took a deep breath: an officer who knew his job could smell the condition of a stable.