Hervey 06 - Rumours Of War (52 page)

They rode out to meet the parley, a dozen of them, the same as the enemy.

Dom Mateo suddenly braced. ‘Their leader, Hervey, a major-general: I know him.’

Dom Mateo’s face conveyed no dismay, however. Hervey wished they had a little more time; knowing something of the rebel leader might be useful.

‘And he knows me. It will be an affair of courtesy at least.’

Dom Mateo’s prediction was quickly justified. It was an affair of
great
courtesy, observed Hervey, with much saluting, bowing and raising of hats.

‘Dom Mateo,’ began the rebel general, and not insensible of the red coat in the party, ‘I know your forces to be weak. I know that if you defend here then you cannot hold the fortress. I have men enough to overwhelm you here in the field, and then the fortress will be in my hands. Why would you spill our common blood to no effect?’

Hervey struggled to understand.

For once, Dom Mateo did not interpret. ‘Dom Jorge, allow me to present Major-General Hervey, who commands the British brigade at Elvas.’

Dom Jorge de Sabugal looked astonished.

Hervey saluted and held out his hand.

Dom Jorge took it hesitantly.

As they had planned, Hervey turned and gave the signal. In a few seconds the top of the ridge was red, from end to end it seemed.

‘You see, Dom Jorge,’ said Dom Mateo, with a look of intense satisfaction. ‘His Majesty’s Guards!’

It was not as they had agreed; a regiment of Line was what a closer inspection might suggest. But Hervey thought it of no matter, especially not at this distance.

A long silence followed.

Dom Jorge spoke first. ‘Dom Mateo, this will be an infamous day.’

Then he saluted, nodded to Hervey, reined about and trotted back to his lines.

‘He says it will be an infamous day, Hervey. I have no idea what he means.’ Dom Mateo shook his head as they watched the recession.

‘I wish he had said it
is
an infamous day. It sounds otherwise as if there will be a deciding.’

‘Indeed. But that line of red was a most convincing display. It fair took the breath from him!’

There was a half of one hour to wait before the deciding. The cold began to bite again, and Hervey rode up and down the line for no other reason but his circulation. Corporal Wainwright, with his extra two chevrons and a crown, put ‘His Majesty’s Guards’ through their musket drill. Drill after drill after drill – limbs active, minds occupied; there could be nothing better while waiting, cold, for the decision.

But when the rebels at last made their move it looked as if the deciding might be prolonged, for Dom Jorge advanced to parley anew.

‘He brings more men, a half company perhaps,’ said Dom Mateo, closing his telescope. ‘Does he intend asking for terms? I think we will await him at the foot of the slope this time. It will give the muskets atop a clear field of fire should there be a trick. I cannot believe Dom Jorge would break a flag of parley, but these are infamous times, by his own reckoning.’

Infamous.
Hervey was uneasy. Not even the French had broken their truces.

They rode down the slope with an escort of half a dozen cavalry, Hervey for the first time feeling the want of his own coverman.

The rebel company came on as before. Dom Jorge halted and saluted. ‘Dom Mateo, we were once friends. You must know that the cause of those schemers in Lisbon will not serve our country well. Dom Miguel is the future of Portugal. That is the opinion of the nobles; and of the Church too. I know you to be a most Christian man, Dom Mateo, a man whose respect for the Church would not allow him to oppose her wishes.’ He paused, seeming to judge the effect. Then he turned.

The company of infantry began parting, centre. Hervey cursed: he imagined the old trick, a masked field piece. He reached for his pistol.

‘Ecce Corpus Christi!’

Hervey’s mouth fell open. A huge, bearded priest, in dazzling cope and flanked by two others vested as ornately, raised a huge monstrance high above his head and began walking forward.

As one man, Dom Jorge’s escort fell to the knee. Hervey, whether by instinct or dim recollection of the Duke of Wellington’s orders those years past, took off his hat. Dom Mateo did the same, with an expression of equal shock. Then he crossed himself with his sword hand.

Hervey’s mind raced. The initiative was with the Miguelistas, but Dom Jorge could not believe he would overawe Dom Mateo with superstition? Then he remembered the rest of the duke’s instructions:
troops will present arms when the blessed sacrament is processed.
Wainwright would not know of it. He turned to give the order.

It was too late. Like the escort, the line, if raggedly, was descending to the knee.

Hervey turned back and saw Dom Jorge’s expression of disbelief. He did not need extensive Portuguese to understand what followed.

‘Dom Mateo, a regiment of His English Majesty’s Guards genuflects before the body of Our Lord? I do not think so!’ Dom Jorge turned in the saddle.

Fifty muskets came up to the aim.

‘Dom Jorge,’ said Dom Mateo, with genuine indignance. ‘May I remind you that you come under a flag of parley!’

‘And you, Dom Mateo, come under false colours! By the Articles of War you forfeit the protection of that flag.’

Corporal Wainwright had brought his own muskets to the aim. But Hervey shook his head. It would be futile. The rebel guns would break the line, the infantry would overwhelm them, and the cavalry would cut down every man who ran from the ridge.

Dom Mateo drew his sabre.

Hervey put a hand to his arm to stay it. ‘General, a moment if you will.’ He prayed they had the language to themselves. ‘We cannot prevail; we have spoken of it. You and your men must get back to Elvas, or else the fortress will not hold. We must gain time!’

Dom Mateo merely stared at him.

Hervey drew his own sabre, slowly. He dropped his reins and held out the sword to Dom Jorge. ‘Senhor, I believe by the Articles of War that
I
am your prisoner, but that General Dom Mateo de Braganza is entitled to the same protection as you enjoy under the flag of parley.’

Dom Jorge looked at Dom Mateo for enlightenment. Dom Mateo translated the proposition slowly, as if trying to decide whether to accept it. Then he turned to Hervey again. ‘No, my friend, I will not permit—’

But Hervey took his arm to insist. ‘There is no other way. I assure you. At least you might have the fortress.’

Dom Mateo sighed. ‘Very well.’

Hervey turned and gave Wainwright the sign.

The line of redcoats began retiring.

‘Time, Dom Mateo,’ said Hervey. ‘Every minute we can make.’

Dom Mateo was now resolved. He reminded his adversary of the courtesies in a formal surrender.

Dom Jorge, looking uncomfortable, ordered his escort to form double rank, inwards, and to present arms.

Hervey dismounted.

‘That will not be necessary, General,’ said Dom Jorge.

Hervey merely raised his hat before stepping forward to review the escort. He would take all the time he could. And then he would walk as slowly as he might the half mile to the rebel lines under their own flag of parley while Dom Mateo and his redcoats made for Elvas. Not a man of Dom Jorge’s would be able to advance until the flag was back with them.

‘Adeus,
my friend,’ said Dom Mateo, leaning from the saddle to shake his hand. ‘You are a most brave and loyal fellow. I shall not rest until you are safe back in Elvas!’

Hervey inclined his head, and lowered his voice. ‘I do not doubt it, Dom Mateo. Only hold the fortress, else our exertions will be for nothing. Send word, if you will, to the legation.’

Then he replaced his hat, made much of his mare, handed the reins to one of Dom Jorge’s orderlies, and began his slow walk to the enemy lines.

HISTORICAL AFTERNOTE

Rumours of War,
like the other tales in the Hervey series, is a work of fiction. But, as are those others, it is a work rooted firmly in history, few of which details I have changed. Keen students of Portuguese ecclesiastical history will have observed that Elvas’s prelate was in fact an
arch
bishop, but I trust that such little variations do not detract from the historical plausibility of the story.

What happened next?
Hansard,
of 10 December 1826, relates what parliament decided:

Lord Bathurst in the House of Peers, and Mr Canning in the Commons, presented the following message from his Majesty.

‘His Majesty acquaints the House of Lords and Commons, that His Majesty has received an earnest application from the Princess Regent of Portugal, claiming, in virtue of the ancient obligations of alliance and amity, subsisting between his Majesty and the Crown of Portugal, his Majesty’s aid against hostile aggression from Spain.

‘His Majesty has exerted himself, for some time past, in conjunction with his Majesty’s ally, the King of France, to prevent such aggression; and repeated assurances have been given by the Court of Madrid of the determination of his Catholic Majesty neither to commit, nor to allow to be committed, from his Catholic Majesty’s territory, any aggression against Portugal.

‘But his Majesty has learned with deep concern, that, notwithstanding these assurances, hostile inroads into the territory of Portugal have been concerted in Spain, and have been executed under the eyes of the Spanish authorities by Portuguese regiments, which had deserted into Spain, and which the Spanish government had repeatedly and solemnly engaged to disarm and disperse.

‘His Majesty leaves no effort unexhausted to awaken the Spanish government to the dangerous consequences of this apparent connivance.

‘His Majesty makes this communication to the House of Lords and Commons, with the full and entire confidence that the House of Lords and his faithful Commons will afford to his Majesty their cordial concurrence and support, in maintaining the faith of treaties, and in securing against foreign hostility, the safety and independence of the kingdom of Portugal, the oldest ally of Great Britain.’

Hansard,
the day following:

An Address, in answer to His Majesty’s Message concerning the obligations to the kingdom of Portugal, was moved in both Houses. In the Commons it was moved by Mr Canning.

‘In proposing to the House of Commons to reply to his Majesty’s Message, in terms which will be, in effect, an echo of the sentiments, and a fulfilment of the anticipation of that Message, I feel that it becomes me as a British minister, recommending to parliament any step which may approximate this country even to the hazard of war, while I explain the grounds of that proposal, to accompany my explanation with expressions of regret . . .

‘If into that war this country shall be compelled to enter, we shall enter into it, with a sincere and anxious desire to mitigate rather than exasperate, and to mingle only in the conflict of arms, not in the more fatal conflict of opinions. But I much fear that this country (however earnestly she may endeavour to avoid it) could not, in such case, avoid seeing ranked under her banners all the restless and dissatisfied of any nation with which she might come in conflict. It is the contemplation of this new power, in any future war, which excites my most anxious apprehension. It is one thing to have a giant’s strength, but it would be another to use it like a giant. The consequence of letting loose the passions at present chained and confined, would be to produce a scene of desolation which no man can contemplate without horror . . .

‘Let us fly to the aid of Portugal, by whomsoever attacked; because it is our duty to do so: and let us cease our interference where that duty ends. We go to Portugal, not to rule, not to dictate, not to prescribe constitutions – but to defend and to preserve the independence of an ally. We go to plant the standard of England on the well-known heights of Lisbon. Where that standard is planted, foreign dominion shall not come.’

Mr Canning sat down much exhausted, amid loud cheers from all sides of the House.

On Christmas Day 1826, a British expeditionary force under the command of Lieutenant-General William Clinton landed at Lisbon. About which, more anon . . .

In 1817, the
Newry Telegraph
published a poem by the Reverend Charles Wolfe, curate of Donnoughmore in County Down, with the title ‘The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna’:

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.