Words of Command (Hervey 12) (Matthew Hervey) (47 page)

Malet rose and went to find the serjeant-major.

Fairbrother, his plate now clean, pushed it aside and spoke firmly. ‘Hervey, a show of force is one thing …’

Hervey nodded, gravely. ‘I know, but if the French
aren’t
overawed by show, how can we
not
apply that force? If we call their bluff, then who will censure us? And if it comes to war with France, then what moment to anyone will be the action of two troops at its commencement?’

‘Two troops of cavalry?’

‘If that is all His Majesty can place in the path of the French, then so be it.’

‘Remember Codrington. Battle came out of nothing but proximity, and then out of that battle war between Russia and the Turk. You yourself have said it.’

‘Yes, and I said it again when I gave my design to Vanneck and Worsley; but I don’t think it an entirely apt comparison. The Turks were not attempting to force a passage; they were at anchor. We cannot let Navarino haunt our every decision. Peto lately told me of a far more fitting
memento
: his hero, Hoste, at Lissa signalling “Remember Nelson”. And so I
shall
.’

‘Noble sentiment.’

‘But quite why we must look to naval officers for example … Nevertheless, be assured that I shall indeed remember Codrington, most certainly, and Nelson – and Byng.’

Fairbrother studied his friend intently. No one had ever stirred him to exertion as he. No one else he had known displayed such simple certainty in King and Country, nor yet a purblind loyalty, nor an incapacity to see corruption and absurdity, just an unshakeable faith that in his England there reposed the best of all worlds – on balance, in sum, for better or worse,
ceteris paribus
; and in consequence where duty lay (in which lay also the true glory). It was, indeed, the very motto which his family had borne for generations,
Quo officium ducit
– where duty leads. What he himself would not give to have such faith! But being not a true believer (not yet, at any rate), he would follow like some seeker after truth; for what, otherwise, should detain a gentleman? He had, in former times, taken his pleasure in Dionysian proportions; it did not last beyond the next sunrise. His true pleasure now lay in the company of this man, and, yes, in the company of those who answered to him. What
was
this mystery?

‘Fairbrother?’

‘What? I—’

‘You seemed to be elsewhere. Corporal Johnson asked if there was anything more?’

He looked at his host, and his host’s most admirable corporal; and he smiled.

‘Might I have more bacon? It really is most unconscionably good.’

An hour later, the bacon finished, the meditation over, the despatch for London given to an orderly for the post at Mons, Vanneck’s orders written and delivered, and the ball-cartridge issued to his troop, Hervey was ready to take to the saddle to make an inspection of the pickets. Johnson, insisting on his true position as ‘groom of the charger’ rather than – as the wags in the canteen had it – of the close-stool, brought up Ajax and Dolly.

‘Captain Fairbrother will accompany us, Corp’l Johnson.’

Johnson turned to the dragoon leading Dolly. ‘Go and fetch that bay of the adjutant’s, will you, Toddy.’

Hervey sighed. But there was little point telling Johnson that ‘Toddy’ was ‘Pickering’ on parade (except to save him from the ordeal that would follow if the sar’nt-major heard); it had taken all his powers of persuasion to get him to
wear
the rank.

‘Mr Malet’s already said as ’e could ’ave ’im, Colonel.’

‘Most generous.’

‘Might I have a sword?’ asked Fairbrother awkwardly, addressing the request to no one in particular. ‘I would feel so deucedly undressed otherwise.’

‘It’ll ’ave one on t’saddle, sir,’ replied Johnson.

Hervey sighed again. Johnson had lapsed into the enunciation that so confounded him when first he’d become his groom (he could never fathom why it came and went as it did). But what things they’d seen in their time; what triumphs and disasters. And always the flat vowels and want of aspirates – revealing so little, and imperturbable. Had they spoken thus when Ivanhoe ranged ‘In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don …’? Except that, by Johnson’s own account, its pleasantness was now much diminished. That morning at Waterloo – he could never forget it – Johnson’s hand shook his shoulder, though but a touch was needed to wake him (the instincts of five years’ campaigning) … Besides, the rain had allowed no more than a fitful sleep, and it had been near midnight when he’d at last lain down … The hand, and ‘tea, sir’ … How
had
he found a fire to brew it on such a night? Not one officer in a dozen could have been woken that way. Yet in Spain no one had wanted him … a refugee of the coal-pit, difficult to understand – no, just plain difficult. The canvas of his valise had kept out the worst of the downpour, but he’d crawled into it already soaked to the skin – and he’d shivered as he took the tea: ‘Couldn’t get no brandy or nothin’,’ Johnson had said. ‘A German ’ad some snaps but ’e wanted gold for it – gold!’ Flat vowels, want of aspirates – defiant badge of a man who would remain his own no matter what. What memories bound them.
Were you at Waterloo? / I have been at Waterloo. / ’Tis no matter what you do / If you were at Waterloo
…

‘Colonel?’

‘What?’ he said absently.

‘I said look yonder.’

He turned. ‘Great heavens.’

They came on at the trot. Everywhere, dragoons braced.

He brought his hand up sharply to the salute. ‘Good morning, Your Highness.’

Behind the princess, Lieutenant Mordaunt bore the look of a man who knew he had a difficult explanation before him – though Hervey might guess it, for he’d placed him in command of the colonel-in-chief’s safety.

‘Good morning, Colonel Hervey,’ she said, with the most winning of smiles, so that he almost began thinking himself pleased she’d come.

‘I was not, of course, expecting you, ma’am.’

‘I was not expecting you to leave Brussels, Colonel.’

She had made her point. He ought to have told her himself, but time had been pressing, and …

‘I’m about to inspect the pickets. May we offer refreshment?’

She shook her head. ‘We have no desire to make ourselves a burden. We put up last evening at the Abbaye du Bélian, not ten miles from here, and breakfasted well.’

He helped her from the saddle (at least she didn’t wear uniform). ‘The Trakehner you rode at Waterloo, ma’am?’

‘Indeed. Mr Mordaunt was most attentive in finding her.’

Hervey glanced at the attentive Mordaunt, who looked ever more awkward.

‘Admirable. Exactly as should be. Thank you, Mordaunt.’ He added a smile, albeit wry.

‘Colonel.’

‘Then let me tell you what we’ve learned here, and what we’re about, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the table outside his tent, where he could spread a map (that was, assuming her to be acquainted with maps).

But his intention was stayed: ‘Colonel, yonder,’ snapped Johnson, never overawed by an occasion.

Hervey turned, irritated – an interruption too many. ‘What—’

The exploring officers – one of them.

‘Ma’am, forgive me—’ he said tersely.

An orderly took the sweat-covered reins as Cornet Jenkinson jumped from the saddle.

‘Colonel, they’re on the march. Two squadrons – two hundred horse. We watched them parading and move off. None went east, only north. St Alban’s gone straight to alert Captain Worsley.’

Good thinking; what they’d lost in time, perhaps, they’d gained in assurance that he could withdraw Vanneck’s troop at once – save for a vidette, just in case. ‘Mr Malet, have Vanneck’s troop come up to Worsley’s immediately.’

‘Colonel!’

‘What were the French – lancers?’

‘No, Colonel. Cuirassiers only.’

‘In haste, or …’

‘With much ceremony, Colonel.’

‘Good. We may have a little time then. And they a surprise, by the sound of things.’

He turned to the princess, who’d come forward to hear.

‘Ma’am, I must fly.’

‘I shall follow, Colonel.’

His look was pained. ‘Ma’am, may I request – with all due respect – that you remain here?’

She smiled again, as winningly as before.

There wasn’t time to argue. ‘Very well, I’ll tell you all as we gallop.’

A quarter of an hour, cutting (riskily) across the salient of French soil west of the Bois d’Avau, over stubble fields, here and there a stream, and a hedge or two – a spirited, fortifying gallop in-hand, the princess keeping up with ease, relishing the pace indeed, choosing her own line at the hurdles, skirts no impediment (nor to her lady-in-waiting) … They beat the French to the ground by five minutes.

‘Halloo, Worsley!’

B Troop’s captain was standing in the saddle, middle of his line, peering through the binocular telescope he’d bought in Brussels.

Hervey cantered to his side.

‘Colonel, good morning. Movement in the trees yonder.’ He nodded towards the clump of oaks next the French
douanerie
.

Hervey took out his spyglass. ‘Yes, movement … I think – horses?’

‘Horses, assuredly – and cuirasses. Scouts, maybe?’

‘Or council of war, perhaps? They see us clearly, I trust. I wonder what they make of such a reception party.’ He lowered his glass. ‘Now, mark you: I’ve sent for Vanneck’s troop, and they have fifteen rounds ball. If the French come on hard I may have you withdraw and give them a volley or two – in the air to begin with, but if necessary …’

Worsley looked uneasy – a departure from the orders of last evening.

‘But I want no more, still, than a determined, barring action by you – no edge or point, mind.’

He looked assured again. ‘No, Colonel. We’ve drilled exactly to your last order.’

‘Good man.’

Only now did he see the princess, halted at the end of the front rank. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, saluting. ‘I beg pardon.’

She pressed forward. ‘Captain Worsley, what a week it has been!’ – and the same disarming smile.

He looked at Hervey for enlightenment, but received only a raised eyebrow.

Malet came galloping, and the serjeant-major. ‘Vanneck’ll be here in ten minutes, Colonel. Kenny’s bringing them short by the Bois.’

‘Thank you. Would you escort the colonel-in-chief to the spinney to the rear. There will be a fine view.’ He turned to the princess. ‘Ma’am?’

She held her smile but was too astute to challenge an order once given.

Five minutes, and the column trotted three abreast from the line of oaks to the chaussée six hundred yards ahead, breastplates glinting.

Hervey put his telescope back in its saddle-case. ‘What a sight to behold, Worsley. I never thought to see again French cavalry advance on me.’

At Waterloo they’d come on in line, at the charge; but the day before, when Wellington’s own cavalry had covered the withdrawal of his weary infantry from Quatre Bras, they’d watched them come on thus – and ever so gingerly, not at all wanting to close for a fight. At muster that morning his troop leader, Edward Lankester, had ridden along the front of the first squadron, exchanging words with his dragoons for all the world like the owner of some well-run estate hailing his contented tenants: ‘I’m sorry, First Squadron – no breakfast, no rum, no Frenchmen, but I think we’ll have all of them aplenty and in good time, if not in that order!’ Oh, the laughter, and Lankester’s good-hearted riposte: ‘It could be worse, though!’ And a voice from the ranks: ‘How’s that, sir?’, and Lankester’s ‘Well, it could be raining!’ – and half an hour later it was.

But this was too fine a morning for rain – not a cloud, not a breath of moving air. A good day for powder.

He looked left and right. B Troop was admirably posted. He wouldn’t do as Lankester. It was Worsley’s troop; he wouldn’t steal his thunder.

He turned and saw Serjeant-Major Collins in his place, behind the rear rank, and centre. He’d have been just as content with Vanneck’s troop, and Armstrong, but it was especially good to see Collins. What a loss to his country he would have been – and all for the sake of a lieutenant’s spleen …

Malet returned. ‘I’ve told Mordaunt he’s to seize hold of the princess’s reins if necessary, Colonel.’

Hervey nodded. ‘What a deuced fine thing, though, that she chooses to come.’

‘Colonel?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Ah,’ said Worsley, taking up the contact on his own reins suddenly. ‘Here we go!’

The column had stopped. A few seconds later they began deploying into line.

‘How many do you make it, Malet?’

The adjutant was already scribbling in his notebook. He looked up for a moment or two. ‘They’re fronting fifty, Colonel, two lines.’ He took out his telescope and studied closer. ‘And the same again beyond. Two squadrons, evidently.’ He wrote down the details and the time. It was his to keep the regiment’s diary – and who knew what evidence might be needed if …

‘I think so too,’ said Hervey, and with some relief, for it meant the column hadn’t divided.

They watched in silence as the lines formed and dressed – and then the trumpet call:
En Avant
.

There was not a sound from the troop but the grinding of bits, the odd snort and stamping foot (the flies, curse them) and the creak of leather.

Four hundred yards – a walk still, and in perfect line.

Three hundred – the same.

Two hundred …

‘With permission, Colonel?’

‘Carry on.’

Worsley drew his sabre and put his weight into the stirrups. ‘Troop will draw swords. Dra-a-aw …
swords
!’

Metal on metal – eighty sabres rasping from the scabbard – the sound of grim resolve, fortifying him that drew it and unnerving him that heard it drawn.

Sound carried in that still, warm air.

The squadrons halted … and drew swords.

Hervey no longer shivered at metal on metal. But the rest … For many it was the first time.

He’d said to expect as much. This was a game for cool heads and calculation.

Vanneck’s troop came over the crest with the momentum of a whole brigade. Hervey saw the French commander trying to take in what lay before him.