A Close Run Thing

‘Lord George? But I thought he was to command one of their brigades,’ said Hervey, intrigued by this turn of news.

‘Lawks, no! They will not even give the duke direct command of Dutch troops in action, let alone make one of our officers a brigade commander. No, he is to go and keep an eye on Slender Billy! But look, we’ve been here nearly a month and the duke rides out each morning with Lord Fitzroy. You may accompany if you wish — he is the most engaging of company on a good day.’

‘I am very pleased to hear it!’ said Hervey with a smile, amused at Jessope’s familiarity. ‘But it does not sound as if the duke is having too many good days by your accounts.’

‘Nought without his capability, I assure you, my dear friend. But how say you to riding with us?’

Hervey smiled again. ‘I should be honoured to ride with you — both!’

‘Capital! Then, I shall send word as soon as is expedient. Now, I must go and collect the dispatches which that frigate yonder should have aboard,’ Jessope said, nodding to the single-decker about to drop anchor in the outer harbour.

* * *

No sooner had he gone but that Hervey was confronted by a figure who excited every contrary emotion to those inspired by Jessope’s unexpected company. Under a helmet resembling that of an ancient Greek hoplite was the face of Hugo Styles, the flesh more than usually loose but the complexion now florid. The broad gold braid down the front of his scarlet jacket shone as if new from his tailor that morning. ‘Well, Hervey, a far cry this from Wiltshire. And by the look of ye y’ve come even further than from there.’

Hervey chose to ignore the reference to his well-worn field dress and instead returned the greeting — such as it had been — formally but briefly: ‘Good morning, Styles.’

‘I am given to understand that I should congratulate you on winning the esteem of Lady Henrietta Lindsay,’ continued Styles with disdain.

‘I cannot say what you should or should not do.’

‘You are an extraordinarily favoured man, Mr Hervey, extraordinarily favoured,’ he went on, his tone changing to one of reproach.

‘I count myself so,’ replied Hervey, holding to the clipped speech that betrayed his impatience.

Styles, sensing perhaps that he would force no change in Hervey’s humour, reverted to his former condescension. ‘I understand this business here might be tedious in the extreme. The talk in London is of peace. I do hope we may be allowed a little recreation — they say Brussels is a tolerably fine city, not at all provincial. How many horses have you brought?’

‘Two.’

‘My dear fellow, do you think that two will be enough?’

‘I managed in the Peninsula well enough.’

‘Yes, yes, but if we are to race and hunt every day you will need more than two.’

‘I would not gainsay your logic, only your supposition.’

‘Well, we shall see. I fancy that you in the light cavalry will all be sent on picket to the frontier in any case.’

Hervey thought this the only sense Styles had spoken throughout the exchange. The heir to Leighton Park — lieutenant of yeomanry and now cornet of Life Guards — seemed more than usually gifted with foolery. ‘Very possibly, Styles,’ he sighed. ‘And it would be a most welcome duty, too, shaking off the flotsam hereabouts! Now, you must excuse me — I have work to do.’ And he strode off towards the corralling area.

The effects of this unwelcome encounter did not last long, however, for in the corralling area, the park-like gardens in front of the harbourmaster’s house, he found the perfect antidote: Joseph Edmonds, positively transfigured by the news of his command.

‘And with pay, too, no less!’ Edmonds laughed.

Hervey could not recall how long it had been since he had heard Edmonds laugh so. Months, many months. The major restored to good humour and in command — by his reckoning it would make the difference, perhaps, of two troops!

In the days that followed, there was little to sustain them in that humour. The provision of forage was not good, the commissaries protesting that all their attempts to consolidate supplies were to no avail. They cited any number of reasons — none of which enraged Edmonds so much as the price of corn. ‘As if book-keeping were to be admitted to the arts of war,’ he complained. As a consequence of this failure to establish any form of supply, his six troops were scattered about the farms over a wide area around the town of Drongen, outside Ghent, so that local arrangements for forage might be made. And as one morning he was despairing of ever getting them together for regimental drill Lord Uxbridge arrived unannounced.

The commander of the allied cavalry, and the duke’s presumptive second-in-command, sympathized. ‘It is not only regimental drill that might be wanting: brigade drill is my most pressing concern,’ he confided. ‘My regiments are scattered the length of Flanders to keep them fed. Unless we may work up as brigades we shall be at a most trying disadvantage in this open country.’

‘I wonder that you will have any opportunity to form divisions, then, my lord,’ the major enquired.

‘Just so, Edmonds, just so!’ replied Uxbridge. ‘I despair of assembling even one division for but a single field day.’

‘Well, General, we shall drill as best we can — you know we shall — but I have so many new men: I hope that is not the case with the rest of the army.’

‘Ha! But I fear it is, Edmonds. I am certain it is! But it is worse with the infantry. The duke is not in the least sanguine, and matters are not as they should be with the allies. There is even difficulty with the Prussians. Still, we shall be well, of that I am sure! At least my brigade and regimental commanders are old Peninsular hands. How I wish I had been with you in the second campaign! Do you remember Sahagun, Edmonds? Of course you do! Well, we shall not freeze this time: if this heat continues, we shall drop like recruits in the Indies! But we may, I fear, see a good many Sahaguns before Bonaparte is back in his box!’

Yes, here was a cavalryman with the surest coup d’?il. All would be well; but, even so, Edmonds had not liked what Uxbridge had said about the difficulties with the Dutch and the Prussians. Never had he trusted anyone but an English regular, yet now they must rely on allies close on both flanks. Was not this what he had warned of that very day in Cork when the news of the escape from Elba arrived? And it would be no Peninsula this time — no Fabian campaign of advance and withdrawal on Wellington’s terms, no game of cat and mouse. This was too close to Paris for the French, and Bonaparte himself would be in the field. It would take the whole weight of an allied army — an army of unity — to defeat him, not one of rifts and suspicions.

Later in the morning Hervey rode into Ghent to see d’Arcey Jessope, whose invitation to dine with his regiment he had received the day before. ‘But, first, my dear friend,’ said the ADC as he greeted him enthusiastically, ‘I want to show you my new charger. I am excessively pleased with him, I must admit. He is the most beautiful creature!’

They went to the chateau stables where Jessope had lodged his new horse, and an orderly led him out under a magnificent saddle-cloth. ‘There!’ exclaimed the captain of Guards. ‘Tell me your opinion — is he not the most magnificent steed, fit for an aide-de-camp to the duke’s military secretary!’

Hervey smiled; Jessope had such an attachment to looks! This gelding was, however, as fine a looking thoroughbred as Hervey had seen. An inch short of sixteen hands, he guessed, there was a pleasing symmetry to his conformation. His lean head, indicating the real quality of his breeding, was well set on. He had a kind eye, betokening a generous disposition (and that, Hervey judged, was what Jessope needed above all else). He had a nice length of rein let into sloping shoulders, putting the saddle in the right place. He stood on good legs, not too spindly as some thoroughbreds had, with enough bone below the knee. His quarters were well let down, and his hocks were well under him. His summer coat, a deep liver chestnut, shone. And — which Jessope no doubt found most pleasing — he carried his tail well. Hervey had but one reservation: he was a shade too short-coupled for his liking. True, Jessye had a short back, but he always believed this to be less a concern in non-bloods. But, he had to admit, this gelding was a picture, and he congratulated Jessope.

‘Let us ride together a while, then, and I can show you his paces: he trots as if on air!’