A Close Run Thing

though acutely aware that the Sixth’s officers had at one time scorned Jessye as a covert-hack. Not that he feigned to consider, for the briefest instant, the alternative. He dismissed it, however, on the grounds that the Duke of Wellington would not engage himself in the sort of Hyde Park ride that Styles might have envisaged. And if there was to be anything tricky, then he wished to be on that handy little mare — indeed, the handiest in everyone’s judgement now. Perhaps if Harkaway had not thrown a splint he would have chosen him instead, but the gelding was gorging himself on the lush green grass of east Cork, making whole again in anticipation of Hervey’s return to the hunting field in that glorious county.

The headquarters party that morning was not as big as he had expected. The duke himself, wearing a plain blue coat and hat, and riding a big grey, was accompanied by Lord Fitzroy Somerset. This, Hervey’s first sight of the duke’s military secretary, greatly took him aback, for the man looked no older than he.

‘That is because he is not!’ said Jessope. ‘Well, not by more than a year or two. And a lieutenant-colonel to boot!’

Hervey studied him, fascinated. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, a lieutenant-colonel in the Grenadiers and one of the duke’s principal staff officers. A son of the Duke of Beaufort (no doubt this had been instrumental to his first being appointed ADC to Wellington in Spain), but there were many similarly connected officers who failed to win so signal a favour. Patronage could be but an incomplete explanation. And here was he — a lieutenant with hardly the means to buy a captaincy, and a stop on promotion even if he did have. It would have required the attributes of a saint at that moment not to feel at least some particle of resentment.

‘Did you know his wife is with child — their first?’ added Jessope, as if Hervey might have any idea — or, indeed, interest. ‘She is in Brussels at this time.’

‘I was not even to know he was married!’ he replied flatly.

‘Why, yes,’ began Jessope, unperturbed, ‘last August, to the duke’s niece. It was a deuced fine wedding, I may tell you!’

Hervey smiled to himself. The duke’s niece — how these threads wove tight together! And he wondered who these other three in the party might therefore be. Perhaps they, too, were officers of like affinity. He began to feel uncomfortably out of place. Maybe, had he not been so conspicuous (he was wearing field order, so that he looked not unlike the two staff-dragoon orderlies accompanying the duke), he might have felt more inclined to ease, for the others wore plain clothes of black, blue or green which would serve them equally well in the hunting field. And they seemed intent on keeping their own company, though apparently on nodding terms with Jessope.

‘Where is the escort?’ he whispered.

‘There is no escort. The duke keeps his field small and relies on quality,’ replied Jessope, likewise sotto. ‘What do you think of that entire he rides — he is quality, is he not?’

‘Truly he is, though more a youngster than I would have supposed.’

‘The duke has a stable of near two dozen, counting drivers. And most of them bloods!’

‘Then I shall be sure to remain a respectful distance behind with Jessye!’ he smiled.

‘What of the Hanoverian you bought of me? Was he not a more meet companion for a ride such as this?’ asked Jessope, puzzled.

‘I rode him here — did you not see? In truth he would, I agree, have set me off finer in a parade. But my mare, here, is the fleetest little creature God made.’

Jessope frowned.

‘Believe me,’ insisted Hervey, ‘in a squeeze I would be with no other.’

A fast trot south and west took them through villages full of British, Dutch and Belgian troops, for the most part infantrymen. The duke stopped once or twice to exchange words with an officer he appeared to know, but there was no formality. The commander-in-chief’s progress was, indeed, as brisk as reputation had it. Then, as they turned back in the direction of Ghent, crossing a hayfield which had taken its first cut a week or so before, a big buck-hare got up from almost under the duke’s feet, startling his young horse and those of his nearest attendants. The duke, however, re-gathered his reins before any of them and was straight after it, hallooing loudly.

‘Soho!’ called Jessope to Hervey. ‘We must be in at the kill!’

The hare led them in a huge circle over country empty but for a few labourers by the hayricks. They crossed three streams at a furious pace, and still there was no check — a full five minutes’ galloping. A sunken road all but proved the hare’s escape, too, for the duke’s horse pecked on landing short of the top of the far bank and tumbled its rider. Two of the other officers, riding hard up close, went the same way. The third pulled up before take-off, as did the staff dragoons and Lord Fitzroy. Hervey put Jessye at the hedge, where the others had gone for the gap, and she cleared the road in a soaring arc.

Ignorant of what convention demanded of him, and seeing the duke already on his feet and remounting, he galloped off after the hare. With no-one in front, now, to check his speed he pressed his legs to Jessye’s flanks and closed steadily with the big buck. At twenty yards he drew his sabre and, pointing, pressed the mare to a final effort. The buck jinked to the left and Hervey came back to the recover, turning Jessye sharply, who did a neat flying change of her own accord to lead with the left leg. The hare continued running to the left, and Hervey knew he would not be able to get on its inside, so he leaned forward at full stretch and pointed down the nearside. A second or so later and he lifted the quarry on his sabre.

‘Smart work, boy, smart work!’ shouted the duke as he caught up, bringing the rest of the field with him. ‘The smartest swordwork I have seen in many a year!’

They began circling in a walk to let the horses down, and Hervey presented the hare to the staff dragoons. ‘For your pot, troopers!’

‘Who’s your hard-riding friend, Jessope?’ called the duke as the ADC caught them up.

‘Lieutenant Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, your Grace,’ he replied.

The duke smiled, turning to him:

‘“A different hound for every chase

Select with judgment, nor the timid hare

O’er matched destroy.”

Do you know that verse, boy?’

‘Indeed I do, sir. It is Somerville’s Chase.’

The duke nodded. ‘Just so, and I think I should despise an Englishman who did not know it. Hervey — the name is familiar. We have met before, have we not? Toulouse?’

‘Yes, sir; I was commanding a flank picket,’ he replied, incandescent at the recognition.

‘Indeed, you were,’ added the duke, breaking into another smile. ‘Lord Fitzroy, this officer accounted for a horse battery on his own. What sport there is to be had in the cavalry!’

‘I sometimes wish I had remained a light dragoon myself, Duke!’ added Lord Fitzroy, offering Hervey his hand.

‘Well, I cannot say the same myself,’ laughed the commander-in-chief, ‘though I was only a dragoon on paper, as it were. It seems to me, though, that a light dragoon is something a man must be at some stage of his life but that he must move sharply on to more serious things! Consider the elder Pitt, Hervey — now, there’s a dragoon who moved on to greater matters!’

Everyone laughed politely, as subordinates tend to when a senior officer attempts humour.

‘I think it best if I first seek distinction as a dragoon, your Grace!’ Hervey submitted.

‘But you are almost there, my dear fellow!’ countered the duke. ‘You know how to handle a picket. Now, if you can do something to check this appalling habit our cavalry have got into of galloping at everything and then galloping back again, without note of the circumstances, you will achieve distinction right enough. I dare say you will be unique!’

Hervey smiled awkwardly, for he knew that, though the remark was in jest, an earnest particular underlay it, a particular on which the duke had expressed his disapproval many times. The commander-in-chief was in good humour, however, certainly none the worse for his tumble, and the party turned for home in high spirits.

‘Come ride up alongside, Hervey,’ called the duke as they set off back on long reins. ‘Tell me, what is your opinion of what Bonaparte might do here?’

Though startled by the unexpectedness of the question, he answered at once, for it was a matter to which he had given much thought. ‘I suspect that many will think he will envelop us by a drive around our right flank, cutting us off from Ostend and the other Channel ports, perhaps fighting a holding battle on the border around