A Close Run Thing

Flanders and Armstrong finds potatoes? Where in heaven’s name did he—?’

‘There was a commissary officer pissing by the side of the road and …’

‘Enough, Johnson; I can guess the rest,’ he sighed. ‘Fetch my razor, if you please.’

By the time the armourers had re-sharpened ‘A’ Troop’s sabres it was almost seven, and Edmonds came walking through the lines with the RSM just as Hervey’s men began their meagre breakfast of tea and parboiled potatoes. The older ones gave him a cheer and hailed him with easy banter. ‘Thought T’loos was meant to finish ’im, then, Major!’ called one old sweat.

‘Well, if you remember, Harris, we were never permitted a crack at him that day!’ Laughter and more cheering followed — and just a shade forced, Hervey thought.

‘Not much of a choky, then, Elba, eh, sir?’ called another sweat, an old Indiaman.

‘And you of all people would know about chokies, Finch!’ Raucous laughter and cheering erupted. Nerves were on edge, Hervey concluded.

‘Could be worse, sir: it were snowin’ at Sa’gun.’

‘That it was, Smiler, and it seems an age ago. D’ye think we shall ever get a Christmas at home?’

‘In my case, Major Edmonds, it’s more a question of whether I’ll ever get a ’ome at Christmas!’ There were peals of laughter, and Hervey smiled at the black humour, the soldier’s secret weapon. Edmonds had a way with these men, of that there was no doubt. Different from Lankester’s — very different — but equally effective: more so, perhaps, for Lankester was held in respect and admiration whereas with Edmonds it was respect and affection. Hervey admired them both, though if pressed he would have owned to aspiring more to Lankester’s patrician ease: Edmonds’s obvious devotion to his troopers made him somehow more vulnerable. He seemed to know every man by name — nickname in many cases — including recruits who had only just joined. In the weeks before they had received their sailing orders Hervey had thought him worn out, beyond repair, but now his solidity seemed never more welcome, for though there was laughter in the ranks its nervous edge suggested a rawness which needed nursing.

‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ began the major with a smile, ‘it has come to pass, and just as you foretold.’

Hervey had muttered but a few words of reply, and with no little self-consciousness, when a commotion behind made them turn. The sight rendered both speechless for the present. Indeed, it would endure in the mind of every man in the Sixth that day (they were all to witness it), to be recounted in drawing rooms and alehouses alike for years to come. For the commander-in-chief, on his favourite charger, Copenhagen, accompanied by a galaxy of senior officers and their staff — a veritable troupe doree — was making his ceremonial progress through the lines. The duke’s gelding, his sleek chestnut coat the picture of condition, was as well known as his rider to the old Peninsular hands. Though his breeding was good (Hervey had heard tell his dam had a line to the Rutland Arabian), he was not the handsomest of horses — certainly not one to have tempted d’Arcey Jessope. But the duke had told his staff many a time that though there were many handsomer and faster, he had never known Copenhagen’s like for endurance and bottom. Handsome is as handsome does, smiled Hervey to himself.

But the rawest recruit could recognize the duke’s own profile, and it was as well, for he was not in uniform. He wore instead the same blue coat of that first morning’s ride when they had chased the hare. His buckskin breeches and tasselled boots were, too, of a pattern that might have been perfectly at home in Piccadilly. His cocked hat was the only appreciably military apparel, set off by four cockades — the Hanoverian black of King George, and three smaller emblems in the colours of Portugal, Spain and the Netherlands, the four armies in which the duke held rank of field marshal. But, all would later recall, with what presence and authority did he make his inspection!

He acknowledged the salutes with an expressionless nod. Long acquaintance with his army had scarcely inspired love — on either side — but the duke had confidence in their steadiness in defence, and they in turn trusted his choice of ground and dispositions. There was no cheering: it did not seem appropriate and it would not have been welcome. Across the valley Bonaparte would soon be making the same procession, and at his approach drums would roll, bands would strike up ‘Veillons au salut de l’Empire’, his soldiers would cheer him to the heavens — ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ — and the sound would carry across to the Sixth not half a mile distant. No, the duke did not permit cheering, for if he allowed it once it might invite the opposite in other circumstances. As he neared the end of ‘A’ Troop he paused. ‘Good morning, Major. Good morning, Mr Hervey. I trust the Sixth will guard the flank keenly. You shall see action enough even over there. We shall today show Bonaparte how a sepoy general defends a position!’

Edmonds made some appropriate reply, and Hervey swelled with pride at the duke’s attention, but the nobility of the major’s comportment could not hide the wound, and then Hervey felt meanly for his own pride while this officer of thirty years’ loyal service received no more recognition than was indicated by his badges of rank. But the duke was never a one for flattery, and Edmonds might soon take comfort in that knowledge, for the Earl of Uxbridge, as conspicuously military-looking as the duke was otherwise, chose at that moment to test (albeit unwittingly) the fragility of their association. ‘You had better apprise me of those sepoy-general plans, Duke,’ he said with a smile, ‘lest I be required to execute them.’

‘Plans!’ replied Wellington sharply. ‘I have no plans, sir: I shall be guided by circumstances!’

Edmonds raised his eyebrows. And then Harris, Sir Hussey Vivian’s brigade major, riding up with orders to proceed to the flank, took the duke’s second barrel before he could utter a word: ‘Ah! Harris, you may tell Sir Hussey that I will have his hide if the brigade so much as thinks of leaving that flank for a minute!’

‘Well, Mr Hervey,’ said Edmonds at length, when the duke had passed by and Harris had relayed his brigadier’s orders, ‘the commander-in-chief seems a trifle liverish, but no matter; let us go and mark our ground. We are indeed to be the left-flank brigade, as you supposed, though I confess to being surprised that we are to be the directing regiment.’

That much at least was a compliment to Edmonds, thought Hervey, for it would have been easy enough for Vivian to relegate them to the supports. ‘The duke’s plan’ — he cleared his throat as he realized his difficulty — ‘that is to say, the duke’s dispositions, are as he anticipated them to be during his reconnaissances.’

‘Good God, man — not you, too!’ Edmonds snarled. ‘Don’t you damn well turn into another of those arse- licking fops that go by the name of staff officers in this army of ours. Say what you damn well mean! The duke has plans — of course he has plans, or else he’s even more of a— Look, Hervey, he won’t confide in Uxbridge because of all the trouble with that strumpet of a sister-in-law. I am impressed — no, I am greatly impressed — that you are so much in the mind of the commander-in-chief, but I am truly dismayed that Uxbridge, his own second-in-command, should appear to know so little!’

Hervey thought to make some amending remark, something that might restore the major’s bruised pride, but nothing came to mind that might escape another tongue-lashing. ‘Indeed, sir,’ was all that he judged prudent.

But Edmonds could not leave things unresolved. ‘Well,’ he barked, ‘what do you suppose are these damned “circumstances” the duke refers to?’

Hervey considered it was all-or-nothing time. ‘Sir, the duke is relying on a rapid junction with the Prussians: they must come to his support here or he knows he may be too sorely pressed.’

‘Yes, yes, go on! demanded Edmonds.

‘Sir, the duke has disposed his line along this ridge with three strong positions forward as … anchors. These are the chateau of Hougoumont on our right’ — he pointed to the distant roofs — ‘the farm called La Haye Sainte just below us here in the centre, and the farms at Papelotte and La Haie over on the left below where we shall take post.’

‘Yes,’ replied Edmonds, this time more measured.

‘Sir, the French will not make a frontal attack: their strength is in manoeuvre. They would be unwise to manoeuvre against our left, however, since that is the direction from which the Prussians must come. They must therefore be expected to mount an attack which might envelop our right. Hougoumont will thus be of prime importance.’

Edmonds paused for a moment. ‘Admirable, Hervey, quite admirable,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

And then, with a sigh, he turned to him again. ‘I am put in mind of the late Lord Chesterfield’s dictum.’