A Close Run Thing

ran on without rallying! But then he saw, with mounting horror, that few would live to hear that rebuke, for their horses were so blown by the heavy going of the hollow beneath the ridge that the French must surely catch them before they might retire. Sir Hussey Vivian came galloping across the front towards where Sir John Vandeleur sat with his staff equally transfixed by the Greys’ perilous situation. ‘You had better go to the heavies’ aid, Sir John,’ he shouted. ‘Take the Sixth as supports, if you will.’

Lankester smiled: the words were keenly judged, for Vandeleur was Vivian’s senior. Hervey smiled, too. That is why we have generals, he had said to Canning. It was indeed, for he had heard the duke’s words plainly enough, and woe betide Vandeleur if he misjudged it! Lankester smiled again, more obviously this time; for they would sit in contemplation no longer. ‘Sixth Light Dragoons, Draw swords! he ordered. The rasp of metal on metal set Hervey’s teeth on edge as the sabres, 1796- pattern, with their wide, curved, slashing blades, were drawn from steel scabbards. Rasping meant blunting, but this time he welcomed it as the sound of grim resolve, and he knew that not one of his troopers, new or old, would be satisfied to return his sword unbloodied.

‘Form a third support line for Vandeleur, then, Sir Edward,’ called Vivian as he rode back. ‘Keep them up close but hold them tight to the rally; for if you, too, fall foul of the French I cannot come to your aid.’

‘Ay, Sir Hussey,’ replied Lankester, ‘we shall at least sweep the French out of the farms below.’ And then, as Vandeleur’s front line took off at a brisk trot, Lankester gave the order: ‘Sixth Light Dragoons will advance, First Squadron directing, Walk-march!’

By the time the Sixth had cleared the Ohain road and angled right towards the grand battery, Vandeleur’s regiments were into a steady canter, the falling slope giving them additional impulsion. Lankester increased the pace to a brisk trot, but still the regiments were opening too great a distance, and he had to press into a canter, although the ground was so bad that dressing was soon lost. By the time they reached the bottom of the valley he had given up the struggle and they, too, were in a gallop before ascending the far slope.

Every gun in range now seemed to turn on them. Men and horses began to fall, bowled over like rabbits. There were all manner of profanities after each new explosion: ‘Close up, close up!’ Hervey called continually. Then a shell burst not ten yards to his left, the blast tumbling Nero so quickly that Hervey could not leap clear. The big black gelding fell heavily, snapping its neck and dropping stone-dead on top of him. Riderless horses galloped by so close he marvelled he was not trampled. When they had run clear he struggled to free himself, though every bit of wind seemed knocked out of him, but his leg was pinned fast by Nero’s dead weight and there was no shifting it. Searing pain shot through his head — and then darkness.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. VOILA GROUCHY!

Near La Haye Sainte, 2.30p.m.

‘Allez, vite, fouillez-les!’

He lay in fetlock-deep mud, pinned fast by Nero. The horse’s bulk obscured his sight of all in the direction of the shouting. In the other lay the blue-jacketed bodies of his troopers.

‘Fouillez et tuez-les — chacun, vite, vite!’

He could just make out a lance pennant over Nero’s flank, thirty yards away, perhaps nearer. Then a pistol shot as, unseen, a lancier dispatched a half-dead trooper before searching him.

He was closer to panic than he had ever been. He had nothing but his sabre to fight with, for Nero lay with the saddle still in place and Coates’s carbine trapped in the holster beneath. The nearside holster was empty, but even had the pistol fallen within reach he knew it would be useless after lying in the mud. And now there were more hoofs and a different voice — better French, a voice of authority rather than of mere rank. He stopped struggling, and strained to listen.

‘Les Prussiens vont …’ — the Prussians were making for the left flank of the English, said the lancer officer. ‘The emperor is at this very moment strengthening his flank at Plancenoit, but there is little he can do to prevent the Prussians joining the field. We must not let our brave soldiers lose heart when they appear. The emperor wishes it to be known, therefore, that he expects Marshal Grouchy’s men at any moment on that flank: the marshal is marching even now from Genappe where they have beaten the enemy. Whoever appears on that flank are not Prussians but Grouchy and our countrymen. Voila Grouchy! Comprenez-vous, mes braves?’

So Bonaparte would deceive his own soldiers! Yet how might they be deceived for long? he wondered. Because the battle would be a close-run affair. Even perfidy might have its reward.

He heard the lancers moving off; but his relief was short-lived, for one of them had dismounted and begun searching a trooper’s body not three dozen yards away. He now had but one means of escaping the same fate as the wounded man — the carbine. No matter how much he heaved he could not pull it from the holster, though. He fell back in the mud, almost despairing, but his sabre lay still attached to his wrist by its knot-leather, and he could at least die sword-in-hand.

Only then did he see how simple it was to release the carbine, for it was the holster itself which was trapping it: if he could cut it free, he could then pull both from beneath the horse. He set to work on the holster straps with his newly sharpened blade, and in a short time managed to pull it free from the saddle.

The carbine had been more thoroughly immersed in the cloying mud than even he had been. A flintlock would now misfire for sure: could he rely on this percussion lock? He eased himself up on to an elbow again to fumble for a cartridge from his small-pouch, wiping it clean and praying once more that water had not permeated the gut casing. Still pinned fast under Nero, he fumbled to unfold the carbine’s butt. The click of the retaining pin seemed as loud as a pistol shot. He lifted open the breech and inserted the precious cartridge. He cocked the firing-hammer and brought the carbine up into the aim, steadying the foresight as it bisected the horizontal between the upper arms of the ‘V of the backsight. His aim wavered, for he could not lie fully prone. He waited for the lancer to come closer, until, at twenty yards, the man was now larger than the ‘V, and the bisection was level with his chest. He breathed in and then held his breath to freeze the aim, taking up the play in the trigger. ‘Please God …’ he prayed (such long odds — a percussion cap from the Kirk and a cartridge from a sheepfarmer). ‘Please God …’

The crack was deafening, and a curtain of powder-smoke billowed before him. Death or deliverance awaited its clearing, yet he did not doubt his aim, and the curtain parted to reveal his skill — the lancer lying stone dead, his chest a frothing crimson. Hervey now pulled himself upright. The freeing of the holster allowed him the extra reach to cut through the girth straps and, with the saddle loose, there was enough play for him to struggle from under Nero’s dead weight at last. He sprang up, half-surprised that his leg, numbed after its constraint, was in one piece, for he had seen many a leg shattered in lesser falls. The lancer’s horse stood obligingly still by its erstwhile rider. He seized the reins and leaped into the saddle despite the pain now displacing the numbness. Only then did he see Serjeant Armstrong galloping back down the hill towards him.

‘Oh, thank Christ, Mr ’Ervey! I thought you were done for! Come on, quick, sir — the regiment’s gone back, there’re lancers everywhere!’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ said Hervey with a grimace as he spurred after him.

The French horse was sluggish, and he had to use the flat of his sword to move him apace through the mud, knee-deep in places.

‘How did we fare?’ he called to Armstrong.

‘We saw ’em off, sir,’ he shouted back, ‘but, Jesus, that lance is a fearsome thing. We need that bloody weapon ourselves. Some officers went down. I saw Captain Elmsall and Captain Roberts fall, an’ I think they’re dead.’

Lankester dolefully confirmed as much when Hervey and Armstrong reached the depleted ranks of the Sixth back on the ridge above La Haye. ‘Hervey, I am doubly relieved at seeing you,’ he called as they galloped up and saluted. ‘There is but Nail left of the troop leaders, and no more than a half-dozen other officers.’

‘What of Cheney, sir?’ asked Hervey in dismay, ‘and Laming?’

‘Laming is right enough, but I think he will lose an arm. Cheney was set about by lancers while he was trying