A Close Run Thing

opportunity — if your trumpeter leaves you in one piece, that is!’ And Hervey flushed bright red as the wretched dragoon attempted to remount in a profusion of apologies.

They trotted all the way to the centre. ‘Guns may gallop, Captain Lankester,’ Vivian had called as they began. ‘Cavalry proceeds at a trot lest those that do not know us should conceive that we might be affeard. Lord Uxbridge says the Cumberland Hussars have already left the field — and they supposedly steady Brunswickers!’

‘There is no-one better than Sir Hussey for a show such as this,’ said Lankester, falling in alongside Hervey and First Squadron. ‘He will handle the brigade as if on review. And I should do so myself, mark you, for I warrant that such a show will be all that keeps some of those Dutch in place.’

A harsh judgement, thought Hervey, for it soon became apparent that even the King’s Germans were shaken. As the brigade reached the crossroads above La Haye Sainte they formed into line, the Sixth extending in two ranks on the right behind General Colin Halkett’s Hanoverians, just to the west of the crossroads, with the remainder of the brigade to the rear of Colonel Ompteda’s ravaged German legionaries. The Dutch battery which had been working feverishly as they arrived fell silent, smoke obscuring their line of sight; and then, as the acrid black fog cleared, Hervey had his first glimpse of the inferno which the slopes had become, a sight which horrified the recruits and veterans alike. And not only the sight, for every sense was assailed. It was hotter here by ten degrees or more. The powder-smoke was so thick he could taste it, and the noise was truly deafening. Horses went rigid with terror. Even Jessye would not respond to the leg, Hervey having to dig in his spurs for the first time he could ever remember. Had they been fretting on that flank for want of this? He could scarcely credit it. Cannon shot flew thicker than he had heard even musketry before. And there were so many bodies — men and horses — that he could but marvel at the steadfastness of these men to his front. How had they borne it? He thought of waves beating against a sea wall — breaking, receding, but each time washing away more of the wall so that the time must come when it would be gone, and what lay beyond inundated. The smoke cleared again, and he raised his telescope. The tall bearskins were unmistakable: the Garde Imperiale were advancing.

Lankester trotted along the Sixth’s front, as cool as if he were at morning exercise. ‘Once the infantry have fallen clear of us to the rear we shall charge those columns,’ he called to each of his squadron leaders, still certain the Hanoverians would break at any moment. ‘Keep an eye on their cavalry supports,’ he urged. ‘Nail is hit, Hervey: you are now the senior, mind.’

‘The fortunes of war,’ sighed Hervey. A cornet less than a year ago, a stop on promotion — and now within a mere stunning-shot of command of the regiment. And Lankester, by exposing himself thus, was doubling, perhaps trebling, the chance of such a shot. Must he place himself broadside to the enemy? But what, then, was the alternative — a covered approach along the rear of his squadrons, trusting his orders to the trumpet? That was not the way.

Hervey saw the roundshot hit the ground five yards to Lankester’s offside as he rode back. It threw up a fountain of earth, bounced with barely diminished velocity and struck the captain’s bay, easily the finest-bred horse in the regiment, squarely in the flank with an audible thud. The third of the four men Hervey most admired in the regiment went down like a skittle at a fair. He shut his eyes and groaned, just as when Edmonds had fallen, but this time he hesitated for barely a second before pressing Jessye towards where the manual told him the commanding officer must stand: centre, one horse’s length in front of the regimental guidon, and a place he never dreamed he would know except in the pages of that drill-book. But how long might it be before Rook, commanding Third Squadron, would in turn have to ride up to take that place? Would he at least remain long enough to lead the charge to stop the waves? What should he now do? What orders should he give? The instinct to grasp at the familiar was strong. One order, at least, might be useful — if unorthodox. ‘Shorten stirrups!’ he called. They could at least have the benefit of reach if they were to go at these infantrymen. The order was repeated along the ranks, for it had no trumpet call (besides, seconds before, his trumpeter had slumped forward in the saddle, his shoulder carried away by a bullet from the cloud of tirailleurs preceding the Garde).

Jessye scarcely moved a muscle as Hervey pushed his left leg forward, lifted the sheepskin and felt for the buckle. Two holes would do (he was already riding one hole shorter than the adjutant would have approved). Then the same on the offside, all the time without taking his eyes from the field ahead. He leaned forward to check the girth, hoping it would need no tightening — he had pushed her hard, and she might well be tucked up. But, no, it was tight enough, though he need not have worried about her standing still if he had to take in the girth a hole, too, for she was as steady as he had ever known. Indeed, she seemed in some kind of trance, and so did the rest of the regiment’s horses as he glanced behind him. There was not even the usual napping that accompanied any parade in close order. It was as if they were paralysed by the abyss into which they looked. Would they answer to the leg when the time came?

He waited. It was all he could do now. Nor was he sure whether he was meant to charge when he judged it the moment, or whether the order was to come from Vivian. But if he did not charge, then what …? He resolved to trust his judgement and answer for it later — if there were a later. Better a rebuke from Wellington for excess of ardour than to be remembered as another Sackville (would the cavalry ever expiate the shame of Lord George Sackville at Minden? Even the Marquess of Granby, going bald-headed for the French days later, had not expunged the stain). But how might he lead a charge with this shaken infantry brigade in front? And it was not only the living who barred their way: for a hundred yards beyond the Hanoverians the field was strewn with dead and wounded — men and horses. No momentum could be had through such a charnel house surely. All he might do was keep his gaze fixed forward, lest looking about should weaken his resolve, and trust that he might have a right instinct in this.

The Garde were magnificent. They marched for so long astride the high road, straight towards the weakest part of the line, that it seemed nothing could stop them — not grape, not musketry, not the boldest cavalry charge ever. But then, astonishingly, they veered to the left so that the main weight of the attack must pass to the west of La Haye Sainte and to where the Guards stood, backed by Vandeleur’s brigade. But was that where the Guards were? It was where they were meant to be, yet he could not see them. They had surely not withdrawn? Must Vandeleur face the attack himself? Could this account for the Garde’s change of axis, the threat of the sabre preferred to the volleys of the infantry? But the Garde’s flank battalions were still bearing down steadily on the Hanoverians, and the Legion now began pouring volley-fire into the densely packed columns of bluecoats. Each discharge felled them in whole ranks, like a scythe through corn, but still they came on. It was impossible that the Hanoverians, whose own ranks stood sorely depleted, should hold once they clashed bayonet to bayonet. Hervey steeled himself to the order: ‘Sixth Light Dragoons, Draw swords!’ he shouted, his voice stronger and clearer than he expected. Then, quietly, he nodded to the trumpet-major beside him (all of whose trumpeters had been carried from the field, and his own trumpet-arm was bound to his chest): ‘“Walk- March” as soon as the Germans have cleared our front, please!’ And the trumpet-major took up his bugle, knowing he would need its extra octave to sound the call above the noise.

But the Germans stood. How, he would never know, especially once Halkett himself had fallen. Their last volley tore into the blue files point-blank and, like a prizefighter swaying after a body- blow, the columns wavered. A reserve brigade of Dutch-Belgians, in the short blue jackets that made them look as if they were his own regiment dismounted, marched resolutely forward to the left of the remains of the Hanoverians and added their muskets to the curtain of fire that prevented the elite of the Grande Armee from gaining the ridge. He felt shame that he had ever joined in the scorn heaped on the allies before the battle. But, glancing across to where he supposed Vandeleur must soon take the main weight of the assault, something seemed amiss. ‘What is that, Trumpet-Major?’ he gasped, peering through his telescope. ‘The smoke is so bad. Is it the duke?’

‘I can’t tell sir,’ replied the trumpet-major.

‘Yes, yes — it is the duke: He waves an arm, but I cannot see whom he beckons …’

Hervey saw soon enough, for as if from nowhere, from out of the ground even, appeared the Guards. There must be a thousand — no, more — a red fortress not twenty yards in front of the French! Maitland’s brigade had lain concealed until this moment. ‘Oh! the steadiness, the nerve!’ Hervey cried aloud.

Their fire was continuous for half a minute. Never had he seen drill so rapid: Load … present … fire! Again and again. The French fell in their hundreds. Then the guardsmen were rushing forward, bayonets glinting in the evening sun which filtered through the smoke, and he saw the duke waving his hat in the air. He looked towards Vivian, in front of the brigade, the general’s voice audible even above the musketry which the infantry were still pouring after the recoiling French columns: ‘Come now, my boys, will you follow me?’

And then loud cheering, with ‘Ay, to hell, Sir Hussey!’ along the length of the brigade. They surged forward,