They took post within the hour, however – ‘the donkey lookout’ the others jeered as his dragoons went past – but he still had no idea what he would do. They could use the flat of the sword, but that could turn into a nasty melee, and they were only eight, after all. Neither did he know how long they would have to keep post; there was no telling how many of the camp-followers would try to force their way through, especially if they had wind of the French at their tails.
In the event he had not long to wait before resolving on action. And perhaps it was as well, for he could hardly sit all morning without giving his dragoons any orders. ‘Everything in the work of cavalry depends on the officer’s
The trouble was, there were so many of them – hundreds of women, like droves of tinkers, with donkeys, goats, even cows, and countless yapping dogs. And on they came, babbling, all innocent, oblivious of the army’s resolve to thwart their design, the execution of which was entrusted to Cornet Matthew Hervey of the 6th Light Dragoons, seventeen years old, quondam praepostor-elect of Shrewsbury school.
His dragoons sat silent in the saddle. The women were close enough now to make out who was who. Hervey recognized one of the leaders, a big Irishwoman, one of C Troop’s wives. In front of her plodded a donkey loaded with cooking pots and bedding, which she drove amiably with a stick. Hervey wondered if anyone had told them they would not be allowed through until the army was clear. Looking at them, he reckoned not.
Then that was it, his
He pressed forward La Belle Dame, his brown mare, a dozen strides or so, just enough for the women to see that he was moving to address them. Corporal Armstrong closed to support, and the column of camp-followers shuffled to a halt.
‘Ladies, I regret you will not be permitted to pass this place until the army has struck camp and cleared it.’
There was not a murmur from his audience.
Hervey was pleased his appeal to reason had been well received. He thought it fair to explain the cause therefore. ‘As you know, ladies, the French are marching on us and—’
Hervey saw his mistake, but too late. The silence turned at once into noisy dismay.
‘You’re not leaving
‘That’s right, Biddy,’ muttered Armstrong. ‘Stick your fat Irish neck out!’ He pressed his horse forward alongside Hervey’s. ‘Sir, I think you should fall back on the picket.’
Hervey reined about. They retired a dozen paces and he retook position one length in front of his dragoons, Armstrong returning to his place as right marker.
‘It’ll take more than half a dozen boys in blue to stop Biddy Flyn!’ bawled the big Irishwoman over her shoulder. ‘Have no fear of it, girls!’
Hervey, though still ruing his first ploy, knew he must make a second. ‘Picket, draw swords!’
He detested the rasp of metal on metal. It blunted the edge; he’d known it for years. But at that moment it was welcome – a chilling sound, a warning.
The column, uncertain, shuffled to a halt again.
‘Now, Lieutenant, you’re not goin’ to cut up a few poor women who just wants to keep up with their menfolk are you? You’ll be wanting our bandages for sure when the time comes!’
That may be so, thought Hervey, but it didn’t alter his orders. But she was hinting at his bluff: he could hardly cut up the army’s own women. He knew for certain now that the flat of the sword would not keep them back, and it would be disastrous to pretend with the edge. In any case, how would it go with the men when they heard that their women had been roughly handled?
The followers surged forward again.
Hervey dropped his sabre to hang from his wrist by the knot, drew his pistol and fired into the air. ‘I will shoot that donkey of yours, Mrs Flyn, if you come any closer!’
The women halted, for the moment stunned.
Then Biddy Flyn prodded her donkey again and stepped out. ‘I’d like to see the man that would shoot
Hervey jammed his pistol back into the holster and drew his second.
But Armstrong had closed to his side again. ‘No, sir. Better let me.’
He nodded.
Armstrong pressed forward, leaned out of the saddle and put a pistol to the donkey’s head. ‘Now hold hard, Biddy Flyn!’ he growled.
‘By Jasus, don’t ye just frighten me, Corporal!’
‘I’m warning you, Biddy!’
‘Mother o’ God, ye’d never do so heathen a thing. Come on, girls!’
Armstrong fired and the donkey fell stone-dead.
The dragoons as one drew their carbines.
‘I will shoot
Biddy Flyn, for all her bluster, was crying. ‘Faith, ye’are a vagabone. Ye’ve murdered the life of me poor, darling innocent crather. May ye niver see home till the vultures have picked yer eyes out!’
Others began to wail. All of them began settling themselves down by the side of the road.
Hervey nodded his appreciation as Armstrong reined back to his side. ‘Corporal,’ he said quietly, ‘would you have a dragoon go back and bring my donkey.’
Everywhere dragoons hailed Hervey’s men with mock honour: ‘Donkey-shooters!’ And then it was ‘A Troop donkey-shooters!’ And by the second evening the other regiments in the brigade had given the appellation to the Sixth as a whole. However, Captain Lankester much approved of Hervey’s conduct. The camp-followers had become a deal more tractable now, and the army had been able to put a fair few miles behind it since the bivouac at Salamanca. Indeed, the affair revealed something more of his new cornet (beyond the courage he took for granted): a resourcefulness and resolution that he considered was all too rare. He would keep a special eye on Cornet Hervey; the boy had the makings of an officer.
