Rumours Of War

the time being, though, he would have to hope that his trials were not exceptional, that he would not have to face the wretched business of a recalcitrant serjeant again. He knew full well the NCOs would be watching – testing him on occasions – but that was not the same.

‘I think I will take a turn along the column, then, and see how they are fairing.’

‘Yes, do so,’ said Martyn, approvingly. ‘Cheer their spirits, for I think we may have to dismount again if this continues as ill.’

The wind was driving snow into their faces again, and whipping up the powdery covering of the drifts either side of the road, so that instead of the reassuring shape of a comrade fore and behind, there was only a swirling white. Even had it been day, they would have been indistinguishable as dragoons of the Sixth, or any other regiment for that matter, for they looked like nothing so much as an eerie legion of snowmen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SIGNALS

Elvas, 23 October 1826

The morning was fresh, the sky clear and the sun warm. Eagles soared above the hills in front of them, and there was a scent of pines. In the summer they would bake here; Brevet-Major Hervey had known five Peninsular summers, and seen dragoons and fellow officers alike turn the colour of walnuts, parched and shrivelled. But it was nothing to the six winters he had endured. And the last five had been nothing to that first one, for they had gone into quarters in the old manner, whereas that first – the first and last with Sir John Moore – they had crossed the mountains when the days were shortest, the French at their heels every step of the way. What had he learned that winter? Everything. Never again would he doubt his capacity to think or act or endure. He looked about at the hills and their forts: just the best time of year this, and the spring, for campaigning. Not in the depths of winter, nor the heat of summer either. But of course they could not choose their time that way, not if the enemy chose to fight; nor, indeed, could an army let itself be driven into quarters. If it could master the elements that sent the enemy into quarters it would master the enemy with very little blood. That, at least, had been his experience in India. He recalled the old wisdom: All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

‘Dom Mateo, you say there is no telegraph line anywhere in Portugal now?’

‘No.’

‘And yet there remains a corps for its operation?’

Dom Mateo loosed his reins a little to let his mare stretch her neck as they continued the incline. He was especially happy on a day as fine as this. But he had reason to be proud too. ‘Such was its proficiency at the end of the war that it has remained ready if it should be called on.’

Hervey had heard of the Duke of Wellington’s telegraph, but not once had he seen it during those five years of war in the Peninsula. There was supposed to have been a line all the way back to Lisbon, and to Vigo in the north, or wherever their supply came ashore, but he had thought it was operated by the Royal Navy, as the telegraph had been along the lines of Torres Vedras. Dom Mateo explained to him now that it had been Brigadier- General Pedro Folque of the Real Corpo de Engenheiros – the colonel of the snowy descent from the friary roof – whom the duke had instructed to raise a corps from veterans and invalids who could read and write. And he had asked him too to devise a system of semaphore and to set up lines linking Lisbon with the great border fortresses.

‘General Folque was an eminently practical man, Hervey. As I told you, his corpo never numbered many more than a hundred, yet they were able to relay a message from Lisbon to Almeida in a matter of hours – two hundred miles as the crow flies. It would have taken three days by courier.’

‘Yes,’ said Hervey, nodding. ‘Well do I remember the country. Three at least.’

‘And today you will see how well the corpo have kept their science. The distance is not great, but the principle will be demonstrated.’

Their fine morning, so good for the spirits, was also ideal for such a demonstration – the sun, though warming, not so fierce as to distort an image. They had ridden together for about an hour, first along the highway and then up a goat track to a little ruined hut. Here, in neat blue coatees and white pantaloons, stood two men of the Corpo Telegrafico, one a private, the other a second corporal. As Hervey and Dom Mateo closed, the men drew their brass-handled hangers and stood at attention.

Dom Mateo returned the salute and hailed them heartily, dismounting and handing the reins to his groom. Hervey followed, handing his to Private Johnson.

‘This was the last post on the Santarem-to-Elvas line, although later it was extended to Badajoz,’ explained Dom Mateo. ‘From here the message was taken by galloper to the fortress, or it could be repeated by turning the semaphore tower through ninety degrees. But the distance is not so great, and it is better to demonstrate the work on the old line itself, I think.’

Hervey nodded. ‘At Santarem it connected with another line, I should imagine?’

‘Yes, from Almeida. There were six posts on the Elvas–Santarem line, each four or five leagues apart, and at each there was one man, although on the other lines there were more, because the number of messages was greater.’

Dom Mateo said something to the two men, and at once they sheathed their hangers and doubled to the semaphore tower.

The tower was a simple device, a white-painted mast about eighteen feet high, with a movable arm atop, and a red panel, three-foot-square, at the arm’s end.

Dom Mateo began explaining enthusiastically. ‘The red square is moved to one of six positions, like the face of a clock – see?’

Hervey saw the arm move, pausing for a few seconds at each of the six points.

‘And this is in a sequence of three numbers; these three signify a letter, or word or message contained in the code book. Like, say: two-three-four – cannon fire is heard to the north. Folque himself wrote the book, and still it is used.’

Hervey nodded again. The principle was simple enough.

‘Now, your corporal should be at the next post. Shall we see?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

Hervey walked over to where Johnson stood with the horses. He took his telescope from the saddle holster, put it to his eye and rested his forearms on the saddle.

‘Do you have it?’ asked Dom Mateo eagerly. ‘In a straight line beyond the whitened convent.’

‘Yes, I have it.’ The post was indeed well chosen, the white mast showing up clearly against the background, and the red panel in the rest position at six of the clock face.

Dom Mateo gave the signalmen their instructions.

The private began hauling on the pulleys, and the arm swung first to number one position (seven-thirty), then to three (ten-thirty), then five (three o’clock), the panel passing through ‘rest’ each time.

Hervey peered the while at the distant semaphore. The Telegrafico corporal did likewise, though his telescope was bigger, and rested on a tripod.

The red panel began to move.

‘Um, tres, cinco,’ called the corporal. One, three, five – the signal repeated back.

‘Now they know that they see each other’s signals clearly, and that your man is with them. Very well, Hervey, now let us test these telegraficos. What is the question you would pose to your