Rumours Of War

he intended falling on Marshal Soult at dawn the following morning, with the Spanish under the Marques La Romana assailing the French at the same hour from the north-west.

Hervey would not have exchanged his cold picket post for a warm bed that morning, for the sight that followed the commander-in-chief came rarely, he supposed, to one of his rank. First, the King’s Germans, General Alten’s light brigade, its two green-jacketed battalions indistinguishable at a distance from British riflemen. These were seasoned soldiers, Hanoverians who had chosen exile rather than Bonaparte’s terms, but with more than a handful of men from other parts who had found themselves exiled so: Poles, Italians, Danes, Greeks even. They said that in a bivouac of the King’s German Legion, besides being the place for good meat and plentiful drink, there was a story to hear in any language a man cared to name.

Then came the British light brigade, Major-General Craufurd’s – ‘Black Bob’. It was strange how his men liked the name, bandied it with a certain grudging pride, whereas ‘Black Jack’ was breathed invariably with spit and dismay.

Everyone knew Sir John Moore himself had trained the light brigade – two battalions of redcoats, the 43rd (Monmouthshire) and the second battalion of the 52nd (Oxfordshire), and one of green, the second battalion of the 95th Rifles, the ‘Sweeps’ as the rest of the army called them, for their facings and equipment were black as soot.

These men thought themselves special, reckoned Hervey. He could see it in the way they marched. The redcoats carried the musket like the Guards and the Line, but they browned the barrels so as not to have the sun glint on them. And the Rifles insisted on calling their bayonets swords. But anything novel gained a certain fashion, and the notion of light infantry, and especially rifle troops, was novel enough. Or rather, as Daniel Coates used to have it, it was not so much novel as learned late: they had had lessons enough from riflemen in America. But Hervey did at least know about the rifle. He had stalked deer with Dan Coates often enough. Coates had brought his home from America, a trophy whose exact provenance he had always been loath to detail. The rifle that the Ninety-fifth and the King’s Germans carried was a British pattern, however. Indeed, it had been chosen in a competition against allcomers from America and Germany. There was nothing that England could not do when she put her mind to it, Coates used to say.

And then, if Sir John Moore marched with these praetorians close by him, it was the turn of the legionaries, the regiments of the Line, the backbone of the army. For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon they came tramping, some in decidedly better condition than others, though none had seen much fighting yet.

They wanted to, though. That a good number of them would be sent to their maker or horribly mangled, they did not care. They had drilled for it day in day out – hours of drill, back-breaking, bruising, deafening. Drill imparted by NCOs and their crude aids to instruction – foul mouths and the musket-butt or the half-pike. And how they longed to turn it on the French! They loathed them. Few had ever seen a Frenchman closer than a mile, but Bonaparte was ‘the Great Disturber’, and every Englishman had a loathing for a foreigner threatening the sceptred isle, no matter how mean a corner of it he called his own. And there was always the promise of a little drink and loot at the end of the fight. The Irish regiments had not the same loathing perhaps, simply a natural impulse to fight. Hervey had seen them in Lisbon: they would fight among themselves as readily. And the Scotch were always a merry sight, whether kilted or not, for they all wore feathered bonnets of some description. Then, after the Line the Guards, two battalions of the First; they stood out a mile, though at a distance they were otherwise indistinguishable, since in the field they wore the shako rather than the fur grenadier cap. They marched at attention; were they always on parade, he wondered.

Hervey shook his head as he contemplated all the savage ranks of red.

But whether it was a star or a number on the trotter, these men were beasts of burden when it came to the march. They carried sixty pounds of issue this morning, so that even the best of them leaned forward like poplars in the wind. Many a man would have blisters on his back and shoulders as well as his feet, and a good number would be pack palsied. Hervey shook his head again: poor devils.

But it was a merry sound the army made for all that. Each regiment had its band, and fifes or bagpipes to lead them, to try to put a spring into leaden steps or to take the mind from chafing pains with tunes the men whistled about camp. Many a corps had claimed its own march (it was how Hervey recognized some of them), but the drummers, mere boys many of them, all beat the same time, so that however weary a man was he did not have to think about the step, and the corporals could save their voices for when they were needed. Hervey smiled; it was surprising what a jaunty tune could do.

Later, when the rest of the Sixth arrived, Cornet Peach relieved him of picket duty, and Hervey rejoined his troop.

‘You had a sharp affair of it here yesterday, by all accounts,’ said Sir Edward Lankester, checking feet again in the horse lines.

Hervey smiled. It was a singular confidence that came with a furlong’s charge and a cut or two with the sabre. ‘Yes, sir. And they were big men too, the dragoons especially, though they fell all the harder for it.’

‘What did you make of Paget?’

Hervey knew the question did him credit, but he did not dwell on it. ‘I think he could take us to Paris!’

Lankester nodded. ‘He is an extraordinarily fine fellow. Without him, frankly, I would fear for the cavalry. Stewart is not bad, but Slade is an abomination. I hear he got lost?’

Hervey was only momentarily troubled by propriety; it was, after all, his commanding officer who asked him. ‘I think not so much lost as slow to come up.’

‘Did you see anything of Edmonds?’

‘Yes. His troop came onto the field when Lord Paget charged. They penned up the French very nicely. Hirsch says they had the very devil of it too, coming round the town and through the forest.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I expect Edmonds led them every inch of the way. I hope he has some recognition. And all Slade had to do was ride through the town. Not a place you’d imagine a man could fail to find!’

Hervey remained silent. It was one thing for Sir Edward Lankester to give his opinion of a general officer so decidedly; it was quite another for him to do so, no matter how much blood there was on his sabre.

‘Well, Hervey, do you feel fatigued?’

Hervey was surprised by the apparent solicitude. ‘Not greatly, sir.’

‘And your chargers?’

‘Well rested, I would say.’

‘Good. The brigadier has need of a galloper for a day or so.’

Hervey looked unsure.

‘Well, what is it? Saddle sores?’

‘No, sir, nothing the like. Just that General Stewart’s gallopers ride bloods, and neither of mine is.’

‘I myself would not be so fastidious, especially in this country and this time of year. But it won’t be winter for ever, and we’ll be down onto the plains soon. Annesley in C Troop will have a nice mare to sell, since he’s being invalided. You’d get her for a hundred and fifty guineas, I suppose – if you looked sharp about it.’

Hervey was dumbstruck. A hundred and fifty guineas! Where was he to lay his hands on such a sum? The trouble was that the army had come to Portugal with not enough horses. The country could not oblige, and so prices had risen beyond all reason. The government allowed twenty-five pounds for a troop-horse, but forty was the price they were having to pay in Lisbon. An officer wanting a half-decent charger paid any amount above that, although few of the native breeds would pass muster in even this description. Jessye he would have pitted against any of the bloods, except over a four-furlong sprint (and there was more to galloping for a general than mere celerity over a short distance, he supposed), but Jessye was in England. Robert and La Belle Dame were doing him well enough; Sir Edward knew his business, however, and if he thought he had need of a blood charger then he evidently did.

‘There’ll be a little prize money from the affair here, of course. Paget took a hundred horses and more, I hear.’

That was true, thought Hervey; and he could sell La Belle Dame for fifty, probably. But no matter what, he would still not have the difference. It would be another draft on his agent against an advance on pay – at a stinging rate of interest, of course.

He thanked Sir Edward and took his leave.

He went at once to C Troop’s lines to take a look at the mare, which he had not seen, Cornet the Honourable