Rumours Of War

Deverill on the other side of the Longleat estate. They had all shared a schoolroom in the great house, and diversions in the park, but there was ever a distance, and it showed itself on the Sabbath. And in late years, too, the rites of passage in society had taken her away from the more rustic contentment of west Wiltshire, as, indeed, had his own schooling at Shrewsbury. He had not seen her in a year and more but although he might confess his greenness in such matters, he thought Henrietta Lindsay the most perfect of God’s Creation.

A cold coming to Sahagun they had had of it; and it was a cold going too. On the feast of St Stephen, when his father would be taking the dole of the Christmas box to the poorest of the parish, Hervey and the 6th Light Dragoons formed threes on the road to Mayorga, finally to quit the town, and leave it to the French once more. He wondered at the men the Fifteenth had lost taking this place but a few days before. Had they died in vain? Would it be the rule thus fighting Bonaparte? Up to now England had not engaged the French on the Continent, preferring instead to use her naval power to pick off France’s colonial possessions, paying subsidies to the continental allies to make war in Europe. But Spain and Portugal had seemed an advantageous opportunity to grapple with Bonaparte on land, for while the French fought on long external lines in the Peninsula, Sir Arthur Wellesley – and now Sir John Moore – would have the luxury of precisely the opposite conditions. And the unfettered support of the Royal Navy. That, at least, was how it was meant to be; well did Hervey recall Colonel Reynell’s words in England before they embarked. But now, on the feast of Stephen, the grand design looked defective.

Lord Paget was brisk about it this frosty morning. He was full of good cheer for the ranks of hussars and dragoons, and gracious words for his commanding officers. But he had no time for his brigadier. ‘Ride after that damned stupid fellow,’ he said loudly to one of his ADCs, having given ‘Black Jack’ Slade his orders for the march. ‘See as he makes no mistake about it!’

Colonel Reynell had already resolved to act on his own cognizance when it came to orders from Slade, whatever the consequences. The commanding officer of the Tenth, who had suffered agonies of humiliation at Sahagun, had resolved likewise; as had the Eighteenth’s colonel. It was the very damnedest thing, said Reynell, that as well as all else they should have such an incompetent brigadier foisted on them. He prayed, and trusted, that Sir John Moore would have rid of him when they were home.

The test of the three colonels’ resolve was not long in coming – and at Mayorga, a place where they were hoping to find a little comfort, the commissaries having promised to leave their stores in one piece. Shots rattled out from the walls as Paget’s men approached.

Hervey was so far down the column he could see nothing. It sounded but a skirmish.

Sir Edward Lankester speculated. ‘It seems that Bonaparte did not pause to celebrate the nativity.’

Lieutenant Martyn was incredulous. ‘Could Bonaparte really have marched that fast? It says little for our observing officers.’

‘His cavalry could,’ replied Sir Edward, coolly. ‘Indeed, they would be neglectful otherwise.’

Hervey warmed at the prospect of action again. He glanced over his shoulder: it seemed he was not alone in the sentiment. And soon it was all haphazard jogging, the column bunching up then stringing out like a busy caterpillar. It was as much the horses as the riders, for one way or another they had the scent of a gallop.

Sir Edward was trying hard to keep his bay in hand and to check the ardour behind him. ‘Hold up, for heaven’s sake!’ he cursed. His composure was rarely disturbed, but he would not have barging, just as if he had been bustled by some plunger following hounds on a hotted blood.

The quartermaster’s tongue settled it, and a dozen cut mouths from the curb.

‘No,’ said Lankester at length, his equilibrium restored. ‘It will be his cavalry only, pushed ahead as far as might be. Just as we ourselves were doing with Soult before Paget sounded “home”. He’ll bolt them now, I imagine. We might have a little sport, indeed, gentlemen.’

The entire column halted.

The minutes ticked by; it hardly seemed dashing work. Then the adjutant came galloping. ‘Your squadron, Sir Edward!’ he shouted as he passed down the line.

‘Mr Laming, my compliments to Captain Worsley, if you please.’

‘Sir!’

Cornet Laming reined round and spurred away to alert B Troop’s leader, while Sir Edward led his troop forward past the Tenth.

Lord Paget, General Slade, Colonel Reynell and the Tenth’s commanding officer each had a spyglass to the eye as Sir Edward came up. The firing had stopped, but they stood exposed nonetheless with the most remarkable detachment, he considered. Even Slade, though in truth ‘Black Jack’ had little choice while his divisional commander did so.

‘Ah, Sir Edward,’ said Paget, as terse as usual, slipping his telescope back into its saddle holster. ‘Chasseurs, a couple of squadrons. They’ve retired to the high ground yonder.’ He pointed to the snowy pasture north of the town.

Sir Edward took it all in at once: two squadrons of chasseurs a cheval on the commanding ground, carbines loaded and powder proven, and no other approach but front and uphill. ‘I fancy a squadron should manage it, my lord,’ he said, with a somewhat exaggerated formality. ‘I shouldn’t think it necessary to trouble the gunners in this.’

Paget smiled. ‘No doubt, Sir Edward, but the Tenth shall support you. And Hay will bring up two guns.’ He turned to General Slade and inclined his head very slightly to ask if it was understood. All the brigadier had to do, indeed, was lead them to their objective.

‘Very good, my lord.’

Sir Edward Lankester cantered back and began putting his troop into line two ranks deep, in the prescribed manner. Captain Worsley’s came up and began the same. There was no need of words. B Troop was to follow in support of A, as they had done many a time on Wimbledon Common. A would advance and B would follow at fifty yards, close enough to lend weight to the clash, but far enough to allow A to clear the line of the charge, either by pushing on through the mass of the enemy or wheeling to a flank. And then behind the Sixth’s squadron would come the Tenth’s, disposed in the same manner.

General Slade rode to the front with his trumpeter, and drew his sword. ‘Walk-march!’

The squadrons swelled forward, like a sail catching the wind, but after a dozen paces Slade held up his hand. ‘Halt!’

‘What in God’s name . . .’ Sir Edward could not believe that Slade would check an advance in the face of the enemy, even one that stood four furlongs away.

An orderly began adjusting the brigadier’s stirrups.

‘I am astonished!’ gasped Sir Edward, in a voice to carry to where Slade dallied.

Lord Paget was no less dismayed. ‘The damned fool!’ he spluttered, in the hearing of all about him.

Slade raised his sword again. ‘Advance!’

The squadrons surged forward, eager to be on with it.

But in another twenty yards Slade halted again, and the same orderly began fussing with the stirrups.

‘Great heavens!’ exploded Paget. ‘Reynell, go take the reins from that damned bungler!’

Colonel Reynell saluted, drew his sword and spurred his big chestnut mare into a gallop. He wheeled in front of A Troop and, without checking, stretched out his sabre towards the chasseurs.

The whole line took off with him, swords high, as the manual prescribed. It was not the way of Wimbledon Common, with steady approach, gathering pace, then the final charge; but Reynell was as frustrated as Paget.

Hervey struggled to keep a semblance of control over Stella. He was not in the least concerned for the clash of arms to come, only that he should not overtake his troop-leader. And struggle it was, for the mare’s bloodlines were the sprinter’s, and half a mile was her distance. With thirty yards to run, he saw the French front rank erupt in black smoke, as at Sahagun. He glanced left and right: the fire, thank God, was no more effective. But the smoke obscured his man. He just galloped headlong.

A Troop crashed into the French like a wave on a seawall. Two dozen chasseurs fell at once, not a man to the blade. The dragoon nearest Hervey tumbled from the saddle as his horse pecked, the head of another striking him square in the chest. Hervey slashed wildly at its rider, but missed. He dared not look round for his coverman but lunged in further, through the front rank now, sword at ‘Guard’, three sabres threatening. He dug his spurs hard into Stella’s side, stopped two cuts with his blade, so hard they almost dashed it from his hand, gave point front and broke the man barring his way out. He emerged the other side without a drop of blood on his sabre but three prisoners to claim.