whom the French cavalry had set about with evident skill and relish. Sir John Moore wanted every man in the army to know what fate awaited those whose will and discipline failed them.
Hervey paled at the sight, a veritable march-past of grotesques. Even the red cloth could not hide the blood stains and raw wounds.
Red cloth, all save for one. Hervey gaped as he saw the bloody bundle of blue shuffling along with the rest. A serjeant of the 6th Light Dragoons: there could hardly be a more shameful sight. Ellis had brought himself to this, no one else. Even so, he, Hervey, had been the instrument of that shaming, and the sudden evidence of so profound a fall from grace unnerved him.
The escort, non-commissioned officers of the Guards, formed the procession into line to face each side of the square in turn. Immaculate in their blackings and pipe clay, the Guards stood in stark contrast to their charges, as indeed was the intention, reckoned Hervey. He thought it like some medieval representation of hell, the promise of infernal torture for the transgressor. He fixed on the bloody blue bundle again, then suddenly remembered that Ellis was a fugitive still.
But the quartermaster spoke first. ‘I have him, sir.’
Hervey was relieved to have the responsibility taken from him.
And Ellis would have a glimpse of the fate that awaited him.
General Paget glowered at the stragglers, his horse a length in advance of Sir John Moore’s (he commanded the parade), and shifted in the saddle. ‘March on the prisoner!’
His voice condemned the man as surely as had the court martial. It contained no hope of clemency. Hervey felt his stomach churning.
The provost marshal’s men stood aside to let twenty guardsmen file into the middle of the square. A red- coated private, hatless, marched at their head, as broken-looking as the escorts were magnificent. They halted in front of the overturned waggon that was to serve as bullet-catcher.
‘Sentenced this very morning,’ said Izzy Banks, loud enough for those dragoons nearest to hear and relay it to the extremities of the troop.
Speedy justice, as well as the remorseless kind, was a powerful reminder.
Hervey strained to hear more.
‘Mutiny.’
The dread word; Hervey tried hard not to flinch as he turned back to see the condemned man brought out of the ranks and made to stand in full view of the parade.
The provost marshal began to read. ‘Given this thirty-first day of December, eighteen hundred and eight, by order of Major-General the Honourable Edward Paget, Private Leechman of His Majesty’s Fifty-second regiment of foot is hereby sentenced to death by shooting for the offence of mutinous conduct contrary to the provisions of the Mutiny Act, in that he at Benavente on the thirtieth day of December eighteen hundred and eight did strike his superior officer, namely Serjeant Hamilton of that regiment. The sentence to be carried out without delay.’
General Paget turned to the Fifty-second.
Private Leechman’s commanding officer now spoke up. ‘Sir, the man’s previous record has been exemplary, as stated at the court martial, and his officers respectfully request for clemency to be given on this occasion. He wishes to admit his guilt before the parade assembled.’
General Paget nodded.
Private Leechman began in a loud but faltering voice. ‘I am brought to this by my own devices and through drink. And the justice is fair. If I might be spared my life I resolve never to falter again, and to serve my King and country faithfully, as I have always endeavoured to.’
‘That will do it,’ said Lieutenant Martyn in the Sixth’s front rank, just loud enough to carry to the cornets. ‘A clean breast of it and an oath to the King.’
Hervey hoped so. The offence was not perhaps so great, he imagined, for no doubt the serjeant had been harsh, and the man was of previous good character.
The provost marshal turned to General Paget.
‘See,’ said Martyn. ‘Paget will turn to Sir John Moore, and in so doing accept the petition for clemency.’
But the general did not. ‘No man who has previously been of good character may escape the consequences of an offence. By that method the whole army shall be undone. Carry out sentence!’
The universal shock was audible. The depravity of the offence and the severity of the discipline were at once imprinted on every mind.
The provost marshal nodded to the field officer of the Guards, who in turn nodded to the serjeant of the escort.
The serjeant tied Leechman’s arms to his side, bade him kneel down as the escort cleared the line of fire, and placed a sack over his head.
The square fell silent again.
The drum-major nodded to the firing party. Sixteen guardsmen filed in front of their target at a distance of ten yards.
There were no chaplain’s prayers this time, perhaps, thought Hervey, because the man had committed no crime against God; only the drum-major’s presiding over ceremonies.
Silent presiding; the muskets were loaded ready. There would be no awful clattering of ramrods. And all the words of command, which as a rule were barked out, the drum-major gave by hand. It was a gesture of mercy towards the condemned man, for Leechman was of previous good character and his offence was military rather than the common felon’s. This, then, marked Hervey, was General Paget’s clemency. His discipline was harsh, but not cruel.
The drum-major lifted his hand, as if beckoning someone to rise. Up to the aim came a dozen muskets.
Hervey felt his every muscle tense.
The hand fell.
The volley was as near perfect as might be. Smoke rolled back over the firing party, leaving Private Leechman’s bulleted body to the parade’s view. Half a dozen balls had struck, throwing him heavily onto his back, but his arms, pinioned by the serjeant’s cord, quivered like the fins of a fish before the gaff’s merciful release.
The drum-major, silent yet, summoned forward the other four guardsmen. It looked a well-practised drill. They placed their muskets to Leechman’s head and fired, at last putting the man from his agonies.
There was the sound of retching from all sides of the square. Hervey felt a tear in his eye. Only a passing bell could have made the moment sadder.
Afterwards, a full hour later, for Sir John Moore had all his regiments march past the salutary display of mutilation and death, Hervey went quietly to his duties. For once there was no idle talk about the horse lines.
‘There are always bad ’uns, Mr Hervey, sir,’ said Corporal Armstrong, finding him to one side, and sensing perhaps his preoccupations.
Hervey was drawing-through the barrel of one of his pistols. ‘I beg your pardon, Corporal Armstrong, I did not quite hear.’
‘There are always bad ’uns, sir. Anywhere. Any rank. I reckon it’s a mercy yon serjeant was found out now. No knowing what he might’ve done.’
Daniel Coates would have said the same. Hervey could hear the old dragoon’s certainty, learned the hard way in so many years’ campaigning. ‘Let us hope there are not too many, Corporal Armstrong.’
He did not add ‘and with rank’, though Armstrong might well have imagined the sentiment. To Hervey, the notion of being failed by a man on whom he was meant to rely was peculiarly repugnant, contrary to every instinct and to what he understood was the tradition not just of the regiment but of the service. The Ellis business put him on his guard. In what lay ahead – and there could be no doubt now what a trial it would be – he meant to maintain that guard, for Sir Edward Lankester’s words rang in his ears: ‘Do not become close.’
It had been a hard lesson of late. But not too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LETTERS OF INTENT
