And then another was wanted. ‘Galloper!’
The calls were frequent, but not from Colonel Long. Hervey sat calming his trooper patiently; she was ear- brisk enough, even without the thunder of the French guns and the strange buzzing the roundshot made.
‘Burrard, Fane, Hervey!’ The names came fast as Sir John Moore, Colonel Graham and Colonel Long suddenly took off left along the ridge.
It would have been a minute’s gallop on even ground – less – but the ditches, gullies and walls made it tricky going for the handiest horse. In ten they were with General Hill’s brigade, where the left flank rested on the Burgo River and astride the main road. Four battalions of English infantry stood against two French divisions on the heights to the south-east: the 2nd Foot (the Queen’s), the 5th (Northumberland), the 14th (Buckinghamshire) and the 32nd (Cornwall).
Sir John Moore looked about but said nothing; he saw the French made no move here yet, and he could trust Hill and his men if they did. Besides, behind them was Catlin Craufurd’s brigade – Scotchmen for the most part – and to their right James Leith’s North-Countrymen. Three brigades, the division commanded by Lieutenant-General Hope: no, he need have no fears for his left flank.
Back they cantered, scrambling over banks and hedges, leaping streams and drycourses, on to the extreme right of the line to see how was General Baird and his three brigades. A mile, just over; not a bad front. The ground was certainly to their advantage too. Sir John Moore said little, seeming pleased at last with what he saw. Then he spun his cream gelding on its haunches and sped back to the vantage point, his followers hard pressed to keep with him.
Out came the spyglass again, and the army commander began searching the hills to the south-west for the turning movement he expected Soult to try.
‘Hah! There we have it, Thomas!’
The direction of his telescope told Colonel Graham where to search with his.
‘Yes indeed, Sir John. A very good number of cavalry. Three regiments at least.’
Hervey could see them too. He could not make them out with any certainty, but they had the look of the dragoons they had drubbed at the Esla.
‘A galloper to hasten Fraser forward, please,’ said Sir John, as if asking for the time of day. ‘His division to take post on the Heights of Santa Margarita, as I warned. And another galloper to Paget’s to have them move to the right to make contact with Bentinck’s brigade.’
Hervey thought he comprehended the design. Sir John must judge this move to indicate Soult’s true intention, to turn his flank, thence to roll up the line from the right and cut off any retreat towards Corunna. He was disappointed not to be called to gallop, especially since Fox was less on her toes now, though she did keep throwing her head up, making it difficult for him to steady his spyglass.
But suddenly he was grateful for her restiveness, since he might otherwise have missed the movement in the foreground: down the slopes towards the battered village were streaming hundreds of
Bentinck’s pickets, having clung on through the roundshot’s pounding, came doubling back towards the main line, falling even as they ran to the bullets of the French sharpshooters.
At once, Sir John Moore spurred down the hill to where General Bentinck, the prime minister’s son, sat astride his mule talking with the Fiftieth’s commanding officer. ‘Napier, do not let your pickets be thrown out of there,’ he barked, his gaze fixed on the swarming
But before either Major Napier or his brigadier could reply, Sir John was off again, galloping flat out for the three hundred yards to where the 4th Foot (King’s Own) stood on the extreme right of the line, his staff struggling to keep up.
‘Throw back your right flank company to protect, Wynch!’
Hervey checked Fox sharp and halted a respectful distance behind the army commander just in time to see how Colonel Wynch’s men answered.
‘To the right, incline, Captain Neil!’
‘Sir! Right-flank company, atte-e-enshun! Slo-o-ope arms! Abo-o-out turn! Le-e-eft wheel!’
The company wheeled and then marked time with almost exaggerated precision until the captain was satisfied with the angle of the incline, halting them and bringing their muskets back to the ‘order’.
To Hervey, it looked a fine manoeuvre.
Sir John Moore was certain of it. ‘King’s Own, that is
Lieutenant-Colonel James Wynch knew of no other way, and neither did he expect anything else of his battalion, but Sir John Moore’s praise was welcome for all that. The first in many a week.
‘Now, do not let the French pass this side of the trees yonder,’ said Sir John, indicating the wooded course of the Monelos stream. ‘General Paget’s men will be close on you soon.’
Colonel Wynch saluted and glanced at the five hundred yards of broken ground that lay between his right flank company and the stream. He would have his work cut out: the musket’s range was nothing like good enough. He could only trust to Paget’s men coming up in good time.
Hervey began ruing his status as a mere observer: the Sixth would surely have the very best of the action here before long?
Sir John swung his gelding round and sped away as suddenly as he had appeared. By the time he pulled up atop his hill again Elvina had become a desperate business of close-quarter musketry and the bayonet, the French battery pounding the furthest edge of the village and the slope beyond, so that bringing out the wounded was as perilous as being inside. Hervey counted twelve guns. What few of his own Sir John had not embarked were distributed in pairs along the line or with Paget’s division, and could not reply. The French guns had the range too, so that shot was reaching the main line. As Hervey dismounted to adjust the surcingle, a ball took off the leg of a man not twenty yards from where Sir John Moore stood. He rolled about screaming terribly, and to the evident distress of his comrades.
Sir John trotted up to the regiment, the Forty-second, many a kilt to bear witness. ‘This is nothing, my lads,’ he said sharply. Then he turned to the dismembered highlander: ‘My good fellow, don’t make so much noise; we must bear these things better. Take him away there, do!’
Hervey heard quite clearly. He prayed he would bear it well if a ball struck him.
A galloper pulled up hard by Colonel Graham.
Graham looked pained. ‘Sir John,’ he called, as the general rode back. ‘Sir David Baird is wounded.’
‘Is he, by God?’
‘They take him to the rear.’
Sir John nodded. ‘Have Hope told he is next in command then, please, Thomas.’
‘Ay, Sir John. Shall you want him here?’
‘No. I see no reason for that yet.’
‘Very well.’ Colonel Graham turned in the saddle. ‘Galloper!’
There were none at hand but Colonel Long’s.
*
It took Hervey an age to find Lieutenant-General the Honourable John Hope. That, at least, was how it felt; and very uncomfortable too. The French had begun moving against the left flank, and the divisional commander was everywhere directing the countermoves. In the end, Hervey almost literally stumbled into him, Fox missing her footing at a wet ditch.
‘Sir, the army commander’s compliments,’ he began, struggling to regain his dignity after his close shave with the ground. ‘He wishes you to know that you are now second in command on account of Sir David Baird’s leaving the field wounded. He does not require that you move to join him at this time, however.’
Hervey concentrated hard on looking him in the eye. General Hope’s features were gentle, scholarly, belying his long fighting experience and utter disregard for danger. He nodded slowly, as if still contemplating the intelligence.
‘You had better tell me how the battle goes, for I can see only what the French do.’ He indicated the Heights of Palavea, on which the French right flank had stood inactive until half an hour before.
Hervey did not hesitate, though he realized what weight rested on an eight-month cornet, and he hoped his
