An Act Of Courage

deficiencies arising from the exigencies of Corunna.’

‘No, ah knows that, sir. But t’quartermaster says ’e’s not just gooin to write-off ev’rythin’.’

Lord George Irvine, impressed by this evidence of zealous interior economy, was nevertheless puzzled by the method. How were the quartermasters going to determine what were legitimate field losses and what were not? ‘How so, Johnson?’

‘We ’ad a full kit check just before we went t’harbour, Colonel.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘What did you lose between then and here?’ asked Edmonds, as intrigued now as was the commanding officer.

‘Me spurs, sir.’

‘Careless, that.’

‘Ah bloody well threw ’em away, sir; after we’d shot all t’orses!’

Edmonds wished he’d never asked. He’d felt like doing the same after shooting his own.

Lord George spoke to recover the situation (he hoped). ‘You have a good remount?’

Johnson’s face lit up. ‘Ah do, Colonel. This is ’er ’ere.’ He indicated a bay mare, about fifteen hands two.

Lord George took a closer look. ‘I’d have her myself, Johnson.’

‘Ay, Colonel. She’s a good’n.’

‘Well then,’ said Lord George, turning. ‘Let us continue. Thank you, Johnson, for your candour.’

‘Ay, all right, Colonel.’ Johnson put his feet together, braced himself vigorously, and passably well, and saluted.

As they walked away, Edmonds saw a smile on Lord George’s face.

‘I have seen no lack of spirit so far.’

‘I think that is a fair representation of the regiment as a whole, Colonel, though Johnson, I must say, is singular.’

‘I am sorry to hear it! By the way, the regiment salutes with the hand when hatless, or was that just Private Johnson?’

‘It does.’

‘Good. Where do we go now?’

‘The other troop lines, Colonel.’

Lord George halted. ‘No, I think that if the horses are of the same stamp there is no need. I think I would see the stores.’

‘Very well. But I fear they are misnamed, for there’s barely an item within.’

‘Well, I may speak to the storekeeper, I suppose,’ Lord George replied, smiling still, appreciative of his major’s drollness. ‘Now, tell me what I should know of the subalterns.’

Edmonds made a sort of face. What to say? ‘I imagine they are no better or worse than elsewhere. One or two of them have the makings. Martyn, Lankester’s lieutenant, is capable. So is Darrington, the Duke of Sheffield’s son, but he has bid for a troop in the Fifteenth. And Conway knows what he’s about. The cornets have capability; very pleasing some of them. Hervey has a commendation from Robert Long. He galloped for him at Corunna.’

‘And what of the quartermasters?’

‘The serjeant-major’s time is up; he’ll have his discharge. He’s done all he can, and that well, but there’s not a commission for him. He’ll go to the yeomanry.’

‘There is a suitable replacement, I trust?’

‘Senior quartermaster is Lincoln, D Troop. They don’t come better.’

Lord George looked content. ‘Then what would you have me decide for the rest?’

Edmonds shook his head. ‘Nothing. In that respect the last three months have decided things. But as you perceive, there are no horses, and there’s a want of dragoons. We must get back into the saddle; that is all.’

Lord George took mental note again. He considered himself fortunate indeed to have a second in command of such vigour and address. The regiment had bottom – he knew so by its reputation and from what he had seen and heard in one hour this morning – but it would require a prodigious investment, not a little of which would have to be his own. He intended losing no time in its restoration.

For his part, Joseph Edmonds considered himself and the regiment fortunate to have a new executive officer with such credentials and – from what he could judge in one hour – manifest decency. Colonel Reynell he had held in high regard, as much for his humanity as his aptitude. His handling of the regiment at Benavente had been masterly, but to Edmonds’s mind there had always been something other-worldly in Reynell. He thought it his undoing, in fact. Reynell had pulled the regiment through to Corunna with but a handful of delinquencies when others could count theirs in dozens. The orders to destroy the horses had been grievous – no one doubted it – but they had been Sir John Moore’s, and in the grim logic of that wretched campaign they made sense. Why, therefore, had Reynell had to put a pistol to his head? What was the dishonour awaiting him? None; none at all. Indeed, he might have expected some recognition, for there was clamour enough for heads, and the Horse Guards would want some heroes to parade. They were where they were, however, and they had the Marquess of Tain’s younger son, with the reputation as the coolest head in Flanders, and known to be on the best of terms with the Duke of York. He, Joseph Edmonds, could not – must not – fret that Lord George Irvine was a dozen years his junior.

‘Will you dine in mess this evening, Colonel?’

Lord George halted. ‘Indeed I shall, if you will dine too.’

‘But of course, Colonel!’

Lord George smiled. ‘Edmonds, before I left Lord Sussex’s I had formed an opinion that your experience in this regiment was unrivalled. And at my club I met a man who said there had not been a better troop-leader in Spain.’

Edmonds’s brow furrowed. ‘Who—’

Lord George half frowned. ‘You would not have me divulge a club confidence?’

Edmonds had no acquaintance with the clubs of which Lord George Irvine was an habitue. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. ‘No, Colonel, indeed not.’

Lord George smiled. ‘Forgive me, Edmonds. It should be no secret. It was Paget himself.’

‘Paget?’ There could be no greater accolade than from the commander of Moore’s cavalry. ‘I—’

‘No modesty, Edmonds. He said your handling of the troop at Sahagun was exemplary, and afterwards, at Corunna, the regiment.’

In truth, Edmonds intended no modesty, only surprise that anyone took note of anything unless it were done by somebody’s son. ‘I am obliged, Colonel.’ He even thought he might relay it to Margaret.

It was not the new lieutenant-colonel’s easy manner and air of capability at mess on the first evening that impressed itself on the young Cornet Hervey so much as his activity in the weeks that followed, and above all his address to the officers six weeks after his arriving. At mess that first evening, when Lord George had spoken a few words to the officers informally before dinner, there had at once arisen a universal sense of satisfaction in having a commanding officer who might secure for them their proper prestige. But none of them had imagined the practical use to which Lord George would put his standing. When, but one and a half months after first driving through the gates of their Canterbury depot, he called them together again, no one but Edmonds had the remotest inkling of the announcement he would make.

‘Gentlemen, I have news that will stir your hearts!’ Lord George began, smiling as if he were going to declare that Bonaparte himself was clapped in irons in the regimental jail. ‘The government is to send a second expedition to Portugal.’

This was scarcely surprising news, but it caused exactly the hubbub he had calculated. He would now raise it by degrees. ‘And the general commanding shall be Sir Arthur Wellesley!’

There was cheering. None of them knew Wellesley, save that he had a good reputation from India, and Denmark, and of course Vimiero, the battle they had missed; but there had to be some bravado (and there were precious few other names). Joseph Edmonds permitted himself a sigh before resolving that he could not – must not – fret that Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley was but his own age.

Lord George held up a hand. The room was hushed. ‘And, gentlemen, I am delighted to be able to tell you that the Sixth shall accompany the force to Lisbon without delay!’