CHAPTER SEVEN
SPEARPOINT
Sir Edward Lankester rubbed the plaster from his eye as a heavyfooted dragoon upstairs dislodged more of the ceiling of the dilapidated
‘Mr Hervey, I would have you go at once with an escort to meet with one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s observing officers. He has a mind to take a look at the river.’
They had closed to the Douro, as instructed, and they had done so promptly, but Sir Edward’s tone betrayed nothing of the demands of a week spent in the saddle, the last two days entirely within cannonading distance of the enemy. The squadron – or rather, his hand-picked detachment – had been the point of the spear, so to speak, since crossing the Mondego. Meanwhile, the shaft of the spear – Sir Arthur Wellesley’s main body – had been marching steadily north behind them. Two days ago, the squadron reunited, the point of the spear had had its first brush in earnest with the French cavalry; and yesterday the shaft had seen a sharp action on the Vouga, eight leagues south of Oporto. It had been a botched affair, though, Sir Edward told his officers: Wellesley had been heard railing against several unfortunates who had failed to bring their men up on the French in the right place. But the spear was close now. Porto stood waiting, Sir Edward had written in his despatch; it would not do to keep them waiting long. However, Soult’s cavalry had been able to slip away in the dark, he told his officers, ruefully, ‘like rats scuttling off as the water rises’. Or depending on the point of view, he added, like practised cavalry in a line of surveillance. It was always touch and go what others thought of men who did not stand and fight.
Hervey felt his head nod, even in the fraction of time between Sir Edward’s giving him the order and his acknowledging it. He was dog tired. All he wanted to do was take advantage of the
He shook himself, hoping his troop-leader had not noticed. ‘Where is the observing officer now, Sir Edward?’
‘He is gone to Villa Nova. He’ll meet B Troop’s picket there, but I want
It made sense. Hervey had ridden to Villa Nova, on the south side of the Douro opposite Oporto, at first light.
‘No, the observing officer can wait a little longer,’ said Sir Edward suddenly, turning his head to the door. ‘Bancroft!’
His dragoon-servant came at once. ‘Sir Edward?’
‘The coffee, Bancroft, ready or no.’ He looked back at Hervey. ‘You have need of the bean as much as do I.’
Private Bancroft stood a moment, with a look that questioned the order. He was a fastidious servant, until a year ago a footman to the late Sir John Lankester. He had exchanged livery for regimentals with a will when the new baronet had asked for volunteers, for he might otherwise have been balloted into the militia and that would have been all the inconvenience of the regulars without one quarter of the status (though admittedly one tenth of the danger). Bancroft was of the unflinching opinion that coffee, whatever else its properties, must be hot.
Sir Edward saw, and understood. ‘There’s a good fellow,’ he added, in a softer voice, and with just something of the supplicatory, so that Bancroft felt obliged, indeed almost content, to fetch the half-made sustainer.
Hervey took careful note of the exchange. Sir Edward’s way with men intrigued him. Whereas Joseph Edmonds was all commanding – brusque, active, hungry for the fight – Sir Edward Lankester frequently appeared as if he were engaged in some private interest or other; although as soon as he perceived the enemy to be at hand he could become as much a fighting cock as any of them. The curious thing, observed Hervey, was that the dragoons seemed equally to trust both men. With Edmonds, there was in that trust a touch of admiration; with Sir Edward, it was affection. In the terrible retreat to Corunna, Edmonds had cajoled his troop into virtue; Sir Edward had flattered his. But the outcome had been the same: their dragoons would do anything for them. Both troops had embarked in good order, and with fewer losses than the others. Hervey wondered if some sort of synthesis were possible, or whether the essentials of the one style militated against those of the other. He knew – it was an axiom of the service, indeed – that leading men was a natural business: a leader was born. He himself had been born into that society which made of its sons the stuff of command (Sparta, he reckoned, could have had no quarrel with Shrewsbury School, nor Salisbury Plain in winter). There was a mask to command, however. That much he had divined from Daniel Coates, listening to the tales of America and Holland. But perhaps, in truth, the mask was a technique for greater ranks than cornet – although Quilley and Daly would profit by one, he was sure.
‘Hervey,’ began Sir Edward, sitting down in a rickety old carver and pulling the spurs from his heel-boxes. ‘What thoughts do you have of events?’
Hervey had come to recognize the deliberate ellipsis in his troopleader’s manner of speaking. It did not appear studied, or affected, neither did it mark any vagueness of thought. Rather, it seemed the means of encouragement, like the good rough-rider letting out the rope inch by inch, so that the young horse did not take fright – or advantage – at the sudden discovery of the freedom to do what it liked. But Hervey would not think over-carefully of his response, this time trying to imagine
Sir Edward nodded, thoughtfully. In the saddle his fine features could look severe, so intense as to seem almost cruel, yet at other times he looked like a contented man surveying his acres from astride his favourite hunter. This morning, off-parade, at leisure almost, he wanted only spectacles to complete the resemblance to a bookish squire. ‘Do you consider there is a chance we will pay for such audacity in the way we did before?’
‘You mean as we had to retreat to Corunna, Sir Edward?’
Sir Edward inclined his head.
Hervey thought a little. ‘We have the sea as our left flank, we do not advance deep into the country, we advance against an enemy who cannot be rapidly reinforced, the Portuguese are more reliable allies than were the Spanish, and it is May not December.’
Sir Edward quickened. Hervey’s reply was not only succinct, it was almost complete. ‘Admirable. Anything else? Anything to our disadvantage?’
Hervey thought a little more. ‘They say the infantry is not as good as Sir John Moore’s, perhaps?’
‘They do. There are too many second battalions, for sure, and very green. Do you believe our general will be able to shape them as Moore did?’
Hervey was doubly intrigued. This was a rare exchange indeed, a captain asking a cornet his opinion of the commander-in-chief, and he wondered to what it tended. ‘Sir John Moore had many months in England to shape his, Sir Edward. I understand Sir Arthur Wellesley has not had that advantage.’
‘Do you consider that he possesses other advantages over Moore?’
Hervey’s brow furrowed. These were deep waters indeed for a cornet, and in truth he knew little of either man. But he knew that if Sir John Moore had not been killed in his hour of victory they would not be having this conversation now, for, by all accounts, Moore would have been hauled before parliament to answer for the retreat. ‘Truly, I cannot say, Sir Edward. Only that I recall as much praise for Sir John Moore when first we landed in Portugal as now there is for Sir Arthur Wellesley.’
