An Act Of Courage

It did not take him long to be ready for the task of escorting one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s observing officers. Sir Edward Lankester’s last order to the squadron had been to off-saddle but remain booted: there were no French this side of the Douro any longer, they were assured, and the Portuguese dragoons had a vidette line on commanding ground between the river and the assembling army. In any alarm the squadron could be stood-to in but a few minutes. Hervey had saddled Jessye in no time, and by his own hand.

Not that he knew exactly how close was the main body behind them. For the past three days he had watched as the Portuguese cavalry danced about Soult’s, and all the while Sir Arthur Wellesley’s redcoats had been marching up from the Mondego. Recalling the stumbling, dispirited retreat to Corunna, he had imagined their pace would be slow; he had quite forgotten how fast the infantry could march when it was towards the enemy. However, he knew where the contact points were, and that was what mattered.

He watched as the escort of six dragoons mustered under Corporal Armstrong. They were tired, if not quite so tired as he was. They fumbled a bit, taking longer with straps and buckles, but it did not look too bad. Armstrong was as a rule unsparing with his tongue, but now he encouraged rather than cajoled. He knew the dragoons, and he knew if they were ‘laking’. It did not profit an NCO to bark if there could be no response. He would bark loud enough when the last bit of spare effort was required, effort a man did not know he possessed until squeezed from him by his corporal.

Hervey smiled to himself. He was content – very content. He had recognized in Armstrong a special man, a man he might trust entirely, rely on to the ultimate degree, just as Daniel Coates had told him he would, although the old dragoon had warned that it might take many a year to find such a man. It was Sir Edward’s opinion, too, that Armstrong was special, which made Hervey doubly content.

But still the talk of transferring to the infantry troubled him. Why had Sir Edward even broached the subject of selling out and buying into another regiment? Was that really to be the only way of advancement in this war? He knew it had been the way already for some – for Sir Arthur Wellesley himself in his early years (there was no secret to it). But now that the army was so decisively, indeed desperately, engaged with Bonaparte, the old way could not stand too long? Hervey shook his head. Truly, it was mystifying what Sir Edward had intended. Had he, when he spoke of Armstrong, been saying the same again, indeed – that promotion would not come without some particular act of courage? Hervey trusted he would have sufficiency of that quality (he had never even imagined the want of it). Was he supposed to seek out the opportunity rather than wait for it to be presented? Was that what Sir Edward meant? He began wondering if Joseph Edmonds would have been quite so elliptical in his advice. He imagined not. But there again, said the cognoscenti, Captain Sir Edward Lankester knew his way in that world, as did Lieutenant-Colonel Lord George Irvine; Major Joseph Edmonds did not.

Hervey shook his head. What a repugnant business it was! How different from Edmonds’s injunction when first he had joined his troop at the Canterbury depot: ‘Do not trouble to impress me, Mr Hervey; it is they you must inspire,’ he had said, pointing to the dragoons at skill-at-arms on the square. Hervey hoped now that he would continue to try to do so, not least because they were all tired and the man they were about to escort would form his impression of the regiment by what his little command did this morning. Their charge was no ordinary staff officer; he was an observing officer, one of the men whom Sir Arthur Wellesley relied on for intelligence of a certain kind, that which not even the most vigorous scouting by cavalry could provide. As a rule, such officers did not wear uniform, since their business was behind the enemy’s lines. ‘Spy’ was a word not infrequently used of them, if loosely – and, moreover, dangerously, for by the usages of war a spy might be shot out-of-hand, whereas by those same usages a man in his country’s uniform enjoyed the protection of his captors. Hervey quickened at the thought.

Lieutenant-Colonel Shaw was a hard-looking man, in his forties, Hervey reckoned. There was a pronounced powder-burn on his right cheek, and his upper front teeth were missing. Yet there was nothing of the bruiser in his manner, which was more schoolmasterly than soldier. Hervey had already begun to note how different officers in other regiments could seem. It was not just that they were unfamiliar, they were formed in another way. Some, he knew, would have been formed in half a dozen regiments, but he thought he was beginning to discern a certain stamp; and not merely between Foot and Horse, Guards and Line. Colonel Shaw could not have been in the Sixth; that, he was sure. It was not appearance alone, although he did wear uniform of sorts, which Hervey imagined was on account of his working within the allied lines of communication. No, it was not the ‘uniform’: there was something about him that did not suggest an acquaintance with dragoons.

In fact, it was not possible to determine Colonel Shaw’s regiment even by close inspection of his dress, for he did not wear any distinguishing sign. His coat was a curious affair, dark blue, the buttons half-ball horn, its cut nodding to the military but which might otherwise be that of any man of quality. He wore buff breeches, and butcher-boots, not hessians. Only his headdress was decidedly military, a plumeless bicorn with black cockade. Even his horse furniture was of civilian pattern, so that if he were to remove his hat he could pass for a private gentleman – which was, Hervey concluded, the intention. But hat in place, there was just sufficient mark of the man of rank to draw a salute and, more importantly, laissez-aller from Sir Arthur Wellesley’s men. But Colonel Shaw wanted now to pass through Portuguese lines, and for that, someone had judged it prudent to have an unequivocally military escort.

‘Mr Hervey, my compliments to your captain: an exemplary smart body of men!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Hervey, nodding to Armstrong and the others to take note. Compared with muster at the depot they looked in rag shape, but for field conditions he fancied they were indeed a cut above the usual standard.

‘What are your orders?’

‘I am at your disposal, sir.’

‘That is understood. Very well, I wish to take a look at the Douro.’ Colonel Shaw paused, fixing Hervey, hawklike, as if to gauge his reaction. ‘A close look.’

Hervey nodded. ‘Very well, Colonel.’

‘As close as may be.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I am in your hands, Hervey, but from my map it appears there might be an opportunity to approach the river from Villa Nova . . . here.’ He indicated the point on his map.

Hervey saw, then glanced at his own. ‘There’s a picket half a mile short of there, sir – Portuguese, I mean – on the high road, but I have been no further forward. We might have a guide from them.’

‘Capital, Mr Hervey,’ said Colonel Shaw briskly, folding his map and taking off his reading-glasses. ‘Let us hasten thither.’

It took them but a half-hour to reach the outskirts of Villa Nova. Even as they trotted, Colonel Shaw made notes, constantly searching the country, slowing occasionally to study something or other through a compact telescope. As they eased to the walk a hundred yards short of the picket, Hervey could only marvel at how composed Shaw looked for a man intending to slip behind the French lines at the first opportunity.

‘Upon my word, Mr Hervey!’ The observing officer pulled up suddenly and began peering through his telescope again at the middle distance.

Hervey reined sharply to the halt, wondering what had alerted him.

‘You see that bird yonder,’ said the colonel, with a distinct edge to his voice. ‘What do you say it is?’

Hervey, not a little taken aback, lifted his spyglass, wondering what the bird portended. ‘A hen-harrier perhaps, Colonel?’ he tried, after a not entirely perfunctory study.

‘An understandable conclusion, Hervey,’ said Shaw, keeping the glass to his eye. ‘The colour is much the same; but observe its tail closer. How is it in shape?’

Hervey frowned, though his Tarleton concealed it if his voice did not. ‘Colonel, I think we ought—’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Hervey. I know we have business to be about, but you may see a river any day. You will not see a black-winged kite again once you have left these parts.’

Hervey’s frown faded. If Colonel Shaw wanted to watch birds rather than the French then that was his business. He raised his telescope again. ‘I observe that the tail is spread and slightly forked.’

‘Just so. Whereas the hen-harrier’s is . . . ?’

Hervey thought for a moment. ‘Long and straight?’

‘Exactly. But observe also what it does. A bird reveals its identity above all by its habit, Mr Hervey.’ Shaw’s telescope seemed positively fixed to his right eye. His mare stood obligingly still, as if used to episodes of intense