An Act Of Courage

Hervey could not know it, but his luck was greater than he supposed. As the Porto boatmen and the other willing hands began paddling the barges across the still-silent Douro, the commander-in-chief himself stood watching from the terrace-heights of the Serra convent. He said not a word, while about him artillerymen manhandled four six-pounders and a howitzer into position, and below and a little further upstream, taking the greatest care to conceal themselves from any sharp-eyed sentry on the heights opposite, men of the 3rd (East Kent) Regiment – the Buffs – were assembling in the narrow streets. It had been the work of but an hour; the work and good fortune, for Corporal Collins had ridden straight into Sir Arthur Wellesley and his staff not a mile from Villa Nova. Later, Collins would recount how the commander-in-chief had at once seen the possibilities in Colonel Shaw’s despatch, sending gallopers to the advance guard, and how the horse artillery had come careering past them not twenty minutes later, gunners hanging on to the limbers for dear life; and then the Buffs, doublemarching, sweating like pigs but grinning ear to ear, knowing they would be first at the enemy.

Corporal Armstrong stood at attention before the Buffs’ commanding officer. The colonel was red in the face and short of breath, as every one of his men, but he was concerned for one thing only. ‘Four boats, you say, Corporal?’

‘Yes, sir. They’re coming across now.’

‘Very well. Is there any view of the far bank to be had from this side?’

‘There are no houses near where the barges’ll come, sir, and it’s very reedy. I think it would be better to take a look from upstairs here, sir.’

But the houses were strongly barred, and in any case the colonel was certain of his instructions: Sir Arthur Wellesley wanted him to cross the river straight away and establish a strongpoint so that they could ferry the entire army over as they arrived. The French would be sure to launch the most ferocious counter-attacks as soon as they realized what was happening, and everything would depend on how strongly the Buffs could lodge themselves.

The colonel turned to his leading company commander. ‘You shall just have to choose your ground when you’re over. Make sure you mark your positions for the gunners. And take off your jackets: it’s just possible the French’ll be confused if they don’t see red.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The captain turned about. ‘Jackets off, serjeantmajor. Company will advance.’ He nodded to Armstrong. ‘Lead on, Corporal!’

As the Buffs began filing to the river’s edge, Hervey and his little command began making headway. He would willingly have taken up pole or paddle, but the boatmen would have none of it; the river was theirs. Instead, he stood in the bows of the leading barge, searching the opposite bank. He wondered how long they would have to wait for Sir Arthur Wellesley’s men to come up. He had no idea where they had bivouacked that night, how near they might be, or even how long it would take Corporal Collins to reach the contact point. He reckoned they would have to wait until nightfall, at least. Oughtn’t he to have gathered some willing citizens of Porto to make barricades and defend the quay where they would land? But that must have occurred to Colonel Shaw; perhaps he judged that it would surrender all surprise? Perhaps, though, in slipping into the city, the colonel intended raising such a party? He wished he had asked. Did he have the authority to act on his own initiative? Or had Colonel Shaw supposed that it was sufficient merely to instruct a cornet to do something, with no need of elaboration as to what he might not do? These things were knotty. In any case, his first priority was to get the barges to the south side; he could always slip back across in the skiff . . . He turned and scanned the enemy bank with his telescope. It was as deserted as when he had first crossed.

The barges plied effortlessly. The steersmen knew the river well, the crews bent hard to the oars or put their shoulders to the poles, and the snatching current did not trouble them. Hervey, his telescope now trained on the south bank, spotted Armstrong at the waterside, with men either side of him – local men, he supposed. Perhaps he should take them across at once to guard the landing? But what if the French caught them as the barges ran in? They would then have lost the only means of getting the infantry across. Perhaps if he risked just the one barge . . .

He jumped to the bank as they grounded among the reeds. He saw the jacketless men, and the service muskets – and he breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Dawes, Third Foot, captain of the grenadier company,’ said a man in his mid-twenties with cropped black hair.

Hervey took his hand, then put on his Tarleton and saluted. ‘Cornet Hervey, sir, Sixth Light Dragoons.’

‘We shall cross at once, if you please,’ replied the captain, with resolution rather than certainty. ‘You had better tell me what you can of the other side.’

‘I cannot tell you much, sir, for I have only been at the water’s edge. You will have to scramble about six feet up onto the quay itself: the river is low and the barges sit likewise, as you see. There’s a steep ascent to a fair-size building, cobbled all the way – very steep in fact, but I would reckon the building a good place to occupy. I can’t see how the French might take the quay, or even fire on it, without first clearing the place.’

‘Very well, Mr Hervey, that will do. Now, do you suppose these barges will take a couple of dozen men each?’

‘That is what the boatmen say. I will accompany you; I have a little Portuguese.’

The captain half smiled, as if pitying the youthful eagerness. ‘No, Mr Hervey. That will not be necessary. You may leave this to the Third. I imagine you have other business.’

Could he argue? These were his boats, were they not? ‘Sir, I think I ought to —’

‘No, thank you, Mr Hervey. This is infantry business. Your horse will be waiting somewhere, no doubt!’

And the captain of grenadiers, with the weight of a hundred picked men behind him, brushed aside the cornet of light dragoons and jumped into the first barge.

CHAPTER NINE

FIELD PROMOTION

Two hours later

‘Where in heaven’s name have you been, Hervey?’ Sir Edward Lankester sounded like a man irritated by a trifle, but to whom no trifle was unimportant. And he was tired, as they all were, but without Hervey’s thrill of crossing and recrossing the Douro.

‘We escorted Colonel Shaw to the river and—’

‘Well, well, it has all taken a deal longer than I supposed, and now we are bidden to be two leagues east of here as many minutes ago.’ Sir Edward detected muddle on someone’s part, and he had a great disdain for disorder of any kind.

Hervey was a shade crestfallen. He had not expected words of praise (Sir Edward could not have known what they had been about at the river), but it felt doubly unfair that he should suffer his troop-leader’s irritation on account of someone else’s folly. But that was war, as Daniel Coates used to say. He wondered what would have happened if he had not found the troop at all as they made their way up the Douro valley: he didn’t seem much missed – he could have stayed with the infantry. And there was heavy cannonading at the river, now. The river was the place to display, no doubt of it. Armstrong would have been in his element!

But Sir Edward evidently had other orders, and the battle moved on. He could still make his report, later, in writing. But what would he write? He could not speak of his own part in things. He could commend – he must commend – Corporals Armstrong and Collins, of course. For himself, if his service was in any way singular, he need not worry, for there would in due course be Colonel Shaw’s despatch. But, looking back on things, with the infantry having to fight their way into Oporto, what was so special about rowing a skiff across the Douro?

‘Hervey?’

He woke suddenly, having touched his helmet to Sir Edward and fallen back routinely to the cornet’s place in troop column. ‘What? Oh, I—’