An Act Of Courage

Laming had had no answer. Neither had two further nominations. Bruce and Wyllie made attempts, but unsuccessful.

‘Mr Hervey?’

Hervey searched hard for what else there might be, other than the restatement of Laming’s conclusion in different form. He looked uncertain as he spoke. ‘If the French were to take the Cerro de Medellin, it would no longer be possible for us to hold the position?’

Edmonds smiled wryly. ‘Ah, yes, indeed, Mr Hervey. That is the material point. Mark, gentlemen, that the Cerro de Medellin is the very hinge on which this position turns. Once lost, the position will fall, exactly as the heaviest door will fall for want of a serviceable hinge.’

A smile came to the lips of Conway, the senior subaltern. ‘Then the commander-in-chief had better post the Fourteenth on the hill to fill it with screws!’

The laughter was loud as the lieutenant-colonel rode over.

‘I love a good joke, gentlemen. I would have the whole regiment share it on the morning of a general action. But I think there is little opportunity now, for if you look yonder . . .’

Hervey and the others seized their telescopes and turned towards the Alberche. He saw smoke spread for a mile and more across the front, half a league away, the very smoke of Ai: And when the men of Ai looked behind them, they saw, and, behold, the smoke of the city ascended up to heaven, and they had no power to flee this way or that way; and the people that fled to the wilderness turned back upon the pursuers. Were there Joshua-men out there, even now, he wondered. How were they to know what the enemy did beyond the smoke unless there were spies there – or cavalry? And when Joshua and all Israel saw that the ambush had taken the city, and that the smoke of the city ascended, then they turned again, and slew the men of Ai. But what burned? There was no city. Hervey peered through his telescope, but he could make out nothing at all.

‘The corn stooks, gentlemen – the shelters: that is what burns,’ said Lord George. ‘The question is, do we fire them to cover our withdrawal, or do the French to cover their advance? Either way, gentlemen, it is the time for cavalry. To your troops, please!’

A quarter of an hour later, the Sixth were ranked in two lines by squadrons. ‘Mark, Hervey, Lord George’s promptness in this,’ said Lieutenant Martyn. ‘For no orders have come from Cotton.’

Hervey did mark it. And he relished what it might bring.

Martyn continued to search with his telescope. ‘Our advance division is withdrawing, evidently. See!’

Hervey saw redcoats a mile away, marching towards them in good order, and unhurried. The columns of Spanish would be well past, now; just a few stragglers limping by. One of Cotton’s gallopers had said the main body of them were marching by the southern road, which meant that Talavera must be teeming with troops; and no doubt they were already hard at work fortifying the city. What was it that Sir Arthur Wellesley would ask of his cavalry, therefore? If the brigades to their front were not being pressed hard, as evidently they were not, there would be no need of cavalry to cover the withdrawal. Was it the intention, then, to wait for night, and for the brigades to come into the main position under cover of darkness? In which case, too, there would be no need for cavalry. Hervey sighed: that would be disappointing in the extreme, for not only would they be deprived of an action, they would have the indignity of being mere spectators to the infantry’s battle (and of bearing the taunts thereafter).

Just as Hervey was about to ask Martyn’s opinion, Lord George came up. The commanding officer’s charger, a liver-chestnut a full hand higher than Jessye, moved with an extension that spoke of both the animal’s quality and his rider’s purpose.

‘Sir Edward, send someone to see what goes there,’ said Lord George, giving the merest nod in the direction of the infantry. ‘It would be well to know if we have given up the Alberche once and for all.’

‘Very good, Colonel.’

Sir Edward felt no need of elaboration, couched though his orders were in the most gentlemanly and imprecise terms. Lord George’s intention was clear, and he could trust to his captain’s discretion how it was to be accomplished. The infantry may have the most of the fighting, Hervey reflected, but they did it with enough words of command to fill a book. The cavalry had their own manual, with evolutions as complex, but there remained the imperative for prompt and independent action, requiring discrimination and celerity – the cavalry coup d’oeil. He sat a little taller in the saddle, and surveyed the field.

‘Mr Laming, Mr Hervey,’ said Sir Edward, without turning his head. ‘Take a serjeant’s detachment apiece and make contact with the infantry to discover what the enemy does and what the divisional commander’s intention is there. Mr Laming, take as your left boundary the road to our front, and, Mr Hervey, it is to be your right boundary, both to use it as you will. But the Alberche is to be the limit of any reconnaissance. I would have a first report within the hour, if you please.’ Sir Edward’s tone and manner reflected that of the lieutenant-colonel, but a degree sharper.

Lieutenant Martyn, though no order had been addressed to him directly, stood in the stirrups and turned his head. ‘Serjeant Crook, Serjeant Strange!’

In less than a minute, the two patrols – nine men each plus serjeant – were raising dust on the road down which the Spanish had marched all morning.

After half a mile Hervey swung north across the heath, which a few days before had supported so many sheep that it reminded him of Salisbury Plain. Now they were gone. Where, he had no notion. Not into the Sixth’s stomachs, that was certain. The smoke was getting thicker; he could see nothing at all beyond the Alberche. He could not even make out where exactly was the line of the river. If the French were crossing, they did so much further to the south, where it joined the Tagus, and where a bridge would save them wet feet. From his map he knew the Alberche ran south-west before bending more to the south for a mile until its confluence with the Tagus, and the road he had first ridden down, his boundary with Laming, swung due north at the bend, so if he crossed the road he knew he must turn half-right in order to come up to the river. Otherwise he would err north and find no one. He had never seen smoke so thick, not even in Wiltshire when the farmers burned the stubble. It had drifted so far that he could no longer see Laming’s patrol. He was becoming anxious about keeping direction.

Crack!

A dragoon clutched at his shoulder, with a look more astonished than pained.

Before Hervey knew what had happened there was a volley. Then bluecoats swarmed from the smoke, and his gut twisted so much that he near clutched it. ‘Draw swords!’

He heard them rasp from the scabbards behind him, then thought better of it.

‘Threes about!’

He turned, to see the movement already done, save for Serjeant Strange, who reined round calmly, keeping his sword vertical as if on parade.

‘Away!’

They spurred into an untidy gallop, Private Porter still clutching at his shoulder with his sword hand.

There was no time to worry for him. Hervey’s one thought was to put a safe distance between them and the voltigeurs. Musketry followed their every stride. A ball whistled through the crest of his Tarleton.

After two furlongs they pulled up, but it took Serjeant Strange’s bark to get them to front, sharp.

Hervey returned his sword and took out his telescope. The smoke was drifting again but he could just make out the French infantry turning south towards the road. Had Laming seen them, or heard?

‘We had better see what the others do, Serjeant Strange. We’ll make for that ruin yonder.’ He nodded to what looked to be a substantial farmhouse a hundred yards to their right. He could see redcoats to the rear of it, some of them lying down. ‘Can you ride back to the troop unaided, Porter?’

Private Porter could not speak.

‘Go with him, Corporal Welsh,’ said Hervey, shaking open his map. ‘Make your report to Captain Edmonds. Tell him that I intend standing at the . . . Casa de Salinas.’

Corporal Welsh closed with Porter to support him, and then turned back for the troop. Hervey and the rest struck off at a canter in the opposite direction. He felt the deficiency of the report all too well, but what more could he do than send word of first contact and what he intended? He could hardly speculate as to how they had collided with the voltigeurs: the French might have crossed the Alberche under cover of the smoke, or the ‘voltigeurs’ might even be cavalry come down the north bank from