An Act Of Courage

Lord George waited until the nearer gun troop ceased firing and the horse teams came up, then resumed the Sixth’s own progress rear. ‘Regiment will retire. Fours about!’

Round they went again, and tighter this time for the practice.

‘Walk-march!’

And then, after fifty yards, ‘Trot!’

Anson’s brigade had retired a full half-mile in the meantime, before stopping once more to cover the infantry’s last mile to the Portina. Both troops of French guns followed up quickly and came into action as soon as the brigade formed front again.

‘Halt!’ called Lord George.

The Sixth pulled up from the trot, untidy but fast.

Lord George intended losing no time. ‘Front!’

The squadrons turned like a weathervane when the wind veers suddenly. It was an urgent manoeuvre, and every man knew there must be cause.

They saw the cause as they came full round: the nearest gun troop stood half a mile off, a squadron of chasseurs to each flank, and an empty mile and more between them and the olive groves.

‘Singular,’ declared Sir Edward Lankester. ‘They are deuced confident of themselves!’

He spoke the thoughts of his squadron, for every man could see as he did: before, the French had been bold; now they had been rash.

‘Forward!’

The command thrilled through the ranks – so much more welcome to the dragoon’s ear than ‘retire’. And Lord George’s trumpeter sounded the call with relish.

‘Trot!’

The bumping and barging began again, horses extending unevenly to keep with the fast pace Lord George was setting.

In four hundred yards they halted, having wheeled a quarter right without any command but from the sword. Without the pivot it was uneven, but much the faster.

‘Draw swords!’

Five hundred sabres flashed from polished scabbards. The movement was meant to unnerve the enemy, a calculated display, its timing of the essence. These French had dared so much in coming forward with so few supports; Hervey wondered how they would take to this notice of the charge.

‘Forward!’

Lord George would press them for an answer.

‘Trot!’

It was knee-to-knee proper now, stirrups clinking with the next man’s, scabbards bouncing about and clanking without the weight of the sword, shouts of ‘Pull back there!’, ‘Get up on the left!’ It was a sight that awed more at a distance.

The next order would all but commit them to the charge. The guns were a quarter of a mile away, trained off the Sixth’s line of advance at Anson’s brigade. The French had seconds only to decide their course, or it would be decided for them. Hervey could barely contain himself as he saw the chasseurs incline to face them.

Lord George did not hesitate. ‘Gallop!’

At last it was come, his first true regimental charge! Four squadrons – eight troops at a good strength, in first and support lines, with the lieutenant-colonel at the fore and every officer in his place. The strangest thoughts came to him: two thousand iron shoes pounded the hard earth, each one but a nail from failing – how the regiment’s farriers held the fortune of them all in their rough and ready hands! He had to check himself: it was not yet the charge. It was possible, even now, for Lord George to hold up, the gallop still in- hand, sabres still sloped.

The French did not advance to meet them. Would they turn and run? Hervey felt his gut tighten with every stride. There were two hundred yards to close with the chasseurs. When would Lord George give the word?

‘Steady, damn your eyes! Stop your racing! Hold hard there!’ Officers and NCOs alike cursed to keep the lines straight. Hervey saw a horse from C Troop bolt, its rider heaving on the reins for all he was worth. One in front of him stumbled then somersaulted headlong, tumbling the horse next to it and the one right behind. Hervey swore with relief at the near-miss. This was so much harder than Sahagun! The ranks were so close – too close? And the approach was so long! Would the French turn?

Now they had the limbers forward, hitching up the guns. Seconds more and they could gallop them safely rear.

One hundred and fifty yards: the chasseurs drew their sabres. Hervey swallowed hard. They would stand their ground!

Up went Lord George’s sabre. ‘Charge!’

His trumpeter blew the rising triplets as best he could.

Up went five hundred sabres, just as the drill book said, lofted high to meet cavalry with a powerful cut (the point was kept for infantry, to spear like tent pegs).

The Sixth ran ventre a terre, the fastest Hervey had known. The collision would be terrible, the destruction appalling. He prayed Jessye would not stumble or collide head-on when they closed. He could only do so much to direct her.

Less than half a furlong: he could see it all. They would overlap both flanks of the chasseurs by a dozen yards, just as the drill book prescribed. Jessye was pulling, but nothing to what every other trooper was.

Fifty yards: they broke! The chasseurs broke! They turned, they ran – back, left, right, any way there was space to run. The guns were pulling away, but exposed now to five hundred sabres.

Every man pressed his horse for the last turn of speed. The lines bowed and buckled, the cursing and swearing inaudible now – only the wild shouting.

The front rank veered left a fraction, exposing the second by a dozen men. Hervey found himself with a clear front and chasing the chasseurs’ left-flankers. But he shot so fast between two of them he almost missed his strike: Cut One – right, diagonal-down left – a clumsy slice to the nearside, slashing the man’s sword-arm from behind. He reined hard left to the support of the front rank, where he was meant to be. It was all confusion.

But the leading squadrons were already galloping on after the guns, despite the disordering of the second line. Some of the chasseurs had pulled up or turned, letting the squadrons charge past. Many were clutching at wounds, and many more were pretending to.

Hervey was almost knocked from the saddle by the rear two squadrons as they raced through like the wind, eager for blood and seeing it fast disappearing. They thrust and cut as they passed, making more for the surgeons’ list, but those French who had not run for it suddenly saw their chance: they would fight their way through what was left of the leading squadrons’ second line. In an instant, Hervey and his fellow supports were thrown on to the defence.

A man rode at him with his sabre at Guard, eyes burning. Hervey met him with Cut Three – right, diagonal-up left, driving the horizontal guard high and exposing the man’s rein-arm to the covering corporal. But the coverman wasn’t there. Hervey felt the cut at his shoulder blade as the chasseur followed through like lightning. There was no pain, just the sensation of blood, and then another chasseur was hacking left and right towards him. Hervey jerked his wrist up, sabre to Bridle Arm Protect. Just in time – the French blade arched down and drove-in his sabre hard, slicing deep into Jessye’s left ear. It would have cut through the headstall had the leather not been doubled with chain; then the bit would have fallen from her mouth and he would have been helpless. He gasped. Another chasseur lunged at him with the point, but Hervey’s coverman swooped from the nearside and dashed the sword from his hand.

And then the French were gone. A dozen dragoons were suddenly by themselves, the flotsam of the clash, the rest of the Sixth three furlongs away dealing terrible destruction to chasseurs and gunners alike, or lying on the ground as lifeless as the scores of Frenchmen and horses. Two of the dragoons