An Act Of Courage

THE NIGHT HORSE

Talavera, late evening, 27 July 1809

‘Stand down one in three, off-saddle and feed by half-sections.’

Sir Edward Lankester, pleased with what he saw at evening stand-to-arms after their fighting withdrawal, and that Lord George Irvine had seen likewise, patted his handsome sorrel on the neck as the squadron officers closed to him. Drawn up to the west of the dry riverbed of the Portina, beyond a screening line of olive trees, willow and cork oak, they might be in a different world from the infantry’s. Here they could rest, unobserved by the enemy, his guns unsighted. The other side of the trees, the domain of the redcoat, there could be no such ease; not, at least, until darkness, and even then the regiments would have to picket strongly, for the French might think the day had been theirs, and victory only a night attack away.

‘A memorable day, I think, gentlemen. But it will be the more so tomorrow, I’ll warrant. For tonight, we shall stand down the remainder after dark, and I would that the men get a good sleep. The regiment is to send additional gallopers to each of the divisions, our squadron one each to Hill’s and Campbell’s. Hervey to the former, if you please.’ He paused, looking at him, as if to ask if he felt up to the exertion.

Hervey nodded.

‘Bruce to the latter. Are there any questions?’

There were none.

‘Very well, gentlemen, to your duties.’

Hervey was disappointed. Had he been assigned to Campbell’s division he might have seen Ayling – and perhaps a little action, since the division stood beyond the Portina still, in the centre of the allied position. They would be Wellesley’s ears for the night, Sir Edward explained. But Hervey had no idea where was ‘Daddy’ Hill’s division – only, as Sir Edward said, ‘up there’, on the Cerro de Medellin, the ridge that ran east–west in the middle of the position: just about the quietest place to be in the entire allied line, he reckoned.

‘Loyalist, please, Sykes,’ he told his groom. Loyalist may not pass the riding master’s inspection as a charger ‘fully trained’, but Jessye had earned her night’s rest after the day’s exertions.

A cannonade like thunder startled the Second Division’s staff, not least the general himself. ‘Great heavens, gentlemen! What can be their purpose at this time of day? I’m surprised they see anything; there’ll be no light at all in another hour.’

Hervey, just come, looked at his watch. By his reckoning there were another two hours of daylight yet, but he hardly thought it the thing to correct the divisional commander; at least, not in front of his staff. He had only just shaken hands with him.

The general’s hand was a surprise. But, then, as Hervey knew, the commander of the Second Division was no ordinary man. Major-General Rowland Hill was not yet forty, but he had the appearance and manner of one considerably older. Hervey could see why he was called ‘Daddy’, even without his reputation for the care of his men. His face was ruddy, not in the least stern – indeed, to Hervey’s mind rather cherubic – his voice was soft, and his eyes kind. It would have been easy to imagine that here was a country squire in the uniform of the local militia.

It had not been Hervey’s first encounter with this redoubtable infantryman. On the second occasion, when he had galloped for Colonel Long at Corunna, Hill and his brigade had stood like a stone wall astride the road to the harbour, so that Sir John Moore had taken one look at them and then turned to gallop back to the centre, confident he need have no fear for his left flank.

‘I know you, sir. We have met in more agreeable surroundings,’ said Hill, closing his telescope and turning back to face the temporary addition to his staff. ‘Mr Hervey and I, gentlemen, share the inestimable advantage of an education in that finest of counties, Salop.’

The staff smiled politely at the diversion, while Hervey puzzled as to how on earth the general could recall his meeting a schoolboy two years ago. It was not even as if he had received a prize when Salop’s most distinguished soldier had visited his school. He bowed, acknowledging, and stood in respectful silence.

The general turned back towards the guns. ‘Well, gentlemen—’ he began.

The guns thundered again. All the staff now turned, telescopes raised.

‘A mile, d’ye suppose? A couple of batteries?’

‘But not heavy, General,’ said one of his aides-de-camp. ‘It’s scarcely throwing up earth yonder.’

Even with two hours to go before sunset, the shadows were beginning to lengthen appreciably. Hervey imagined that every man’s thoughts would be turning to the night. The ‘gentlemen in red’, the junior ranks at least, would be thinking of sleep: it was all scrub and couch grass, not bad bedding for the night, if they were permitted to lie down; but the officers would be thinking there was not a deal of cover either; whether day or night, that was not the best of arrangements. General Hill’s division formed the second line of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s defensive position, although the brigades of the first line were still taking ground – which was as well, Hervey observed, for the French shot was arching across the Portina from the Cerro de Cascajal and plunging onto the crest at the eastern end of the ridge, where the French gunners must suppose the outposts of the first line to be. It fell too far east to be any real threat to the division, but Hervey knew that General Hill would be occupied by what the fire portended. He looked at his watch – a quarter to seven.

‘It is not at all auspicious,’ said the general, scanning the ridge. ‘I can still see no one. There ought by now to be pickets up there, at least. I would that Wellesley were here.’ He snapped closed the telescope. ‘I’d better go to find him.’

The aide-de-camp beckoned for their horses.

Hervey reckoned they had perhaps an hour and a half to find the commander-in-chief before the light failed; the moon would not be up for four hours and more. He shortened stirrups before mounting: he had stumbled about enough on Salisbury Plain in the dark to know what they might be in for.

As soon as they descended to the pasture south of the cerro, a terrific musketry opened from the direction of Talavera. The sun was low to their right, but the powder flashes were still vivid. The little party pulled up sharp.

‘I think that is our answer, gentlemen,’ said General Hill, calmly. ‘The French are trying to persuade us they will attack tonight on the left, while the real attack is against the Spanish.’

‘Will they hold, sir?’ asked Hill’s aide-de-camp.

‘Talavera’s a strong enough place, Harry,’ replied the general (audible, just, to Hervey standing four lengths rear). ‘But there’s a mile of open line to the junction with Campbell’s brigade, and Cuesta’s men are unpredictable, frankly. Cuesta himself is unpredictable!’

Without warning, he dug his spurs into his charger’s flanks; the ADC and escorts had to kick into a fast canter to catch him up. Loyalist began napping as Hervey pressed him hard to follow.

The shadows were long when they found the commander-in-chief. He was exactly where General Hill had supposed he would be, with the right-flank brigade, Campbell’s, watching calmly as Spanish soldiers poured rear from the line between the redoubt and the city. Hervey saw them, and with some dismay after what General Hill had said. He looked about for Cornet Bruce, but there was no sign of him.

‘Ah, Hill, what is the pounding on your flank?’ asked Sir Arthur Wellesley, nodding to the salutation.

General Hill replaced his bicorn, fore and aft. ‘I cannot rightly make out, Sir Arthur. The batteries on the Cerro de Cascajal are pounding empty ground on the east of the ridge. I came to ask what are your dispositions for the first line, for I can discern nobody yet, not even a picket.’

The commander-in-chief kept his eyes on the rearward stream of Spanish. ‘Have no fear, General: the Germans will soon be there, and there’ll be a brigade of cavalry in the valley beyond you.’

‘In that case I will ride up the line to find them, Sir Arthur – the Germans, I mean.’ He paused, staring now at the Spanish, who continued to pour from the line, although a good many of their comrades stood their ground yet, keeping up a brisk, if ragged, fire. ‘This is a pretty business!’

‘It is the most curious affair,’ replied Wellesley, very composed. ‘A great host of French dragoons came up to the trees not a quarter-hour ago and discharged their pistols – to have the Spaniards show themselves, I suppose. And they obliged them handsomely: the whole line blazed away! Well, it is no matter: if they will but fire as well