An Act Of Courage

‘Away!’ yelled Hill, hauling on the reins.

They dug in their spurs for dear life. Shots followed left and right. Hervey lay low across Loyalist’s neck and prayed they wouldn’t stumble. He didn’t see the brigade-major fall, nor the musket ball strike the general’s horse.

Down the slope they hurtled – four hundred yards, rats running in his stomach as fast.

‘Stand to!’ bellowed Hill as they galloped in. ‘Stewart, your brigade at once, please! Open column of companies! I’ve no notion where the Germans or Low’s men are, but the French have the crest!’

Colonel Stewart began barking orders as General Hill dismounted. Hervey made to follow, but the general had other intentions. ‘Find Wellesley and tell him what’s up, Hervey!’

It was a simple enough order, but devilish difficult. Where was Wellesley? Would he still be with Campbell’s brigade on the far flank? Surely not, if the situation had quietened there? Yet Campbell would know where he had gone next – that was something. Would he even be able to find the flank brigade, though? It was pitch dark, and there were two hours to moonrise. And he had not yet been about a battlefield at night, with nervous sentries firing before a challenge. This was not like Corunna. He must think very carefully.

He decided to descend the ridge riding due south – at least the sky was clear and he could see his stars – and then strike due east until he found the second line. Someone there must know where was the commander-in- chief.

They scrambled down the ridge, Loyalist choosing his footing carefully. They made the bottom without too much trouble, striking left and east at the olive groves and following the tree-line for a furlong and more until the groves began climbing the side of the cerro, so that Hervey knew he was near the line. Then he took a fix on a good star due east, and pushed on into the trees. He heard firing on the heights above him, and prayed it was ‘Daddy’ Hill’s men worsting the French. Could it be otherwise?

After five long minutes he found the rear of what he reckoned must be the Third Division. ‘Galloper!’ he called. ‘Second Division galloper!’

‘Here, sir!’ answered a picket-serjeant, lofting a torch. ‘Second Twenty-fourth.’

Hervey jumped down thankfully: here was an NCO who knew his business. ‘General Mackenzie’s division, are you?’

‘His brigade, sir. The general’s been here this very minute.’

The Twenty-fourth’s picket-officer came up. ‘What is the firing, do you know?’

‘The French are on the ridge,’ replied Hervey, nodding left. ‘Do you know where General Mackenzie is?’

‘With the lieutenant-colonel, I think. I’ll take you.’ He held out a hand. ‘Davies.’

‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, galloping for General Hill.’

‘A horse-holder if you please, Serjeant Allott,’ said Ensign Davies.

Hervey handed Loyalist’s reins to one of the picket, though not without hesitation. It was the maxim of the prudent soldier never to be parted from his kit, and the horse was the cavalryman’s kit, sine quo non. But he could hardly trail through a battalion of infantry at night leading a charger.

* * *

Ensign Davies was sure-footed about the olive groves. It was not long before they found the Twenty-fourth’s lieutenant-colonel, General Mackenzie with him. Davies stood to attention, and saluted. ‘Picket-officer, sir. A galloper from the Second Division.’

General Mackenzie turned. ‘What is the alarm up there?’

Hervey saluted. ‘The French have the summit of the ridge, sir. General Hill is driving them off. He has sent me to find the commander-in-chief, sir.’

‘He went there the minute the firing began.’

Hervey checked himself, somehow disbelieving that Sir Arthur Wellesley had been ascending the cerro as he himself had been descending. He almost asked, ‘Are you sure?’ Instead he saluted again. ‘With your leave, sir.’

The general nodded. ‘My compliments to General Hill. He shall have my best support on his flank.’

‘Sir.’

Hervey picked his way back with Ensign Davies, easier now that his mission was accomplished – or, rather, obviated. ‘You had hot work of it this afternoon,’ he tried.

‘We did, by God! You saw?’ replied Davies, sounding as if he would go again this instant.

‘We were on your left flank.’

‘I did not see it. I did not see anything but smoke and shot. You fellows have the better view of things astride.’

Hervey hoped he did not mean they merely looked on, especially since things would have gone so much the harder with the Twenty-fourth had the Sixth not charged. But it was scarcely the time to put him to rights about that. ‘The work of cavalry is for the most part unobserved,’ he consoled himself.

Loyalist was waiting quietly as they got back to the picket’s fire. Hervey took the reins and thanked the holder, a private man who looked surprised to be addressed directly. Then he turned to Ensign Davies again. It was a strange feeling, for he knew there was every chance he would not see him again: an ensign in the centre of the line during a general action would face a great deal of metal. ‘I hope you have a quiet night. And good fortune for the morrow.’ He held out a hand.

Davies took it. If he feared for the morrow he did not – would not – show it. ‘As long as we have powder enough it will be well. Come and dine with us afterwards.’

Hervey smiled. ‘Thank you. I shall.’ He climbed into the saddle (Loyalist preferred him not to vault, as Jessye allowed), touched his peak, and turned back the way he had come.

The moon was an hour and more away yet, but the sky was lightening. When Hervey found the same tree- line he had taken east, he squeezed Loyalist to a trot – quick, but in-hand. The horse started napping again, and Hervey began wishing he had taken Jessye instead. Loyalist had done him well in the gallop on the cerro, but there was no surety in a charger half trained, and picking about the army in the middle of the night was not a thing to be doing with a nappy gelding. The musketry atop the cerro was increasing. There would be nothing he could do, but his every instinct was to gallop there. Loyalist sensed it and broke into a canter. Hervey would not allow it, though, checking with rein and leg until the horse was back in-hand again. Half trained Loyalist may be, but there was no excuse for bad manners. But he lengthened the stride a fraction: General Hill might have more duties for him – he ought not to delay beyond a safe moment.

In a few minutes more he saw the open pasture. Then he heard the crack as Loyalist squealed and faltered. He pulled up at once and sprang from the saddle. Loyalist stood calmly as Hervey felt around the impaling: twelve inches of olive branch the diameter of a musket ball stuck-out from just beneath the sternum like a bolt from a crossbow. How deep it had gone he could not know, but blood was already oozing from the wound. He realized there must be force to it, for the entry was clean, no tearing.

What could he do? Could he find John Knight? Where was the regiment? If he left the shaft in, would it help staunch the flow? But what damage did it do inside? If only John Knight were here . . .

He must pull out the shaft. The surgeon always removed a missile. That was the way, was it not? Thank God Loyalist stood calm! Perhaps, then, the damage was not so great? But then, when he got the shaft out – and he must have it all out, and cleanly – he must staunch the bleeding somehow. How could he do it without someone to hold Loyalist still? And he had nothing but his blanket to staunch with. Perhaps if he cut it up . . .

Loyalist was grunting now, but he stood motionless. Hervey slashed the blanket into handy rags with his sabre. When he was done he felt the wound again. The blood was copious. He was sure the shaft had gone deep. And now it was wet and he would not have the purchase on it . . .

Should he pull fast or slow? If he pulled fast it might break; if slow, Loyalist might shift with the pain and break it anyway. He dried his palms as best he could, looped the reins round his right arm and grasped the shaft with both hands. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered, then drew firmly and evenly, praying it would come out in one.

Loyalist grunted but stood stock-still. Hervey felt the point of the shaft anxiously: it was sharp – it hadn’t broken inside. ‘Thank God,’ he muttered. But a good six inches had penetrated. If four inches would kill a man, it did