An Act Of Courage

‘The cerro’s deceptive,’ said Hervey, trying to find where the moisture had got into his spyglass. ‘We’re too much under it, here. Atop they command the valley. If the French try to envelop the flank, all the Second Division has to do is incline its left brigade to meet them. But it is strange that the French do not probe. Do you suppose they don’t have so many men after all?’

Lord George Irvine rode up to the troop, arresting speculation. ‘Sir Edward, we’ll watch for another quarter of an hour, and then I would have you send patrols to discover the lie of the land.’ He nodded front, giving Number One Squadron leader his freedom of manoeuvre.

‘Very good, Colonel,’ replied Sir Edward, touching the peak of his Tarleton again. ‘Do you happen to know where is the closest of our artillery?’

‘I do not, but I intend discovering.’

‘It would be a decidedly fine thing if the Chestnuts would accompany.’

‘A very fine thing. I expect they’ll show. Meanwhile I imagine we’ll have to content ourselves with what the Second Division is able to dispose. But it ain’t easy firing down into a valley like this.’

The Second Division’s gunners would have no occasion to test their skill in support of First Squadron, however, for as soon as Lord George had finished speaking, a cloud of dust a mile west down the valley signalled that the Sixth’s prospects had changed. ‘I think Colonel Anson’s brigade approaches, Colonel,’ said the adjutant, standing in the stirrups to observe.

All heads turned rear.

Hervey cursed to himself. Now they would not get their gallop.

‘I trust they have breakfasted well,’ said Lord George, dryly. ‘Well, Sir Edward, I think we may resume our former station.’

It made little difference to Sir Edward Lankester where the regiment took post, as long as they were not supports. He disliked contemplating the hindquarters of another regiment: much better a clear view of what to be about – and if they stayed here, Anson was sure to post them behind his own. ‘You do not want me to take a look at the ground, then, Colonel?’

Lord George shook his head. ‘No; our duty’s to get back to Cotton. I shall tell Anson he must see the ground for himself.’

‘Dismount!’

Troop-leaders repeated the order left and right, the length of the Sixth’s double rank, and five hundred horses, as one, felt their backs ease.

General Cotton, standing close by with his staff, raised his hat by way of ‘welcome back’.

Hervey looked at his watch. He wanted to be able to make a very exact entry in his journal this day. It was approaching eleven o’clock, and still, by the sound of it (he could not actually see, for the olive groves), the French had made no move against the centre of the allied line. The gunners on the Cerro de Cascajal continued to pound away at the Second Division, although the regiments had long withdrawn behind the crest of the ridge again, save for the outposts. Why did Marshal Victor not attack?

‘Deuced odd,’ said Cornet Laming, while discovering that his brandy flask was empty. ‘If Joseph Bonaparte really is in the field, you’d think Victor would want to put on a show after being thrown off yon ridge.’

Lieutenant Martyn thought otherwise. ‘I don’t believe the French are in earnest,’ he said, the little knot of First Squadron subalterns all eager for his superior opinion. ‘I had it from one of Wellesley’s ADCs last night: Bonaparte frere will stand on the defensive and wait for Soult to come up in rear of us. So Wellesley will have to attack, which he’s scarce strong enough to do, even if the Dons could be relied on. That, or else he’ll have to withdraw. And it would be a deuced difficult business since there’s only one bridge across the Tagus.’

‘How many French are there, do you suppose?’ asked Laming.

‘Wellesley believes in excess of fifty thousand.’

‘Whereas we have twenty!’

‘Just so.’

‘And the Dons thirty.’

Rather fewer now, reckoned Hervey, thinking of last night’s dismal affair.

‘Then why do the French attack ’gainst such odds?’ asked Laming, even more incredulous.

Martyn looked at him as if the answer were obvious. ‘Because they can fright the Dons into staying behind their walls in Talavera, and throw their whole weight against us. But numbers alone won’t carry the day. They have to do it with determination.’

Hervey thought he had seen plenty of that at first light. He wondered what were the implications of his lieutenant’s appreciation. ‘Does that mean the cavalry will reinforce the flank, Martyn? Or shall we stay here?’

The speculation occupied them for a good ten minutes, but what Lieutenant Martyn could not know, because Wellesley himself did not, was that Joseph Bonaparte was not without his own concerns for his lines of communication – for his own capital, indeed. Much as the Sixth might scoff at their allies, and old General Cuesta in particular, there was one Spanish general at least who showed an appetite for the offensive: intelligence had reached Joseph Bonaparte that very morning that General Francisco Venegas and the army of La Mancha was before Toledo, and would not be long in marching on Madrid. ‘King’ Joseph had but a day or so before he must send fifty thousand men to defend his royal seat. And true though Martyn’s intelligence from Wellesley’s staff had been, it was already out of date, for soon after sunrise, the commander-in-chief had received word from his observing officers that Soult was still a week’s march away, perhaps more.

Forward of the olive groves, in the centre of the British line, Sir Arthur Wellesley was even now pondering the consequences of this most welcome intelligence. At length he turned to his quartermaster-general. ‘Murray, have someone go to Tilson and tell him to keep a sharp watch for voltigeurs. I am certain Victor must try to turn our flank. He has no other way. All else here in the centre will be humbug!’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A BATTLE FOR A PEERAGE

Later

At the turn of a creaking wheel, the 6th Light Dragoons were transformed into the most contented regiment at Talavera. A bullock-cart had come up, and with it a smiling Serjeant Bentley. That he had not been there after muster at first light, the hour at which breakfast would have been most welcome, did not now matter. If Bentley was smiling it meant that his ‘progging’ had been successful, for they all knew there were no commissary rations to be had until the evening (the Spanish had only just agreed to let Wellesley have what he had asked for a week ago). The Sixth, as other regiments, had been reconciled to making do with what they carried at ‘first line’ – which was no more than biscuit. But Lord George Irvine had judged it the moment to use his gold, and Serjeant Bentley had been despatched to the rear with more coin than he would see in three years of being paid regularly. Now he was returning with nothing left of it – but with bread, red wine and brandied peaches; enough for the entire regiment.

Lord George did not need to buy the admiration or affection of his men. Their discipline was well regulated, they were keen for the fight, and, given what had happened so far, they could trust their officers. But they were sore hungry, and in any case, it did no harm for a man to think himself in a regiment well provided for. If Hervey felt any guilt at eating peaches and drinking passable wine, when the poor, wretched infantry on the Cerro de Medellin had only stirabout made with maggoty biscuit and brackish water, the pleasure of his exceptional feast overcame it. Besides, the infantry were always the first to get at the spoils after a battle, were they not?

‘By, sir, but I feel the better for that!’ declared Corporal Armstrong, stowing a piece of bread the size of his fist into a mess tin – ‘for a rainy day, sir’.

‘So do I, Corporal; so do I,’ said Hervey, reaching for his own mess tin to stow the little of his that remained, grateful for the example of prudence. He looked round to see how many others were reserving any portion of the