He wrote by way of expiation. Such had been the contempt for Quilley by the time of Talavera that there had been a general sneering at the news of the fall, ascribing it to a ‘what can be expected?’ lack of horsemanship. But when it became known that Quilley was dead, a certain sense of guilt – or perhaps it was merely distaste – had silenced all comment.
Hervey, indeed, had felt a good deal of shame at his first thoughts (that he wished it had been Cornet Daly instead). That was a part of his news that he could not impart to Wiltshire, either to his family or to Daniel Coates. For Talavera, for all that the steeples might be rocking in England now, had not been the occasion for amnesty: the court martial merely awaited opportunity. Hervey’s pleasure in going into quarters at Badajoz was therefore greatly tempered by the knowledge that at last there
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AN OFFICER’S WORD
Hervey looked at the letter from Elvas again. It had been in his hand not a quarter of an hour, but it was intriguing him the more with each minute. The veiled speech and the knowledge that it was not the writer’s mother tongue – although as fine as ever he would expect to read from someone whose first language was not English – was increasing his doubts.
Hervey shook his head again as he re-read the sentiment. He recognized both the sincerity and the need to assure the censor – to engage his sympathy, even – but the words, truly, were too finely crafted, even for Dom Mateo, though he had no reason to suppose the letter was not his. In any case, the news it brought, heartening as it was, could scarcely have been from another, even if the singular puzzle over the identity of the ‘fellow of long acquaintance’ would now vex him. At least the identity of the other arrival at Elvas could be in no doubt:
So, Isabella Delgado was in Elvas! Hervey felt more reassured than he had in days. Why, he would have been hard put to say; except that there was about Isabella a great air of capability and judgement, as well as connections with the bishop’s palace in Elvas, which in turn meant connections in Badajoz – perhaps even in Madrid. However, such an oblique reference to the identity of the second arrival could suggest no name to him more likely than any other, except the mention of authority and influence. ‘Authority’ ruled out Kat.
‘The greater comings’ was maddeningly ambiguous. Hervey saw perfectly well that the words could refer to the visit of senior officials (and with that, public humiliation and the Horse Guards’ discipline). But might they refer to comings to Portugal, rather than to Elvas? And might ‘greater’ mean greater in number rather than rank? In other words, had a British army landed in Lisbon?
Dr Sanchez came about six. Hervey did not know if he had seen the letter (Sanchez had brought all the others, but this one had come by an orderly – which had first put Hervey on his guard somewhat). He thought to judge his moment before revealing its receipt or contents.
They sat down to wine, the physician in distinctly good spirits.
‘You know, Major Hervey, I have been thinking about Talavera since you recounted it to me. I believe I must have seen your regiment that day. The Duke of Albuquerque’s corps stood in the valley north of the ridge you spoke of. I confess I recall it very well, in fact, since I was astonished – and I was not alone in that sentiment – that our corps made no move.’ Sanchez shook his head, not pained, but evidently embarrassed. ‘But what did
To Hervey, it was
He believed he could, for the sense of obligation to one who had shared the dangers of that day at Talavera would be profound in a man of Sanchez’s manifest sensibility. Sanchez, the regimental surgeon, may have carried a scalpel rather than a sabre, but he was of the ‘Yellow Circle’ still.
His very next words appeared to prove it. ‘You did not say what of your wound. I imagine it was but superficial?’
Hervey smiled. ‘The shoulder blade prevented the sword from cutting too deep. Our surgeon said I was lucky, although I did not feel it, for it hurt like hell, and I could hardly flex my rein-arm for days after.’
‘I imagine there to be no ill effects now?’
‘No, none at all. Indeed, it was all quite better before we reached Badajoz.’ As he said it, he felt the smile turn hapless.
Sanchez nodded. ‘Until you reached here. Just so. But not for the last time, of course.’ He looked saddened.
Hervey imagined he knew the cause. His own remembrance of Badajoz, in spite of the pleasant days they had had on first reaching the city, was hardly agreeable. Some of the later memories haunted him yet. Sanchez’s own memories, even if hearsay, would be infinitely worse: four sieges (the first French, the others British), and the terrible final storming. It was not to be recalled. But – and here was the gamble – Hervey judged that it might serve his purpose to do so, for the very horror of the final storming of Badajoz might touch something deep in a medical man. It would be risky reminding a proud Spaniard of his ally’s depredations. But, as Sanchez himself had said, it was a long time ago. He might not recall too well the details; he might not even have been there.
‘Would you take more wine with me, doctor?’
Sanchez nodded. ‘I would.’
He had appeared to hesitate, as if overcoming a prohibition. Hervey sensed his purpose working out.
‘Major Hervey, there is something I should speak of.’
‘Yes, doctor?’ Was this the moment Sanchez would pledge himself?
Sanchez sighed, sounding heavy-hearted. ‘I am distressed to tell you this . . . I had hoped it not necessary . . . I . . .’
Hervey was now uneasy. ‘Speak, doctor; let us have the worst!’
‘Major Hervey, the authorities here are talking of bringing you before a military tribunal.’
Hervey’s jaw dropped. ‘On what charge?’
