delay to England.’
Hervey did not doubt it. He had expected as much, though perhaps not quite so soon. If he gave his parole he would be taken to Madrid, likely as not, and there given over to the British ambassador, who would arrange for his transport northwards into France, to the consul in Bordeaux, perhaps, and thence to England by claret boat – a long journey, with plenty of opportunity to contemplate his situation, an age in which to imagine the opprobrium awaiting him at the Horse Guards, the Duke of York incandescent. And there would be no opportunity to redeem himself in arms against the Miguelistas if a British army were sent to Portugal, for those would be the terms of parole. No, it was insupportable.
‘You are very good, monsieur,’ he replied, and with a trace of a smile. ‘But I am not at liberty to give my parole.’
The physician looked pained. Hervey could not imagine why.
‘Then I wish you good day, monsieur,’ said the physician, with (thought Hervey) the merest touch of sadness. ‘When you have written your letter please give it to the guard, unsealed. He will know what to do.’
Hervey bowed. ‘I am obliged, monsieur.’
The physician hesitated again. ‘Monsieur, my name is Sanchez.’
Hervey bowed again. ‘Doctor Sanchez.’
How might a man escape Badajoz? Not by force of arms, reckoned Hervey. When he contemplated that night in April 1812, three whole divisions of the most determined men hurling themselves against the walls of this place, any such thought was absurd. It had taken three sieges and the lives of more men than the army could rightly spare to break in to Badajoz. The Duke of Wellington had not had Joshua’s spies, and in the end it had all been done in the old way – with brave men’s breasts. There was nothing new under the sun: a soldier appropriated the methods of his forebears, adapting them as circumstances and means changed, but if science and ruses failed, there was but one way left to fight! Joshua had been lucky. His spies had almost been discovered. Only Rahab the prostitute had saved them, hiding them in her house. And what luck there had been in that,
No; it was for Dom Mateo to find a Rahab. All he, Hervey, could do was communicate with him, so that when the time came they would be of the same mind. He might of course take every opportunity for exercise, for then he could spy things out, but he must have a care not to shackle himself thereby, perhaps unwitting, by any local parole, as Joshua had with the men of Gibeon. He must judge it finely. One thing was certain, however: he
He opened his Prayer Book, turning routinely to the psalms appointed for the twentieth day, as had been his practice all those years ago. Psalm 102,
How aptly did God speak to him! What sound principle it had been all those years ago to read the psalms, day by day, as long as darkness or the enemy permitted. It had been a sustaining regimen, not mere duty, and even now, after all the late years of indifference, it could sustain (and, he imagined ruefully, it could keep him from trouble in the first place).
But
He closed the book, very decidedly. In Badajoz there could be no mournings, only the resolve to escape – and quickly.
CHAPTER THREE
PLANTING THE STANDARD
Three days later, the frigate
Sir William, lately deputy to the Duke of Wellington at the Board of Ordnance, had no very great experience of campaigning, but his reputation was for a sure and steady hand. He picked his way carefully into the barge. The swell was not heavy, but Sir William was fifty-seven years old, and although but the same age as the duke, evidently by his appearance he was not nearly so active. He settled in the stern, where a bosun’s mate placed a blanket and a light paulin over his legs, pulled down his cocked hat, turned up the collar of his greatcoat, and set his gaze at the shore. It was his first sight of the city, although he had served briefly in Spain under the duke. As a young captain he had seen a little action (and much discomfort) in Flanders under the Duke of York, and as a colonel he had been aide-de-camp at the Horse Guards when the Duke had been appointed commander-in-chief. He had briefly been governor of Madeira, and as a major-general had seen a little service in Sicily, but since the end of the French war his time had been taken up with parliamentary duties. However, Lord Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, was of a mind that these credentials were apt enough for an intervention essentially diplomatic in its nature. Besides, he would have good brigadiers.
The barge made easy progress to the shore three cables distant, past the Moorish Torre de Belem, which old Peninsular hands had told Sir William to observe closely, with its statue of Our Lady of Safe Homecoming to bless the nation’s navigators and merchantmen. Sir William gave it a passing look, but his thoughts were more engaged by the audience he would have with the regent, and the warning that Lord Bathurst had given him just before he set out. Sir William liked clarity in affairs of all kind, and he was feeling the want of it now, for Bathurst had revealed strong disquiet over the purpose of the Foreign Secretary, Mr Canning, in sending five thousand men to Portugal. He reached inside his cloak and took out the tattered copy of
Sir William well recollected the acclamation in the Commons. There was a sentiment for Portugal stronger than for most places. Doubtless the fortified wine of Porto had much to do with it, but the sentiment went beyond commerce and taste. Portugal had been as good an ally as any in the late war with Bonaparte, and superior to most. Her soldiers had fought as well as His Majesty’s own (and in truth, on occasion, better). There was a fellow feeling for this country, and he was most conscious of it.
He took up
