Man Of War

‘There is news of Lord Holderness, sir, a message from the surgeon half an hour ago, the first I have had opportunity to inform you.’

‘Go on, Sar’nt-Major.’

‘The surgeon reports he has dosed the colonel with laudanum, sir. He’s bedded down at a place just outside Windsor – discreet sort of place, just as you ordered.’

Hervey nodded. ‘Good. We don’t want a word of this outside the regiment. Nor within, if it can be helped.’

‘No, sir. The colonel’s had one or two turns like this before, though I never knew it to render him unfit in this way.’

The RSM’s tone was of concern; Hervey was warmed by the affection and loyalty evident.

A corporal rode back up the column, turning as he reached the RSM. ‘Message for Major Hervey, sir.’

‘Corporal Davies, is that?’ asked Hervey, there being but two Welsh voices in the regiment.

‘Sir. Message from Captain Vanneck, sir. The scouts are halted at the bottom of the hill, in cover.’

‘Thank you, Corporal. Wait on the reply.’ Hervey reined to a halt. He had told Vanneck not to break cover until ordered, for once there was firing to their front he would not be able to hear anything from the bridge, and he could not rely on Fairbrother’s signal rockets working after a swim in the Thames.

A quarter of an hour passed – anxious minutes, for it was now light enough to see the colour of the next man’s coat. The diversionary attack on the boats continued, the firing mounting (Grenadiers joining the fight in growing numbers, Hervey hoped).

Another five minutes – the birdsong increasing, the sky lightening. Hervey began to lose hope.

Up went a green rocket, from exactly where he had supposed the bridge to be.

‘There it is, sir!’ came a helpful voice behind him.

‘Thank you, Johnson. Ever obliged to you.’ It amused him to see how animated now was his groom, where the day before he had been all for a quiet time with the baggage. ‘Corporal Davies, my compliments to Captain Vanneck, and will he advance his squadron at once, and with all haste to the bridge.’

‘Sir!’

Davies kicked furiously for the bottom of the hill.

‘Well, Mr Clarke, Mr Rennie, we have had some fortune, at least. Let us go and see if the gentlemen in red will let us through.’

Hervey trotted slowly down the slope. There was no point his risking a stumble over a root he could not see, and no point in bustling upon the rear of First Squadron as they debouched from the covert. He had had an hour’s sleep, no more, but Johnson’s hot, sweet tea had done much to revive him; that and the thrill of . . . not battle, but the test of wits. He might almost suppose he were enjoying it. He was enjoying it! The regiment was under his orders, again, and he was with friends.

Minutes later came the first clash with the Grenadier pickets, Vanneck’s scouts moving cautiously in the half light lest they be counted out by an umpire (ever zealous to exercise their authority). At fifty yards a fusillade greeted them, but the dense white smoke, hanging heavy in the cold dawn air, screened the scouts as well as if they had made it for themselves, and they drove in the picket – a serjeant’s command – with loud whooping and the clatter of hoofs.

Vanneck took advantage of the early success by putting the advance guard into a hand-gallop.

The scouts rode on apace a mile and more down the road, unchallenged, sensing an open run to the bridge. It was daylight enough to see a good furlong, though a mist clung to the meadows on either side. Vanneck was about to order the flankers in when he saw the scouts pulling up hard ahead. Shots rang out down the road, but he couldn’t see from where. He held up a hand to halt the squadron, and kicked forward with just his coverman.

Fifty yards on, and he saw the cause: a company of Grenadiers astride the road, a solid wall of red, at Vanneck’s rapid estimate a hundred muskets in two ranks, bayonets fixed, with one flank on the walls of a churchyard, and the other on a spinney. And with them was a mounted umpire: there was no letting cavalry pass in the face of formed infantry.

‘Skirmishers!’ shouted Vanneck.

Hervey, riding close behind, hove left off the road to the cover of an orchard, and began searching the ground with his telescope. ‘I must compliment the captain,’ he said, as the adjutant reined up beside him and began his own observation. ‘Whoever he is, he’s chosen the position well, open ground to left and right, no covered approaches, and several cuts that would make it difficult to take at full stretch.’

‘Shall I get the rear troop to range further left . . . or right?’ suggested the adjutant (either direction seemed as likely).

‘We may have to, but they’re as apt to lose direction in that mist as not. Let’s wait a bit longer to see if Vanneck can turn a flank. At least this is one company that can’t counter-attack the bridge.’ But Hervey reckoned they had half an hour at most before the company would be reinforced, and then they would never be able to shift them. If only he had the Chestnuts’ guns with him! But that had been a calculated decision: he had to convince Colonel St Aubyn that his boats were under the heaviest attack . . .

Vanneck’s skirmishers kept up a brisk musketry for a quarter of an hour, and made some progress, driving in the Grenadiers’ own pickets (there were numerous umpires, conspicuous by their white armbands, and scrupulously fair). But short of ordering the squadron to attack on foot (and he would only be able to muster fifty or so, accounting for horse-holders) he saw no opening.

Hervey began to curse, since neither could he see a way round. If only he had kept a single gun . . .

One of the flankers galloped up to the orchard, a smart young NCO from B Troop who had taken the prizes at the horse show the year before. He jumped from the saddle and saluted. ‘Major Hervey, sir . . . I’m sorry, I thought you was Captain Vanneck—’

‘What is it, May?’

‘They’re retiring, sir – doubling off to the rear and west, down the row of alders at the back of yon spinney; you can’t see them from here.’

‘You’re sure they’re not heading down the road, towards the bridge?’

‘Yes, sir. They’re hoofing it ’cross the meadow.’

Hervey smiled, and nodded. ‘Very well. Smart work, Corporal May.’ He put his charger into a canter.

Vanneck saluted as Hervey pulled up beside him behind a broad elm. ‘The firing’s slackening, Hervey.’

‘Corporal May says they’re withdrawing west. They’re using the smoke to mask it.’

Vanneck needed no further orders. ‘Advance guard, dismount!’

‘But let us not press them too hard. We don’t want them turning and making a stand.’ Hervey reined about to look for B Troop Leader and the main body (he would not have interfered had not Vanneck been occupied with disposing the advance guard). He saw them, halted, fifty yards or so back down the road. ‘Trumpet-major!’

‘Sir!’

‘Call up B Troop if you please.’

‘Sir!’ The trumpet-major sounded the short, sharp troop call.

B Troop advanced at the canter.

Hervey cut to the road and held them up behind the reinforced skirmish line. ‘Mr Margadale, at any moment the enemy will break and run. On my order we will gallop like fury to the bridge!’

Lieutenant Margadale, in temporary command of B Troop, acknowledged, and gave his own orders to the cornets.

Vanneck’s skirmishers were fifty yards from the company when they let out a great cheer and raced forward. The last of the guardsmen turned and made for the alder line as fast they could, but not before the first of the dragoons could catch them. Umpires cursed foully trying to stop the brawling.

Hervey drew his sabre. ‘Forward!’

They sprang into a gallop, scattering blue and red coats alike, as they made for the bridge at full tilt. Two mounted umpires joined them, but nothing short of grape could have stopped them now.

In a minute or so, through the remains of the smoke, and the mist, they gained the approaches to the bridge – and not another red coat to be seen.

‘Great heavens, what a work!’ exclaimed Hervey as he pulled up hard in front. There were barrels lashed to the parapet, the arches and the culverts – as many as he had seen the engineers place on the stubbornest bridge in Spain.