On His Majesty's Service

Major-General Dmitry Buturlin was a year older than Hervey, wore the ribbon of the Pour le Merite (though he spoke no German, and so Hervey supposed it to be a mutual honour in the defeat of Bonaparte), and had seen a good deal of the Continent, including Spain, all of which he related in excellent French. He was well versed, almost bookish, and gave his opinions freely. Hervey found him an engaging companion. Several times he spoke of St Petersburg in a way that suggested he knew what the general-in-chief had offered his riding companion. An attractive prospect, the city, by his account.

They chatted inconsequentially for an hour and more (Fairbrother and the others had fallen back respectfully). It was good to ride at the head of a brigade of hussars – a brigade, not merely a regiment. For when might his own army ever brigade its cavalry again, except for a field day? He was content, with sadness, to have sent word that he would have the Fifty-third.

They found no Turks, however, nor any sign of them. It was not difficult country to reconnoitre – flat and open, for much of it. Hervey was soon of the opinion that a standing patrol of cavalry was all that was needed: they would see soon enough if the Turks did for some reason try to come by this way – soon enough, to be sure, for the general-in-chief to adjust his plans, to throw out a flank and muster some artillery to prevent their debouching into the valley where General Ostroschenko’s advance guard were posted.

Buturlin shared that opinion. Presently he detached a squadron of hussars to watch the road, and turned for home with the rest. He was in no hurry, though. They had come out at the trot, a full two leagues, and they would return at a walk: he wanted wind in reserve for when they charged, which he was certain they would do, and for pursuit when the Turks broke, of which he was equally confident.

The walk gave them time to range widely, over all manner of affairs, not least of the wars to come. Buturlin was convinced that tumult in Europe was at hand. He himself had been with the French in the suppression of the revolt in Spain six years ago; he predicted similar uprisings in Belgium, in Italy, in the Austrian marches, and – he shook his head – in Poland. In all of these the Tsar had his interests – well, perhaps not so directly in Belgium – and the army would be much occupied.

Hervey was now certain that Diebitsch’s only purpose in asking him to ride with Buturlin was to entice him with the promise of abundant action. He smiled; he had never before heard of a major-general recruiting officer.

By the time they regained the ridge west of Kulewtscha, the scene before them was transformed.

‘See, Mr Agar – you may never do so again: three corps d’armee drawn up for battle.’

Agar at once hitched up his sabretache, took out paper and charcoal and began sketching rapidly.

‘The frontage is somewhat greater than at Waterloo, and not so many men by half, but it has the same appearance of … majesty.’

‘I imagine your vantage point was not the same that day,’ said Fairbrother playfully.

Hervey smiled as he recalled it. ‘The briefest look as we galloped back after a charge.’

Fairbrother knew of the charge from what the Sixth had told him. He felt suddenly chastened. ‘The ground is not so regular here?’

‘No indeed,’ replied Hervey, studying it carefully once more.

At Waterloo the long, low ridge had faced one of equal height and length, which the French had occupied during the night (there was still no sign of Turks here) and from which they had descended in one forlorn attack after another, seen off by the strongpoints on the forward slope – the chateau of Hougoumont, La Haye Saint farm, the hamlet of Papelotte – or by the regimental musketry atop it, or else by counter-charges from the cavalry. Here, on the other hand, the field was not one of parallel lines but a partially inverted triangle, the base of which was the Russian line, which ran northeast to south-west, about five miles long; and the apex, some five miles from the base, would be the entry point for the Turks. The ridge at Waterloo – Mont St Jean – on which the duke had disposed his army, had been continuous, but here the high ground on which the Russians intended to bar the advance of the Turks was cleaved in two by the valley of the Bulanik, with Pahlen’s 2nd Corps to the west of the stream – the left of the base of the triangle as the Turks would see it – and the 6th and 7th Corps to the east. And whereas the French had watched the dawn from their ridge, and could choose their point of attack anywhere along the line, here the Turk would enter the field with little room to manoeuvre, through a green defile made narrower by crags to north and south. All the Vizier would be able to do would be to expand his front as the ground opened up – as the sides of the triangle diverged – but since General Ostroschenko’s advance guard stood in the middle of the triangle, the Turks would have a fight on their hands even to deploy. If the Vizier did not make use of the road from Marasch to try to turn Ostroschenko’s flank (and why would he – for he could not have known of Diebitsch’s intention to stand here?), his only course would be a frontal attack; and Diebitsch had both the numbers and the ground to defeat him. The duke had said after Waterloo that Bonaparte ‘came on in the old way, and we saw him off in the old way’; Hervey had a dreadful notion that it would be the same today, for the victory of Waterloo was one thing, remembrance of the field that evening quite another.

‘One of Diebitsch’s aides-de-camp reckoned thirty thousand,’ said Fairbrother, now with his telescope to an eye.

Hervey nodded, searching with his own. ‘I think that was the very number of English and the King’s Germans. The rest were a hotchpotch. Some of them fought deuced well, mind. What strange echoes. Can you make out Ostroschenko’s men?’

Red coats would have been conspicuous enough among the verdure of Tschirkowna, a ruin of a village – the blues and greens of the Russians much less so. Once the eye became accustomed, however, the lines were discernible enough. And they appeared to be on the move still.

‘I think we’ll go and see what they do,’ said Hervey, pushing his glass back into its sleeve.

A quarter of an hour later, picking their way through feral orchards and untended vineyards, they saw the Irkutzk Hussars – unmistakeable in their raspberry chakchiry breeches though a mile away and more – forming line on the far right. It boded action of some sort. Hervey put his gelding into a canter to close with them.

The ground was much broken; it took them ten minutes to cross the valley.

He approached the Irkutzk from the rear, the greater courtesy. And handier, too, for he was met by the rotmistr (captain) of the right-rear squadron, who spoke French. ‘Ce qui se passe?’

The rotmistr explained that Turk infantry – the advance guard? – were halted where the road from Pravadi debouched from the forest, a league distant, that they were bringing up guns and forming square, and that General Ostroschenko was ordered to probe them to discover their intention.

Hervey was dismayed that he’d not seen them from the ridge, or even as they descended towards Tschirkowna, but there were so many folds in the ground … Did the colonel speak French, he asked.

‘No,’ said the rotmistr.

But if he were to ride with the Irkutzk he must observe the proprieties: he persuaded the rotmistr to come with him as interpreter.

As they rode forward, Hervey pulled out the new ribbon at his collar a little way in the hope that it would be his laissez-monter.

He need not have worried. Colonel Voinov, a man of impressive height and bearing, seemed to recognize him, inviting him and the rest of his party to ride with the regiment – sabres drawn – in the front rank.

Hervey thanked him and was just able to beckon forward the others and tell them what was happening when the trumpeter sounded ‘walk-march’.

‘Trot’ soon followed. The lines billowed on the uneven ground, the NCOs cursed the troopers’ dressing (though he didn’t understand a word, Hervey smiled to himself: he could have been in the ranks of the Sixth), and the right-flank squadrons began bunching.

In a hundred yards they came back to a walk. More cursing. But what was the hurry? As well let the infantry keep up. The horse artillery looked happier too.

‘No sign of the Turks,’ said Fairbrother when they had gone half a mile, sounding uneasy as he looked left and right at the wooded heights.

Hervey was perfectly able to read his friend’s mind as well as the ground. ‘Yonder crags would be the devil