But the merest contact of rein and martingale had by degrees brought Loyalist’s head down, and Hervey could only wonder at what thin bar that passed for a bit – as well as mutton fists – had hardened the animal’s mouth in the first place. Instead he had bought a round snaffle, jointed, and sewed a length of sheepskin to the noseband so that the gelding had to drop his head to see front. A few days’ schooling soon implanted the association of soft bit and forward vision in Loyalist’s head, but embarkation had interrupted their training, so that the regulation double bridle was as yet unknown to him. But Hervey had reckoned Loyalist would need the curb nothing like as much as his fellow cornet thought. ‘Laming, half the troop goes with just the snaffle, for they have the curb chain so loose!’
It would have taken a full three weeks more of riding school, however, before Hervey could count Loyalist a sound battlecharger, and this early march north was no occasion for schooling. The horse was a fine sight on parade at least, and promised to be finer still when his summer coat was through. Indeed, with Jessye and Loyalist, Hervey considered himself passably well provided for. He had a march-horse that would serve him true as a battlecharger, and one that had the makings, as well as being fleet enough even to do galloper duty. He needed a little better luck than he had had with Stella; that was all.
Luck seemed to favour him. When they went into billets on the third night, Hervey was more pleased with his écurie than he had supposed likely. After stables, and a stew of fish at a modest but clean albergaria, he took up his journal enthusiastically.
3rd MayEstarreja, 3 leagues north of AveiroToday we marched from Coimbra, not very fast, for there were many patrols of cavalry that wished to interrogate us, and we them, a distance of 15 leagues, and here have made a proper junction with the Portuguese corps of observation. E.L. is all activity, forever enquiring of his map or the Portuguese guide, and tonight called for me to interrogate some French deserters, who were in mean condition and knew little, though that little they were content enough to surrender. Soult has outposts to the south of the Douro, that much is certain, but is not otherwise perhaps in too great strength. These men said that there are numerous ferries by which the troops cross the river, and so it may be concluded that Soult would be able to transport his corps in a little time to meet a threat from the south. By the same token he is able to evacuate those men to the safety of the north side if he chooses. There are not many bridges, and those considerably upstream of Oporto. E.L. declares that we will begin tomorrow to make a reconnaissance of the line of outposts and ascertain too the bridges, though he believes this latter will likely as not prove too exacting for so small a number, unless the Portuguese attend.L lost shoe just before we arrived, which we did not see because Sykes was leading him. Farrier Dilkes will fit new this evening after same for E.L.’s second charger. Have ridden L a very good part of way these last days, and he does capitally well, carrying his head much more steady and answering now very promptly to the leg. J never tires and does well on short rations.Not so much green fodder as expected on account of bad weather of late. Rain has stopped, I am glad to record. It had become v. heavy indeed by this mid-day. E.L. says the days to come will be all scouting, and that we must expect contact with the French at any moment. Everyone says it is a fine thing that we are come back to turn the tables on Marshal Soult. I for one want nothing more than to pay them back for the humiliation of the retreat to Corunna and the destruction of our horses.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SPEARPOINT
Oporto, nine days later, 12 May 1809
Sir Edward Lankester rubbed the plaster from his eye as a heavyfooted dragoon upstairs dislodged more of the ceiling of the dilapidated pousada that served as the squadron’s messheadquarters. They were so close to the country’s second city, now, that the final hours were beginning to drag by.
‘Mr Hervey, I would have you go at once with an escort to meet with one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s observing officers. He has a mind to take a look at the river.’
They had closed to the Douro, as instructed, and they had done so promptly, but Sir Edward’s tone betrayed nothing of the demands of a week spent in the saddle, the last two days entirely within cannonading distance of the enemy. The squadron – or rather, his hand-picked detachment – had been the point of the spear, so to speak, since crossing the Mondego. Meanwhile, the shaft of the spear – Sir Arthur Wellesley’s main body – had been marching steadily north behind them. Two days ago, the squadron reunited, the point of the spear had had its first brush in earnest with the French cavalry; and yesterday the shaft had seen a sharp action on the Vouga, eight leagues south of Oporto. It had been a botched affair, though, Sir Edward told his officers: Wellesley had been heard railing against several unfortunates who had failed to bring their men up on the French in the right place. But the spear was close now. Porto stood waiting, Sir Edward had written in his despatch; it would not do to keep them waiting long. However, Soult’s cavalry had been able to slip away in the dark, he told his officers, ruefully, ‘like rats scuttling off as the water rises’. Or depending on the point of view, he added, like practised cavalry in a line of surveillance. It was always touch and go what others thought of men who did not stand and fight.
Hervey felt his head nod, even in the fraction of time between Sir Edward’s giving him the order and his acknowledging it. He was dog tired. All he wanted to do was take advantage of the pousada’s shelter for an hour or so’s sleep. Just an hour; that would be enough – a dry hour, though, not another soaking. By God he had had his share of drenchings this week gone!
He shook himself, hoping his troop-leader had not noticed. ‘Where is the observing officer now, Sir Edward?’
‘He is gone to Villa Nova. He’ll meet B Troop’s picket there, but I want you to conduct him forward.’
It made sense. Hervey had ridden to Villa Nova, on the south side of the Douro opposite Oporto, at first light.
‘No, the observing officer can wait a little longer,’ said Sir Edward suddenly, turning his head to the door. ‘Bancroft!’
His dragoon-servant came at once. ‘Sir Edward?’
‘The coffee, Bancroft, ready or no.’ He looked back at Hervey. ‘You have need of the bean as much as do I.’
Private Bancroft stood a moment, with a look that questioned the order. He was a fastidious servant, until a year ago a footman to the late Sir John Lankester. He had exchanged livery for regimentals with a will when the new baronet had asked for volunteers, for he might otherwise have been balloted into the militia and that would have been all the inconvenience of the regulars without one quarter of the status (though admittedly one tenth of the danger). Bancroft was of the unflinching opinion that coffee, whatever else its properties, must be hot.
Sir Edward saw, and understood. ‘There’s a good fellow,’ he added, in a softer voice, and with just something of the supplicatory, so that Bancroft felt obliged, indeed almost content, to fetch the half-made sustainer.
Hervey took careful note of the exchange. Sir Edward’s way with men intrigued him. Whereas Joseph Edmonds was all commanding – brusque, active, hungry for the fight – Sir Edward Lankester frequently appeared as if he were engaged in some private interest or other; although as soon as he perceived the enemy to be at hand he could become as much a fighting cock as any of them. The curious thing, observed Hervey, was that the dragoons seemed equally to trust both men. With Edmonds, there was in that trust a touch of admiration; with Sir Edward, it was affection. In the terrible retreat to Corunna, Edmonds had cajoled his troop into virtue; Sir Edward had flattered his. But the outcome had been the same: their dragoons would do anything for them. Both troops had embarked in good order, and with fewer losses than the others. Hervey wondered if some sort of synthesis were possible, or whether the essentials of the one style militated against those of the other. He knew – it was an axiom of the service, indeed – that leading men was a natural business: a leader was born. He himself had been born into that society which made of its sons the stuff of command (Sparta, he reckoned, could have had no quarrel with Shrewsbury School, nor Salisbury Plain in winter). There was a mask to command, however. That much he had divined from Daniel Coates, listening to the tales of America and Holland. But perhaps, in truth, the mask was a technique for greater ranks than cornet – although Quilley and Daly would profit by one, he was sure.