Hervey’s ears pricked, as did everyone’s that heard. The orders were precise, yet their purpose unclear. What kind of support did ‘the Fighting Third’ Division have want of ?
‘Sir Stapleton suggests you may stand down the remainder until dawn.’
That settled one thing at least, thought Hervey: Wellington must be sure there could be no sortie.
‘Very well, Pontefract,’ replied Lord George Irvine resolutely. ‘Is there a guide?’
‘I will take them to the rendezvous myself, Colonel.’
Lord George Irvine did not hesitate: unless there were good reason otherwise, First Squadron would do duty, its captain being the senior. ‘Sir Edward?’
‘Colonel!’
‘One to three, then.’
‘Very good, Colonel. Sar’nt-major?’
‘Sir!’
‘Squadron will dismount, every third man horse-holder.’
It was not a very practised drill. However, the ranks numbered off in threes at stand-to morning and evening, so there should be no untoward confusion now, even in the dark.
Private Jewitt, Hervey’s groom, took Jessye’s reins from him. ‘Will you take my carbine, sir?’
‘No, just my pistols I think, Jewitt.’ Hervey had no more idea than the next man what their duties would be, but if they were going to scramble into a breach or attempt an escalade, he would be better unencumbered. It was the first time they had been called forward in a siege. He had to be ready for anything.
CHAPTER TWO
PRISONER OF WAR
Badajoz, 20 December 1826
Hervey pulled his cloak about his shoulders. It was more than the damp cold of his quarters – prison quarters – that troubled him. The remembrance of that night at Badajoz, though fifteen years gone, was enough to chill the blood of any Christian, let alone one now confined within the very walls they had breached that day. And if he could no longer hear the screams (at first of the men in the breaches, and then of the wretched Spanish civilians), he could picture the night well enough. The night and the days that followed. In everything he had seen since, even in India, nothing quite had the power to make him shiver, and boil, as did the name Badajoz.
But when he had passed through those walls on that infernal night, it had at least been his choosing. Or rather, he had followed orders willingly. This time he had done so anything but willingly. His ruse de guerre had almost come off, but when discovered, he had seen no alternative but to surrender his sword. Fearing the very worst, he had even contrived to set down the circumstances in writing – for the benefit of the one person to whom he felt true obligation to justify himself post mortem. It had not been easy, for that person had neither knowledge of the soldier’s art nor of the world in general.
Badajoz,
Spain,
19th December 1826My dearest Georgiana,if by mischance I am not able to return to you ever, I must trust to this letter to give the fairest account of the circumstances, for it may not be expedient to those in authority to have the truth out at once, and perhaps for good reason since affairs of state are never straightforward.I was sent to Portugal to assist with the making of plans in case a British army was sent here to the aid of the young princess who would be the new Queen (she is but your age) and her father Dom Pedro who wishes to abdicate in her favour and of the new ‘Constitution’, which is a covenant giving certain rights to the people which they had not previously enjoyed. You may read that some in England are opposed to such an intervention, for they believe that the young Queen’s uncle, Dom Miguel, should be Regent, certain as they are that his principles of upholding the old order of things are in the best interests of the country. Those who would overthrow the Queen in favour of Dom Miguel have gathered about them officers in the army who with whole regiments now take up arms against the Queen, and in this they are assisted by Spain and, perhaps, by France.When our little party began its work, at the beginning of the month, it was at once plain to me that our colonel was of too cautious a view, and I determined to go to the frontier with Spain. In this I was supported by His Majesty’s envoy in Lisbon. Upon arriving in Elvas, a great fortress which stands only a few miles from the equally great Spanish fortress of Badajoz, across the Guadiana river, I learned that the Miguelite forces had made attacks into Portugal from Spain, where they had been given arms and provisions, and that an attack at Elvas was imminent. Although the fortress at Elvas is a great one, no fortress will stand if it does not have sufficient men to repel an attacker.So it was that I found the defences at Elvas, with few men, although good, especially the general who is called Dom Mateo de Braganza. He and I devised a scheme which we supposed might trick the Miguelites into believing that English troops had already come to Portugal, for the Miguelites would not then have the nerves to continue their attack. However, by a stroke of misfortune, the ruse was discovered, and in circumstances which allowed but one means of escape for the loyal Portuguese, which was that I myself should surrender to the Miguelite commander, thereby gaining the time for the safe withdrawal of the loyal troops (which, as I write, I must believe was accomplished).I was then conducted to the fortress at Badajoz, where I am now held prisoner, though in comfortable quarters, and here await my fate. It is a consolation to me to know that my actions may have so disconcerted the Miguelites that, if His Majesty does send troops here, they will find a part of Portugal at least in loyal hands, a part which is of the first importance in defending the country, lying as it does on the direct route from Madrid to Lisbon.It is a great comfort to me, too, that I have a daughter with the spirit of her mother, who will understand now why I act as I did, in spite of what she may hear to the contrary. My only regret is that it has parted me from she who is dearest, and from your loving aunt, my sister, and all your people.Your ever loving father.
Hervey had woken early, his second reveille as a prisoner of war. The first morning, he had sprung from his bed, the daylight streaming through the high, barred window, rebuking him for sleeping beyond the customary dawn stand-to. There had been no Private Johnson to wake him, and the body, left to its own, took liberties, not caring for the customs of the service, for field practice. Weary, it had wanted only repose, and perhaps, too, the mind had craved oblivion. But this morning he had woken before first light, and now the awful truth – that it did not matter whether he stood-to or not – bore in on him like a great weight, like his big black charger at Waterloo, stone dead, pinning him in the mud so that he lay like a stunned bird while the French went from man to man despatching the wounded.
He cursed, and sat up. No, he had not lain still under the dead weight of his charger; he had fought his way free. He cursed because he was losing his resolution. He was angry again – with his captors, and even more with Colonel Norris. If Norris had not been so cautious it would never have come to this. Above all he was angry with himself. But it was no good his fighting himself, and he could not fight Colonel Norris. He had to fight the Spaniards, or the Miguelites, or both – whoever it was that incarcerated him here. He might not be able to fight in the usual way, but there were others. It was unthinkable that he remained passive, simply waiting for rescue or release. That way lay ruin to his self-esteem. And he was in trouble enough with Lisbon, likely as not.