‘Stand easy, Mr Hervey,’ said the assistant quartermaster-general. ‘The French guns blaze away every so often, but things are quiet. Keep your horse saddled, though.’
‘Yes, sir. General Hill might wish to hear that the Spanish are getting back into their place on the right flank.’
‘Very well, I shall inform him.’
Hervey turned and went to look for Private Sykes. In a division of infantry he knew it ought not to be too difficult to find a man with a horse, but the night was now so black that it was difficult to make out anything more than half a dozen paces away.
‘Sir?’
‘Is that you, Sykes?’
‘Yes, sir. I heard Loyalist blowing. There’s coffee over here, sir. Picket’s got a brew on all night.’
‘That would be welcome indeed, Sykes.’ He glanced over his shoulder to fix exactly the general’s campfire in case he were summoned.
‘I wondered where you was, sir, when the gen’ral came back.’
Hervey smiled, ruefully. ‘I think in the despatches it might say “liaison with our allies”.’
‘Sir?’
As Sykes took Loyalist, there was a sudden musketry due east – three hundred yards, perhaps four. Hervey grabbed the reins again and began running back to General Hill’s headquarters.
The general was already giving orders to Colonel Stewart, his second brigadier. ‘Yours to the support of Low’s brigade, then—’
The firing ceased as abruptly as it had started. General Hill waited for several minutes before changing his mind.
‘Very well, Stewart: as you were. A false alarm. These Germans fire too readily. You may go back to your brigade, but keep a sharp watch.’
The brigadier took his leave.
‘Mr Hervey?’ said the general, peering at him in the light of a good blaze.
‘Sir!’
‘Thank you for your report. Have you taken coffee since coming back?’
‘No, sir, I was—’
The firing began again, but from atop the crest this time, the flashes quite clear.
General Hill growled. ‘The old Buffs, as usual making some blunder! I do wish these fellows would contain themselves better. Fetch my horse, please.’
An orderly brought him his black gelding and helped him into the saddle.
‘I’d better go and put them right. They’ll have lost all direction, I fancy.’
Hervey clambered astride Loyalist while General Hill and one of the brigade-majors took off as if it were daylight. He had the devil of a job keeping with them, Loyalist napping again, wanting his head in the pitch blackness.
Four hundred yards at a fast go, and uphill, and the general shouting, ‘Cease firing there, you men! You face the wrong way! Cease firing!’ Hervey could only wonder at the impulsiveness of infantry generals: they made the cavalry’s work that day seem timid by comparison.
The firing suddenly faltered. Loyalist started as black shapes loomed.
One grabbed the general’s reins. ‘Se rend, monsieur! ’
Hervey drew his sword, spurred at him and cut hard on the offside. There was a cry and the black shape fell.
‘Away!’ yelled Hill, hauling on the reins.
They dug in their spurs for dear life. Shots followed left and right. Hervey lay low across Loyalist’s neck and prayed they wouldn’t stumble. He didn’t see the brigade-major fall, nor the musket ball strike the general’s horse.
Down the slope they hurtled – four hundred yards, rats running in his stomach as fast.
‘Stand to!’ bellowed Hill as they galloped in. ‘Stewart, your brigade at once, please! Open column of companies! I’ve no notion where the Germans or Low’s men are, but the French have the crest!’
Colonel Stewart began barking orders as General Hill dismounted. Hervey made to follow, but the general had other intentions. ‘Find Wellesley and tell him what’s up, Hervey!’
It was a simple enough order, but devilish difficult. Where was Wellesley? Would he still be with Campbell’s brigade on the far flank? Surely not, if the situation had quietened there? Yet Campbell would know where he had gone next – that was something. Would he even be able to find the flank brigade, though? It was pitch dark, and there were two hours to moonrise. And he had not yet been about a battlefield at night, with nervous sentries firing before a challenge. This was not like Corunna. He must think very carefully.
He decided to descend the ridge riding due south – at least the sky was clear and he could see his stars – and then strike due east until he found the second line. Someone there must know where was the commander-in-chief.
They scrambled down the ridge, Loyalist choosing his footing carefully. They made the bottom without too much trouble, striking left and east at the olive groves and following the tree-line for a furlong and more until the groves began climbing the side of the cerro, so that Hervey knew he was near the line. Then he took a fix on a good star due east, and pushed on into the trees. He heard firing on the heights above him, and prayed it was ‘Daddy’ Hill’s men worsting the French. Could it be otherwise?
After five long minutes he found the rear of what he reckoned must be the Third Division. ‘Galloper!’ he called. ‘Second Division galloper!’
‘Here, sir!’ answered a picket-serjeant, lofting a torch. ‘Second Twenty-fourth.’
Hervey jumped down thankfully: here was an NCO who knew his business. ‘General Mackenzie’s division, are you?’
‘His brigade, sir. The general’s been here this very minute.’
The Twenty-fourth’s picket-officer came up. ‘What is the firing, do you know?’
‘The French are on the ridge,’ replied Hervey, nodding left. ‘Do you know where General Mackenzie is?’
‘With the lieutenant-colonel, I think. I’ll take you.’ He held out a hand. ‘Davies.’
‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, galloping for General Hill.’
‘A horse-holder if you please, Serjeant Allott,’ said Ensign Davies.
Hervey handed Loyalist’s reins to one of the picket, though not without hesitation. It was the maxim of the prudent soldier never to be parted from his kit, and the horse was the cavalryman’s kit, sine quo non. But he could hardly trail through a battalion of infantry at night leading a charger.
Ensign Davies was sure-footed about the olive groves. It was not long before they found the Twenty-fourth’s lieutenant-colonel, General Mackenzie with him. Davies stood to attention, and saluted. ‘Picket-officer, sir. A galloper from the Second Division.’
General Mackenzie turned. ‘What is the alarm up there?’
Hervey saluted. ‘The French have the summit of the ridge, sir. General Hill is driving them off. He has sent me to find the commander-in-chief, sir.’
‘He went there the minute the firing began.’
Hervey checked himself, somehow disbelieving that Sir Arthur Wellesley had been ascending the cerro as he himself had been descending. He almost asked, ‘Are you sure?’ Instead he saluted again. ‘With your leave, sir.’
The general nodded. ‘My compliments to General Hill. He shall have my best support on his flank.’
‘Sir.’
Hervey picked his way back with Ensign Davies, easier now that his mission was accomplished – or, rather, obviated. ‘You had hot work of it this afternoon,’ he tried.
‘We did, by God! You saw?’ replied Davies, sounding as if he would go again this instant.
‘We were on your left flank.’
‘I did not see it. I did not see anything but smoke and shot. You fellows have the better view of things astride.’
Hervey hoped he did not mean they merely looked on, especially since things would have gone so much the harder with the Twenty-fourth had the Sixth not charged. But it was scarcely the time to put him to rights about that. ‘The work of cavalry is for the most part unobserved,’ he consoled himself.