He buckled on his sword, tidied himself – ablutions waited until stand-down – checked the girth again and climbed into the saddle. She stood still for him, a good sign; he flexed the bit, she dropped her head nicely, and he squeezed his legs just a fraction. She answered well. Hervey had no idea of her provenance – even if she were country-bred – but he was relieved at her quality: he did not fancy seeing out his duty with the Second Division astride a screw. He was only surprised she had passed into the riding-master’s hands and then out again.
He saluted the AQMG and nodded his ‘good morning’ to an aide-de-camp he had not seen before. General Hill was just mounting, so he halted at a respectful distance with his dawn thoughts. The sky was no longer black but grey, the urgent time when the minutes seemed to race. When daylight came, the country would be exactly as yesterday, the lie of the land unaltered in a single detail. But the enemy had not been inactive during the night: what would be the scene before them? How many French would be drawn up ready to attack? How many guns would there be on the Cerro de Cascajal? More, for sure, than the British disposed here.
Half a dozen other mounted figures now rode up. Hervey strained to see who. He braced as he recognized the profile of the commander-in-chief, cloaked and wearing a bicorn. What had kept him here the night? Had the Cerro de Medellin been in such peril that the commander-in-chief had kept vigil while he himself slept? He felt a sudden guilt; but, then, no one had told him to do other than sleep. No one, indeed, had told him anything at all. Or had Sir Arthur Wellesley come up to the cerro for the dawn stand-to? In which case it could only mean that it was here he expected the French to show themselves first. Hervey felt the thrill of a man discovering he was unexpectedly in the place of decision.
It was so obvious, now that he thought about it: here was the place to see the battlefield, not down among the olive groves. Here, the commander-in-chief could direct his battle, seeing the moves the French made, judging which were real and which were feints, speeding gallopers this way and that with his orders. But Hervey supposed he would see none of it, for his own orders were to return to the Sixth as soon as daylight was come. Could he do so without General Hill’s leave? But could he remain here longer without incurring his troop-leader’s wrath? There would be nothing for the cavalry to do until the infantry had clashed. In any case, had not the order gone out for the cavalry brigades to forage after dawn? He would hardly be missed in foraging . . .
He could not yet make out the hands of his watch face; by the look of the sky, he reckoned it must be half-past the hour, perhaps even a quarter-to, for first light was at five. And at first light a white horse was grey, not black: the staff dragoon’s with Sir Arthur Wellesley, now, was black (if, of course, it was the same animal he had seen yesterday). First light was the time when the routine of the night – pickets, sentries, sleep – changed to that of the day, when regiments mustered and stood-to their arms, when the pickets and sentries came in, when general actions began. He calculated that it would be two hours and more before the first dragoon drew his sabre to cut anything but grass. He hoped fervently that General Hill would not dismiss him now, therefore.
Sir Arthur Wellesley and General Hill moved off with their staff towards the eastern crest of the cerro. Hervey followed hesitantly, expecting at any moment to be told to rejoin his regiment.
One of the aides-de-camp, a lieutenant from General Hill’s own regiment, rode up alongside him. ‘Was it you with the general last night?’
Hervey was cautious, uncertain of the ADC’s purpose. ‘If you mean when the French first attacked, yes.’
‘Then I am especially pleased to make your acquaintance. Gartside, Ninetieth,’ said the ADC, holding out a hand.
Hervey took it. ‘Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons.’
‘The general owes his liberty to you, I understand, if not his life.’
In truth, he had not given it much thought, such was his dismay at losing Loyalist. ‘It was a close shave, I own. I am sorry for your major, though. He must have been hit by a ball as we galloped home.’
‘He was dead when we found him. I’m only sorry I was not with you: the general had sent me to Tilson’s brigade for their evening state, which we’d not had.’
Hervey nodded in commiseration. ‘What I don’t understand is why we were surprised. How had the French passed through the first line? And with scarcely a shot?’
‘There wasn’t a first line, not to speak of. The brigades had been posted very ill.’
‘I imagine they’re better posted now?’
‘Indeed. Wellesley and the general were abroad for two hours after we pushed the French off the ridge. Both our brigades are now forward. Tilson’s is right, on the crest, and Stewart’s left so the French can’t envelop the wing. There’s supposed to be a brigade of cavalry in the valley over yonder to support him, but I don’t know who.’
Neither did Hervey. Cotton’s, with which the Sixth were brigaded, were covering the junction with the Spanish on the right, and Fane’s heavies would surely be needed in the centre? ‘Anson’s, perhaps.’
‘Well, when they show, no doubt one of us will be sent to them. But I should say, the general spoke very favourably of you, you know – after the skirmish last night, I mean. There’ll be a promotion in it.’
Hervey was flattered, if doubtful. ‘Really, Gartside, it was nothing out of the ordinary. We must have made two dozen cuts apiece in the Sixth yesterday afternoon!’
Lieutenant Gartside put a hand to Hervey’s shoulder. ‘My dear sir, we all of us know the work of cavalry goes unobserved. When it comes to promotion, one cut in the right place is worth a hundred out of sight. Be pleased you have made both sorts!’
Hervey was still doubtful, but he would hope. If it did not bring promotion, it might at least serve his reputation when it came to the court martial and Daly.
Ten minutes later, with the sun flushed up, Lieutenant Gartside pronounced his final words on the matter. ‘See, Hervey: those are the fellows who will give us our opportunity!’
The sun was full in their eyes, but Hervey could make out the French well enough. Opposite the Second Division, on the Cerro de Cascajal, were more guns than he had ever seen. He took out his telescope to observe. The gunners were standing to attention by their pieces, as if all was ready and waiting for the command ‘fire’. He scanned right, to the low ground the other side of the Portiña. Regiments of blue-coated infantry stood facing the British line as far as the redoubt at the junction with the Spanish, all ranked in column of battalions for the attack, guns to the fore. Behind them were cavalry in numbers he could not begin to calculate. Corunna looked but a skirmish compared with this! The rats in his stomach began running again.
Lieutenant Gartside beckoned him further forward until they drew close to one of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ADCs. ‘Gordon, my dear fellow!’
A captain, four or five years Hervey’s senior, no more, wearing the uniform of the Third Guards, turned in the saddle. ‘Gartside – good morning.’
To Hervey, he sounded as cool as the commander-in-chief looked.
‘I heard you were come out,’ said Lieutenant Gartside, with an easy smile. And then he looked at him more intently. ‘My dear Gordon, are you quite well?’
‘The devil, I am, Gartside. I’ve not been well since leaving Lisbon. Something has taken hold of me, and I wish it would leave go!’
‘I am sorry for it. It’s deuced noble that you should turn out, feeling so out of sorts. May I present Cornet Hervey, of the Sixth.’