To Hervey, it was not a long time. A year ago he might have thought so, perhaps, but not now, not cloistered, incarcerated – whatever might be the word – in Badajoz. He was troubled by the good doctor’s perspective. If he were to enlist his help, he had to persuade him that the alliance of their two countries was of recent mind – continuing, indeed. In fact, he had to convince him that the two of them were men of one body.
He believed he could, for the sense of obligation to one who had shared the dangers of that day at Talavera would be profound in a man of Sanchez’s manifest sensibility. Sanchez, the regimental surgeon, may have carried a scalpel rather than a sabre, but he was of the ‘Yellow Circle’ still.
His very next words appeared to prove it. ‘You did not say what of your wound. I imagine it was but superficial?’
Hervey smiled. ‘The shoulder blade prevented the sword from cutting too deep. Our surgeon said I was lucky, although I did not feel it, for it hurt like hell, and I could hardly flex my rein-arm for days after.’
‘I imagine there to be no ill effects now?’
‘No, none at all. Indeed, it was all quite better before we reached Badajoz.’ As he said it, he felt the smile turn hapless.
Sanchez nodded. ‘Until you reached here. Just so. But not for the last time, of course.’ He looked saddened.
Hervey imagined he knew the cause. His own remembrance of Badajoz, in spite of the pleasant days they had had on first reaching the city, was hardly agreeable. Some of the later memories haunted him yet. Sanchez’s own memories, even if hearsay, would be infinitely worse: four sieges (the first French, the others British), and the terrible final storming. It was not to be recalled. But – and here was the gamble – Hervey judged that it might serve his purpose to do so, for the very horror of the final storming of Badajoz might touch something deep in a medical man. It would be risky reminding a proud Spaniard of his ally’s depredations. But, as Sanchez himself had said, it was a long time ago. He might not recall too well the details; he might not even have been there.
‘Would you take more wine with me, doctor?’
Sanchez nodded. ‘I would.’
He had appeared to hesitate, as if overcoming a prohibition. Hervey sensed his purpose working out.
‘Major Hervey, there is something I should speak of.’
‘Yes, doctor?’ Was this the moment Sanchez would pledge himself?
Sanchez sighed, sounding heavy-hearted. ‘I am distressed to tell you this . . . I had hoped it not necessary . . . I . . .’
Hervey was now uneasy. ‘Speak, doctor; let us have the worst!’
‘Major Hervey, the authorities here are talking of bringing you before a military tribunal.’
Hervey’s jaw dropped. ‘On what charge?’
Sanchez shook his head again. ‘I do not know. I heard mention of . . . espionage.’
Hervey did not reply. The outcome of such a trial, if unfavourable, was known to them both well enough. He felt his spirits plummeting like a stone into a deep, dark well. A military tribunal at Badajoz: the wheel had come full circle. Nothing could be more painful to a soldier’s pride than to be arraigned before a military court. He had never spoken of the first time, with anyone – not with Daniel Coates, nor even with Henrietta. In a pocket of his writing case there was, still, a sheet of paper, a convening order for a court martial seventeen years old – his age, almost, at the time of its signing. He did not rightly know why he kept it. His penance, perhaps. But had he not redeemed himself a hundred times since then? A military tribunal – a court martiaclass="underline" the wheel had, indeed, come full circle, and he dreaded being broken on it.
COURT MARTIALA General Court Martial shall convene at Badajoz on the 10th day of September, 1809, in pursuance of a warrant from Lieut.-General Sir A. Wellesley, commanding his Majesty’s Forces in Spain, to hear charges against Cornets M. P. Hervey and F. K. Daly, both of his Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Caroline’s Own).
PRESIDENT,
Colonel Sir JOHN PATTINSON, Bart.
MEMBERS,
Lieut.-Col. J. A. CHATTERTON, C.B. 3rd Drag. Guards.Brevet-Major C. TOWER, R. Artillery.Major P. MITCHELL, 4th Reg.Capt. A. J. APLIN, 88th Reg.Capt. F. HAWKINS, 88th Reg.Capt. WARBURTON GREY, R. Engineers.Capt. J. S. SECCOMBE, R. Artillery.Capt. the Honbl. F. PURDON, 7th Reg.Lieut. R. J. INCE, 60th (Royal Americans).Lieut. W. PODMORE, R. Artillery.Lieut. C. ZWICKY, 97th Reg.Lieut. A. J. NEWTON, 48th Reg.
JUDGE MARTIAL
DAVID JENKYNS, Esq.
Deputy Judge Advocate General.
As the regulations required, Hervey and Daly had been placed in close arrest the evening before the court assembled, though each separately. They were not incarcerated, rather were they confined to quarters in agreeable houses near the Las Palmas gate, close to the convent that would serve as the court. But it did not go well with either man to have his liberty suspended: Hervey felt the deepest humiliation at having Cornet Laming sit the evening with him as escort, while Daly fulminated against ‘the ungentlemanlike refusal to accept his parole’.
In the morning they dressed in best regimentals, but without sword, belt or headdress, which were carried instead by the escorts. At the convent, Hervey met his defending officer, Lieutenant Martyn, and walked with him to an ante-chamber to wait for the court to assemble. Cornet Daly was already there. He made no sign of greeting, looking straight ahead, so that when they were asked to form up ready to march into court, Hervey found himself taking position in front of him, as his marginal seniority demanded, with added discomfort.
One pace behind Hervey was Laming, however, a reassuring thought if not an altogether happy one. ‘Prisoner, attenshun.’
Laming said it so softly that Hervey barely heard. ‘Be a good fellow and speak up,’ he said, turning his head to the side.
In doing so he saw Serjeant Treve, who had been orderly quartermaster the night of the incident, waiting to be called in evidence. John Knight was standing nearby, too, and Private Brayshaw, his assistant, and the orderly corporal of that night, and the inlying picket-commander, and several dragoons who had been on guard – all waiting to give evidence. Inside the court, he knew, there would be spectators, from the regiment and from the army. He felt sick with shame.
‘Prisoner, quick-march.’
Hervey, prisoner: it was scarcely to be borne. He had done his duty, and it was come to this. When would they hear of it in Wiltshire, or at his school? The ignominy stretched before him like the open sea.
‘Halt.’
Again, Laming could hardly bring himself to breathe the word of command. Hervey halted by some instinct rather than obedience.
Behind them, Cornet Wyllie from C Troop, Daly’s escort, gave the commands very decidedly.
Hervey looked directly at the president. He did not know Colonel Pattinson, as was only right, but he had heard of him. He had been with Sir John Moore at Shorncliffe and had a reputation for discipline, if not quite of the ferocity of General Craufurd. He wore his bicorn low on his brow, betokening, thought Hervey, an angry disposition towards the proceedings. He could have no objection to the colonel’s being president, however, though that was his right, as it was Daly’s too.