But his division, which he had in large measure driven over the walls by the sheer strength of his will, now had a prodigious thirst. Men who had laboured in the trenches for weeks, wet through, perishing cold, their comrades blown apart by howitzer shells even as they worked; men who this night had waded knee-deep in the dark across the mill dam, whose comrades had fallen into the swollen Rivellas stream and drowned, or had jumped into ditches thought dry, only to discover their error too late; men who had been shot at from two sides at once as they filed between bastions, who had been spattered with the ordure of comrades as bombs were tossed among them, who had been stoned or speared from the ramparts like beasts in a primitive hunt, whose messingmates had fallen from ladders thirty feet onto bayonets, or been butted and stabbed in the face as they gained the top – and all of them fearing oblivion at any moment by the touch of a quickmatch to a mine: men whose impulsion was not diminished but turned in another direction. And not against the French. For all that the defenders had made them pay well over the odds for every yard of the assault, the men in red coats did not exact any special revenge. What they wanted – and what many were determined to have – was reward, not revenge. There was money in Badajoz – French and Spanish. They had not been paid in months; why should they not take their arrears now? There would be drink, too. They had had nought for weeks but a warming measure of rum each morning, and fighting was a thirsty affair. There would be plenty of drink in Badajoz, and whether it was French or Spanish, they would have it. There were women, too.
It began within minutes of taking the castle. Those still under discipline made for the rear of the breaches with their officers, as Picton had ordered; many more ran straight into the deserted streets. It was three o’clock when Sir Edward Lankester realized what was happening: there was shooting throughout the city, long after the last Frenchman would have surrendered. Although Picton had diverted him to the assault, it was the provost marshal who had summoned him forward, and he could not exempt himself now from the original orders. But where was the provost marshal?
What, anyway, could a troop do, asked Lieutenant Martyn, if the better part of four divisions was dissolving in disorder?
Sir Edward appeared to grit his teeth. ‘There are women and children and old men in this city, and they’re Spanish too – our allies. We can do what we can do.’ He turned to his senior NCO. ‘Serjeant Hawkins, go bring up the troop. Muster in the castle yard.’
Hervey was relieved they would be doing something, at least. After Corunna, he knew full well what the worst might be. Should they even wait until the troop came up? The regimental officers would be having a hard time of it in the streets: could they not try to help them?
‘Hervey, go and see if a picket has been placed at the castle gate,’ said Sir Edward, sounding weary.
‘Sir.’
‘And no further, mind.’
‘No.’
‘Sir, the captain said no further!’ Corporal Bancroft, covering, was not so much fearful for his own safety but for his reputation.
‘You saw that place, Corporal.’
‘Ay, sir, but what’d we ’ave been able to do?’
The nuns had been unfortunate in the extreme. Their convent was at the very exit from the castle. But the location had also been a blessing, since their defilement had not been prolonged: Kempt’s reserve battalion had come out and put an end to the riot.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Hervey, sharply. ‘We can do what we can!’ He pressed on, sword drawn.
Hatless men in tattered red coats, filthy, bloody, lurched out of the shadows or from doorways, clutching bottles and other plunder, inviting Hervey and Bancroft to join them, pointing to where there was more.
Bancroft grabbed his arm as Hervey lunged at them with the flat of his sabre. ‘No, sir! Steady on!’
A scream made both men turn on their heel.
‘What in God’s name . . .’ gasped Hervey.
They sprinted for the house. Its door, like the others in the street, lay battered down. Hervey leapt it, while Bancroft took post to cover his back.
Oil lamps and candles lit the brutish scene: two Connaught privates, and a mother and three daughters – Hervey wondered they hadn’t screamed more. The bigger man lunged at him with a bayonet. There was no room to fence. Hervey dropped his sword, drew his pistol and fired in a split second. The man fell back across the girl’s body, blood bubbling from the hole in his chest, legs and arms twitching like a dancing puppet. The second rushed at him. Hervey swung his pistol-butt at the man’s head, but a mutton fist felled him. Corporal Bancroft pointed with his sabre as the man tried to leave, but the same fist grasped it and wrenched it aside. Bancroft drew his pistol. Then he dropped his aim – save it for a man trying to come in.
The women (in truth, the daughters looked but in their teens) were now hysterical. Hervey held up his hands to calm them, assuring them he had not just killed the man to take possession of them himself. He pulled the lifeless Connaught to the floor, freeing the third daughter. But her throat was cut, and her nightdress slit top to bottom. There was nothing he could do but restore her modesty. He pulled down a curtain and laid it over her, and then in the most broken of Spanish he told them to put on their cloaks and come with him. The mother at once began protesting – imploring. Then he understood.
It was madness to try bringing the murdered sister as well, but he saw the woman would not leave her. And so he shouldered the bestial evidence of the Eighty-eighth’s riot, and prayed they would have it easy for the hundred yards to the castle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RESOLUTION
Badajoz, 31 December 1826
‘When did you know it was I? How?’
The physician smiled a little, as much as to say that Hervey ought not to be surprised that such a thing could be known. ‘Soon after I looked inside your Prayer Book, when the guards took it, I thought it probable. It seemed unlikely that there would be any other by your name in the British cavalry. And then, as we began to speak about the past, I became more certain. But only listening to you now could I be assured.’
‘I am much moved, señor.’
‘A daughter murdered, Major Hervey: one does not forget the details, I am sorry to say.’
Hervey, pained, looked down. ‘No, of course.’
Dr Sanchez poured himself another glass of wine. ‘But let us talk no more of it, my friend.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There is interesting news from Lisbon – or rather, of Lisbon. From Madrid.’
‘Oh?’
Sanchez lowered his voice still further. ‘Several brigades of English troops are landed.’
Hervey brightened. ‘Indeed!’
‘I rather think this may hasten your release, parole or no.’
Hervey frowned. ‘I would far prefer escape by the method we have set in-hand. If I am released it will mean ceremony, and . . .’ He paused. ‘Do you have any more of the tribunal?’
Sanchez shook his head. ‘I have heard not a word. But then, Major Hervey, truly I am not privy to these things. I do know, however, that the governor of this place is called away – perhaps to Madrid, I am not told – and nothing would be likely before his return. We have several days in that regard, I believe.’