A Close Run Thing (34 page)

The headquarters party that morning was not as big as he had expected. The duke himself, wearing a plain blue coat and hat, and riding a big grey, was accompanied by Lord Fitzroy Somerset. This, Hervey’s first sight of the duke’s military secretary, greatly took him aback, for the man looked no older than he.

‘That is because he is
not
!’ said Jessope. ‘Well, not by more than a year or two. And a lieutenant-colonel to boot!’

Hervey studied him, fascinated. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, a lieutenant-colonel in the Grenadiers and one of the duke’s principal staff officers. A son of the Duke of Beaufort (no doubt this had been instrumental to his first being appointed ADC to Wellington in Spain), but there were many similarly connected officers who failed to win so signal a favour. Patronage could be but an incomplete explanation. And here was
he
– a lieutenant with hardly the means to buy a captaincy, and a stop on promotion even if he did have. It would have required the attributes of a saint
at
that moment not to feel at least some particle of resentment.

‘Did you know his wife is with child – their first?’ added Jessope, as if Hervey might have any idea – or, indeed, interest. ‘She is in Brussels at this time.’

‘I was not even to know he was married!’ he replied flatly.

‘Why, yes,’ began Jessope, unperturbed, ‘last August, to the duke’s niece. It was a deuced fine wedding, I may tell you!’

Hervey smiled to himself. The duke’s niece – how these threads wove tight together! And he wondered who these other three in the party might therefore be. Perhaps they, too, were officers of like affinity. He began to feel uncomfortably out of place. Maybe, had he not been so conspicuous (he was wearing field order, so that he looked not unlike the two staff-dragoon orderlies accompanying the duke), he might have felt more inclined to ease, for the others wore plain clothes of black, blue or green which would serve them equally well in the hunting field. And they seemed intent on keeping their own company, though apparently on nodding terms with Jessope.

‘Where is the escort?’ he whispered.

‘There is no escort. The duke keeps his field small and relies on quality,’ replied Jessope, likewise
sotto
. ‘What do you think of that entire he rides –
he
is quality, is he not?’

‘Truly he is, though more a youngster than I would have supposed.’

‘The duke has a stable of near two dozen, counting drivers. And most of them bloods!’

‘Then I shall be sure to remain a respectful distance behind with Jessye!’ he smiled.

‘What of the Hanoverian you bought of me? Was he not a more meet companion for a ride such as this?’ asked Jessope, puzzled.

‘I rode him here – did you not see? In truth he would, I agree, have set me off finer in a parade. But my mare, here, is the fleetest little creature God made.’

Jessope frowned.

‘Believe me,’ insisted Hervey, ‘in a squeeze I would be with no other.’

A fast trot south and west took them through villages full of British, Dutch and Belgian troops, for the most part infantrymen. The duke stopped once or twice to exchange words with an officer he appeared to know, but there was no formality. The commander-in-chief’s progress was, indeed, as brisk as reputation had it. Then, as they turned back in the direction of Ghent, crossing a hayfield which had taken its first cut a week or so before, a big buck-hare got up from almost under the duke’s feet, startling his young horse and those of his nearest attendants. The duke, however, regathered his reins before any of them and was straight after it, hallooing loudly.

‘Soho!’ called Jessope to Hervey. ‘We must be in at the kill!’

The hare led them in a huge circle over country
empty
but for a few labourers by the hayricks. They crossed three streams at a furious pace, and still there was no check – a full five minutes’ galloping. A sunken road all but proved the hare’s escape, too, for the duke’s horse pecked on landing short of the top of the far bank and tumbled its rider. Two of the other officers, riding hard up close, went the same way. The third pulled up before take-off, as did the staff dragoons and Lord Fitzroy. Hervey put Jessye at the hedge, where the others had gone for the gap, and she cleared the road in a soaring arc.

Ignorant of what convention demanded of him, and seeing the duke already on his feet and remounting, he galloped off after the hare. With no one in front, now, to check his speed he pressed his legs to Jessye’s flanks and closed steadily with the big buck. At twenty yards he drew his sabre and, pointing, pressed the mare to a final effort. The buck jinked to the left and Hervey came back to the recover, turning Jessye sharply, who did a neat flying change of her own accord to lead with the left leg. The hare continued running to the left, and Hervey knew he would not be able to get on its inside, so he leaned forward at full stretch and pointed down the nearside. A second or so later and he lifted the quarry on his sabre.

‘Smart work, boy, smart work!’ shouted the duke as he caught up, bringing the rest of the field with him. ‘The smartest swordwork I have seen in many a year!’

They began circling in a walk to let the horses down,
and
Hervey presented the hare to the staff dragoons. ‘For your pot, troopers!’

‘Who’s your hard-riding friend, Jessope?’ called the duke as the ADC caught them up.

‘Lieutenant Hervey, Sixth Light Dragoons, your Grace,’ he replied.

The duke smiled, turning to him:

‘“A different hound for every chase

Select with judgement, nor the timid hare

O’er matched destroy.”

Do you know that verse, boy?’

‘Indeed I do, sir. It is Somerville’s
Chase
.’

The duke nodded. ‘Just so, and I think I should despise an Englishman who did not know it. Hervey – the name is familiar. We have met before, have we not? Toulouse?’

‘Yes, sir; I was commanding a flank picket,’ he replied, incandescent at the recognition.

‘Indeed, you were,’ added the duke, breaking into another smile. ‘Lord Fitzroy, this officer accounted for a horse battery on his own. What sport there is to be had in the cavalry!’

‘I sometimes wish I had remained a light dragoon myself, Duke!’ added Lord Fitzroy, offering Hervey his hand.

‘Well, I cannot say the same myself,’ laughed the commander-in-chief, ‘though I was only a dragoon on paper, as it were. It seems to me, though, that a light
dragoon
is something a man must be at some stage of his life but that he must move sharply on to more serious things! Consider the elder Pitt, Hervey – now, there’s a dragoon who moved on to greater matters!’

Everyone laughed politely, as subordinates tend to when a senior officer attempts humour.

‘I think it best if I first seek distinction as a dragoon, your Grace!’ Hervey submitted.

‘But you are almost
there
, my dear fellow!’ countered the duke. ‘You know how to handle a picket. Now, if you can do something to check this appalling habit our cavalry have got into of galloping at everything and then galloping back again, without note of the circumstances, you will achieve distinction right enough. I dare say you will be unique!’

Hervey smiled awkwardly, for he knew that, though the remark was in jest, an earnest particular underlay it, a particular on which the duke had expressed his disapproval many times. The commander-in-chief was in good humour, however, certainly none the worse for his tumble, and the party turned for home in high spirits.

‘Come ride up alongside, Hervey,’ called the duke as they set off back on long reins. ‘Tell me, what is your opinion of what Bonaparte might do here?’

Though startled by the unexpectedness of the question, he answered at once, for it was a matter to which he had given much thought. ‘I suspect that many will think he will envelop us by a drive around our right flank, cutting us off from Ostend and the other
Channel
ports, perhaps fighting a holding battle on the border around Charleroi: he has made so many moves of this like before.’

‘Yes,’ said the duke slowly, as if surprised by the discernment of the reply and intrigued by the question posed by ‘many will think’.

‘But that is excessively risky,’ Hervey continued, thoroughly warming to his subject. ‘His strategic aim must surely be to knock us – the British I mean, sir – out of the fight, back into the sea, and to send the Prussians back across the Rhine. It seems to me, your Grace, that if he puts his effort into an envelopment, then what he is doing is trying to use sheer weight to achieve his design. He might not
have
enough weight, and he might also drive us
towards
, rather than away from, the Prussians – and then he would simply have too big an army to defeat.’

The duke was about to say something, but Hervey failed to notice and instead pressed on to his second conclusion.

‘If, however, Bonaparte strikes direct for Brussels he might drive a wedge so deep between the two armies that each falls back along its own lines of communication, and he would thereby have achieved his strategic purpose by the indirect method. That I am sure is much more at the heart of what he seeks to do with his so-called “manoeuvre”, yet everyone – excuse me, your Grace –
many
seem only to see the movement rather than the purpose.’

‘Well, well!’ replied the duke. ‘Whoever would have
thought
it! I have officers in the cavalry who have studied Bonaparte rather than just Reynard! Do not take offence, Mr Hervey: the two have much in common!’

There was more laughter.

‘So you are acquainted with Bonaparte’s so-called “Strategy of the Central Position”?’ continued the duke.

‘Yes, sir; I have read much on the subject. It is the strategy that I believe would give the best chance of success here.’

‘Well, then, describe it – briefly – for the benefit of my friends here,’ he added, indicating the three staff officers who were now looking at Hervey with evident regard, rather than merely through him as before.

‘Briefly, sir,
divide et impera
. His army, divided into two echelons, drives between the two opposing armies. He uses just sufficient force to fix one in place and then concentrates the rest to defeat the second. He does not have to destroy the second completely, just to destroy any hope of its assisting the other. He then turns to defeat in detail the first army which he has fixed in place.’

‘And what are the prerequisites of the strategy?’ asked the duke, his eyes now fastened on him, hawk-like.

‘
Pre
-requisites, sir?’ Hervey began, stressing the anticipatory so as to be wholly clear of what his answer was conditional upon. ‘Surprise and security.’

‘Just so,’ nodded the duke pensively, and without another word he broke into a trot.

* * *

It was midday by the time they returned to the commander-in-chief’s forward headquarters at Ghent. Hervey had fallen back to his original place next to Jessope, who was much amused by the ‘strategic tutorial’ as he called it. As they entered the courtyard of the inn which had been pressed into military service, the duke turned to them both. ‘Thank you, Mr Hervey. I have much enjoyed your company,’ he said warmly. ‘Captain Jessope, you must bring your thinking friend out again. Yes, gentlemen, surprise and security: they are everything!’

It became even hotter in the days that followed. Supply, as far as it affected the Sixth, seemed to be much better, although the troops were still scattered about numerous villages in order to take forage direct from the farms rather than through the system of depots. And while this suited them in many ways it still made mustering for drill difficult: the brigade had only been able to hold two field days since arriving, although there had been yet another change of location, this time to the River Dendre around Grammont. Here, though, they were plagued by midges, and it was not long before sweet itch appeared, particularly in those horses billeted in the poorer, unkempt farms where there was little cover and scant waste-discipline. Never had the regiment suffered from it so badly. In ‘C’ Troop one morning sixteen horses could not be saddled, so abraded were their backs, and
Edmonds
became affeard of an epidemic. There was no agreement, even, as to its cause, for many believed the connection with midges to be circumstantial. Neither was there unanimity as to treatment. The new veterinary officer, young and active, had no doubts, however, and managed to procure large quantities of sulphur, treating all the cases with his own foul-smelling potion. It had unusually early results, although three of the worst cases had to be dispatched by the farrier’s axe. Captain Lankester had sniffed when he heard of the losses, for each day he had had all his troop horses brought in before dawn, and again before dusk, when the midges were the most active, and had lit fires to smoke them away. As a consequence they had lost not one trooper, nor had any been unfit for saddling for more than a day. His own chargers he anointed with a most precious lotion he had bought the previous year in London on the recommendation of a tea-planter: oil of citronella, one of the East India Company’s most exotic and expensive imports (the planter had sworn by it). It had a most pleasing smell yet was wholly repugnant to any flying insect, and Lankester had been able to enjoy his shooting and fishing unplagued after daubing his face and hands with it. And he had now been able to transfer exactly this protection to his beloved hunters.

But if the new billets did not favour the horses they certainly suited many of the officers, since it took less than two hours to get to Brussels. The capital had almost as many theatres as London, and dances and
levees
carried on apace. At one of these (and he had only been to the one) Hervey had met Lady Fitzroy Somerset.

‘Are you the officer who courses hares with his sabre?’ she had asked laughingly.

To which Hervey had replied that he could have done better with a lance.

‘My husband tells me that your conversation with my uncle set him thinking for several hours.
Quite
an achievement, Mr Hervey!’