Man Of War

‘We may have to, but they’re as apt to lose direction in that mist as not. Let’s wait a bit longer to see if Vanneck can turn a flank. At least this is one company that can’t counter-attack the bridge.’ But Hervey reckoned they had half an hour at most before the company would be reinforced, and then they would never be able to shift them. If only he had the Chestnuts’ guns with him! But that had been a calculated decision: he had to convince Colonel St Aubyn that his boats were under the heaviest attack . . .

Vanneck’s skirmishers kept up a brisk musketry for a quarter of an hour, and made some progress, driving in the Grenadiers’ own pickets (there were numerous umpires, conspicuous by their white armbands, and scrupulously fair). But short of ordering the squadron to attack on foot (and he would only be able to muster fifty or so, accounting for horse-holders) he saw no opening.

Hervey began to curse, since neither could he see a way round. If only he had kept a single gun . . .

One of the flankers galloped up to the orchard, a smart young NCO from B Troop who had taken the prizes at the horse show the year before. He jumped from the saddle and saluted. ‘Major Hervey, sir . . . I’m sorry, I thought you was Captain Vanneck—’

‘What is it, May?’

‘They’re retiring, sir – doubling off to the rear and west, down the row of alders at the back of yon spinney; you can’t see them from here.’

‘You’re sure they’re not heading down the road, towards the bridge?’

‘Yes, sir. They’re hoofing it ’cross the meadow.’

Hervey smiled, and nodded. ‘Very well. Smart work, Corporal May.’ He put his charger into a canter.

Vanneck saluted as Hervey pulled up beside him behind a broad elm. ‘The firing’s slackening, Hervey.’

‘Corporal May says they’re withdrawing west. They’re using the smoke to mask it.’

Vanneck needed no further orders. ‘Advance guard, dismount!’

‘But let us not press them too hard. We don’t want them turning and making a stand.’ Hervey reined about to look for B Troop Leader and the main body (he would not have interfered had not Vanneck been occupied with disposing the advance guard). He saw them, halted, fifty yards or so back down the road. ‘Trumpet-major!’

‘Sir!’

‘Call up B Troop if you please.’

‘Sir!’ The trumpet-major sounded the short, sharp troop call.

B Troop advanced at the canter.

Hervey cut to the road and held them up behind the reinforced skirmish line. ‘Mr Margadale, at any moment the enemy will break and run. On my order we will gallop like fury to the bridge!’

Lieutenant Margadale, in temporary command of B Troop, acknowledged, and gave his own orders to the cornets.

Vanneck’s skirmishers were fifty yards from the company when they let out a great cheer and raced forward. The last of the guardsmen turned and made for the alder line as fast they could, but not before the first of the dragoons could catch them. Umpires cursed foully trying to stop the brawling.

Hervey drew his sabre. ‘Forward!’

They sprang into a gallop, scattering blue and red coats alike, as they made for the bridge at full tilt. Two mounted umpires joined them, but nothing short of grape could have stopped them now.

In a minute or so, through the remains of the smoke, and the mist, they gained the approaches to the bridge – and not another red coat to be seen.

‘Great heavens, what a work!’ exclaimed Hervey as he pulled up hard in front. There were barrels lashed to the parapet, the arches and the culverts – as many as he had seen the engineers place on the stubbornest bridge in Spain.

Fairbrother, standing dismounted in the middle, touched his cap in salute.

Hervey was as relieved as he had been at the Cape to see his friend safe and triumphant. ‘So much gunpowder this close to Windsor Castle, eh, Fairbrother?’ His smile was as broad as his friend’s.

Lieutenant Margadale’s face was all astonishment, however. ‘But what . . . where did they—’

‘It is an interesting illusion, Margadale, is it not? You observe a bridge with barrels lashed to it, and you perceive they must be powder kegs.’

Margadale looked no more enlightened.

‘If they are not empty – which I imagine they are – those barrels contain nothing more dangerous than Dorney’s best ale. That is correct, Fairbrother?’

‘They are, indeed, empty. But the landlord of the Rose and Crown is well disposed to supplying a thirsty regiment at a handsome discount.’

Hervey smiled. This was not war, but it was close on the image of it – or, at least, on that heady prelude to the field battles, when wits were still superior to the butcher’s knife. ‘Tell me how the ruse went.’