Company Of Spears

‘Mr Fearnley, this is the rummest thing. Those wretches had no more idea of driving home an attack than a bunch of Methodists. I can’t think what in hell’s name they were about. Take a dozen men and see what you find yonder.’ He pointed in the direction the wretches must have come. ‘Horses, boats, waggons – anything. Half a mile, no more.’

Lieutenant Fearnley touched his peak and called for his serjeant.

Hervey sat silently astride as the torches began revealing the butcher’s bill, body after crumpled body in grey homespun, a dozen of them at least, more a scene from the plague than a battleground. These men, whoever they were, had not fallen like soldiers; he could not even see their weapons. They had certainly not behaved as soldiers. It had been more like that night at Elvas, when the rebels had opened fire in one of the squares to test the garrison. That was exactly what it was like. Except that the rebels had not been so inept as to get themselves shot. And where were Nasmyth’s men in all this? Hervey cursed worse than before, and shook his head. There was a smell of rat. That, he was sure.

But why repine? To all other appearances, armed men had tried to storm the Royal Gunpowder Mills, and the 6th Light Dragoons, commanded by Acting-Major Matthew Hervey, had done their duty with economy and efficiency. And with thorough execution.

He swore again, stood in the stirrups and bellowed the one order he was pleased to give: ‘Sarn’t-major Armstrong, take Mr Hairsine’s place!’

IX

LIBERTICIDE

Hounslow, next day

The first streaks of a grey dawn followed the squadron into barracks, but it was another three hours before Hervey returned, insistent as he had been on seeing Captain Worsley, the RSM and two injured dragoons into the proper care of the surgeon at the mills, and the body of Private Lightowler into the hands of a decent undertaker.

He had not known Lightowler. Collins said that he was a waterman’s boy, from Kent, but where exactly he didn’t know. Hervey hoped the attestation papers would say something, though not every recruit would declare a next of kin, for his own good reasons. But however root-less a dragoon’s life might appear in the official records, he had four hundred adoptive kin, the bearers of the numeral ‘VI’ on their regimental appointments. There would be a funeral with all due military honours, for Lightowler had died on the King’s service, and no man in the Sixth would wish to see that go unremarked; for what would that say of the worth of his own life?

‘The very devil of a business, sir,’ said the adjutant, as he brought Hervey brandy in his office. ‘I had it all from Fearnley.’

‘Not all of it, I’ll warrant,’ came the rasping reply, the anger raw despite the four-hour ride and the lack of sleep. ‘Those were no Whiteboys and Irish navvies. Not those who did the business at any rate.’

‘Sir?’

Hervey unfastened the bib front of his tunic and loosened the necktie. ‘We killed a dozen of them and rounded up half a dozen more, but they were so drunk they could scarcely walk. They could’ve done little harm firing.’

Vanneck was puzzled. ‘Then who did?’

Hervey shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But they didn’t shoot like bolting paddies; that’s certain. The whole affair has a deuced rank smell to it.’

‘Well, it has brought some distinction at least,’ said the adjutant, handing him a sheet of paper.

Headquarters,

The London District,

20th March 1827.

The General Officer Commanding congratulates Major Hervey and detachment H. M. 6th Light Dragoons for their high efficiency and exemplary conduct in the incident at H. M. Gunpowder Mills last night. He much regrets the injury to life and limb among the detachment and assures the officer commanding that the facts of the incident, and the approbation of the General Officer Commanding of their part in the protection of a manufactory so vital to the Nation’s defence, shall be placed this day before the Commander-in-Chief…