Beat the Drums Slowly (11 page)

Disappointments in life may be manifold, and yet to see you is to know with every fibre the joy of life and happiness
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It is Christmas tomorrow, a time for gifts. If the whole world were mine for the asking, I would want no more than this. Meet me, if you can. My duties permit me to be on the road north of the village for at least an hour and a half after eight o’clock
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Yours with all my heart – GW

The intended meaning of the second paragraph still eluded her, but the intent of the note was obvious, so bluntly so that it strengthened her resolve to ignore the request. Yet at the same time there was excitement in the secrecy and the boldness of his appeal. No one would ever know that he had slipped her the note when she and her mother had met General Paget’s staff on their only ride of the day. Wickham had paid her no particular regard.

Jane had told herself that she would not read the letter again. That vow lasted only for an instant, and she lingered over each word three more times. She was not sure whether or not she liked Wickham, but judged that no particular fondness had developed, although there was a good deal of sympathy. His manner was charming, his appearance most handsome and pleasing to the eye, and his conversation alive with wit – much of it dangerous in its tone. Jane was certain that she did not trust him, or doubt that his interest was less than utterly selfish, and she had to confess to herself that this made the danger all the more delicious. She could not trust Wickham, and part of her wanted to match her wits and her own determination against his challenge. She liked to think that she would not succumb, at least not to any serious extent, but she was not absolutely sure that this was true. For the moment, she tried to hold to her resolve not to go, or in any way answer such an impertinent request.

At least no one else would ever know. With more reluctance than she had expected, Jane dropped the note into the fire and watched the paper blacken and curl.

The retreat began at noon on Christmas Eve. Sir John Moore and Colonel Graham watched the southernmost column set out. Hope’s division of ten battalions was to be followed by Fraser’s division with another nine. They followed the same route as the advance, trudging along the road to Mayorga, to the bridge over the Esla at Castro Gonzalo and so to Benevente. At the same time Baird took his eight battalions in a separate column to cross the river at Valencia de Don Juan.

Moore stared fixedly at the passing soldiers in their long grey greatcoats, and only a friend as close as Graham would have noticed the marks of concern in his expression.

The men marched without spirit. There was no singing, no laughter, and even the drums of the closest regiment seemed forlorn. The French would face the same grim weather and execrable roads, but they were advancing and everything about them would be eager. The Emperor’s presence was likely only to make them drive on faster.

‘Two days,’ Sir John said softly. ‘Give me two marches before the French really know how close we are and the greatest danger should be over.’

‘Lord Paget reports no sign yet even of enemy patrols,’ Graham confirmed.

‘Good. I should prefer not to fight a battle here, but I must if they press me. Baird will be beyond recall. We simply cannot march together at any speed. At this season I will not make the men sleep in the open unless there is no other choice. Look at those fields.’ He pointed to the slopes of the hills rising gently beyond the road. ‘Not more than a few bits of scrub. There is no wood to make fires or cook, and without those men would start to die. So we must spread the divisions, and let them each take quarters in a different place each night.

‘Has General La Romana been reminded that it would be the greatest assistance to us if he keeps his men farther north and avoids our line of march?’ Colonel Graham nodded. ‘And has he been urged in the strongest fashion to deny the French the bridge at Mansilla for as long as possible, or even to destroy it?’

‘He assures us he will. How long he may hold will depend on how fast our friend Soult takes before he strikes. Where shall we concentrate the army again?’

‘I am not yet sure that we shall, but if we do it shall not be before Astorga. However, it may prove expedient to employ more than one route. I most strongly doubt that we can maintain ourselves in this part of Spain against the enemy’s numbers. So that means embarkation and so in turn depends on where the navy can best come to us.’

‘But surely, should enough of the army be together and the chance arrive, you will let us take a rub at the French?’ For a moment the elderly colonel implored with all the enthusiasm of an excited child. ‘There is not a man in the whole army who will not feel mortified and disappointed at the orders countermanding the advance.’

Moore could not help grinning. ‘And I thought we Scots were famed above all for our prudence.’ Graham chuckled. ‘Perhaps in the days to come. I do not know, and will not waste men’s lives without some worthwhile object. If we advanced now, Marshal Soult would be a fool not to withdraw before us. In four days’ time we most likely would not have provoked a general action, and by then the corps advancing from Madrid would be upon us.’

Graham understood the necessity, but his enthusiasm was slow to die. ‘The men would like a fight.’

‘As also would you, and no doubt all the officers in the army! If I were commanding a battalion or a company I am most sure that I would feel the same. I have no doubts about their spirit. It’s a fine army.’ To himself he added, ‘And I’ll not be the one to lose it.’

O
n Christmas morning, Sally Dobson and the other wives of the Grenadier Company watched the 106th’s quartermaster as he tried to bring some order to the chaos. Mr Kidwell and his assistants ran up and down the line of carts, yelling and pushing to get the baggage wagons, the regiment’s equipment and the women and children ready to move. As well as the usual local ox-carts, there were two big wagons, almost as large as the bulky farm-carts used in Britain, although as with the smaller vehicles they were pulled by plodding bullocks instead of dray horses. During the night, the drivers of both wagons had vanished, and now a redcoat stood by each team, bayonet fixed to prod the animals on if necessary. It was just one element to add to the confusion. Children ran in and out of the line of vehicles, shrieking as they chased each other, and ignoring the profane calls of their mothers to come back. The remaining Portuguese and Spanish drivers were clustered in a huddle, yelling at each other in some dispute, which appeared to be on the edge of violence.

‘Get those boxes tied securely, you fat-arsed buggers!’ bellowed Kidwell.

Major MacAndrews and almost all the men of the battalion were away to the north, forming a piquet line, but his wife and daughter were here, doing their best to help the quartermaster. The mother had a carrying voice and an authoritative manner. Miss MacAndrews was quieter, but had long since made friends with most of the regiment’s children and had a good way with them. The girl returned Sally’s wave as she passed, walking beside her horse and holding the hand of a sobbing infant, before finding the child’s mother. Sally liked and approved of the major’s wife and daughter. They were part of the regiment, as important in its daily life as he was.

Mr Kidwell kept swearing viciously as he struggled to bring order to chaos, and then he would notice that Mrs or Miss MacAndrews was near by and would begin a profuse apology, before some new outrage of discipline prompted fresh blasphemies. One of the army’s guides passed by, and was halted long enough to persuade the drivers to return to their carts. Most of the children were gathered, and now that all the wagons were full of baggage, the families were allowed to climb on top of the piles, wherever they could find space. The families of the Grenadier Company immediately occupied the first of the big wagons, abandoning their fondness for being at the head of the column. This change to the normal routine prompted angry shouts from some of the other wives, who had already decided that the bigger vehicles were likely to offer the smoothest ride. The quartermaster drew upon an extensive vocabulary, fostered by years of service in the ranks, to resolve the dispute, which essentially granted the case to the occupier, and left the companies somewhat mingled.

‘God in his heaven!’ wailed the quartermaster. ‘Get that damned harness untangled! You!’ He grabbed at one of the redcoats standing beside the first of the big wagons. ‘You won’t go far like that. Unbuckle the bloody thing and fasten it straight and tight.’ Frustrated, he watched the man fumble with the wet leather, before quickly pulling him aside. ‘Damn it, man! Get out of the way, I’ll do it myself. Why in God’s name I should be saddled with such a damned useless bunch of …’ An instinct saved him for the moment, as he glanced round behind him and spotted Mrs MacAndrews close by. ‘Oh, sorry, ma’am. I must apologise for my …’ He stopped in the middle of the sentence, as he spotted the women climbing down from one of the carts and two beginning to fight. ‘Oh, the stupid bitches.’ He sighed. His apology was half-hearted, as he finished fixing the harness and strode off to deal with this latest outrage. Sally noticed that Mrs MacAndrews was struggling to conceal a grin.

Kidwell wanted to get moving. The 106th, along with the rest of the Reserve Division, was not due to set out until ten o’clock, but he and the other regimental quartermasters intended to hurry the baggage on so that the trudging pace of the bullocks would not hold up the main column when it followed. At dawn, they had begun to marshal the baggage trains, but it was still 8.30 before they were ready. For a short while, it was almost peaceful as they waited for the train ahead of them to move off. Sally Dobson settled comfortably, wrapped in one blanket and sitting on another to soften the hard edge of a wooden box filled with ship’s biscuit.

The baggage columns ahead at last began to move, and Kidwell signalled to his own carts to follow them along the road. The rain began at almost the same moment, feeding the mud which already lay inches deep all along the rutted and churned road. The quartermaster breathed a sigh of relief and urged his own mule on, and then cursed once again as he saw that the redcoats were having trouble making the teams of the big wagons move. They yelled, struck at the animals’ rumps with the butts of their muskets, and then reversed the weapons to prod with their bayonets. Nothing happened. They jabbed harder, drawing blood, and the beasts finally lurched forward, bellowing in protest.

‘Where’s Jenny?’ Sally Dobson had sudden realised that her daughter was nowhere in the wagon. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, have you seen my Jenny?’

‘Perhaps she is on the front cart?’ The fastidious Mrs Rawson put down the dog in its basket to lean out and peer forward.

Sally was becoming agitated. ‘Can you see her? Oh, where is Mrs Hanks? Where is my little girl?’

The other wives took up the shout, while the sergeant’s wife tried to calm her friend. ‘Private Hanks is with her,’ she said. One or two of the married men had been permitted to help their wives prepare for the move. All had then returned to duty, but because of his wife’s condition, Captain Pringle had told Hanks to stay with the wagons until he was sure that Jenny was secure. ‘She cannot come to harm.’

For some reason the carts of the regiment in front of the 106th stopped, and they too were forced to halt.

‘Our Sal,’ said Sally to her younger daughter, named after her, but always called Sal by the family. ‘Get down and go and find your sister.’ The ten-year-old, happy to be doing something, scrambled down, putting her feet between the spokes of one of the big wheels and jumping, in spite of Mrs Rawson’s call to be careful. The girl splashed happily through the puddles, running past each cart and looking for Jenny.

Sally leaned precariously from the top of the great mound of crates at the front of the wagon and watched the child go. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, I will not rest until I have Jenny beside us.’ She spotted another of the company’s wives in the cart ahead. The pretty Mrs Murphy had drawn her shawl tightly around her, cradling her baby in her arms and singing softly to him. Not one of the wives chosen by lot in the summer, Mary Murphy had somehow managed to find passage on board a ship and had got to Portugal, eventually walking all the way to Almeida to find the regiment there.

‘Oh, Mrs Murphy!’ Sally’s voice was strong in spite of a persistent cough which had troubled her for years. ‘Have you seen Mrs Hanks?’ Mary shook her head, but stood up, and tried to help by looking.

Esther and Jane MacAndrews, drawn by the noise, stopped to talk to Sally, although found more coherent explanation from the sergeant’s wife. They split up, the daughter riding to the front of the column to search, while her mother went down the opposite side.

The carts ahead began to move. The Portuguese and Spanish drivers yelled and prodded to get their own vehicles moving again. Sally Dobson was watching her little girl run back towards the team of oxen on the big wagon at the moment when the redcoat had a flash of inspiration. He jabbed with his bayonet, and at the same time shouted out the same command the locals were using at the top of his voice. The oxen almost galloped off.

‘Look out, Sal!’ screamed Sally Dobson, and then the crates she was resting on shifted with the sudden, jerky movement and she was pitched forward and falling. Her head struck the edge of the iron-rimmed wheel, and her shriek turned into a short grunt as she slid down in front of it. The oxen were still pulling with all their strength, and the big cart rolled inexorably forward, the wheel passing squarely across her chest, crushing down with the huge weight of stores and people, pressing her into the mud. The passengers felt the wagon lift slightly, but only slightly.