Beat the Drums Slowly (13 page)

‘Miss MacAndrews will be fine. I am sure there is no need to go hunting for her.’ Silently he thought that such a spirited girl would also resent being chased around like an errant child.

Williams had his foot in the stirrup and was already swinging himself up. With his forage cap, rolled greatcoat worn over his shoulder, and musket, he looked an unlikely horseman.

Pringle sighed. ‘Go if you must. Just don’t get yourself lost! I need Bobbie!’

Williams’ urgency conveyed itself to the mare, who staggered immediately into her jerking canter. When Pringle got to the barn Hanley asked about their friend. ‘Off playing Sir Galahad,’ was all the reply he got.

‘In this rain. His armour will rust!’

Williams greeted Hatch with no more than a curt nod and the briefest of explanations. The other ensign had already formed his men up to march off and stood some distance away from them. Not long after Williams had disappeared, the watch showed 9.45 and as if on cue Brotherton arrived.

‘Anything to report?’ he asked.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Hatch firmly, and ordered the detachment to march away.

The 106th began its retreat on time, forming with the rest of the reserve and then setting off down the road. Rain still fell steadily, and ran down Dobson’s face as he piled stones over his wife’s grave to keep animals away. Esther MacAndrews stood and watched the pitiful scene. Having buried three of her own children, she knew how to mourn and felt there was some comfort for the bereaved in knowing that other people understood their loss. She also waited for Jane. Pringle had told the major that his ensign had gone looking for the girl. He had been surprised when he realised that neither was yet back with the regiment. Private Hanks was also missing, although Pringle assumed he had caught up with the baggage and was looking after his wife.

As each regiment marched past the forlorn group of figures around the grave the drums went silent and each mounted officer drew his sword and raised it in salute. When Dobson, Sergeant Rawson and the two redcoats marched on, Esther MacAndrews waited until the men of the light brigades passed and only the hussars were left behind.

‘No one behind, apart from the French, and there is no sign of them,’ she was assured by the fourth hussar officer she stopped. Like the others he could not quite conceal his opinion of anyone who had let a girl ride off on her own in the middle of a war. ‘No doubt your daughter has ridden ahead and is already with her father.’ There was the clear implication that the rearguard was equally no place for an officer’s wife, however handsome. ‘I am sure the best thing you could do, dear lady, is to join them.’

‘Thank you for your advice.’ Esther MacAndrews let her courtesy slip, but could see no purpose to remaining behind. She drove her horse hard along the road, splashing through the deep puddles, and using her whip whenever the animal tried to go round. The rain had stopped, and a red sun sank beneath the horizon as she passed a dozen German hussars singing in their own language. Only when she caught some of the words did she remember that it was Christmas Day.

C
aptain George Wickham had one brief pang of disappointment when he realised that he would not be able to make his assignation with the red-headed girl. General Paget kept all his staff very busy, and more than a few times vented on them his own annoyance at the necessity of retreating.

‘No time for that, Mr Wickham,’ he had bellowed angrily, at the captain’s suggestion that he take a ride around the northern flank of the army. ‘You are no longer with Betty Burrard. I expect my aides to work.’ In August Wickham had been appointed to the staff of Sir Harry Burrard, who was as indulgent to his staff as he was slow moving.

Wickham followed the commander of the Reserve Division as he rode through the rain, chivvying his battalions on. Later, he had the great pleasure of being sent once again to carry a message to the general’s older brother, with instructions to stay with him and observe the withdrawal of the cavalry. It was pleasant to find that Lord Paget welcomed him warmly. Black Jack Slade was even more handsome in his greetings. Their officers were lively and spoke of the latest society gossip.

Viscount S___ had eloped with the wife of Colonel Powlett. Wickham was not sufficiently acquainted with aristocratic society to guess the man’s identity, but knew enough to keep silent and appear to understand. In most cases, the answers to such mysteries were either soon revealed or unnecessary to join the conversation. His judgement was swiftly vindicated.

‘Can’t say I blame Sackville,’ said a magnificently dressed hussar captain, laughing, his waxed moustache standing out stiffly on either side of his face. ‘You must have seen Mrs Powlett in the Row, Ferrars. You’d certainly remember her. Famous frontal development!’

They soon turned to the topic of Miss Clarke, and here at least Wickham knew enough to follow from the beginning.

‘Will it damage the Duke?’ he asked. The Duke of York was head of the army, and as good an administrator as he had been poor as a general back in Flanders. His former mistress had recently revealed to the newspapers that she had been using her influence over him to gain commissions for her friends, the friends of her friends, and indeed anyone inclined to be generous to her.

‘Oh, Freddie will manage,’ said a major from the Blues, and then paused as he took a pinch of snuff from an intricately decorated box. Balancing the pinch on a practised hand, he carefully returned the box to its pocket, before inhaling. ‘Might have to retire for a month or two, but no more than that, I should think.’ He prepared for a colossal explosion, and then looked puzzled when no sneeze came.

‘From what I hear Annie Clark is enjoying all the attention, and now gets invited to many a salon formerly closed to her,’ the major continued with great assurance. ‘She’s still a pretty little thing, although past her prime. I can remember seeing her on the stage when I was just a boy. Grew me up in a hurry, I can tell you!’

‘Is that how you joined the army?’ asked the hussar with affected innocence.

‘As good a way as any.’ The major chuckled, and seeing that the joke was acceptable, Wickham joined in.

Somehow, the talk turned to cricket. Wickham recognised the name of Lord Beauclerk from listening to Billy Pringle, who was obsessed with the game, but found that his attention soon wandered as the conversation became more technical. It was a shame not to be able to take a run at Miss MacAndrews. Wickham was not quite sure whether or not she would meet him. Even if she did, it might not be until the next assignation that she would finally succumb. She had spirit, and he suspected was more than a little the coquette, but like most of these young pieces she was also naive and required coaxing, which only made the result all the more gratifying. Perhaps she had gone to the meeting and his failure to arrive would cause her to lose her temper. So much the better, for the step from rage to passion was a small one if well guided. He smiled.

‘You look happy,’ said a very tall infantryman on Lord Paget’s staff.

‘Just thinking of a filly who is well on the way to being broke.’

‘Four-legged or two?’

‘Two. I think I shall soon get a saddle on her.’ The nearby officers laughed.

Wickham knew himself to be an intensely physical man, and if his love for his wife had long since faded, hers was undiminished and they took great pleasure in each other. Lydia was now in England. There had been places in Lisbon, and plenty around the cloisters of Salamanca, but it had now been weeks since he had enjoyed a woman. The enforced celibacy oppressed him, and he had even began to notice some of the drabs among the soldiers’ families. Then the 106th had arrived with MacAndrews’ daughter, and for the last few days he had dreamed of a mass of red curls, a trim figure and smooth skin. The whores in Portugal and Spain had been well enough, but now he craved the complexion and manners of an Englishwoman. Soon, he thought to himself, soon; for the moment it was far more useful to ingratiate himself with influential men.

Jane found no sign of Wickham on the road to the north of town. There was indeed no sign of anyone. She felt her anger flare, and drove her horse into a faster run, splashing through the puddles on a track barely used by the army. After five minutes she turned and cantered back in the opposite direction. Her sense told her to go back. Her rage made her want to see the man long enough to snub him, and make it clear that in future she would not contemplate either his attentions or indeed any degree of familiarity. Part of her wanted to see him smile, and wondered how he would excuse his lateness. Jane walked her horse into a little hollow, where the ruin of a shrine and a steep bank crowned by a holly bush gave shelter from the wind, if only a little from the rain.

Jane was not sure how long she waited. She wondered about dismounting, but her grey was a good fifteen hands and she could not be certain of climbing back on to him without assistance. She was cold and wet and told herself that she was a fool for ever letting herself be drawn on by the dashing captain. Her rage turned entirely against herself, especially since she was no longer quite so sure where she had joined the road and so where the battalion lay. The thought that she had taken this risk only to distract herself from the sadness of Mrs Dobson’s death merely made her own behaviour seem selfish as well as foolish.

Miss MacAndrews walked her horse back on to the road, and headed towards where she thought the army lay. The road dipped ahead, then rose to a little hummock. There was movement on the edge of the dip. Two thin poles wavered in the air, and a faint glint showed that they were topped with pointed steel heads. Beneath them were riders, wearing strangely shaped hats with square, flat tops, all covered in a buff oilskin. They were going away from her, and Jane wondered how she had not seen them come down the road past her. A track led off away from the road into a patch of trees, and she assumed they had come that way.

Jane was about to call out, feeling that on such a foul day it was better to ignore her pride and ask for directions from the patrol. Then something stopped her. The men did not look anything like the British hussars. She had never heard of British lancers and wondered whether the men were Spanish. She spoke little of the language, and doubted that she would be able to understand any directions. Oh well, she would simply have to rely on her own memory and hope it did not take too long to stumble back on to one of the outposts. If Mr Williams was there, she would pretend to be entirely confident of the path and not need any assistance.

One of the horsemen turned and looked startled. He said something to his companion, and both turned their mounts to face her.

‘
Qui vive
!’ The challenge was given in a guttural accent, and only after a moment did Jane realise that is was in French. Would the Spanish use the language? she wondered. The two cavalrymen spurred their horses towards her and she realised that they must be enemies. The girl turned her horse and sent him cantering along the path off the road. Fear fought with anger at her own folly. She used the whip mercilessly to drive the grey ever faster.

Her horse was fit, and unburdened with a large rider and heavy equipment, and Jane soon left her pursuers behind. Within ten minutes she had lost them, but in the process had lost herself. Wandering for a while, all sense of direction gone, she found a road and gambled that following it in a direction chosen on a whim was the best chance of finding the army again. Then two more lancers appeared and gave chase. She rode for twenty minutes, but the grey was tiring and she could not shake them off. One was now some way behind the other, but neither showed any sign of giving up.

Williams wandered for a long time across the fields and beyond the road, unsure where Miss MacAndrews was likely to be. Part of him hoped that it was all unnecessary and she had had the good sense to return long before now. He wished he knew when now was, and he felt the lack of a timepiece far more than when Hatch had paraded his own. Williams was fully aware that he ought to turn back. He could not do it, excusing this weakness by telling himself that searching for just a few minutes more could make all the difference. In his heart he knew that he would not abandon her, and also that he could not ride up and down for ever. The army was moving and he had duties to perform. He had a dreadful thought of being left behind by the entire army, a sudden terror that long hours had passed without his realising and that the battalion and everyone else had gone.

Then he heard a woman scream and a great wave of fear and horror swept over him. It came from the left, beyond a straggling row of trees, and he wrenched on the reins to turn Bobbie and then slammed his feet against her side. She protested, but ran.

Williams bounced in the saddle, almost lost his musket as the sling slipped down to his elbow and banged against his side. The scream came again, and then was cut off short. The musket slid again and he just caught it with his right hand and held it down against his leg. The rag covering the lock stayed in place, as did the cork he had put in the muzzle to stop the water getting in.

With only one hand on the reins, he steered clumsily, and Bobbie took him so close to one of the trees that a low branch slashed at his face and drew blood. Then they came into a patch of open ground, with a thicker stretch of woodland beyond it. Some sense drove him to the wood, and he followed a track running through it. There were shouts – men’s voices yelling at each other – and he pressed on.