Beat the Drums Slowly (18 page)

By the time he went into the house, a fire was burning and filling the room with smoke. They had made good progress during the day and all were tired. After eating more than half of their remaining food, the three of them slept without undressing, each lying to one side of the fire.

Jenny’s cries woke them hours later. She looked scared and Williams reached instinctively for the sword that lay beside him.

‘The baby’s coming!’ The girl sounded her age, very young and very frightened. Williams was terrified.

‘I
t’s him, I am sure of it,’ called out Derryck. ‘There on the white horse among that group of officers!’ The boy’s voice cracked with enthusiasm. ‘I am sure it is Buonaparte!’ The ensign’s face was scarred and his nose bent from the wound he had suffered at Roliça. Those injuries, and the short captivity which followed, had done nothing to dampen his spirits, but even so Hanley had never seen the lad so excited.

‘Ugly bugger, ain’t he?’ commented Hatch, who had now fixed his own glass on the distant horsemen. They were standing on a rise behind Benevente, looking back over the plain to the river and the low hills beyond it. The distance was great, and he doubted that either of the ensigns could see much with their little glasses. ‘How could any fellow choose to miss out on all this?’ Hatch added more softly.

‘See what you think,’ said Pringle, and passed Williams’ bulky telescope to Hanley. Billy wondered whether Hatch was implying something about their absent friend, although that seemed unlikely. Surely no one thought that Williams had deliberately left the column? Better not to say anything, rather than risk starting talk. Whispers in the mess could sometimes carry a long way.

It took a while for Hanley to find the horsemen, and longer still to twist the lens into focus after the short-sighted Pringle had been looking through it. One white horse stood out, but there was nothing else distinctive about the blue-coated rider.

‘I do not believe it is,’ he said reluctantly. ‘That man looks as tall or taller than those around him.’ It was hard not to be disappointed. The days were long gone when he was a simple, utterly faithful admirer of both the passion of the Revolution and the order brought by the Empire. There was still a great thrill at the thought of seeing the man who had overturned all of Europe.

Pringle agreed, but the younger gentlemen – there were two more ensigns apart from Derryck and Hatch from the 106th, and a couple from the 28th – were unwilling to concede.

‘It must be him. Look! Those cavalry down there are his own guards!’ Derryck was looking with the naked eye, and his vision was truly remarkable, for when Hanley turned the glass on the horsemen he saw their red jackets, dark fur hats and green trousers. He had fled in horror as men in these same uniforms – the jackets had been slung rather than worn in the May heat – had cut to pieces a crowd in Madrid. They were the Chasseurs of La Garde Impériale, veterans of many campaigns and Napoleon’s favourite regiment.

The previous night the British had blown up the bridge over the Esla. It was not destroyed, for the stone structure had proved notably stubborn, but for the moment it could not be used, and so the French cavalry climbed their horses down the bank and forded the river. Only a few outposts of British hussars were visible in the plain to oppose them. As more squadrons crossed, the French threw out skirmishers of their own, and soon there were puffs of smoke and a distant popping of carbines.

A staff officer arrived behind them. ‘Have I missed the fun?’ he asked. ‘Oh, hello, Hanley. How are you this fine grey day!’ It was Major Colborne, Sir John’s military secretary. Hanley had made his acquaintance during his time with Colonel Graham and now made the necessary introductions.

‘Buonaparte is watching the advance,’ Derryck blurted out when he was named to the staff officer.

‘Is he indeed,’ came another voice. It was Lord Paget himself, his uniform a riot of blue with gold lace and accompanied by an infantry officer attached to his staff. Derryck was most impressed, and wondered how long it would take him to grow such whiskers.

‘There is an officer on a white horse,’ said Pringle. ‘More than that we cannot say.’ The ensigns, now cowed by the higher authority of a general and a lord, just managed to restrain their protests.

‘Well, whoever the devil is, we shall give him a warm welcome.’ Down in the plain a concentrated group from among the piquets charged. The leading Frenchmen gave way and retired some distance. Soon, they reached their supporting squadrons and the heavily outnumbered hussars were in turn chased back the way they had come.

‘Good,’ said Lord Paget, taking in the scene. ‘That will give us some time. Come on, Colborne!’ He set off at a gallop to take direct charge.

Colborne had seemed an especially pleasant and capable fellow, but it was a relief that he had left without asking what the infantrymen were doing here. In truth Colborne himself was supposed to be on his way to join Sir John farther up the road, but had been unable to resist the sniff of powder.

The Reserve Division had been allowed to rest for all of the previous day, while other sections of the army continued the retreat. Hanley and Pringle had found the time to visit the castle. The redcoats billeted within its walls had left, but the signs of their presence were everywhere. Remnants of carved legs were all that was left of antique furniture broken up and burned. Some paintings had been added to the flames, while others seemed merely to have been wantonly smashed. Someone had added charcoal beards to a scene of nymphs disporting themselves. Tapestries were left discarded after being used as blankets.

‘We’re as bad as the French.’ Hanley was outraged at the destruction. Pringle had rarely seen his friend so angry.

‘Hardly that,’ was all he could think to say. ‘And remember, it’s cold, and they have had a rough time. Nor are they much in love with the Spanish at present.’ The defence was out of habit. He liked and admired his own soldiers and the army in general. Yet even he was shocked. Worse came when a false alarm during the night created a panic. A mob streamed through the streets. Many were drunk and more than a few were women. The regiment had been called to arms and had then waited for hours in a cold drizzle until dismissed. In the confusion scores of the carters hired in Portugal had taken their teams and fled, abandoning the vehicles.

The 106th had marched at dawn with the rest of the Reserve Division, past the pyres made from the abandoned wagons and the stores they had carried. Pringle and the Grenadier Company were left behind to hunt out a few dozen men who were missing. A few officers and sergeants from the other companies had been left with the grenadiers to deal with their own men. It was clear that other regiments had done the same.

Most of the missing were soon found, lying in drunken stupor in the alleys around their billets. No one was sure where they had found the liquor. A few took longer to find, and in the end only Dobson remained unaccounted for. Then an agitated young priest appeared from nowhere and began berating Sergeant Rawson. Hanley heard the commotion from the far side of the street and when he joined them caught enough to realise that the man was complaining about the behaviour of a big English soldier.

The priest took Hanley and the sergeant to a little chapel, tucked away in a minor alley. Troops had been billeted there on the previous two nights. Benches had been burned, or pulled into little groups, and even the altar rail had perished. There was rubbish, even excrement, in one corner, and the whole place stank of wood smoke and concentrated humanity.

Dobson sat on one of the remaining benches, stark naked except for his shako, singing in a hoarse voice and every now and again taking a swig from a dark green bottle. The verses he sang lacked any significant religious content. The priest began a fresh tirade, screaming at Hanley that the British were all barbarians and telling him to get this Visigoth out of his church at once. It was hard not to sympathise, and the officer made no attempt to explain the peculiar circumstances. Hanley felt ashamed to be wearing the same uniform as men who had treated a once beautiful church so callously. He was also flooded with sympathy for the old veteran.

‘Come on, Dob,’ said Rawson in a strong but kindly voice. He stepped forward slowly, and patted the old soldier on the shoulder. ‘We need to go, my friend.’

Dobson looked at him without recognition. He plunged into a new song, this time at least prominently featuring a parson, albeit one whose conduct was unlikely to win recommendation from the established Church.

Rawson tried again. ‘We have to go, Dob.’ The expression in the bloodshot eyes was still vacant. Hanley came closer, and adopted the coaxing voice he normally reserved for children.

‘Let’s leave, shall we?’

Dobson’s face filled with sheer hatred. ‘You bloody bastard!’ he screamed as he sprang to his feet. His first punch struck Hanley on the side of the chin and sent the officer flying backwards. There was a flash of pain before he lost consciousness.

He woke to the sound of sobbing.

‘Oh, my Sally, my poor, poor Sally.’

Rawson’s face was bruised as he patted the veteran on the back.

‘Sally, girl, I miss you.’

Hanley stood carefully, but there seemed no prospect of renewed violence.

‘My Sally, my darling best Sally.’

‘That’s good, Dob. Let it out.’ Rawson’s voice was tender, in marked contrast to the harsh bark with which he gave orders.

‘She’s gone. Just gone.’ Dobson noticed Hanley. ‘It’s you, Mr Williams. Come and pray for her. Please, sir, you know the right words.’

Hanley was sensible enough not to correct him. He had no religion, and the more he saw of an often cruel world the less he was inclined to believe in God. Yet he caught the desperation in the man’s voice, and so knelt beside him on the flagstones of the desecrated church. The priest had fled at Dobson’s outburst of violence, no doubt to summon more assistance, so he could not be asked to speak the words, but nor was he there to protest.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he began. A glance showed him that Dobson was staring upwards, his face imploring, eyes wide in awe. Hanley stumbled over the words, and found that he too was crying. He missed lines and jumbled the order before he ended. ‘For ever and ever. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ echoed Dobson. ‘Thank you, Pug, thank you so much.’ The veteran had given Williams the nickname when he was a volunteer. Hanley wished more than ever that his friend was with them, and tried desperately to think of anything else he might say and do.

Rawson gave Dobson his greatcoat and hoped to find something more substantial for him before they marched off. The veteran still appeared to have little idea where he was. By the time they were ready to leave, the grenadiers and the stragglers formed up on the slope beneath the group of officers, the sergeant had found him boots, trousers and a shirt. Dobson’s pack, haversack and musket were still in the billet, so apart from his jacket he was largely restored to a soldierly condition. He had relapsed into silence again.

Pringle knew they ought to leave, but the spectacle of the cavalry action held them all. A fading hope also made him linger. Pringle suspected that MacAndrews had superstitiously chosen the grenadiers in case the presence of his friends somehow made it more likely that Williams and Miss MacAndrews would appear. He doubted that the major had much hope. Even so, only someone who knew him well would have detected any trace of concern for his missing daughter. Neither she nor Williams had reached Benevente. Of that they could be sure, for Major and Mrs MacAndrews as well as himself, Hanley and some of the other officers had gone all around the place. Perhaps they had joined Baird and his troops. If so, then they might see them at Astorga.

Sergeant Rawson marched up and stamped to attention. ‘They are ready to move, sir.’ Pringle acknowledged his salute.

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ He had felt it best to leave the sergeants to sober the drunks up so that they were capable of marching. He preferred not to know the methods, suspecting that they were scarcely likely to be according to regulation, but also guessing that they would have been far more effective than anything he could devise. ‘Any trouble?’

‘No, sir. Nothing we couldn’t handle.’ Rawson looked uncomfortable. His left eye was swelling into a blue-black bruise. ‘Mr Hanley, sir, may I ask how your jaw is?’

Hanley rubbed the area ruefully. He smiled. ‘I suspect as comfortable as your eye, Sergeant. I would never have believed that a man could hurt so much from slipping down some steps.’

‘Yes, sir. Very nasty, sir.’ Rawson was relieved.

‘We must both be more careful to watch where we tread.’ Pringle knew what had happened and was willing to let them lie about it. None of them wanted to see Dobson before a court martial and given anything up to one thousand lashes. Pringle wondered for a moment whether this made him a bad officer, of the sort Sir John had criticised in his recent order. Hanley was not really concerned about such things. Lying in a good cause had never bothered him in the slightest.

‘It still beats me where they found the stuff,’ he said to Pringle after the sergeant had gone back to the company.

‘Ah well, that’s hard to say, but one of the fellows from the Twenty-eighth was telling me that they were quartered in part of the convent, and that the priest left in charge kept assuring them that their cellars were empty. Then one of their subs spots a wall that looks newly built, so gets his men to knock a hole in it. It opened up into a deep chamber, and when they lowered him they found a great vat full of splendid stuff. As they were filling their canteens – and I suspect any other bottle they could find – the priest came down and asked if he might have some.