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Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy

Tags: #Historical, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective

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BOOK: Beat the Drums Slowly
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Big flakes of snow began to tumble lazily through the air. Even though the savage wind had gone, the night was still bitterly cold. Williams had always thought of Spain as a land where a tyrannical sun baked the earth in endless summer. Portugal had in truth been hotter even than that imagining. Yet the regiment had marched into Spain to face weeks of torrential rain, and now the temperature had fallen and the rain turned to sleet and snow.

Desperate, Williams reached back and slapped the mare’s rump. She protested, tossing her head, but still shot forward so sharply that he almost lost his balance. Then they were in the ford, icy water spraying up and drenching his trousers. She almost stumbled on the rutted slope at the far bank, but recovered and then was out.

‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ said Williams softly, patting the mare’s neck.

Wickham set off at a brisk trot as soon as Williams joined him on the other side, for it was better to be moving than standing in the cold. Even so, the chill seeped into the ensign’s soaked lower half. Soon Wickham’s affability was restored. He did not much care for his fellow officer, thinking him rather a dull clod of a man, somewhat inclined to surliness, and also knowing him to lack any useful connection. Yet it was always simpler to be on easy terms with people, and he avoided unpleasantness whenever possible. Wickham knew himself to be good at being pleasant. He dropped back a pace to be beside the ensign, and grinned.

‘Not as warm as Roliça, eh? Or as hot as the drubbing we gave the French that day?’

‘That was hot work,’ replied Williams flatly. That had been the regiment’s first action, a bitter scrambling fight up a warren of rocky gullies. Their colonel had been killed early on, along with several other officers, and more were wounded or captured. In spite of this they had taken the hill and held it, but little thanks to Wickham. The captain had been drunk by the time the advance began, and lay insensible before the battle was finished. Worse still, Williams had seen him murder a French officer who had surrendered. ‘A grim day,’ he added.

‘But glorious.’ In truth the captain remembered almost nothing of the battle, and was puzzled at his companion’s lack of enthusiasm. He changed the subject.

‘How are my grenadiers?’ Wickham had for a time commanded the Grenadier Company in which Williams had served as a volunteer and now as an officer. The grenadiers were the biggest soldiers in a battalion, awarded the place of honour on the right of its line. Wickham was a little above average height, and the straightness of his carriage and the skill of his tailor always made him seem taller again. Williams was a big man, more than an inch over six foot and broad shouldered. At the moment he was also very cold, and sore from riding for the first time in months. He merely confirmed that the company flourished, now led by Pringle.

‘Good old Billy,’ said Wickham, realising that he would have to labour at this conversation. ‘I do miss him and the other fellows. By the sound of it you should have Hanley back with you soon.’

That was good news, for along with Pringle, Lieutenant Hanley was Williams’ closest remaining friend in the regiment – poor Truscott still being in hospital at Lisbon after losing his arm. Williams nodded, but said nothing, and once again Wickham was forced to continue.

‘Hanley is a lucky fellow, doing duty with Colonel Graham.’ If Wickham had less esteem for a senior officer who was not a lord then he did not show it. After all, everyone knew that the elderly Graham had been wealthy enough to raise his own regiment. His rank was a courtesy, but his talent for diplomacy and ability to speak half a dozen languages had made him indispensable as the army had driven into Spain. Very few British officers spoke Spanish – or indeed any language apart from their own. Hanley was fluent, having lived for some years in Madrid, trying and failing to establish himself as an artist before poverty and the French invasion forced him to leave. Wickham had remembered this, and recommended him when the army commander was searching for Spanish-speakers. It had enhanced his own reputation as a man well suited to providing practical answers to a problem. Now he hoped to repeat the success.

‘It is quite remarkable to have two linguists in the same company,’ he said. ‘It rather belies the opinion of the rest of the army that we grenadiers are conspicuous for the size of our bodies rather than our brains.’

Williams was baffled. ‘Two, sir?’

‘No need to be modest. Hanley may be more accomplished from living over here, but I remember you embarked on a serious study of Spanish on the voyage from England, and no doubt have improved with experience. So when I discovered that Lord Paget had need of an interpreter, I could not help thinking of you. It will be no bad thing for your career to become known to such a distinguished officer.’

Dread flooded over the ensign. It was true that he had got hold of a Spanish grammar, and sought instruction from Hanley, and endeavoured to practise. So far his efforts had been rewarded with little progress.

‘Do you know what his Lordship requires me to do?’ It was a struggle to keep his voice level.

‘No idea,’ said Wickham blithely. ‘Don’t worry, old fellow. I am sure you will serve most handsomely. Don’t Billy and the others call you “Jack the interpreter”?’

Williams’ already flimsy confidence collapsed, and he silently cursed his friend’s sense of fun. The day after Vimeiro, in the full flush of excitement on gaining his commission, he had offered his services to a baffled official from the commissariat department, the civilian clerks who ran the army’s supply system. The man was trying and failing to explain to some local muleteers that he needed them to gather early the next morning with their animals. In his mind, Williams constructed a flawless instruction, perhaps a little more Spanish than Portuguese, but he felt that an appropriate accent would make the difference. According to Pringle – and Williams was convinced that his friend embellished the story on each of the many occasions since then that he had told it – he produced the following confident oration.

‘Portuguesios, the commissario – wants the mulos – tomorrowo – presto – la, la!’ Pringle accompanied each performance with fervent gestures and forceful expressions. At the time his friend, and the other officers in the group, had laughed so much that Williams doubted the accuracy of their recollection. He did remember the grave disappointment of the commissary, who reasonably enough felt that he could have done as much himself.

‘I am not sure my best is very good,’ was all that he thought to say now.

Wickham silently damned the man for his gloomy disposition, and decided that efforts at genteel conversation were wasted effort. Anyway, the cavalry brigade should not be far away now, and they could see a faint glow reflecting off the clouds from the chimneys of Sahagun up ahead.

‘Let’s push on,’ he said, and urged his expensive gelding into a canter. Williams kicked in his heels to follow, but Bobbie stubbornly refused to go faster. He tried again with more force, and the mare lurched, seemed to stagger, and then was running in her fast, jerky motion. The big man stood up in his stirrups to prevent the saddle slamming against him with every beat. Bobbie was awkward, but fast, and soon closed on Wickham.

They slackened pace when they saw a long dark shadow in the gloom. The moon emerged from behind clouds and they saw that it was made up of many shapes. They walked across some sort of bridge or causeway, and then, without a word, Wickham again surged forward. Williams used more force than before and when the mare took off in pursuit he lost his right stirrup. Fighting for balance as he was pounded by the saddle, he bounced in his seat and swayed from side to side, as they rode alongside the long column of light dragoons in their fur caps. No doubt the cavalrymen were suitably impressed by his horsemanship, but Williams was too concerned with his frantic efforts to stay on to spare this any thought. Somewhere he lost the other stirrup. His legs began to swing wildly.

Wickham reached the front of the brigade and reported to the general and his staff. A few moments later Williams arrived, sawing desperately on the reins. Bobbie decided to respond abruptly, skidding to a halt in a patch of mud topped by only a thin sliver of ice. Williams lost his balance and tumbled sideways, slumping down into the snow-and mud-filled ditch beside the track. The smell suggested that some of the horses from Lord Paget’s staff had added to the mixture.

There were sniggers, and a low comment of ‘Who gave you permission to dismount!’ – the ancient rebuke of regimental riding masters dealing with raw recruits unable to stay on a horse.

Bobbie stood meekly beside Williams, as he pushed himself up, something he did all the more quickly when she began to urinate noisily.

‘May I present Mr Williams, my Lord,’ said Wickham, unable to resist exploiting his subordinate’s discomfort. The cavalry officers laughed uproariously, until their commander raised a hand. Lord Paget was a handsome man, a horseman since boyhood, and wore the tight overalls and heavily laced, fur-trimmed jacket of the hussars with a perfection that Beau Brummell could not have surpassed. He was also a serious soldier and widely believed to be the ablest leader of cavalry in the King’s service.

‘To what do we owe this honour?’ he asked, the tone a mild rebuke to the effect that Wickham had forgotten his duties and not yet made a formal report.

‘General Paget’s compliments, my lord, and he understands that you have need of an officer able to speak Spanish.’ A younger brother, also a general and as widely respected, commanded the Reserve Division.

‘Does he? Well, yesterday you might have been useful, but we have other things to occupy us now. Still, you may as well stay for the dance.’

It took an effort for Williams not to cry out his joy. Even the shame of falling off his horse in front of the cream of the cavalry’s officers – and no doubt of London society as well – no longer mattered. He would not to be called upon to exercise his supposed talent as a linguist. He hauled himself back up on to the mare.

Lord Paget was peering at a fob watch, doing his best to read its face in the moonlight. ‘It’s time.’ He looked up at one of his aides. ‘Tom, do me the honour of riding over to General Slade, and remind him that he is to begin the attack from the north-west of the town at six thirty, and drive the enemy towards us.’ He turned to Wickham. ‘Take Mr …?’

‘Wickham, my lord.’

‘Take Captain Wickham with you. He seems to be well mounted. The other fellow can come with us.’

The two men rode away, cutting across the fields. ‘And pray God that bungler doesn’t make a hash of it.’ Williams was close enough to Lord Paget to catch his whisper, but did not know whom he meant. As the column moved off, he fell in at the rear of the general’s family of staff officers. A lieutenant with side whiskers almost as luxuriant as the general’s rode beside him and soon proved himself a friendly companion.

‘There are French cavalry at Sahagun. Maybe a brigade, but we can’t be sure. Probably foraging, or the far outposts of Marshal Soult’s army. So we’re off to wake them up a bit.’

‘We?’

‘The Fifteenth Light Dragoons, old boy,’ drawled the staff officer, who then turned to the man riding behind them at the head of a squadron. ‘Nearly as good a regiment as the Tenth Hussars.’ The officer behind them ignored the good-natured provocation.

‘The Tenth are my lot. They’re out there somewhere with Old “Black Jack” Slade. They drive the French from cover, and then it’s view halloo and sabres and glory before breakfast. Have you ever been in a cavalry charge, Williams?’

‘I confess not.’

‘The main thing is to stay on your horse.’ The hussar chuckled, and the mockery was so good natured that Williams happily joined in.

‘Quiet back there,’ shouted a voice far louder than their conversation. ‘We’re getting close now.’

The moon had gone, and the pale light of dawn was growing, although there was no sign of the sun. In the fields there were patches of milky-white mist. They rode on, hoofbeats mingling with the snorts and heavy breathing of the horses and the creak and jingle of harness to produce a noise so different from the sound of infantry on the march. If anything, the road was in worse condition than the stretch Williams and Wickham had come down. Patches of ice combined with deep ruts to make the going treacherous. Bobbie stumbled and skidded several times, as did most of the other horses. Several fell, although Williams did not see anyone badly hurt.

Muffled shouts and a single shot came from somewhere in advance of the main column. Minutes later, an hussar galloped up to report that the outposts had run into a French piquet, and killed two and captured half a dozen. Several more had escaped, riding back to give the alarm. Lord Paget led the regiment on, but progress was slow when they had to file across two bridges spanning a drainage ditch. Neither had a parapet, and their surface was slick with ice, but, to Williams’ surprise, Bobbie strode across without any hesitation or false step.

He could see the rooftops of Sahagun clearly now, and somewhere a bell was tolling.

Lord Paget took the 15th to the right of the place, following a fork in the road. As Williams looked across the fields to their left, he could see a dark mass formed outside Sahagun, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. There were horsemen there, but in the mist and gloom it was hard to know their strength. The cheerful hussar officer had no doubt about their identity.

‘Johnny Crapaud is up early for once.’

Lord Paget turned and gave the order himself. ‘Form open column of divisions!’ Cavalry drill was something of a mystery to Williams, and he had no idea whether a division was a troop or a squadron, but the intent seemed clear. As in the similar infantry formation, the regiment would march with sections one behind the other, with enough space between them so that each could wheel and form a single line either to the front or facing either flank.

BOOK: Beat the Drums Slowly
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