Beat the Drums Slowly (25 page)

Hanley sketched for the first time since the retreat. The light in the church was not good, and he tried to capture the weird shadows, and the ungainly, in some cases almost grotesque, figures of the ragged soldiers and their women. He and Pringle chatted with each other and with some of the other fellows until weariness caught up with them. They slept well, and to everyone’s surprise went undisturbed by any fresh alarms.

Parade the next morning revealed twenty-eight men absent from the battalion. It was fewer than MacAndrews had feared, although still a shameful enough total. As far as he could tell, the other regiments in the reserve had suffered similar losses. Pringle and Hanley were both relieved to see Dobson in his place beside Rawson on the flank of the company formation. None of the grenadiers was missing, and both officers suspected that this was due in no small measure to the veteran. They hoped that his new-found abstinence would last, as would his determination to impose the same restraint on others. Pringle was sure that one or two of the men had vanished during the night, and had no doubt been out scavenging, breaking into houses, and stealing wine and valuables. The mutton shared with the officers last night was surely only a tiny part of what was taken. Fear of Dobson, more than fear of the sergeants, let alone concern for his and Hanley’s vigilance, had meant that all were back by dawn, and at least fairly sober.

The battalion soon resumed the task of routing out the drunks and stragglers. It was colder this morning, and the 106th’s enthusiasm for the task had worn thin. It was no longer a game, and the general feeling was that such fools should be left to their fate. A few of their own missing men were found, some emerging sheepishly with bulging packs from houses. MacAndrews had Sergeant Major Fletcher search each one and throw away any likely plunder.

Few of the drunks could be roused. Those most inclined to recover and press on had mainly been found the day before. Time seemed to have permitted few to sober up. Some may well have done so during the hours of darkness, only to drink themselves into a deeper stupor.

The Grenadier Company swept along one of the longer streets, doing what they could to get the stragglers moving. Pringle and Hanley walked side by side, but at first neither had anything to say and they strolled along in silence. Before long parties of hussars began moving back through the town.

‘Reckon the French are snapping at our heels,’ said Pringle.

Hanley was stamping his feet to keep warm. Even with his cloak over his jacket he felt chilled to the bones. ‘About time. I have grown tired of this place.’ For all his fatigue, he was looking forward to the march and the warmth it would bring.

‘Yes, the French are welcome to it.’

‘I am beginning to feel that way about all of Spain.’ Hanley was obviously in low spirits. As they watched two of the grenadiers lifted one of the prostrate drunks and shook the man. He protested, but slumped to the ground as soon as they let go. They kicked at him and swore at him, smashing the bottle he clutched in his hand. The soldier – his jacket had yellow facings – refused to get up, and so with a final curse they left him.

Two hussars trotted past. ‘Did I tell you that I had a chat with some of the fellows from the Twenty-eighth yesterday,’ began Billy Pringle. He loved telling a good story and was always eager for the latest gossip in the army. ‘One of their captains has been pretty sick so was travelling stretched out in a cart, rolled up snug and warm and sipping champagne no doubt.’

‘Lazy devils, captains,’ muttered Hanley.

‘Well, there he is, going on his merry way, when he hears some noise and notices an hussar riding past. “Hey there, dragoon!” our gallant captain calls out. “What news?” Much to his surprise the hussar looked angry. “News, sir? The only news I can give you is that unless you step along like soldiers and don’t wait to pick your steps like bucks in Bond Street of a Sunday with shoes and silk stockings, damn it, you’ll all be prisoners!” ’

Pringle was already beginning to laugh at what he knew was coming. As usual it was infectious, and his friend could not help grinning in anticipation. ‘“Who the devil are you?” says our hero from his chariot. “I am Lord Paget, sir, and pray who the devil are you?” So the poor unfortunate captain goes white as a sheet and stammers out his name. Then the general makes him get out of his cart and march with the men!’ Billy had gone bright red, his face creased in the deepest amusement. Hanley found this as entertaining as the story itself.

Ensign Hatch appeared from an alley, leading a file of redcoats from his company.

‘Seen anybody we know?’ he asked cheerfully.

Pringle had not yet recovered himself, so it was Hanley who shook his head, assuming that Hatch was asking after stragglers from the battalion.

‘Well, easy enough to understand a fellow deciding that captivity might be a good deal more comfortable than struggling on with the rest of us.’ The ensign was still smiling, but Hanley was not quite sure whether there was an edge to his voice.

At that moment Brotherton rode past, calling out that the regiment was to muster on the far side of the town. The French were coming and it was time to go. They left the remaining drunks. In spite of all the efforts there still seemed to be hundreds lying unconscious in the streets and houses.

The 106th had not brought its full band on campaign, but MacAndrews had insisted that a dozen fifers bring their instruments. He formed these up with as many drummers beside the battalion and had them play during the muster. When the division moved off, they marched at the head of the battalion. Hanley had never particularly liked the thin music of these instruments, but had to admit that now he found himself standing tall, and marching with an enthusiasm for more than simply getting warm. The music appeared to call out to the stragglers, and a few dozen swayed to their feet at its call, and trickled out of the town to follow the column as it began to climb the long slope beyond the town.

Major MacAndrews was on horseback for the moment, and the added height allowed him to see the untidy little procession of the division’s baggage, a mile or so ahead at the crest. He could not single out his wife, but there was reassurance in knowing she was there. Halfway up the slope their brigade was ordered to halt and form up facing back towards Bembibre, covering the last outposts of the cavalry as they pulled back. The French cavalry were already entering the town, prompting the whole place to stir into life like a disturbed anthill. The 106th watched as men and women who had lain like corpses were seized by an instinctive terror of the enemy and sprang to their feet. Hundreds were running.

It was too late. The French cavalry were not inclined to burden themselves with too many prisoners. Perhaps they were also angry at their repulse by the British days before, or contemptuous of such a rabble. The 106th were too far away to hear the screams. They saw the glitter of swords being drawn, watched as the horsemen broke up and rode among the mob of fugitives, hacking down efficiently and without mercy. They killed men, women and children alike. Pringle had passed Williams’ telescope to Hanley, and so he saw more detail as one green-jacketed chasseur chopped down to fell a plump woman in a drab and tattered dress, then urged his horse on, passing a fleeing soldier and decapitating him with a single cut. He snapped the glass shut, and wished he had never looked. He could not see Hatch, who must have been back with his own company, otherwise he would have asked the ensign whether French captivity still appeared so comfortable.

‘Bastards.’ Hanley heard Dobson’s angry comment beside him, interrupting his thoughts. For once, that particular insult did not seem so distasteful to him. The grenadiers were gripping their muskets tightly in silent rage. None of the fugitives reached the safety of the reserve. The French came out of the town, but formed up warily when they saw the British rearguard. There was no attempt to molest the withdrawal, and the enemy simply watched, shadowing them from a distance. Battalions retired alternately until they reached the crest, so that several were always formed in case the enemy pushed on. They did not, and soon the whole division was marching together, leaving the hussars and some outposts of the 95th to cover the rear. Twice more in the day all or part of the division stopped, when it seemed that the enemy cavalry was coming closer. Nothing happened before they again resumed the retreat.

In the early afternoon the 106th were left behind. The road curved around a spur, and this, combined with a straggling patch of woodland, allowed them to form line so that they would become visible only when the leading Frenchmen turned the corner. The battalion eagerly anticipated the volley they would pour into them when they did. The rest of the division marched on, moving as noisily and visibly as they could, and only a few patrols of hussars remained behind, for the valley was too narrow for the cavalry to operate effectively in any numbers. It was no doubt this that made the French cautious. After half an hour the hussars came to report that the enemy had halted. Reluctantly, MacAndrews took his men back to rejoin the rest of the reserve.

No one paid much attention any more to the dead horses, oxen and mules which lay by the roadside. There were human corpses as well, some of them women, and a few the tiny forms of children. It was a long time since anyone had thought of stopping to bury them. Nor was much attention paid to the stragglers from the divisions ahead of them, some sitting mutely, staring into nothing, others stumbling on with feet wrapped in bloodstained rags.

‘Better hurry, boys, or the French will get you!’ called Murphy to some they passed. The sergeants more formally yelled at them to press on and rejoin their regiments. The lucky ones were given lifts behind one of the hussars, but they were few.

Hanley counted nineteen milestones before they stopped, outside the village of Cacabellos with its bridge. They formed up again in columns at quarter-distance facing towards the enemy, but the French failed to appear. The men were allowed to stand at ease, and he heard more talk than had been usual in the last few days. They knew the rest of the army was in Villafranca, just five or so miles farther on, and there were hopes expressed that it contained plentiful food, good billets and a rest. Best of all were rumours that the general would at long last let them loose on the enemy.

‘He’s been biding his time,’ said Murphy. ‘Luring them on before we hit ’em hard.’

‘We’ll show ’em ,’ said a private named King, whom Murphy disliked intensely. Today his overall goodwill permitted him to accept the man’s support.

‘Sure we will! Just like Portugal. Mark my words, our Johnny-boy will give them a drubbing they’ll long remember.’

‘Bastards need a lesson,’ was Dobson’s only comment, but Hanley thought his tone was dubious.

Johnny-boy himself arrived not long afterwards. His horse was lathered in sweat, and his normally impassive face alight with cold rage. Sir John had just come from Villafranca, where all the worst indiscipline of Bembibre was being repeated. The redcoats broke into homes, stealing and threatening the inhabitants. They broke into army stores, scattering, destroying or spoiling as much as they took. Doors were ripped off hinges, anything wooden prised away and burnt. Nothing and no one appeared to be safe in this drunken rampage. Hearing that even the Reserve Division was shedding stragglers and had left men behind at the start of the day, Sir John was determined to shame at least these back into order. He reined in his light bay with some savagery, making the animal rear in front of the battalion columns.

‘All my life I have been proud to be a soldier of Britain. This red coat,’ he stretched his arm out wide, ‘is as much a badge of honour as my sword.

‘Now I am ashamed. Ashamed to wear the same uniform as men who so forget both honour and duty as to misbehave so very disgracefully in the very face of the enemy.’ Graham did not believe that he had ever seen Moore so publicly angry. ‘Men lie drunk instead of attending to their duty. They steal and destroy instead of listening to their officers. Some of those officers neglect their men and permit them to perpetrate such abuses.’ MacAndrews was unsure it was quite proper to criticise officers in front of their men. Such damning verdicts, even if justified, were hardly likely to encourage obedience to those very men. Yet he understood the fury and shame of the general. The 106th behaved better than most, and that consoled him, but he confessed that even in the battalion there were more abuses than he would have liked.

‘So many men were left behind at Bembibre. I have never wanted one of the men under my command to die or fall into enemy hands without great need or useful purpose. Yet now I cannot envy the French. What sort of victory have they won over hundreds of British cowards – for none but unprincipled cowards would get drunk in the presence, nay, the very sight, of the enemies of their country. What a rare prize for Bonaparte!

‘Such conduct is infamous, utterly infamous. I am ashamed to be the commander of such a parcel of cowardly rogues. Sooner than survive the disgrace of such infamous misconduct, I hope that the first cannonball fired by the enemy may take me in the head!’ MacAndrews was not unusually superstitious, but the phrase struck him as unlucky.

Graham followed the general as he galloped off, back along the road to Villafranca. The battalions of the reserve remained in column.

‘Poor old fellow,’ Dobson muttered, even though he and the general were of an age.

‘Don’t think we’re to blame,’ whispered Sergeant Rawson in reply. ‘Sergeants not doing their jobs in other regiments.’

‘And officers,’ chipped in Murphy.