Beat the Drums Slowly (4 page)

‘Biggest balls-up since Yorktown,’ said the corporal under his breath.

‘“B
lood and slaughter – march!” His very words, Williams, and then we advanced. I never saw anything more handsome or soldier-like.’ Captain Wickham’s enthusiasm for General Slade had carried him along for much of the fifteen-mile ride back to the main army. The captain was eager to press on, keenly anticipating the admiration and envy of the other staff officers for his participation in the cavalry’s great victory. Only the weariness of their mounts, and especially Williams’ mare, kept them at a gentle pace. The general had halted the 10th Hussars to deliver a grand oration, filled with gruesome details of what they were about to do to the French. Wickham evidently considered this a finer accomplishment than actually having arrived in time to take part in the fighting.

Williams was barely listening, and had shown no more than the barest amount of interest demanded by courtesy, but the captain continued his flow of praise anyway.

‘Just think, two regiments of French cavalry utterly overthrown!’

The ensign nodded, sourly thinking that it was all the more praiseworthy since only the 15th had charged and thus been forced to fight on their own a substantially larger enemy force. Williams was tired, cold, and every inch of his lower body screamed at the slightest movement of the mare as she plodded alongside the road, which was taken up by the columns of marching infantry. The whole army under the command of Lieutenant General Sir John Moore was following in the wake of the hussars, pushing ever deeper into northern Spain. They were to camp at Sahagun that night, as many men as possible being billeted in its houses, but Wickham had been unwilling to wait there for them to arrive. Lord Paget and his own staff had already reported to Sir John on the morning’s success. Wickham had got Williams to accompany them, but they had been left on the fringe, barely noticed except by the young ADC, who cheerfully clapped Williams on the back. Wickham decided to move on to reach the Reserve Division and give the news to Major General Paget and his officers, who were unlikely to have heard any detail of the action or had a chance to exercise their approbation.

The redcoats trudged along the road wearily. It had been a hard march, begun in a thunderstorm, before the temperature dropped and the sleet and snow began. The tramp of hoofs and feet churned the road to mud which sucked at boots and shoes, straining at the straps on gaiters and making each step an effort. Sodden greatcoats had been removed and tied to the tops of packs, along with the single blanket which was all that had been issued to each man. Williams knew from experience how the wooden frames of the backpacks pressed against the spine, and the straps constricted the chest until each breath was painful.

Thirty-five battalions of infantry had at last been concentrated, along with eleven troops or brigades of artillery and the four regiments of hussars. With more than 35,000 men, it was not simply the biggest army Britain had sent on campaign for generations, as its commander was wont to say, it was
the
British Army, including the majority of its finest corps. Serious losses could not be quickly replaced, and were a catastrophe to occur then it would be many years before Britain could dream of again intervening on the continent of Europe.

The men marched with confidence in spite of their fatigue. Word had spread that the French were near, and there was an aggressive swagger in the redcoats’ manner. They were eager to fight, and once the enemy had been routed there would be plenty of time to rest. None of them doubted for a moment that they would win any battle. In that strange way with armies, some news of this morning’s charge had clearly spread through the regiments. An orderly from the 3rd King’s German Legion Hussars galloped past Wickham and Williams and a great cheer went up from the nearest battalion. The Germans had been nowhere near Sahagun that morning, but the sight of the fur cap and laced pelisse jacket of an hussar was enough for the redcoats.

Ten minutes later they finally reached the staff of General Paget, halted beside the road as the head of the leading battalion of the reserve marched past – Williams recognised the pale yellow facings of the 20th. The German hussar had obviously been carrying a dispatch to the general, for as they rode up, they watched one of his staff sign to acknowledge receipt of the message. The trooper then saluted and rode off.

Wickham was well satisfied by the welcome he received. He began by formally passing on Lord Paget’s best wishes to his brother, and then allowed the eager questioning of the general’s ADCs to prompt modest but strongly suggestive answers. Williams found it all rather sickening, and would happily have ridden on in search of his own regiment, but was told to stay by the friendly Captain Pierrepoint, the Deputy Assistant Quartermaster General attached to the division. Then the latter was drawn off in conversation by a couple of officers from the 20th, his own corps. Williams was left on the edge of the group, waiting either for the 106th to arrive or for someone to remember his existence.

He dismounted gingerly, the ache in all the muscles of his thighs turning briefly to vivid pain as he swung down. His legs were stiff after so many hours in the saddle, and he almost thought they would buckle underneath him when his boots touched the ground. Williams stamped his feet to bring some life back to them, and could not help hissing in discomfort. He patted the mare on the neck, more through relief to be off her than from current affection.

Wickham was giving another rendition of Black Jack Slade’s speech. Williams ignored it and stretched, rubbing his neck. He passed a hand through his fair hair. His hat had been irreparably trampled at Sahagun, so he had left it where it lay, quickly dismissing the thought of searching for a replacement among the enemy dead. Somehow he would have to purchase a new cocked hat from his meagre funds, but he was too sore to worry about that now. He scratched his head. When he had joined the army at the beginning of the year, regulation decreed that hair should be worn long, tied into a queue and then covered in white powder. The rule had been changed in the summer, and it was still a relief to reach up and not feel the thick, flour-like paste. As he felt his hair, he wondered whether it was getting too long once again.

Williams ran up the left stirrup. Instinctively awkward in social gatherings even of such an informal sort, he had long since convinced himself that appearing to be busy, rather than merely standing and looking on, created a better impression should anyone deign to notice. As he walked behind Bobbie, the mare lashed out with a hoof. She missed, just swishing aside the long tails of his officer’s coat. He had bought it after Vimeiro, at the auction of the property of a fallen officer of the 50th, and then had the black cuffs and collar replaced with the red of the 106th. The unfortunate man had been as broad shouldered, but considerably larger around the waist. In spite of adjustments the jacket still hung loose around him, suggesting that Williams had suffered from a serious illness, and denying him the trim figure felt ideal for an officer.

He patted Bobbie again to calm her, but suspected this was merely one of her periodic outbursts of malice and not prompted by any particular grievance. There was a sound of more horsemen arriving to join the group of officers clustered around the general. Williams now had his back to them all and did not bother to turn. He slid the other stirrup up, and then reached back to scratch his lower back with both hands, before reaching farther down to the area left tender. A shadow fell over him.

‘I trust you are not wounded, Mr Williams?’ It was a voice he admired above all others, and for a moment he froze, horrified to be caught in such an ungraceful posture. Then the tall man turned, his face beaming happiness as he looked up at the girl. She overwhelmed him, as she always did whenever they met.

Miss MacAndrews wore a deep blue riding habit, with a snug-fitting jacket over it styled something like the pelisse of the hussars. This was a paler blue, with white lace and ribbons, and a generous fringe of soft brown fur. She had a grey fur hat, only very vaguely resembling the cavalry’s headgear, but far more suitable to keep her warm, and her flowing red curls were pinned up beneath it. In a field of snow under a grey sky and amid a tired and mud-stained army, she seemed to shine. Williams fervently believed that her beauty and essential goodness would stand out in any place and any company.

‘It seems that I made an appropriate choice of attire for today,’ she said. ‘Even Father will be pleased at such a victory.’ Major Alastair MacAndrews had been a soldier since the American War, where he had been captured when the cavalry had fled and left his battalion surrounded. This had greatly reinforced the instinctively jaundiced attitude of a foot soldier to the more conspicuous and flamboyant mounted arm.

‘May I say that your uniform becomes you most magnificently. I am sure that our hussars will crave the chance for ten more such charges, merely to begin to prove worthy of inspiring your costume.’ It had taken months for Williams to gain any confidence in her presence, and even now he was thinking hard to devise appropriate compliments.

Jane MacAndrews’ blue-grey eyes stared into his, her expression suddenly serious. ‘Then I am sure that I must at once go off and alter it. For that would mean more fighting and surely it is inevitable that some men will die. I should hate to be the cause of deaths, most of all merely because of the choice of a garment.’

Williams scrambled desperately for an appropriate response. ‘I am sure that in such a cause they would feel honoured … That is to say …’ That was no doubt wrong. ‘I did not mean to imply …’ For all his hard-won confidence, he had been thrown off balance in a minute.

The flicker of amusement began in her eyes, and then she dazzled him with a smile, and he no longer cared about balance. ‘I am cruel,’ said Jane, ‘to respond so unjustly to generous gallantry.’

‘And I am flattered to be felt worthy of such spontaneous ingenuity,’ he replied, surprising himself at being able to imply even gentle criticism. He had loved Miss MacAndrews from the very first moment he saw her, an emotion which had grown unflinchingly. Months before he had declared that love, at the same time confessing his inability to ask for anything, lacking any income beyond his pay. Deep down he knew that he had hoped for some affirmation from her – not a promise, for that would be unreasonable to expect, but the slightest acknowledgement that she would consider his proposal, should he ever be in a position to make one. That had not been given. She assured him of friendship, and had certainly lived up to this statement. The disappointment did not reduce his love in the slightest degree.

Jane returned to the attack. ‘And do you feel a rapid fluency sufficient to excuse such behaviour? The charge of cruelty remains, and it seems I must be convicted.’

Williams faltered again. ‘Never, never,’ he pleaded. ‘Not unless the sun is cruel because of its brightness, or the stars because of their …’ He struggled to think of something stars did, for sparkle seemed inadequate.

‘Gallantry is no doubt an appropriate defence for a soldier, although perhaps there are circumstances where it is insufficient in itself.’ The girl was disappointed that he was unable to continue such a promising exchange for very long. His adoration was so akin to worship that at times it wearied her. She had no wish to be a goddess, exalted, but not given the dignity of directness or exposure to even gentle wit. At nineteen she accepted her attractiveness to men – as far as she could see, almost all men – as a simple fact. This complacency made praise of her perfection unexceptional, and while she found it pleasant enough, it failed to provoke a deep response. So much was anyway habitual, although at least Williams had the virtue of utter sincerity and obviously steadfast conviction.

On its own that was not enough. Jane was genuinely fond of him, but there was no more than a remote prospect that this would one day amount to anything more. Occasionally he showed just a spark of something which might perhaps foster deeper feeling. Yet such matters rarely exercised her thoughts for long. She was young and had no desire to marry until she had seen more of the world. The year before she had been with her mother in America, visiting their family. Since then they had rejoined her father in England, before following him to Portugal and Spain. Life was filled with new and interesting places and people. Marriage and children, even domesticity itself, for the moment had no more than distant appeal.

She decided to lead the conversation in another direction. ‘I am aware of your diverse and numerous talents, Mr Williams, but I confess that until now I had not suspected great equestrian prowess.’ Miss MacAndrews sat straight backed on her grey, and was a confident – indeed, like her mother, at times somewhat reckless – rider. ‘Is it true that you rode in the charge?’

‘I was there,’ he said. Williams found it difficult to talk about a battle or skirmish. Somehow words struggled to match the confused memories and the stark peaks of anger and fear.

Jane leaned forward a little to whisper mischievously, ‘And did you fall off?’

‘He did. Right in front of Lord Paget himself.’ Neither had noticed Wickham walk his horse over to join them. ‘Best to stay with the infantry, old boy.’ His smile was broad, the mockery ostensibly generous. Jane laughed, and Williams felt obliged to smile.

‘May I say how uncommonly elegant you are, Miss MacAndrews. The finest ornament the army could possess.’ Wickham had met Jane when the regiment was still in England, but not remarked her to any degree. This morning he was struck by her charms.