Read True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Online
Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Tags: #Historical Fiction
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (5 page)
Now, after five months, his uniform felt comfortable – or at least as comfortable as the rough wool and the stiff leather neck stock allowed. His first parade, when nothing seemed to fit and it all felt so awkward and ungainly, had left him wondering how the sergeants could be so impossibly smart. Even now these men seemed to possess some magic he lacked, but Williams felt that he was a master of the chief mysteries of soldiering. He could pick out his musket from all the other India Pattern firelocks by the tiny notch on the butt plate and the stain on the wood just behind the trigger, which no amount of oiling and scrubbing could remove. It was ‘his’ musket, unique among all the hundreds of thousands owned by the army. Williams felt himself to be fully a soldier, but he remained an outsider wherever he was.
MacAndrews gave the company five minutes’ rest after marching for an hour, and then a longer break after the second hour. By then they had gone a good six miles, and the weather had improved, so the order was given to remove their greatcoats and tie them back on top of their wooden-framed packs. That done, Williams was unsure what to do as the grenadiers took their ease. Should he go and join the officers as they leaned against a nearby wall, or stay and converse affably with the grenadiers, showing that he was not too proud to acknowledge them? Would either welcome him or would he be seen as sycophantic to the
officers and patronising to the men? Pringle was always friendly, and when the lieutenant was present the supercilious Redman was at least formally polite. As Williams glanced towards the officer, he noticed Hanley looking back at him. After a moment, the new ensign nodded and smiled, but it was hard to know whether that was meant as an invitation, and Pringle had his back to him so was no guide. Williams nodded in reply, but did not move.
‘Mr Williams, sir, did you bring your tinder box?’ asked Dobson from behind him. The ‘sir’ was a courtesy. Tout and another private named Murphy also came up holding their clay pipes. After that Dobson stopped any of the other soldiers from asking for the same service. Murphy was one of a dozen or so Irishmen in the grenadiers, and there were similar numbers in the other companies. In spite of its name, the 106th had few soldiers from Wales, and fewer still from the county itself. Like other regiments they took recruits wherever they could find them. ‘We don’t want to wear out Mr Williams’ flint,’ added the veteran.
‘No, he’s not married yet,’ quipped Murphy. Williams allowed himself a smile in spite of the coarseness.
‘That’s why he’s still happy,’ put in Dobson automatically, although he had buried one wife and been with his Sally now for sixteen years. They rowed sometimes, especially when he drank, but even then he had never laid a hand to her and was proud of that. Their eldest girl was now nearly sixteen – there had been some urgency about their wedding – and was a constant source of worry to him. ‘Would turn me to drink, if I had not long since spun that way,’ he often said. Jenny Dobson was too full of herself, and he feared that she was making eyes at the officers. That way lay ruin, for ‘gentlemen’ all too easily used and discarded maids like her. She had a brother, aged fourteen and now on the strength as a drummer, and a sister just ten.
Dobson had been raised to sergeant several times over the years, but then been broken for drunkenness. Like so many soldiers, Dobson all too easily threw off all restraint, drowning himself in alcohol, which tended to make the big man violent. Williams did not think the officers much better – had been astounded by
the sheer quantities they could drink in an evening. Personally he drank little, mainly because the taste nauseated him, and had never been drunk in his life, although that was on principle.
‘How’s that lock?’ asked Dobson. Some weeks ago he had shown Williams how to wrap a rag around the lock on a musket in wet weather, stopping water from getting into the pan, where it would soak the powder and so stop the weapon from firing. They were not marching with loaded muskets today, but the old soldier was keen for the volunteer to learn to do things properly. In the company’s formation Dobson stood directly in front of Williams, and front and rear rank men depended upon each other utterly in battle. The veteran wanted his to be up to standard.
‘Not bad,’ he said as Williams showed him the tightly wound rag. ‘That would keep it out if anything will.’ Dobson grinned and patted the volunteer on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Pug.’
Only Dobson used the nickname to Williams’ face, but it had generally supplanted his earlier one of Quaker – the inevitable slang for any man who neither swore nor drank. The Hastings Pug was a prizefighter, not the best, but he had won several bouts in the county during the last year. The grenadiers had not known what to make of their volunteer for a long time, for he said so little. Then in March he had been sent with a party of fifteen men to help a supply wagon which had become bogged down on its way to the battalion. It had been hard work in foul weather, digging around the wheels to free them. Dobson had stared aghast at Williams’ energetic, almost frenzied plying of his spade.
‘Good God, sir, don’t you even know how to dig. Look, watch me, and do it this way.’
They had got the job done in two hours of exhausting labour, had let it drive on to the battalion, but Sergeant Probert – one of the few genuine Welshmen in the regiment – had taken them into an inn to shelter and refresh themselves before they returned. On that day even Williams enjoyed some warm punch. Reluctant to venture out into the weather, they stayed drinking for some time. Then Hope, not an especially big man, but very broad in the chest, had suddenly grabbed one of the maids as she passed.
The girl struggled and squealed as the man yelled out that he must have a kiss for every mug he had drunk. Some of the soldiers laughed for the man was obviously drunk, indeed known for the readiness with which the drink took hold of him. Others told him to let her free, but Hope ignored them all, and gave the maid a long slobbering kiss. One of his hands began to grab at her skirt and lift it.
The girl screamed loudly now, and reaching around on the table beside them, flung a bowl of stew at him. It was still hot enough to make Hope let her go, and she fell to the ground, cap falling from her head and legs waving in the air amid a flurry of skirts and petticoats. The grenadier stood up, fingers rubbing at his eyes, and howled in rage. Probert should have done something, but was more amused than worried and ignored Dobson’s warning looks.
Then Williams got up, strode over to Hope and punched him just once squarely on the jaw. It surprised everyone, including the volunteer, but he had taken more drink than usual and the adventures he read so avidly were about strong men who protected the weak – most of all who behaved with chivalry. Williams just found himself there confronting the drunken private. Much of it was fluke, for although he leaned into the blow and was a big man, still it was chance that he struck in just the right place. Hope went back, skimmed over the tabletop scattering tankarnd plates in all directions and landed unconscious on the other side.
For a moment two of his friends seemed inclined to continue the fight. Yet Williams was big, and still looked belligerent, although in truth he was as much amazed at himself as anything else. Then the huge figure of Dobson came to stand beside him and Probert finally acted.
‘Now, lads, it’s all over. A fair fight and he deserved it,’ he said, looking round the room to see that they all accepted this. ‘King and Rafferty, you wake him up.’ His friends promptly did this with a jug of water. Hope came back to life spluttering, but surprisingly passive. He was not normally such an aggressive drunk. He stood, rubbing his jaw.
‘Come, then, you two boys just shake hands like men and end it,’ continued Probert. There was no warmth when they did so. There was more enthusiasm when the maid stood on tiptoe and pecked Williams on the cheek. The grenadiers cheered that, even Hope, who did not seem to remember what had provoked all this in the first place. Hamish blushed, which made them laugh and cheer all the more.
‘Listen, all of you,’ this was Dobson, ‘nothing happened, see. We all just had a quiet drink. Right?’ They nodded. ‘Old Hope just had too much and fell on his arse like always.’
It had taken a while for Williams to understand. Although he served as an ordinary soldier he was supposed to be a gentleman. For a gentleman to strike a soldier – indeed, to strike anyone other than a King’s enemy – was unthinkable. Had it become officially known then he would have had no choice but to resign or be dismissed. It was chilling to think that a moment’s anger could have ended his career before it had even begun.
What surprised him was the reaction of the company, for the brief confrontation made the grenadiers accept him as they had not done before. They were soldiers, and the one thing above all else they respected was pluck. He had shown that and more, and now they gave him some respect, even trust. They were a little more free when they talked to him. Dobson in particular began taking an almost paternal interest in him. He had become ‘Good Old Mr Williams’ or simply the ‘Pug’. Even Hope seemed to carry no ill will, although he had always been an easygoing man when sober.
The rest was soon over, and Sergeant Darrowfield barked out the order to fall in. Pringle and Ensign Redman lingered for a moment, struggling to restore some order to Hanley’s uniform. They could do nothing about the mud spattered across his white breeches – somehow Hanley had seemed to attract more than either of them – but straightened his belts and once again tried to wind his dark red silk sash back into place.
‘There, as good as new,’ lied Pringle. ‘Damp, of course, but a drop of water won’t harm you, and I should know, coming from a long line of sailors.’
‘Yet here you are in the army?’
Pringle smiled. ‘I seem not to have inherited my ancestors’ sea-legs. A naval officer is not supposed to spend every voyage draped over the side or lying moaning in his cot.’
‘Was not Nelson prone to seasickness?’ asked Redman, who was a tall but desperately thin eighteen-year-old. He had been disappointed to learn that Hanley was his regimental senior, but still did his best to be friendly.
‘Yes, I am sure I read that somewhere,’ said Hanley.
‘Ah, the difference was that with him it would wear off in time. It just didn’t seem to with me. I rather doubt England’s hero wnle quite so celebrated if he had spent the Nile or Trafalgar puking his guts out over the side.’
‘Apart from that these were a problem.’ Pringle had taken off his wire-rimmed glasses and was polishing their lenses with his own sash. ‘His Majesty’s Navy isn’t keen on officers with bad eyesight. At least Nelson had one good eye.’
‘Are French soldiers easier to see than their warships?’ asked a grinning Hanley.
‘Apparently. Perhaps the Horse Guards have arranged that we will only fight against particularly tall and fat Frenchmen.’
Their musings were interrupted by Sergeant Darrowfield. ‘Mr Pringle, sir, would you and the other gentlemen care to join us.’
The three officers strolled over to take their places in the formation.
‘Amazing how they can make “sir” sound like a question,’ said Pringle quietly.
The company marched on as the sun began to set, the clouds shading into rich pinks and reds. Hanley was now content and weary enough to take pleasure in the scene. In the last weeks even the most magnificent landscapes had left him unmoved. For a moment he wanted to stop and sketch, or better yet use the box of watercolours he carried in his trunk. Then he thought of Mapi. He had often dreamed of the dead girl from Madrid, and sometimes it was his lover’s face he saw when he turned the corpse over. Despair flooded back and all desire to make or create
vanished. His mind came back to where he was and he laughed grimly as he thought that he had come to an army to seek peace.
Pringle raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Hanley did not notice. The lieutenant had worries enough of his own. His memories of the previous night were still hazy, but after the hours of drinking in the inn, he remembered a vigorous coupling by the wall of the stable yard. He had hoped that it was with Molly Hackett, but when he had encountered her that morning she had not returned his smile and certainly gave no hint of intimacy. Anyway, she was a blonde, and he was now sure the girl in question had had dark hair. When the company had left the village, he had noticed young Jenny Dobson watching them. She had winked at Hanley – and that was a surprise – and then treated him to a broad smile. Had this been more than her habitual flirtation?
Anyone but her, thought Pringle, please God, anyone but her. Jenny was pretty, but a good officer should not be rolling one of his soldier’s daughters. Dobson was a good man, one whose respect Pringle wanted to earn. Apart from that, the veteran could be frightening, and was certainly not a man to make angry. Billy Pringle made a familiar pledge to restrain his fondness for liquor, this time with more fervour than usual.
The Grenadier Company trudged on in an easy rhythm.
‘I
t could be Spain,’ said Sir Richard Langley, and was not surprised when his companion merely grunted. Sir Richard was a man who noticed details, and that was one of the things that made him important. He held no formal office, but seemed to know everyone in Lord Portland’s government, at the same time as maintaining the friendliest relations with the leaders of the Whig opposition. Now he noted the slight movements, the gentlest squeeze of the knees, followed by slight pressure on the reins, as Lieutenant Colonel Moss slowed his borrowed mount.
‘Indeed, I begin to think it very likely. London seems to have fallhen n love with the Spanish.’ Sir Richard was happy to provide both sides of a conversation. ‘Of course, they have rarely been friends of ours.’
‘Bugger friendship.’ Moss sniffed, finally breaking his silence of the last ten minutes.
‘Quite so,’ said Sir Richard, and as so often wondered whether his younger friend was consciously acting, for he had seen him behave in different manners in various company. At times he was garrulous, often charming, whereas today he was the gruff, even crude soldier. ‘Yet for all that, life without friends is difficult, for a country as much as an individual. England has few friends, with the Austrians and Prussians battered into submission. They say Russia’s Tsar is apparently now positively affectionate to Bonaparte.’ Moss knew that Sir Richard’s information would be as reliable as any available in the country.
‘Affection need not be lasting in statecraft,’ said Moss, his voice now softer and manner more intent.
‘Interests can indeed change, but at present there is very little reason for any of the Great Powers to side with Britain. The Spanish have less choice, unless they want to fight Boney on their own. For our part, a weak ally is better than none. You remember the fervour in town when the news came of the rising in Madrid.’
‘Which the French crushed.’
‘Yes, but that has not prevented a wave of enthusiasm for all things Spanish. I understand that one of my clerks has been enjoying the favours of several ladies by pretending to be a Spaniard. He wears a broad red sash and speaks to them in a mixture of Latin and a speech of his own invention. I would scarcely have credited him with the initiative, but for a small, ill-favoured lad, it appears that he is doing remarkably well.
‘More importantly, you saw the crowds welcoming the delegation from the Spanish junta. England, or at least fashionable opinion, wants us to help their noble struggle.’ Sir Richard spoke dispassionately, but without amusement. Not part of the crowd, he did not despise it, for it was an element – even if only one element and rarely the most important – of what made politics work, and that was Sir Richard’s world. Moss was the son of an old friend and business associate, a banker who helped Langley to become wealthier with every passing year. Finance was as inseparable from politics as it was essential for a comfortable life. ‘There are sound reasons for action as well as enthusiasm.’
Sir Richard broke off to greet an elderly couple walking arm in arm. Hyde Park was busy, and they had barely been able to trot for more than a few minutes. He could sense Moss’s frustration, as he stopped the hot-blooded mare he was riding, curbing her urge to run. It was typical of the man to choose the tallest and fastest horse on offer. Sir Richard could sense his frustration in not being able to give the bay her head, and deliberately prolonged the conversation, and even when they bade the couple farewell he kept his own gelding at the gentlest of walks.
The young lieutenant colonel of the 106th Foot was inclined to obsession. Old General Lepper was the regiment’s colonel, guiding from a distance, and approving important decisions and
promotions, but Moss commanded the battalion on a day-to-day basis and would lead it into battle, if only Horse Guards had the sense to send them on campaign. The young lieutenant colonel did not care where, as long as there were the King’s enemies to fight.
A short man, George Moss whenever possible moved at high speed. Even when inspecting a parade he paced so rapidly along the ranks that officers not used to it as to keep up. For all that he had an eye for detail, and seemed at a glance to be able to spot the tiniest flaw in turnout. His speech was fast, although socially he was also prone to these long bouts of silence. At his infrequent rest he looked gloomy, almost mournful. When talking he could soon become aggressively enthusiastic, sweeping people along before they had a chance to think.
Moss had purchased command of the 106th at the end of the previous year, but had as yet spent little time with the battalion. His agents had arranged the purchase while he was serving on a staff appointment in Dublin, and some time elapsed before a successor was found and he felt free to leave. In the following months there had been brief whirlwind visits. Orders came in flurries, with changes to routine and details of drill. Patience was not one of Moss’s virtues and he expected the changes to be instant. Then he would depart, usually to London, where he would plunge himself head first into the politics of the army and the country itself where the two overlapped. At twenty-nine he was young to command a battalion, although not as young as some, especially in the years before the Duke of York had taken over the army and imposed tighter regulation on careers. Moss had not been badly affected by this, but any delay enraged him, wasting time when he could be winning glory.
Eight years before he had been the first up the beach in Egypt, a young captain charging ahead of his company, which was itself at the head of the entire army. He had made a name for himself, but it had been brief. Twenty minutes later he was shot through the cheek by a spent musket ball. The wound looked dreadful, although it scarcely slowed the small man as he led his men up
the dunes. They told him later that no one could understand what he was saying as his cheek flapped whenever he spoke, but his redcoats followed him anyway. He staggered and fell when another ball buried itself in his side. Then he was up again, still roaring and waving his sword, until a third shot broke his left leg and knocked him down for good.
For Moss, Egypt had been a short war, and his glory was soon submerged in the greater glory of Abercromby’s victory at Alexandria a few weeks later. The captain had still been with the surgeons at the time, damning their eyes and threatening to shoot anyone who tried to take his leg. The doctors had shaken their heads, but eventually given up on the irascible captain and let him take his chance. By then they had too much other trade from the Battle of Alexandria to worry overmuch about one fool. The fever had come and gone, and if anyone had had the time to think they might have been amazed at Moss’s recovery. He kept his leg, and was walking on it long before anyone else thought this wise. Years later there was not even the slightest trace of a limp. The side wound had also healed. So did the injury to his face, but that gave him a permanent scar. Most people – and especially the ladies – felt this was a marked improvement. Before then he had looked immensely boyish. With a dark red slash on his cheek he looked piratical, and his smile changed from innocence to roguish charm.
Alexandria had been the army’s last great victory. Back in ’06 a small force had shattered an equally small French army at Maida in Italy, but that had been little more than a skirmish. Since then there had been little glory, and more than a few humiliations. South America was the worst, but even in Egypt things had turned sour. Moss despised failure. He knew he was a good soldier, a bold man who would not hold back until victory was won. Yet he had had no chance to smell powder since Egypt. Britain’s navy ruled the waves and covered itself with the laurels of triumph time after time. The army did not get its chance, and Moss chafed at years of inaction. It seemed so absurd when the world was is he middle of the greatest war in history.
When Moss gained his own battalion he was adamant that he would take them to war. Enough time had already been wasted and there was a good deal of lost ground to recover. His cousin was an MP, and he had connections at high levels in Horse Guards, the headquarters of the army, but Sir Richard was a family friend and by far the best guide to the mechanisms of power and influence in London. Following his advice, Moss flung himself head first at any opportunity to influence those who determined the postings given to regiments. The 106th was not a famous corps and had few obvious patrons. It was now the junior regiment of infantry in the entire British Army. There had once been regiments with higher numbers, even a 135th Foot, but most had existed only on paper and these ghost units had been abolished by the Duke of York, along with all the opportunities for corruption they had brought. The 106th had survived, but there was a danger that it would only ever get the worst assignments. Moss had no intention of taking his men back to the Caribbean or to any other unwholesome backwater.
He lobbied hard, spending his own money to entertain generals, ministers and senior clerks alike. He paid court to the men themselves and anyone who might persuade them. Over the months he seduced the wife of an elderly general, at the same time lavishing gifts and favours on the mistress of another. He gambled with men in government, letting them win enough to enjoy his company, but never making it too obvious. Finally, it had worked. The outbreak of smallpox among a battalion stationed in Ireland and allocated to a force bound for South America had provided the opportunity. A replacement was needed, and Moss could boast that his regiment was the bravest and best trained in the army, and that it would be a criminal waste to leave them guarding Dorset against imaginary enemies when there were battles to be fought. Adding the 106th to the expedition would be the simplest solution. Sir Richard called in favours and gave advice.
Moss was almost there. Sir Richard assured him that his regiment would join the force soon to embark at Cork, and his assurances were as certain as anything could be in politics, even if Horse
Guards had not yet written the order. What he did not know is where the expedition would be sent, and that was because as far as he could tell no one had actually made up their minds. There was no more mention of South America, which made him suspect that plan had been abandoned, at least for the moment.
Sir Richard liked the thrusting, impatient Moss, as well as being obliged to his father. As importantly he guessed that the young officer would go far in the army, at least if he stayed alive. Furthermore, Moss had no brothers or sisters, and so was sole heir to a great fortune. Langley had long since considered the many advantages of a union with his own daughter.
They rode slowly for ten minutes, the silence broken only to acknowledge acquaintances as they passed. At the end of this time, Moss turned to his companion – in spite of a smaller horse their faces were level. ‘Spain, eh,’ he said, nodding to himself with a look of fixed intent. ‘Good.’ There seemed to be no more for a while, but Sir Richard waited, knowing that Moss was not listening and anyway never one for needless talk. ‘Any idea of who will be in charge?’
Sir Richard Langley smiled, the tight skin of his long face fracturing into a web of wrinkles. ‘Ah, now that I do know.’ There was open ground ahead of them and he kicked his horse straight into a canter. Moss instinctively followed and found himself laughing as the strong mare pounded across the firm grass.
‘Damn you, sirs! Damn you all to hell! Is this the pledged word of England?’ The little man’s English was excellent, until his fury grew too incandescent and he could express it only in Spanish far too rapid and heavily accented for Sir Arthur Wellesley and his companions to follow. General Francisco Miranda had come to London from Venezuela to persuade the British to help him raise rebellion in Spain’s American possessions. That aid had been promised, and Wellesley appointed to lead a strong British expeditionary force. They had met several times to plan the enterprise. Now, at the last minute, Britain’s government had changed its mind.
‘You betray us!’ Miranda reverted to English, his voice lower, but more precise as he controlled his rage. ‘You betray freedom itself! God will judge you for this treachery. You will be lost!’ The last words were bellowed as once again the anger overcame him and he stalked off down the street.
The British had deliberately arranged to meet the general and his followers in the street, hoping that this would prevent too unpleasant a scene. It had not gone entirely to plan, and more than a few passers-by had paused to watch the gaudily uniformed man’s explosion of anger. Wellesley did not blame the would-be revolutionary.
‘He is angry enough to lead a revolt on his own,’ said one of his companions, both civilians sent by the government.
‘If they do, then well and good,’ said Wellesley. The government men looked at him, but already knew him sufficiently to understand that he was unlikely to expand on this comment. In truth he had been uncomfortable with the plan from the very start. To raise a people to revolution seemed too great a responsibility, for so many things could go wrong and there was no knowing where such impulses would stop. Yet the command was still a command, and any chance of active service was better than the drudgery of administration in Ireland. Apart from that, he was
nimmukwallah
– even in thought he liked using the Indian word. He was the government’s man, had eaten their salt and was duty bound to go where they sent him.
The night after that uncomfortable episode, he sat in contented silence in his house in Harley Street. There was great relief that the South American adventure had been cancelled, and far greater satisfaction that he and his army were to be put to better use in Europe itself. Whether in Spain or Portugal was yet to be decided, but the former seemed more likely, and it would no doubt enrage General Miranda even more to know that the troops once promised to him were now likely to find themselves fighting alongside the Spanish.