Whose Business Is to Die (18 page)

Williams felt the leather strap, could not get a finger underneath it, so swung himself up. Stiles was a small man, and when he had taken the horse out his weight was not enough to make the saddle shift. As a corporal he should not really have been a soldier servant. He had been wounded in the hand and thigh at Talavera, serving with the 23rd Light Dragoons, and was still in hospital when the shattered regiment went home to recruit. His leg remained stiff, and with the fourth and fifth fingers on his right hand gone he could not really wield a sabre.

‘Only be pensioned off if I go home,’ he had explained when Williams met him in Lisbon, where he had spent the last six months looking after the horses of a senior surgeon. ‘Be happier out in the field.’

The man knew horses, understood how to be comfortable in camp, and was reliable and – mostly – sober. Colborne winked at the breaking of regulation and permitted him to be kept on the establishment at his existing rank, since Williams would as usual be paying him the supplement given to a man acting as servant to an officer.

Williams patted the animal on the neck. ‘I am sure he will do splendidly, Stiles.’

They set off, riding first to the paraded battalions just a short distance away and then out to check on the picket line. There was no sign of the French, who had rarely been sighted in the last few days and then only the smallest patrols. Even so Williams remembered the sudden onslaught of hussars against the slumbering camp of the 13th Light Dragoons, and was glad to be serving under a commander who took every precaution, no matter how safe they appeared to be.

‘All quiet, sir,’ said the lieutenant at the first picket. ‘The same for the Steelbacks, over to the left.’

Colborne nodded, and Williams knew that he was pleased because the subaltern had made sure to make contact with the picket line of the brigade next to them. He did not even reprove
the lieutenant for using the 57th’s nickname. Their colonel was a noted flogger, routinely forming the battalion for punishment with offenders tied to a triangle of sergeant’s pikes. For all that, the 57th were a fine battalion, and their commander popular with the men, who at least knew where they stood with him.

The entire Second Division and much of the cavalry were down near Zafra, cutting the old royal road that led to Seville, where Marshal Soult had his headquarters. Badajoz was surrounded, and there was little doubt that the siege ought to begin soon. When it did, they would no doubt be called north to take part, but for the moment it was their task to keep the French at a distance. They were acting in concert with two Spanish forces. One was the remnant of the army routed when the French took Badajoz earlier in the year. Its men were ragged, poorly equipped and drilled, and yet like so many armies they kept coming back from defeat after defeat. The other, under general Blake, consisted of two divisions from Cadiz, smartly uniformed and well-trained.

‘I believe them to be good soldiers and well led,’ Williams said when asked if he had seen anything of these regiments while he was down south. Colborne liked to chat as they went on their rounds.

‘That will make a change,’ Dunbar said, but did not sound convinced. ‘I can remember thousands of the rascals running away at Talavera, scared witless by their own volley. Ran back miles and pillaged the baggage. I lost half my clothes, a hairbrush and a pearl necklace.’

Colborne was much amused. ‘Pearls?’

‘A present for my sister,’ Dunbar murmured, clearly regretting mentioning the matter and probably reluctant in case he was asked to explain how he had acquired the gift in the first place.

‘I have seen Spanish soldiers fight with great spirit,’ Williams said.

‘As have I, and if they had been better led from the start they would surely have enjoyed some success.’ Colborne smiled. ‘Oh, I know they call me an enthusiast and that so many disdain our allies, but we could never remain in the country without their
aid.’ He led them down a bank into a field where the next picket stood on a hill topped by a stone cross. The light was growing.

‘One thing I must say,’ he continued after a moment. ‘I doubt very much that an English army would still exist if we had suffered as many bad blows as the Spanish.’

The officer in charge of the outpost had nothing to report, and so they went on, hearing the same reassuring thing each time. Williams was pleased with the gelding, which had plenty of energy and was proving sure-footed.

‘Have you decided what to call him?’ Dunbar asked as they rode to the next picket.

‘I thought a solid, martial name would suit best,’ Williams explained, ‘and so have chosen Musket.’

That prompted a chuckle from the colonel. Dunbar grinned, so must have heard the story before.

‘I knew a Captain Musket once, who came to us from the militia,’ Colborne began. The colonel liked to tell stories from his years with the colours. ‘A regular dashing fellow he was, with great side whiskers and a perpetual ferocious expression. Arrived one day when we were in Holland, saw his first Frenchman the next day and ran all the way back to the sea. Never saw him again. They let him buy himself out rather than have a scandal.’

Williams laughed and reached forward to rub the gelding’s ears. ‘He seems to possess a stouter heart than that – even if it was pledged to Bonaparte until recently!’

‘Then let us take his measure.’ Colborne pointed at a stone wall some three or four foot high and only a little out of their path. Then he was off, straight at it. Dunbar followed. Williams would have preferred to get to know Musket a little better before attempting even so modest an obstacle, but would not refuse the challenge. The horse was steady, his canter good. Williams urged him on, rose in the stirrups and gave him another flick with his crop just to be on the safe side. He had misjudged a little, but only a little, not yet used to the gelding’s stride. The horse jumped a fraction too soon, and its rear feet clipped the top of the wall, but he cleared it and landed well.

‘We need some practice,’ he said happily when he joined the others.

There was no sign of the French. For a while their cavalry patrols were familiar, if distant, sights, but a couple of days earlier General Long and his cavalry had caught up with a brigade of hussars. The 13th Light Dragoons charged and broke them – by happy chance the same enemy horsemen who had captured Major Morres and his men. A few were cut down, more of them taken, but most of the two hussar regiments escaped because they could not be caught. The heavy brigade was supposed to have got around behind the French, but did not move with sufficient speed. Even at brigade level, Colborne and his staff had heard of the bickering over blame between the marshal and the brigadier general ever since.

The brigade was ready and waiting to receive an attack or, if ordered, launch one of its own, but the enemy was not there and so they waited as the sun came up. After about an hour, when, according to regulation, a grey horse could be seen at a mile’s distance, Colborne ordered them to stand down and take breakfast. He was already confirming the orders for today’s parades and training. His brigade would never stand idle. Relations with the general remained cold, but Colborne was still fond of quoting Major General Stewart. ‘Hound the officers, and the common soldiers will take care to perform their own duties, for they will never believe that they will be treated less harshly than their seniors.’

After the morning drills, Williams spent most of the day writing, compiling lists of rations and effective strengths, confirming the receipt of orders and reports, and the orders for the overnight pickets and alarm posts – the last unchanged, but still this needed to be confirmed. He spent time with the battalion adjutants, the quartermasters and on his own, scratching away at a little chair and writing-desk, his head touching the canvas of his low tent. It reminded him of dull days working as a clerk in the office of a shipping chandler, a life he had enlisted to escape, but which now came back to haunt him. The paperwork required to run a
company was bad enough. This was on a far grander and duller scale.

As he worked he wondered whether he ought to have declined the offer to become Colborne’s aide. The 106th was short of captains, with only six available to lead companies. If he was back with the battalion he would surely have been placed in charge of one of the remaining four.

Yet there was never any real question of refusing such an honour. Lieutenant General Graham had recommended him to Colborne, who was an old friend. Williams had met them both on the road to Corunna, when they came to relieve his little force holding the bridge. They had taken him to Moore, who had spoken then of the need for a serious soldier to serve on the staff as well as with his regiment. Moore had arranged his step from ensign to lieutenant, and even from the grave appeared to be helping his career.

The day wore on and Williams wrote lists and checked them, checked lists brought to him and wrote more in consequence. All the while he would have preferred to write something else altogether, a letter long delayed and still not in any sense composed in his mind. It was not until well after dark that he got a chance, and his thoughts came back with more focus to the girl. Although it might have been more pleasant to picture Jane with her dress blowing in the wind, it was Miss MacAndrews’ short note that kept coming into his mind. He remained unsure what it meant and hence did not know how he ought to reply – or if indeed a letter was proper.

Sitting on his own he took the letter from his inside pocket, not because he did not know the words off by heart, but to see her handwriting and know that she had touched it.

Dear Mr Williams
, it began with sad formality. A few times in the past – he knew it to be three, for each stroke of the pen was valued – she had ventured as far as
My dear Mr Williams
, but it seemed those days were gone.

I trust that this finds you in good health. Mother and I are well and in Lisbon, having taken a fine house near the river. Young Jacob delights in the place
– that was Jacob Hanks, Jenny Dobson’s abandoned child.
It is not yet decided whether we shall follow the major farther into Portugal or remain here. If we do follow him, then it seems likely that we will first arrange for someone trustworthy to take care of the child while we are away
.

Now I have supplied you with our little news, it is time to speak of more serious matters. It is much to be regretted that we did not part as friends
. The meeting had been brief, for the day after Barrosa Williams received the invitation to join Colonel Colborne in Portugal, and General Graham, assuming his acceptance, had arranged for him to take ship immediately. He passed through Cadiz itself from the Isla only briefly, chanced upon the girl and her mother, exchanged pleasantries and then had only a couple of minutes to speak with very little privacy to Jane.

Sir, your anger was not becoming of a gentleman of your kindness of spirit, and marred what would otherwise have been a happy reunion. We had all believed you fallen in battle and lost for ever. It was the cause of great sadness to us all and in particular to your intimate friends
.

There is no engagement between Captain Pringle, RN
– Williams wondered whether she thought he might confuse Edward with his brother –
and your correspondent. What follows I tell you in the strictest confidence and trust you as a gentleman not to abuse this trust. Captain Pringle asked me to marry him. He did it with great courtesy and is a gallant gentleman. I have not given him an answer
. That had been the spark for his rage. When Williams proposed at Corunna she had turned him down in a brusque, even an insulting, way. He had said sharp words, and the fiery girl had replied in kind.

My true friends will know without being told the only answer I could give
.

I remain yrs. Jane MacAndrews

He wanted to believe that her sense was that she did not and could not love Pringle or consent to the union, because her true affections rested with Williams, or at least were not yet settled. Yet her words could mean something completely different, and perhaps she wished to prepare him for the news that she would wed her courteous and gallant sailor.

He ought to apologise. That, at least, was certain, even if it was harder to say whether such an apology could be sent in a letter rather than made in person. Yet when would he see the girl? It might not be for many months, perhaps not even this year. Did she believe him still angry? Before he had been sent on the expedition to Malaga they had met and affection had burned so strongly that he wished somehow he could undo all that had happened since then.

Williams took out a paper and pencil and stared blankly into space. He was not even sure how to address the girl.

Dunbar’s head appeared through the flaps of the tent.

‘We are summoned to General Stewart,’ he said. ‘I fear it will be another short night for we poor functionaries!’

Williams sighed and put down the pencil. Perhaps it was for the best, for any words might only make matters worse.

14

L
ord Wellington studied the walls with his glass and did not speak for a good ten minutes. Then he dictated a few notes, rode on to another spot and began to scan the defences once more. He was dressed plainly in a blue civilian coat, white breeches and hessian boots, and still managed to stand out in the cluster of staff officers. It was obvious that he was at the centre of everything, and everyone, from Marshal Beresford down, behaved just a little differently. Hanley could sense purpose in all that was done today. The general had ridden down from the border near Almeida and arrived at Elvas the day before, more than one hundred and fifty miles in only four days. An admiring ADC from the Fourth Division assured Hanley that the general had killed two horses through sheer exhaustion and lost two of his escort in a flooded river on the way.

It was well into the afternoon, and they had been observing the fortress for most of the day, coming up from the south on the Valverde road. At first the French did not appear to mind, for they were escorted by Portuguese cavalry and two battalions of King’s German Legion Light Infantry, dressed in green much like the 95th and some armed with rifles. At Baynes’ suggestion, Hanley had not brought his own rifle with him today.