Whose Business Is to Die (9 page)

‘Try to get the one in green.’ Hanley pointed at Brandt, whose horse was slowing and who was trying to get to the San Cristoval. ‘Kill him if you cannot take him.’

The German nodded and set off. Dalmas and Sinclair were further off, probably too far to catch as they made for the bridge, but Hanley felt that he ought to try. His horse was trotting now, and the motion was uncomfortable after so long in the saddle. He tried to rise with each step, but got out of rhythm and bounced in the saddle before he sat, rocking with the motion and regaining his balance. There were light dragoons ahead of him, their horses foamy with sweat, the men bright red in the face.

A gun fired, a big gun from the San Cristoval fort, and perhaps it was to sound the alarm because Hanley did not see a shot land. The dull boom echoed along the valley and in its wake British and Portuguese cavalry alike slowed or stopped. Hanley saw men slump in the saddle, weariness overcoming them as at last the
all-absorbing elation of the chase faded away. He sheathed his sword, forcing it with all his strength when it started to stick.

‘Thirteenth, rally on me!’ Colonel Head of the light dragoons was waving his sword in the air and shouting at his men. ‘Form on me!’

Other officers and NCOs were calling out to their men. Hanley saw the Irish corporal who had killed the French colonel gather a handful of men together. His own horse had stopped before the last echo of the cannon shot died and the gelding was hanging its head down and breathing hard. A few light dragoons still followed the enemy, but he could see Dalmas and Sinclair reach the gateway of the
tête-de-pont
protecting the bridge and knew that it was over. Muskets squibbed from the rampart and the leading light dragoon’s horse sank down on its knees, flinging the rider over its head.

More guns thundered from the San Cristoval fort and he heard the cannonballs tearing through the air over his head.

‘Time to go, boys,’ shouted Colonel Head. He gestured with his sword back towards the ridge and the little groups of horsemen started to walk up the slope. It was over. Guns fired again from the Cristoval fort, and Hanley saw a shot graze through a bunch of cavalry, ripping off a man’s arm and shattering the skull of the horse beside him. The walk turned into a trot, even a canter for those still able.

Hanley searched for the hussar and saw a horse cropping the grass not far from the ditch outside the fort. Beside it, still clutching the reins, was a bundle of blue and grey clothes. It did not move. Either the man was dead or so badly wounded that he could not be carried off. Hanley felt flat, wondered whether he should go and retrieve the valuable troop horse, but then a trumpet sounded from the far side of the valley. The gates had opened and French dragoons were coming out of the
tête-de-pont
. It looked to be no more than a squadron, but the Allied horsemen were spent and in no state to fight. A few infantrymen appeared from the San Cristoval and spread in a skirmish line.
The first shots punched through the air, one of them so close that Hanley could feel the wind of it passing his head.

‘Time to go, come on, man!’ Colonel Head was shouting at him and gesturing for him to follow. Hanley obeyed. There were cries as some of the men who had gone too far or who still did not want to go back were caught and shot down or taken.

Hanley’s horse responded. Perhaps the beast sensed somehow that it was going home, for it sped up the slope. He would have to remember to give Baynes’ groom something, for the man kept their horses in excellent condition. The gelding was eager to go, and so he gave it its head and was soon passing the ragged groups of light dragoons and Portuguese cavalry. Since he had failed here, at least he could get back to Jenny Dobson and that wagon and start to find out what was going on. The cavalry paid him little attention – staff officers were always rushing around without rhyme or reason.

It took longer going back, even though his horse was eager, and at least that gave him time to think. He had last seen Jenny in Salamanca and still was not sure whether she had betrayed him to the enemy. The girl may have had little choice, and the business had worked out well, but now almost a year later she appeared with Bertrand. Was the man trying to desert or surrendering out of fear and to protect his mistress from harm? Something was certainly going on, if both of Marshal Soult’s heads of intelligence-gathering were here. Bertrand might be a traitor or pretending to be one. The man was dead, so Hanley would see how far he could work the whole business out.

The wagon was ahead of him, with the horses standing beside it, but the mule team had gone. Jenny sat hunched up in the driver’s seat, with a blanket around her, while the corporal leaned against the wheel. Hanley was about to go to them when he saw something on the ground and leaned back, urging his gelding to stop. It was Brandt’s rifle, and on a whim he dismounted and picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he led his horse over to the wagon.

‘Took your time,’ Jenny said cheerfully, but he ignored her
because the corporal was pointing. The retreating British and Portuguese were closer than he had thought, which could only mean that the French were chasing the tired men. There might not be many of them following, but it did mean that he had little time.

‘Look at this, sir,’ the corporal said, and hauled himself into the wagon. Hanley followed. The bed of the cart was full of boxes and chests, most of them open and empty. The German moved aside two which were filled, but not excessively heavy.

‘Here, they’re mine,’ Jenny said. Hanley ignored her, for the corporal was struggling to pull out another small chest, the lock already broken open. From it he produced two heavy bags and threw one to the officer. It clinked as he caught it and had the unmistakable feel of coins. Undoing the tie, he poured silver dollars out on to his gloved hand.

‘Bloody hell!’ Jenny said, eyes staring in astonishment. ‘Mean sod never told me.’

There must have been a couple of hundred coins in the bag, and a dozen bags in the chest, so it was far too heavy and cumbersome for them to carry away.

‘Take one,’ he told the corporal. ‘Better you have it than the French.’

‘What about me!’ the girl said.

‘If you like.’ Hanley tied up the bag he was holding and tossed it to her.

Surprised by the weight, Jenny fumbled the catch, letting her blanket go and uncovering her turquoise uniform. Cleary the cold could not compete with greed. Hanley fished out another bag.

‘Leave the rest,’ he said. ‘We need to go.’

‘How about my clothes?’ The girl looked at the two locked boxes.

‘I’ll get you all you need.’ Hanley spoke lightly.

She grinned. ‘I might need a lot.’

‘Well, have this cloak for a start,’ Hanley said, reaching up to take the rolled cloak off the back of his saddle. ‘Best if you
do not attract more attention than is necessary.’ She stuck her tongue out at him, and for a moment he saw the sixteen-year-old woman-child he had first met three years earlier. ‘Take this as well.’ He plucked off his cocked hat. ‘Tuck in your hair.’

‘Yes, Mr Hanley, sir. Thank you, Mr Hanley, sir.’

The foremost of the light dragoons were not far, coming on steadily. Hanley could see a dark column some way behind them and guessed that it was the French. They were not gaining, but they kept pace, and no doubt were already picking up anyone whose horse gave out.

The three of them set off, Jenny swathed in his cloak and hat. The other two horses had had time to rest and his was still going well, and so they soon lengthened their lead. An officer of the light dragoons came towards them, his right arm bandaged.

‘Have you seen Colonel Head?’

‘Behind us,’ Hanley said. ‘What is happening?’

‘There is a strong enemy force coming up the road from Campo Major, and I am sent to warn him.’

‘What of our supports?’

The officer merely shook his head and rode on.

They pressed on, but Hanley kept them to a steady canter in case they had to escape again. Ten minutes later they sighted the French siege train and there, half a mile beyond, just as the officer had said, were French cavalry with infantry behind them. He realised that this was the force marching from Campo Major, but could not understand how the rest of the army had let them get away. There were a few British cavalry guarding the guns and their prisoners, and they rode over to them.

A captain was in charge, his head bandaged, and he was trying to get a couple of teams together to pull off at least some of the guns. ‘The Portuguese had the rest. Had them out of their harnesses and off before you could say kiss my foot. Don’t blame the poor devils, the way they are mounted anything would be better, but it does present a problem.’

They had got two guns moving, with light dragoons riding
on the trace horses and doing their best to lead, when Colonel Head arrived.

‘Where are the heavies? Where indeed is everyone else?’ he asked of no one in particular.

Hanley could see the leading French squadrons clearly now, as they wheeled to form, one on either side of the road. Both wore the brown of the Chamborant Hussars and carried drawn sabres.

‘Leave ’em,’ Head said wearily. ‘Quickly now! Get back on your own horses.’

‘The prisoners, sir?’ the bandaged officer asked.

‘Leave them as well. It cannot be helped.’

The French hussars walked their horses forward, the lines neatly dressed, but the threat was obvious. Head still had almost as many men, but none had the energy to charge or fight and the French were fresh, as well as backed by two battalions of infantry and more squadrons behind them.

They left guns and prisoners alike and trotted as fast as they could manage to the north of the road, making a wide loop to take them around the French column. There were distant shouts as the French coming from Badajoz saw the others.

Hanley wondered whether, if the rest of the army came on quickly, they might recapture the guns and so gain the siege train they lacked, but his heart told him that it would not happen. Something had gone wrong, badly wrong, and though he did not know what, he doubted that it would soon be remedied.

Failure weighed him down. He had not helped secure the guns, and had let Dalmas and Sinclair escape. Brandt was not important, although it would have been nice to deal with the man. Bertrand was dead, and he kicked himself for having forgotten to stop and search the body for papers. Perhaps Jenny carried something for him.

Hanley looked at the girl as she rode beside him. She rode well, and unconsciously or not she had let her cloak part, revealing her well-filled uniform. There were plenty of glances from officers and soldiers alike, but he rebuffed any attempt to secure an explanation or introduction. Jenny was not her usual flirtatious
self and ignored the attention. She had grown, he thought, perhaps an inch or so in height, but a vast amount in knowledge of the world. Hanley thought back to when he had drawn her portrait, a sixteen-year-old girl, knowing and innocent at the same time, wearing the new dress bought for her wedding. She had been pretty then, and was prettier still now, whether in her tight uniform or better yet in something more feminine. Ideas began to take shape in his mind, some of them professional and some thoughts and needs of his own.

Jenny must have become aware of his scrutiny. She looked at him, her face sheepish, which was unusual for her. She was well used to men looking at her and usually responded with brazen confidence. Instead her eyes met his for only a moment and then flicked down modestly. A moment later she glanced back and smiled, not so much with challenge as with satisfaction. She was performing, no doubt about it, but it was a different role to her usual one. Hanley felt his raw ideas strengthen.

‘Stay with the lady, corporal, I shall only be a few minutes,’ he said, noting another smile at the word ‘lady’. He turned his horse and threaded his way past the weary light cavalymen.

The French were not chasing them. Instead the cavalry from Badajoz had met up with the column on the road. The sound of cheering drifted towards him. He took out his glass and watched as infantrymen were divided up into groups and began hauling the guns and caissons along. No doubt messengers were already on their way to the fortress to summon draught animals, but the French were not inclined to wait just in case the British resumed their advance. Hanley could see no sign of that, and the highway back towards Campo Major was empty as far as he could see.

‘Damn,’ he said, for they had failed utterly and the army would not easily find another siege train. Hanley had lost everything they had come here for, and yet he had unexpectedly found a girl and a design was growing in his mind. Perhaps it was not all for nothing after all. He turned his horse and followed the others.

7

T
he sounds were soft, far fainter than the slamming of the door in the little house set back from the road, and yet Billy Pringle and the other old hands knew instantly what they were.

‘That, my young griffs, was a cannon,’ Lieutenant Derryck announced to his audience of two ensigns and a volunteer, all of whom had arrived with the small draft which reached the battalion just before they left Cadiz. ‘Two cannon, if I am not very much mistaken.’

The three Johnny Newcombes strained to listen and a little while later there were two more gentle coughs.

‘Yes, two guns, most certainly,’ Derryck declared. He was not yet twenty and had become a lieutenant just a few weeks ago, after Barrosa. The promotion was not yet confirmed, but that was a formality, for he was the senior ensign and battlefield losses among officers were always replaced by promotion within the regiment.

‘French, of course,’ added Ensign Messiter, who had first smelt powder at Barrosa and since then had assumed the airs of a veteran.

Pringle watched the pair of them baiting the newcomers, without paying too much attention to their nonsense. It was well past noon and the 106th Foot were about ten miles away from Campo Major. They had been marching all day, knowing that they were catching up with the main force. This was after the long journey from Lisbon, first in barges along the Tagus and then marching through the mud.