by Lynn Bryant
"Yes, I am," Anne said and for once there was no laughter in the dark eyes. "I know that you will deal with it, Paul, and I do appreciate that, but you should not need to. We should not require the intervention of a man in order to live our lives without insult or assault. Keren has done nothing that Carl has not also done, yet his behaviour is so little thought of that he is able to continue his life without even being aware that there is a problem while she is unable to walk beyond our lines without at the very least facing a barrage of vulgar remarks. And I know that is the way of the world, and that you will tell me it is inevitable in an army camp. I am sure you are right. But I do not believe it is acceptable, any more than what was done to me by Robert Carlyon and Jean Dupres was acceptable. It is wrong and we should say so, very openly."
Paul looked at her for a long time. "Yes, it is," he said finally. "And I am sorry."
Unexpectedly, Anne smiled. "Paul - dear Paul - you have nothing to be sorry for. Of all the men cat-calling and pestering an unaccompanied woman for sexual favours as though they were a right, I am well aware my husband is not going to be among them. I'm very fortunate."
"So am I, love. Get your packing finished and we'll eat, I've got the men putting up the big tent or we'll all drown over our supper, that rain is getting heavier, I don't envy any of them still crossing the river."
"With any luck, Major Clifton will be among them, and he will either drown or die of an inflammation of the lung," his wife said remorselessly. "I shall see you at supper. I hope we're not in for a storm."
***
The storm came quickly in the way that summer storms did in Spain, further soaking those troops already wet from crossing the Tormes. The night sky was lit up with jagged flashes of lightening and the army huddled miserably under huge crashes of thunder. High winds frightened the horses, some of which broke free from their tethers and ran amok, trampling everything in their path. Some of the cavalry had settled to sleep with their horses beside them, holding onto the reins, and there were a number of injuries to men kicked or trampled by their terrified horses.
It was the wholly unofficial duty of Corporal Jenson to ensure the safety of the officers' horses and Paul was not surprised, when he left the tent to check on them, to find Jenson already there, giving orders to the sentries in calm tones, to check the tethers. He had found a relatively sheltered copse of trees away from the sleeping men and the horses were spooked but still firmly tied. Paul found a number of his other officers out in the rain, checking on their mounts; horses and baggage animals were both expensive and difficult to come by, and their loss would be a disaster for an impecunious young officer. They stood together for a while, watching the spectacular display in the sky and the somewhat more prosaic sight of some of the dragoons trying desperately to catch their terrified horses. A few of them had stampeded among some of the tents and there were yells of fright as the officers scrambled out, shouting at the men to get the horses under control.
"Do you think that yelling is helping?" Johnny Wheeler asked, as a portly captain of dragoons, only half dressed, shouted abuse at three of his men who were trying to corner a black gelding.
"They're cavalry, they share a brain with their horses, and in most cases the horse has the bigger portion. Oh for God's sake, has he no idea how to calm a frightened horse? Jenson, can we spread the pickets out in a line to grab any of the cavalry horses before they break through and trample us to death in our tents?"
"Yes, sir. Already caught a couple," Jenson said cheerfully. "Come and look."
"Give me a minute." Paul splashed through the puddles, wishing that he had taken the time to put his boots on rather than shoving his feet into shoes. "Captain, stop yelling."
The dragoon turned to glare at him. "What the bloody hell has it got to do with...oh - sorry, sir. Didn't realise..."
"I don't need a parade salute, Captain, I just need you to close your mouth for five minutes. You three, stand still and stop shrieking like a girls' school outing, you're making more noise than this storm. Here, boy, settle down a bit."
Paul reached into his pocket, where he generally kept a selection of treats, and withdrew a somewhat dried out nut. He moved very slowly towards the gelding, talking quietly to it, holding out his hand with the nut. Eventually he stood still and waited. After a moment, the horse came to take the nut. Paul took hold of the bridle, still talking, and ran his hand down the animal's wet, cold neck.
"It's a bloody cold night to be out in this, lad, isn't it," Paul said, and then tightened his grip as another clap of thunder made the horse shy nervously. "Calm down, now, it'll pass over soon. Captain, is this your horse?"
"Yes, Colonel. My thanks."
"You're welcome. He's a good-looking lad, you'd not want to lose him. You can take him now, Trooper."
Paul rejoined Johnny who had taken shelter under one of the trees and was watching with apparent enjoyment. "Well done, sir," he said enthusiastically. "There are at least another dozen still roaming free; should keep you busy until morning."
"Kiss my arse, Colonel Wheeler. If that tree gets struck by lightening while you're standing there laughing at me, it will be justice. I'm going to see what Jenson wanted me to look at and then I'm going back to bed."
Johnny fell in beside him and they walked along the horse lines. "Do you think we'll retreat in the morning?"
"We will if this keeps up. I wish he would, to be honest, I'm bored with dancing with the French all day. What's this, Jenson?"
"Over here, sir."
Paul followed his orderly to where one of the grooms was tying up a tall light coloured horse with elaborate saddlery. A second horse stood beside it, already secured, pawing restlessly in distress. Paul put his hand on its neck.
"All right, boy, it'll be over soon," he said gently. "Where did these come from, Jenson, they're not...oh bloody hell, these are French, aren't they?"
"Yes, sir. They've obviously had the same problems as we have. But these aren't cavalry stock."
"No, they're not," Paul said, running his hand down the sleek, wet nose. "I can't see properly in this light, Freddie, but I'd say these belong to an officer, and one with money."
"Belonged, sir, I'd say."
Paul laughed aloud. "Put them with my horses, Jenson," he said. "It's good to know that even if we end up marching back to Portugal with our tails between our legs tomorrow, this trip wasn't wasted. Good night."
The baggage train was loaded up and ready to go at first light. The men had been up before dawn loading up the luggage and tents and as the wind died down it became clear that the storm had blown itself out and it was going to be a fine day. Paul mounted up and rode out with Anne to join the long baggage train. He found a collection of his men already there, speaking to their wives or holding their children.
Paul stood holding Anne close, hating the fact that he would have to let her go. Along the column, the escort was mounted and shouting orders and Anne's Portuguese groom stood waiting with her horse. With a sigh, Anne drew back. "I need to go."
"All right, bonny lass. Take care of yourself and remember how much I love you. I'm hoping this is a false alarm and we'll be together in a day or so, but if you do make it back to Portugal ahead of me, get yourself back to the quinta we stayed in before and I'll come to you there."
Anne looked at him and gave a quizzical smile at his sombre expression. "Paul - you do know, don't you, that of the two of us, it is far more likely that it is you who will get yourself killed? Officers wives seldom do."
Paul laughed. "I know. Keep up that tradition. I love you, girl of my heart."
"I love you too, Colonel. Look after our lads."
"I will." Paul kissed her for a long time. Raising his head he saw Major Swanson further up the line, about the same business. He watched for a moment as Carl reached out and wiped tears from Keren's face with careful tenderness before lifting her onto her horse. Keren had been learning to ride, and during their brief time in Salamanca, Carl had bought
her a horse, a pretty bay mare with white socks. She was looking down at Carl and as Paul watched he saw her bend to caress his face lovingly before turning her horse determinedly to join the convoy.
Paul rode up to meet Carl who had remounted, watching the long snaking train move out, throwing up a cloud of dust. "Best get back," he said. "I'm expecting orders immediately."
His friend turned his horse without speaking and Paul glanced at him. Carl's expression was unusually serious. "Are you all right?"
Carl fell in beside him. "Yes," he said. "I just hate saying goodbye to her and it's not getting any easier." He looked at Paul and gave a lopsided smile. "You must think I'm bloody mad."
"Why, because the girl you're saying goodbye to was born in a miner's cottage instead of a mansion?" Paul asked. "Did you know, by the way, that Nan's grandfather was a weaver, doing piecework in a two roomed cottage and then travelling with a pack horse to sell it? Or that my great great-grandfather apparently ran a print shop in Antwerp? Who was your grandfather, Carl?"
"He was a churchman; it's a bit of a family tradition. As a matter of fact, and you may not know this, but my great-grandfather came to England in the train of King George, chaplain to one of his retinue."
Paul gave a splutter of laughter. "No, I bloody didn't know that. No wonder my father was so generous with that living, a court chaplain will have impressed him no end. Should I curtsey or something?"
"I would pay to see you try."
"You can't afford it, the amount you've spent on that girl these past months. Do you even have enough left to pay your mess bill?"
"If I don't, my wealthy but low-born friend can afford to subsidise me. I don't eat as much as you anyway. I gather you've made it up with Harry Smith."
"Yes, although that's one love affair I really didn't approve of. Where on earth is she, by the way, I thought she'd be here?"
"Apparently she won't leave him," Carl said. "Keren tried to persuade her it would only be for a day or two but she's adamant."
"Poor Harry. It's one of the things that has always surprised me about Nan, she'll go when she needs to."
"Something's going on," Carl said. Paul followed his gaze and saw a flurry of activity around General Alten's command post. He urged Rufus into a trot.
"Let's go and find out what."
***
Paul's hope of early action was quickly disappointed. Instead the morning wore on with a series of frustrating manoeuvres and very little indication of the intentions of either commander. What action there was, did not involve the light division, and Paul sat his horse beside General Alten and Colonel Barnard, looking over the countryside and surveying the various troop movements that they could see from their position out on the left of Wellington's line.
The countryside to the south of Salamanca was open and largely bare, with several wooded areas towards the river and a number of corn and wheat fields. It was surprisingly dry; given the storm of the previous night, Paul had expected his men to be trudging through mud but as the sun rose, it dried the ground quickly and by mid morning his men were sweating in the heat, and the various manoeuvres were marked by clouds of dust kicked up by horses and men. There were a number of low hills and ridges, none of them particularly high, but Paul marked them, knowing how well Wellington could use even the lowest of slopes in his management of troops.
The exception were the two isolated hills, rocky and bare, which the locals called the Greater and Lesser Arapile. They stood out in stark relief against the undulating countryside and it was obvious to Paul that possession of these was likely to be key if a battle were to take place. It was by no means certain that one would; most of the regiments had sent off their baggage and Lord Wellington's staff had been instructed to prepare for a general retreat.
"Do you think we will see action today, Colonel van Daan?" Alten asked. He was studying the field through his glass.
"I don't know," Paul said frankly. "I usually have some sense of what he's thinking, but I honestly don't this time. I think he'd like to fight them; we've been manoeuvring like chess pieces for so long, he's going to explode with frustration if he doesn't get a battle out of it. But I also thing Badajoz is very recent and he's not keen to send his army to be slaughtered again unless he's very sure he can win."
"It's good ground," Barnard commented. He had a soft Irish accent which Anne loved; she had informed Paul she could listen to Colonel Barnard all day. Paul reflected that his wife had not heard either the bellow or the language that Colonel Barnard was capable of in the heat of battle or she might have changed her mind.
"It is," he said. "And now that we've taken the smaller of those two hills, he could do a lot with the high ground to the south of the village. Although I'd feel happier if we'd managed to keep them off the Greater Arapile as well."
"We were not fast enough," Alten said regretfully.
"The Portuguese weren't fast enough," Paul said shortly. "If somebody could explain to me why he used them instead of the light division for that particular job, I'd be grateful."
"We were not in the right position, Paul," Barnard said patiently.
"Well we should have been."
Nobody spoke. Paul knew that both Alten and Barnard shared his frustration about the French capture of the Greater Arapile. The two armies had begun skirmishing just after dawn with both infantry and cavalry involved but neither commander ordered a decisive move. Neither Wellington nor Marmont had a clear view of their opponent's entire army and it appeared that Marmont's intention was to continue his movement to extend his left in the hope of turning the right wing of the Allied army. He did so cautiously, constantly watching the Allies for signs of a sudden movement.
Strategically, the Lesser Arapile was more important for Wellington, as it was at the end of the string of low hills and ridges occupied by the Allied army. If the French had taken it, Wellington's position would have become impossible and Paul approved his commander's early decision to send a detachment from the fourth division to occupy it at first light. He did not understand why Wellington had not also sent men to take the larger hill; possibly in the darkness he had not realised how close it was. By the time Major Lillie's Portuguese troops were sent to occupy it, they were too late and were swiftly driven back by the French.
Both sides appeared to have paused to consolidate their positions and Paul could see various troop movements around the field. The seventh division had been pulled slightly west behind the fourth and sixth and the light division had taken their place on the far left of Wellington's line. Since then they had done nothing but watch and wait.
Two horsemen approached from the lines to join them; General John Vandeleur of the first brigade and Colonel Johnny Wheeler. Behind them came the stocky form of Corporal Cooper with a collection of tin cups balanced on a piece of wooden plank. He held it up and Paul took one, gratefully.
"Do I remember giving permission for fires to be lit, Corporal?" he demanded, passing a cup to his commander and then to Barnard. "Here, Andrew."
"I don't remember you telling us we couldn't light fires, sir," Cooper said, innocently. "Did I not hear that order?"
"You keep that up and you'll get a thump on the ear that'll stop you hearing for a week," Paul informed him, watching as Cooper passed tea to Vandeleur and Johnny. "Thank you, Cooper, I don't give a damn what my orders were, this was a very good idea."
"You hungry, sir? We've got some chicken, I can get one of the lads to bring it up."
Paul stared at him over the steaming cup. "Chicken? What is this, a church picnic? Where the devil did you get chicken from, you unprincipled bastard? Have you been looting the locals? You'd better not have, they're pissed off enough with us for abandoning Salamanca."
"Only half of them, sir. The other half are dusting off their French flags and cheering Bonaparte. And we've not been looting, the French have. About a dozen of our lads were left in Salamanca, in the hospital. When Lord Wellington gave orders for the city to be cleared thi
s morning they decided they'd rather be back with us than joining the baggage train so they took a different route, so to speak."
"Against orders?" Paul demanded. He was trying to inject a note of severity into his voice, very aware that his divisional commander and his two fellow brigade commanders were listening with great interest to the exchange.
"They didn't have an officer with them to give any orders. It was a bit chaotic, from what I hear. You probably don't want to order them arrested for desertion for coming back to join their regiment, sir," Cooper said reasonably. "It wasn't just our men, there was about ten riflemen from the 60th joined them. Good lads, sir, not had much to do with the 60th, but apparently they're bonny fighters."
"Fighters?" Paul said, raising his voice a notch and completely forgetting his attempt to sound like a senior officer. "Cooper, stop prevaricating and bribing me with tea and tell me what the bloody hell happened before I thump you."
"Just a bit of a skirmish, sir," Cooper said, in the soothing tones he might have used to a five year old. "They came across a French patrol from Foy's brigade. Long way from their lines, mind, they shouldn't have been there."
"Scouting?" Alten said sharply.
"Looting, sir. Burned out a farmhouse and two cottages, spiteful bastards. The families got out, the men found them hiding in some woods. From what the French prisoners said, they were sent out for wood and water and decided to collect a bit extra. They'd cleared everything out of the houses and slaughtered a sheep and all the poultry. By the time our lads came on them, they'd cooked the meat on a fire they'd built from some of the furniture."
"Did they see our men coming?" Paul asked.
"No, sir. Not a bloody clue, they'd not even set sentries, the stupid bastards, they thought all our men would be busy up here. A couple were wounded and one dead, he tried to take on two rifles with a bayonet and lost. They took the rest prisoner, I've sent an escort up to headquarters with them now. Seemed a shame to waste all that meat, though, sir, so our lads brought it with them."
