by Lynn Bryant
Paul wondered what else the men had acquired from the Frenchmen but he knew better than to ask.
"You should have been hanged years ago, Cooper. Bring it up, I've been listening to General Alten's stomach growling for fifteen minutes. Oh and Ben - any to spare?"
"Plenty, sir. We can't carry it around with us in this heat."
"Do me a favour and send some up to Lord Wellington, will you? With my compliments."
Cooper gave a broad grin and saluted. "Certainly, sir," he said promptly. "Wonder if it'll put him in the right mood to fight the French?"
Paul grinned. The thought of food had made him feel immeasurably better. "With a leg of chicken in his hand, Cooper, who knows what he can achieve," he said cheerfully. "But bring ours first, will you? Just in case."
Chapter Five
Lieutenant Simon Carlyon joined the staff of Major-General Edward Pakenham with a mix of furious resentment and sheer relief in his heart. He had been summoned to an interview with Colonel van Daan ready to receive, at the very least, the news of his transfer into another and less prestigious regiment and at worst, the news that he would be sent for court martial after the incident at the ball in Rueda. He found the colonel with several mangled sheets of paper in his hand, glaring at the shaggy form of his wife's dog, who was regarding him with lifted eyebrows and an expression of considerable surprise.
"I should send you over to the French; they'd probably eat you during the next retreat, you mangey, demonic carpet on legs," Paul was saying severely. "I had just finished these and they need to be sent off with the courier tonight which means I will be rewriting them instead of eating supper with my officers and my wife. And if I have to sit here, so do you; you're not bloody going out there to dine on scraps like a lap dog while I suffer."
Craufurd tilted his head to one side and gave the colonel a look which made Simon want to laugh aloud despite his apprehension. The colonel did not appear in the least embarrassed at being caught in conversation with a dog, by his orderly and a junior officer in trouble.
"Mr Carlyon to see you, sir," Jenson said. "You want me to get one of the lads to take Craufurd for a run?"
"I want one of the lads to drown Craufurd," Paul said grimly. "Sadly, my wife would never forgive me."
"No, sir. Although I should point out, it wasn't Mrs van Daan who carried a puppy out of Badajoz tucked into his coat because he couldn't bear to leave him to starve. If he's just eaten a pile of paper, though, he probably ought to go outside for a..."
The dog coughed. All three men looked at him. Craufurd looked back innocently, then retched violently, spewing a revolting pile of vomit onto the floor of the tent. It contained, very obviously, the remains of three sheets of paper. Nobody spoke for a minute.
"You might want to take Mr Carlyon into Major Swanson's tent, sir, he's at drill with the 110th just now," Jenson said finally. "I'll get that cleaned up. Private Griffith can do it and then take Craufurd for a run, he's waiting outside Major Clevedon's tent for a chat about his drinking habits this week."
"An excellent idea, Jenson," Paul said. "This way, Mr Carlyon."
Inside Major Swanson's tent, Simon saluted and stood to attention. His colonel sat down in a camp chair and surveyed him.
"You remind me of me," he said.
"Sir?"
"Five years ago in a house in Denmark, waiting for Sir Arthur Wellesley to take my head off and send me for court martial. Sit down, for God's sake, and drink some of the major's wine, I happen to know he's run out of brandy. Sorry about the dog but at least he didn't do it all over your shoes. He did it to Marshal Beresford last month on parade. Of all the people to choose; the Marshal is so conscious of his dignity. I thought Lord Wellington would actually explode with the effort of keeping a straight face."
Simon lowered himself cautiously into a chair and took the wine cup. "Thank you. Look, sir, I know..."
"No, you don't know. But to be fair, I didn't know either, until Harry Smith told me how much shit you're getting over your brother. Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's not your problem, sir."
"It is, if it causes my junior officers to get into scraps with the rest of the light division every five minutes. But it's not just that, is it, Lieutenant? It's the expression on your face every time Colonel Wheeler walks past. It's rude and it's disrespectful to a senior officer and if I can see it, the men can see it, which means it's bad for discipline. It either has to stop or you can't serve here, I'm sorry. I like you, Simon, and you're shaping up to be a bloody good officer but if you can't get over it, I'll have to find you a place somewhere else."
"Do you have a brother, sir?" Simon said, unable to stop himself.
"Yes," the colonel said. "An older one, of whom I'm very fond. You can thank him for the fact that you're still here. But he didn't try to murder his wife. Your brother did. There's no doubt about it, nothing suspicious. If Johnny Wheeler hadn't walked in when he did, or if he'd not had enough courage to pull the trigger, a girl of twenty would have died that day and your blasted brother would have been publicly hanged for murder. Unless I'd got to him first, in which case he'd have died a lot more slowly. I'm sorry for you, Simon, but I can't make this decision for you. If you can get over your problem with Colonel Wheeler, I will deal with the rest of the light division and you won't hear a squeak out of the little bastards, I promise you. Otherwise, tell me and I'll arrange a transfer. In the meantime, we're marching out, possibly to fight. I don't have any further time to spend on this and I can't risk you in battle fighting under a man you can't speak to. I've found you a temporary posting in the third division. General Pakenham is a friend of mine and is in temporary command while General Picton is recovering. He needs more staff members and is happy to take you on. It's a very good posting; frankly, under normal circumstances I'd have given the chance to one of my lads from the 110th. I'm giving it to you. It's a chance to show what you can do without this hanging over you. And a chance to clear your head a bit."
"Yes, sir."
"Unclench your jaw, you stubborn young idiot, I'm trying to help. Get your kit ready, I've a letter for General Pakenham, you can take it with you. Now get going, while I see if my tent is fit for human habitation yet and rewrite those bloody letters."
Despite his miserable uncertainty, Simon liked Major-General Edward Pakenham immediately. He was only a few years older than Colonel van Daan and Simon could easily imagine why they were friends. Pakenham struck him as an uncomplicated man with a cheerful manner and an ability to set people at their ease. He introduced Simon to the rest of his staff, half a dozen young officers all of whom were considerably better born and probably considerably wealthier but all of whom welcomed the newcomer with immense cordiality. None questioned his presence or seemed to know anything of him apart from the fact that he had come with Paul van Daan's personal recommendation and that seemed to be enough.
Pakenham was abroad early after the storm, inspecting the men and ensuring that officers and NCOs had their orders and Simon rode with him. Pakenham did not have Paul van Daan's extraordinary gift of combining informality with iron discipline but his genuine concern for his men's welfare was obvious and Simon had the sense that he was very well liked.
The third division had remained on the north bank of the Tormes along with D'Urban's Portuguese dragoons but as the morning wore on, orders came and Pakenham's men, along with D'Urban's cavalry set off to cross the river, taking up a position near Aldea Tejada, to the north-west of the village of Los Arapiles. It was some way behind the Allied line and Simon wondered if they were intended to cover a retreat.
Simon was accustomed to the tedium of waiting for orders but he could sense that both officers and men were unusually restive. None of them wanted to retreat without bringing the French to battle and all were frustrated after the long weeks of marching and manoeuvring.
The heat mounted as the sun rose higher. The crash of artillery was growing louder and more frequent and Simon wondered if, afte
r all, battle would be joined today and if he would be part of it.
"Wonder if we'll fight?" Lieutenant Davis said, beside him.
"No idea. What does the general think?"
"Hasn't a clue although he's desperate to," Davis said. "Between you and I, he wasn't the obvious choice for this command but Picton recommended him. In fact, I did hear a rumour that your colonel was seriously considered."
"Colonel van Daan?"
"Yes. I don't think Picton liked that idea; he wants to come back and find his division the way he left it and you couldn't be sure of it with your man; he's a bit unpredictable."
The description struck Simon as a considerable understatement but he was relieved to realise that he was not the only man in the army who thought Paul van Daan slightly mad. "Have you served with General Pakenham long?" he asked.
"No, I've been General Picton's ADC for over a year. Hope he recovers and comes back. I like Pakenham well enough, but I miss that grumpy old bastard."
As the day wore on, action seemed less and less likely and Pakenham, surveying the distant smoke of cannon fire and listening for any sound of pitched battle, finally gave orders for the men to cook their meal. It was a laborious process out here, with little wood immediately available and the men made the best of what they could find, using twigs and stubble. Pakenham's staff huddled around their own fire and drank brandy while waiting for water to boil for tea.
"Wish they'd not sent the baggage off," Davis grumbled. "Don't fancy another night without a tent and a camp bed. Bloody waste of time this, we're not going to see any fighting today. I reckon Hookey's lost his nerve, been listening to Cotton and that old woman Beresford."
"Colonel van Daan thinks he's going to fight," Simon said.
"Does he? He talks to Wellington a lot, doesn't he? Do you think...?"
"What's that?" Simon interrupted. He was looking out across the plain where two horsemen rode, their identities concealed by the cloud of dust kicked up by their horses. They were riding fast, leaving the lines far behind, and as Simon watched, the leading rider reined in, close to D'Urban's cavalry.
"By God, I think that's Wellington," Davis breathed.
Pakenham came forward to join them, his eyes on the two riders. Simon could sense his sudden tension and he felt a moment of kinship with his new commander who was hoping for a chance, like Simon, to prove himself. The third division, still struggling to cook its meal, largely ignored them, but those officers close enough to notice had all stopped to watch.
Lord Wellington had wheeled his horse away from D'Urban and was galloping flat out towards Pakenham, the horse sure-footed over the rough ground. Simon could feel his heart beating faster. Suddenly he was very sure and as he thought it, Pakenham said softly:
"We're going to fight."
Lord Wellington reined in, controlling the horse with the ease of a superb rider. Behind him was Colonel de Lancey and a third staff member whom Simon did not recognise was fast approaching. Simon had seen the commander-in-chief many times in the past weeks although he had not been introduced. The same was true of many young officers but Simon could not help wondering if Colonel van Daan had made a point of not doing so. Robert Carlyon had been on Wellington's staff for a time and had been a trusted member of the quartermaster-general's department until his passionate jealousy of his lovely young wife had set in train the events which led to his death. Robert had received a promotion to captain only months before his death which suggested that Wellington had valued him and Simon imagined he must have felt a strong sense of betrayal.
"General Pakenham, I have your orders, sir," Wellington said. Simon was struck by the extraordinary calm of his tone, it was almost casual. "I have been watching their advance, they are marching to the left, extending their line. Hoping to catch us out and outflank us. They've advanced up onto the Monte de Azan and their line looks very stretched indeed."
"Sir?"
"I want you to attack, Ned, immediately." Wellington pointed. "Take those hills and drive them off. D'Urban's cavalry will support you and protect your flank."
Pakenham did not speak for a moment, but looking at them, Simon saw a flash in the blue-green eyes. Simon felt the same thing; the moment that battle became inevitable, mingled excitement, fear and determination to succeed. Abruptly Pakenham nodded and put out his hand. Lord Wellington looked faintly surprised but he shook it and Pakenham turned his horse without another word and surveyed his assembled staff. His brother-in-law watched for a moment as Pakenham began to issue his orders and then rode off, his two ADCs at his heels.
The division, surprised in the middle of cooking, upended the camp kettles and packed up swiftly, sending the baggage mules to the rear, some of them muttering curses at the loss of their meal. Pakenham moved among them, speaking a word here and there, giving his orders to his senior commanders as the men checked their muskets or rifles and fixed bayonets. He paused to listen as Colonel Wallace who commanded the first brigade, addressed his officers, instructing them to lead from the front to prevent mistakes during the noise from the cannon.
"Mr Carlyon, will you go in with the first brigade, if you please?" Pakenham said unexpectedly. "Under Colonel Wallace, they're short of officers due to sickness, he'll tell you where he wants you."
"Yes, sir."
"Look after yourself, Mr Carlyon." Pakenham gave his ready smile. "I do not wish to have to tell Colonel van Daan that I have lost one of his officers, he'll shoot me."
"Try to, sir," Carlyon said and hesitated, then said impulsively. "Good luck."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
Pakenham moved on and Simon saluted to Colonel Wallace, a slight man in his late thirties, some inches shorter than Simon. Wallace eyed him thoughtfully. "Carlyon, is it? 115th?"
Simon felt his heart sink slightly and he could sense himself stiffening. "Yes, sir. Temporary ADC to General Pakenham."
"Your sister-in-law mentioned you at dinner last week. Lovely women, ain't she?"
"Yes, sir," Simon said, somewhat surprised. "I've known her all my life, we were
childhood friends."
"Welcome to the 88th, Mr Carlyon. Riding in, are you?"
Simon hesitated then shook his head. "Rather go with the other subalterns, sir."
"Good man. My groom will take your horse to the rear then, join the second company. Let's get them moving. What is it, Campbell?"
Captain Campbell who was brigade-major, saluted. "Compliments of General Pakenham, sir, we're to move as quickly as possible without tiring the men too much."
Wallace snorted. "Thought that was fairly obvious, myself," he muttered, and turned to yell an order to his sergeant-major.
The brigade moved out at a fast but steady pace, descending into a hollow which would conceal all movement from the French. Looking over, Simon could see the left brigade, headed by the fifth, marching parallel to the right while the Portuguese brigade followed. A screen of skirmishers from the light companies and the riflemen of the 60th, distinctive in green jackets with scarlet facings, covered the left flank. The brigade advanced in a long, narrow open column, a single company wide and Wallace had left gaps between the companies to enable them to wheel into line easily.
Simon looked around. Apart from an occasional order, the men moved silently and swiftly over the ground. There was a sense of controlled purpose among them, as though they had been waiting for this moment over all the long weeks of marching and counter-marching. Under the blaze of the sun, with little breeze, the colours hung limply, fluttering a little with the movement of the bearers and despite the fact that they were not the colours of his regiment, Simon felt a sense of pride at being here with these men, on this ground, on this day. He was not sure he had felt quite the same during his years in India; the battles he had fought there had been local skirmishes with the occasional pitched battle and although Simon knew that it had taught him his trade and taught it well, he had often felt that he was fighting for the wealth and prestige of local rule
rs or East India Company merchants rather than for any sense of country or regimental loyalty. This felt very different and quite suddenly he knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that he wanted to stay.
With the officers and NCOs carefully keeping their men in position, the brigade covered the distance quickly and the head of the column began gradually to ascend the hill. If Wellington were correct, the French would be found at the top, still moving to their left. Pakenham moved to the front, signalling to his officers and the division fell into line with a smoothness that impressed Simon, the light troops and rifles still covering.
There was a shot, sounding loud in the silence of the advance, followed by another, and then more. The light troops and rifles had encountered the French skirmishers and were exchanging fire, and there were sounds ahead, shouts and orders yelled in French as the enemy divisions realised, to their horror, that they were under attack. Further sounds erupted from the right as the Allied cavalry charged and met with a barrage of fire from the French infantry. Simon felt a familiar hollow sickness in his stomach as he drew his sword. He had never yet gone into battle without feeling that he was likely to vomit at any moment although the feeling passed quickly once battle was joined.
The smell of gun smoke was beginning to fill the air, and already part of the slope was obscured to the left by acrid black clouds but it was still possible to see Pakenham at the head of his men. The brigade had paused for a moment and Simon saw the general riding from one battalion to another, speaking to officers and men. As he did so there was a new crash of gunfire from a rise to the north as the batteries of Douglas and Bull opened fire on the French.
The enemy were in considerable disarray with only four battalions in any kind of order after D'Urban's cavalry charge. With Pakenham's men on top of them and preparing for close combat, there was no possibility of a retreat; no option but to stand and fight. Simon listened to the the rhythm of the drums and felt the sound deep within him like the beating of his heart. He stood balanced and waiting, his sword in his hand.
