by Lynn Bryant
"He was in more danger from his wife than that wound," Zouch said, and there was a general laugh.
It was with some reluctance that Simon said his farewells and thanks at the end of the evening. He had forgotten how much he had begun to enjoy the peculiar informality of Paul van Daan's brigade. Out in the corridor he hesitated, trying to remember which direction would take him back to the main door.
"This way. They'll have stabled your horse, there's a side door which will be more direct."
Simon froze and turned. He realised with bitter understanding, that his colonel's wife had betrayed him. Colonel Wheeler had been seated on an elegant chaise longue, upholstered in blue damask under a portrait of a formidable looking Spanish lady in black. He rose and came forward, regarding Simon with steady grey eyes. Simon saluted.
"Thank you, sir. I'll find my way, there's no need."
"Don't be stupid, Mr Carlyon, you know that I want to talk to you."
They walked through the dim halls in silence. Outside, there was a full moon spilling silver light over the path which led towards the substantial stable blocks. Simon was beginning to wonder if the colonel had forgotten what he wanted to say when he spoke abruptly.
"Colonel van Daan has asked me to speak to you, Lieutenant, about coming back to your regiment."
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Wheeler stopped and turned to look at Simon. "Do you want to?" he asked.
Simon did not speak. He had been hoping to have this conversation with Colonel van Daan or even Major Corrigan. To either of them, he could have admitted at least some of his confusion. He was furious at being faced with this situation without any warning although he also understood why Colonel van Daan had chosen to do it this way.
"If the answer is no, the stables are there. You can ride back to the 94th and Major Corrigan will arrange a permanent transfer. You shouldn't come under my direct command again, unless circumstances change."
"Sir."
"If you want to stay, we'll need to have a conversation about it. I suggest you think about it. I'll be in the library."
Wheeler turned and walked back towards the house. Simon stood, stranded and bewildered, and then said the first thing that came into his head.
"Sir?"
Wheeler turned. "Yes?"
"I have no idea where the library is."
Wheeler looked at him for a moment. Then he jerked his head. "This way."
There was a fire burning in the grate and the litter of a day's work scattered over several large tables. Wheeler collected a bottle and two glasses and set them on a low table before the fire then sat down in a well-stuffed armchair and leaned back, crossing his legs.
"Sit down, Mr Carlyon."
Simon wanted to stand, but he was suddenly very clear that an order had been given. There was something different about Wheeler's manner this evening, as though the older man's attitude had hardened. After a moment's hesitation, Simon sat.
"This is the second time that you and I have had this conversation, Mr Carlyon, but it is going to be the last," Wheeler said without preamble. "On the previous occasion, I was very gentle with you. I had a lot of sympathy with how you must be feeling and I wanted to make it easy for you to fit in to the brigade. I thought you would settle down in time."
"Yes, sir."
Wheeler set his glass down on the table. "You didn't settle down," he said flatly. "I've stood out on the parade ground and watched you practically turning somersaults to avoid having to salute me. You openly leave any social event that I'm present at, making no attempt to disguise your reason, and when you have no choice but to be in company with me, your lip curls every time you look my way. Your whole attitude has been enough for me to put you on a charge, and if you weren't Mrs van Daan's brother-in-law, I'd have done it by now."
Simon's stomach was churning. He had never seen the pleasant-mannered colonel of the 112th wearing this particular expression before and he had never heard him use this tone of voice. It made Simon feel like a green ensign who had forgotten to salute his commander at the Sunday church parade. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment. He moved as if to get up.
"Stay right were you are, Mr Carlyon, you chose to have this meeting, you'll leave when I say you can," Wheeler rapped out. "In addition to your appalling manners towards me, you have repeatedly got into arguments, and on one or two occasions, undignified shoving matches with other officers. I realise they've given you a hard time in places, which is why Colonel van Daan has been as lenient as he has, but your free ticket to behave like an arsehole has just been formally cancelled. If I catch you putting one foot out of line again, I am putting you on a charge."
"Yes, sir."
"Ungrit your teeth and say that again, Carlyon. With some respect, this time, because I've fucking earned it. I was commissioned ensign twenty-one years ago, I've fought all over the world, I've been wounded four times, once seriously and I've achieved command of a regiment through sheer bloody hard work and merit. I expect complete respect from a junior officer, and if you can't do that, starting now, you can't serve anywhere near me. Stand up."
Simon got to his feet and stood to attention, feeling as though he was going to be sick. He saluted.
"Yes, sir."
"Better. There is one more thing we need to clear up. I killed your brother. I didn't kill him for a laugh, or because I couldn't stand him or because I wanted to free his wife to marry a better man. I killed him to save a woman's life, and I'd do the same again tomorrow without a second thought. I'm sorry you're related to a wife-beating bastard, my colonel assures me that the rest of your family are very good people, so it's clearly not their fault, or yours. But I do not intend to apologise for what I did. Get over it or leave; there's nothing in-between. This is the army, you don't get to choose who you serve under or whether you like them. But you bloody well have to hold discipline and show some respect, I'm not coddling you any further."
"Yes, sir."
There was a long silence. Simon stared at the wall above the fireplace, wondering if the colonel was going to let him stand there until he had finished his drink and was ready for bed. Unexpectedly, Wheeler said:
"Now sit down, pick up that wine glass and have a drink, you look as though you need it."
Simon obeyed. Thoughts were whirling about his head and it was difficult to know if he was expected to speak or not. He was clearly expected to drink, so he did so, gulping down the wine in relief.
"I'll speak to Major Corrigan in the morning," Wheeler said, in his usual pleasant tones. "He'll liaise with your current officer about when they can let you go. General Pakenham wrote to Colonel van Daan about you in very complimentary terms about your performance during the battle. You're going to be an asset to the brigade, Mr Carlyon. Make the most of your undoubted ability, and do not let that bastard you have the bad luck to be related to, bugger that up for you."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think you can find your way to the stables again?"
"I think so, sir."
"Off you go, then. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sir."
Outside in the cold, moonlit air, Simon paused to take several long breaths before beginning to walk briskly down the path to the stables. He was surprised to realise that he felt a good deal better. Colonel Wheeler's brutal simplicity had made his choices very clear and Simon realised he preferred that to kindness, which had only confused him.
Setting off into the cold night, with Reynolds riding at his heels, Simon thought about his brother. He felt guilty at having shared a glass of wine with the man who had openly admitted to killing him, but it was accompanied suddenly by a burst of anger that had nothing to do with Colonel Wheeler. He was furious at Robert, for the constant need to excuse and explain and apologise for him. He was furious at the crimes he had committed and the scandal that he had created. And he was completely incensed that he had treated a woman the way he had treated his young wife. Simon found himself wondering what h
e would personally have done if he had walked into a room and found his brother pointing a pistol at Anne's head and it occurred to him suddenly that it would probably have led to fratricide.
Chapter Ten
The Marina Palace boasted an excellent library, with books in several languages, and Anne took possession of it immediately, setting aside an enormous reading table as a desk for Paul and a smaller one for herself. With the responsibilities of a brigade came extra administration and the various regiments each had their own quartermasters, paymasters and clerks. Unusually, Paul insisted on regular meetings with the officers of each battalion and when it was possible, a weekly quartermasters meeting, to identify any problems with food, weapons, uniform or other supplies. He had told Anne that he thought it pointless to ensure that the 110th, his own regiment, was ready to fight or march at a moment's notice if the rest of the brigade was not.
Paul had slept late on the morning after the fall of the Retiro and Anne had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. She had asked Jenson to call her when he awoke, but he appeared in the library as Anne was writing letters. Anne studied him critically.
"You look much better."
"I feel it. I really needed that sleep, thank you, love. Jenson organised a bath for me as well, I feel like a new man. Anything for me?"
"There was a mountain of post, I told you, but most of it has gone to Major Breakspear. There are a few personal letters, I've put them on your desk. And one that I don't recognise which has come from Santander, apparently."
"Really?" Paul asked, with interest. "I was talking to Wellington about that only the other day. It appears that Popham has taken the city with a combined naval blockade and land attacks from the guerrilla bands. Wellington's delighted, it's going to be a very useful supply base."
Anne went to get the letters. "I think it's very unlikely that Sir Home Popham is writing to you, Paul," she said.
Her husband laughed. "Not a chance. He'll save all his energies for writing endless letters to Wellington reminding him what a good job he's doing. Which he actually is, by the way, he's distracting the French brilliantly on that coast. But he's going to drive Wellington up the wall. No, this won't be from Popham, although...oh my God."
"What is it?" Anne could see the news was good; Paul looked delighted. He was reading the letter quickly, his smile broadening.
"It's from an old friend. Funny that we were talking about Popham, because this is from Hugh Kelly whom I met during the Copenhagen campaign. I've not heard from him since that almighty cock up that was the Walcheren fiasco. God knows who thought it was a good idea to send Kelly to serve under Popham again, I'm surprised he's not murdered him. Although to be fair, he's always had a far better grip on his temper than I have. I must have told you about Kelly. Apparently my name came up in some correspondence, he heard I'd been wounded and has written to ask."
"I remember you talking of him," Anne said. "Didn't you know his wife as well?"
"I organised their wedding," Paul said with a grin. "I'm not sure if she's back at home on Mann now, he tells me their second child was born last year. When we finally get home, Nan, I want to introduce you to Roseen Kelly, you'd get on so well."
He finished the letter and passed it to Anne who read it while Paul skimmed through his other correspondence. The letter made Anne smile. There was a dry humour behind the brief description of Kelly's current duties which made it easy to understand why Paul liked the Manxman so much.
They turned to more practical matters. The French had left enormous amounts of stores in the Retiro. Wellington had been furious to discover that some of the troops left to guard the stores had turned instead to looting them and had arrived in person with a guard, arresting not only the looters but the officers who had failed to prevent the outbreak of pillage. Paul, who had been given the news by Jenson over his breakfast, thanked God he had not left any of his own men on sentry duty. He sincerely hoped they would have resisted temptation but he was glad it had not been tested.
Wellington's new quarter-master general, Colonel Willoughby Gordon had sent out a memorandum asking for lists of supplies needed by the various regiments to see what could be supplied from the stores. Anne had only just received it, but she knew that in the heady first days in the capital, most regiments would not respond straight away and she had every intention of making sure that the 110th received their share. She penned and then copied a memo to the regimental quartermasters asking them to make an immediate kit inspection and to provide her with lists of items needed by the end of tomorrow. When she had finished she passed them to Paul to sign. Paul read the memo and grinned.
"They'll have to catch them fast if they want them sober," he said. "I think the junior officers are spending all their time writing out leave passes for the men to go into the city. Which reminds me, I want to write an order about looting. They're going to run out of money very quickly here, and I want it to be very clear that if they start helping themselves off the locals I am going to nail their balls to a doorframe."
He reached for a pen and Anne took it from him to trim it. "Are you actually going to write that in the order?"
"I'm going to use the phrase 'serious disciplinary measures' instead. If my lot don't know by now that will not involve the provost marshal and will definitely involve something really unpleasant, they're too stupid to live, and they have it coming. What is it, Jenson?"
"Lieutenant Browne, sir, from the adjutant-general's office, to see you."
"Show him in, Jenson."
Anne got up, ready to leave, but Paul motioned to her to remain. Browne, a fresh faced young man in his mid-twenties, came into the room and saluted.
"Mr Browne, what can I do for you?" Paul enquired. "He cannot have known I spent the morning sleeping late."
Browne grinned and shook his head. "No, sir. Although he's been up since dawn. He doesn't know I'm here."
Something about his manner made Anne get up. "I need to speak to Sergeant Kelly about dinner," she said briskly. "Excuse me, Mr Browne."
***
When Anne had gone, Paul looked at Browne. "You look as though you need a drink, Mr Browne."
"No, thank you, sir. I can only stay a short time, I have a commission from Lord Wellington, it is very urgent. I stopped here first.." Browne took a deep breath. "Actually, I am not sure why I stopped here first, sir. It is just that you were so very concerned yesterday about the French prisoners. And the Spanish."
Paul felt a chill. "What's happened, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"The prisoners, sir. Lord Wellington has received a very disturbing report; a guide riding towards Madrid brought it. He says that they are murdering the prisoners, sir. Ill-using them and sometimes killing them."
Paul sat very still, mastering his anger. "And this was an enormous surprise to his Lordship?" he said savagely.
Browne met his eyes. "Well yes, sir. I honestly think it was."
Paul got up. "Sometimes, he is as naive as a child," he snapped. "So he's sent you to do what exactly?"
"I am commissioned to ride after them, sir, at full speed, to find out if the report is true. If it is, I am to remonstrate with the Spanish commander and try to ensure better treatment for the prisoners."
"If there are any left," Paul said, going to the door. "Jenson! Get in here."
"I'm here, sir."
"Get them to saddle up Rufus. Provisions for a day or so, no baggage, I need to ride fast."
Jenson regarded him sardonically. "What's your wife going to say about that, sir?"
"When she hears why, she'll tell me to get a move on."
His orderly saluted. Paul turned to Browne. "I'm sorry, Mr Browne, I ought to have asked."
"No, it's all right, sir. I think...I think perhaps that's why I stopped here first. I think I'm worried that if it's true, they won't listen to me."
Paul regarded him soberly. "They might not listen to me, lad. But if they don't, I'm going to blow their bloody heads off."
Anne met him on the carriage drive as he was checking his saddle and girth. "Jenson said you wanted me. What's wrong, Paul?"
Paul told her briefly. He knew from her expression that she shared his feelings. "I'm sorry," he said, finally. "I have to go."
"Of course you do," Anne said, not disappointing him. "But you shouldn't be going alone, Paul."
"I'm not. Browne is with me and I doubt I'll get out of here without Jenson, it's like having a nursemaid."
As Paul spoke, he saw his orderly limping around from the stables leading his horse. Jenson rode a black gelding which Paul had bought during the Copenhagen campaign five years earlier. As he mounted, surprisingly agile given his wooden leg, Paul could see Browne looking at his orderly's horse, which was considerably better than the young staff officer's mount. Paul studied the grey mare that Browne was riding and suddenly said:
"Jenson. Get back to the stables and saddle up the black mare with the white socks we took off the French at Salamanca for Mr Browne. His mare can stay here and have a rest, she's still tired after the march and we need to move fast."
"Yes, sir." Jenson turned his horse and trotted back to the stable. Browne was looking at Paul, surprised. "Colonel, there's no need..."
"We need to move faster than your mare can manage today, Mr Browne," Paul said gently. "My grooms can look after her and feed her up a bit."
He stroked the mare's nose and reached into his pocket for a nut, smiling as she nosed his coat for more. "She's a nice animal."
"I've had her since I came out here. I used to have a spare, but he was elderly and I lost him last year."
"Then you need to take care of this girl, they don't pay you enough. I saw you looking at Felix, Jenson's horse. He's mine, I bought him in Copenhagen as a youngster. I'm lucky enough to have several spares so if you find yourself at a stand, come and ask, I'm happy to lend you a mount if she's sick or lame at any time. Ah, Jenson, thank you."
