An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  Paul kissed Anne. Her dark eyes met his, looking troubled. "I hate this," she said. "Damien Cavel or Louis Bernard could be among those men."

  "It's unlikely, bonny lass," Paul said.

  "They could," Anne insisted. She sounded almost tearful. "I've been thinking about them both since the battle. Don't laugh at me but it's one of the reasons I want to be involved with the French wounded. Just in case."

  Paul took her face in his hands and kissed her again. He knew how Anne felt about the two Frenchmen who had tried to protect her during the horror of her captivity. Sergeant Cavel in particular held a special place in his wife's heart. "It's a big army, Nan, and we don't even know where they went after Badajoz," he said. "But I promise you, I'll check."

  "Thank you. Take care."

  The road north was wide, but in poor condition, rutted and cracked in the heat of summer. Paul set a steady pace, not wanting to exhaust the horses in territory where water was unpredictable at this time of year. Low hills and ridges rose around them, for the most part, brown and bare, although orchards and some farmland brought relief to the eye. There was little shade on the road, and Paul thought how difficult it must be to farm this area at any time, let alone with the depredations of war. He also thought, with a soldier's eye, that the countryside would a nightmare for cavalry during the summer months.

  They found a stream after an hour and rested the horses, allowing them to drink. The water was low and in places, stagnant, but the stream ran from a small rocky ridge, with a track that led up to a straggling village, and Paul scrambled up the rocks to fill their water bottles from a small rivulet which tumbled over the rocks into a little pool, giving them clear, cold water to drink. Jenson thanked him, watching the horses drink the less appealing water.

  "They're not as fussy."

  "Neither have I been at times, if I'm thirsty enough," Paul said. "Pass me that when you're done, Mr Browne, I'll refill it."

  "I'll go, sir." Browne accepted Paul's bottle and Paul waited, wondering if the staff officer realised that he had walked into a problem of etiquette. He saw Browne recognise it, but it only took him a moment, then he held out his hand. "Pass me yours, Corporal, you can't climb up there with that leg."

  Jenson passed him the bottle with a smile. "Thank you very much, sir."

  They watched as Browne made the scramble. "Think he feels like a change, sir?" Jenson said softly. "I reckon you could work with this lad."

  Paul choked back a laugh as Browne climbed back down. Mounted up, they set off north again. Somehow the company felt easier now, as though the little interlude had helped Lieutenant Browne relax. They cantered for a while, then slowed the horses as Paul saw something up ahead beside the road. Paul looked over at Browne and saw the younger man looking back at him, appalled. There was no question about what they were seeing. Birds were wheeling overhead, swooping down over the body.

  Paul set Rufus to a canter and arrived at the body ahead of his companions. He swung down, staring at the man on the ground in horror. He was French, a stocky man of probably around forty, with thinning hair, his blue coat soaked in his own blood. The birds had already done gory damage to his face.

  The other two men arrived and Paul handed the reins to Jenson and knelt to look. Browne crouched beside him. "He's been stabbed."

  "Lance, by the look of it. They'd cavalry with them, hadn't they - the Spanish?"

  "Yes, sir." Browne's voice was sombre. "It's true, isn't it?"

  Paul glanced at him. "Didn't you think it would be, lad?" he asked.

  "Yes. No. I don't know. I hoped. But slaughtering unarmed prisoners..."

  "I suppose the Spanish feel it's justice given what has been done to some of their people by the French all these years. But it makes me sick too. Come on. I've got a feeling there are going to be more bodies along the roadside, but I'm not stopping again. We need to reach them and stop this."

  Browne looked up at him as they rose. "What if we can't?" he faltered. "Why would they listen to us? We can't travel two hundred miles to keep an eye on them."

  "No, we can't. So you need to put those doubts to one side, Mr Browne, and focus on what you're here for. You're the representative of Lord Wellington, you need to make sure they know that. I'm sure he's given you authority to speak in his name."

  "He has."

  "Good. Let's find the bastards, then."

  They came upon the prisoners around twenty miles out of Madrid, having passed at least another dozen dead men beside the roadside. Despite his intention, Paul could not help slowing down to look at each one. He knew that it was unlikely that he would find either Bernard or Cavel among them, but it was not impossible. None of the faces looked familiar, but each of them remained burned into his memory.

  The convoy of prisoners was spread out, marching at a fast pace in the heat, and at the rear Paul could see two mounted Spaniards. Three Frenchmen were at the back, one clearly stumbling, and there was already blood on his coat. As Paul approached, a horseman prodded him again with his lance, and the man gave a little cry.

  Paul touched his heel to his horse and set Rufus to a gallop, yelling at the top of his voice in Spanish. The lancer wheeled around, an expression of shock on his face. Paul pulled up and slid to the ground, approaching the little group. He looped the reins about his arm and drew his sword.

  "Put up those weapons, now, or I am going to cut your fucking hand off," he said.

  The two Spaniard's shifted back out of range as Paul's companions reached him. Paul passed his reins to Jenson. "Jenson, take him. Mr Browne, why don't you ride up to find their commanding officer. This column is so strung out, he might not even realise what they're doing, although he should learn to bloody keep discipline if he doesn't. I'm staying here with these lads."

  "I will, sir. I'll get him to halt the column and I'll speak to him."

  Browne set his horse to a canter and Paul turned to the three Frenchmen. "What's been happening?" he asked, in French. The two Spanish horsemen had withdrawn a little, looking uncertain.

  "They are murdering out men," one of the three said. He was the youngest, probably around twenty, and looked in reasonable condition. The injured man was stumbling, a wound in his upper arm bleeding steadily. Paul reached for the canteen at his belt and found it empty. He unslung his own and gave the man water, then passed it to his two companions.

  "You need water," he said. "Did you not stop?"

  "We stopped. They drank." The young Frenchman's face was tight with fury, his words clipped. "And ate. We have had no food or water since we left the city. We are dying, and when we fall back, they kill us. None of us will make to to a prison camp."

  "Yes, you will," Paul said grimly. "Take the rest of this, I'll be back."

  He mounted and turned to Jenson, reaching into his coat and taking out his pistol. "Take this," he said, handing it to his orderly, but looking at the two Spaniards. "If either of those two even looks at these men the wrong way, blow his bloody head off."

  "Yes, sir. My pleasure."

  Paul cantered up the column. He found Lieutenant Browne with the Spanish commandant, a grey haired, bearded man of around fifty. Browne was speaking Spanish, fluently and with considerable passion and Paul went to join them. He did not interrupt but took up a position a little behind Browne, hoping his rank and his expression would lend weight to the younger man's words.

  After listening for a few minutes, Paul was not sure he had been needed at all. Browne was very eloquent and spoke with unconscious authority which had little to do with his use of Lord Wellington's name.

  The commandant made several attempts to protest, but Browne cut him off ruthlessly until he had finished. The Spaniard spread his hands wide.

  "It may be true what you say, Lieutenant. All of it, I have heard and understood. But my men - they have seen homes burned and families slaughtered by these French animals. What can I do to stop them?"

  "You can tell them what is going to happen to them if they kill one
more prisoner," Paul said. "You can speak to them now, before we leave, in our hearing, explaining to them everything that Mr Browne has just told you. Lord Wellington is furious. I am furious. I can promise you, Señor, that if one more French prisoner dies in your care, you will be disgraced. Your corps will be disbanded and you will no longer be part of the Spanish army. You and your officers will be held personally responsible for any life lost among these men from this moment. I will count the men and keep their number, and I intend to write to the British agent in Bilbao. He will check the numbers and he will ask each one of these prisoners how they have been treated for the rest of this march. Just one incident will be enough to bring the vengeance of Lord Wellington down upon your heads. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course."

  "They must also be fed and given water and rest," Browne said. "You were given supplies for them and money to buy more on the journey. I will see them fed before I leave today. Now assemble your men."

  Paul stood listening as the commandant harangued his troops. He did not believe for one moment that the man had not known what his soldiers were doing, but he agreed with Browne that it was politic to pretend to believe him. If the man thought he might get away without further censure he might well take steps to ensure their good behaviour.

  "Sir."

  Paul looked around at Jenson. "Freddie?"

  "Just been having a chat with one of the Spanish lads. They've ridden this route a fair few times. There's a village about two miles on, got some shade and a well."

  "Has it? Yes, I think I'd like to make sure this lot get fed properly before we ride back. I'll speak to Mr Browne and the commandant. It might mean we have to sleep here, but a night of our presence might help to keep these buggers honest. Thank you, Jenson."

  The village was small, a huddle of houses around a central square, with the usual walled gardens and straggling vineyards and orchards close by. Paul rode ahead and chose a shady area in a copse of trees, then leaving Jenson to guide the column, he went in search of the well and to speak to some of the inhabitants. He found, as he had expected, very little enthusiasm for a convoy of French prisoners of war spending the night nearby, but the sight of ready money brought rather more interest, and Paul paid an over-inflated price for several sheep to roast and all the bread that the village baker could provide. He would get the money back from Wellington eventually. His chief was obsessive about procedures when it came to officers' claiming expenses, preferring all rations to be issued by the commissariat, and Paul understood why; the opportunities for abusing the system were endless. Paul was fairly sure that Wellington would approve of his actions in this case; he was going to be horrified at what had happened.

  It was growing late, the shadows lengthening. Several of the prisoners had been set to drawing water for both men and horses. They had been allowed to take their packs with them from the Retiro, and a few of them took out pipes, keeping a wary eye on their Spanish guards. Some of the villagers, losing their fear as it became obvious that the French were captive and harmless, had come from their homes and were hovering nearby, staring at the interlopers as they sat around several fires waiting for the meat to cook. Three children had emerged from a white walled cottage with a large garden close to the trees. Paul smiled at their wide-eyed curiosity; a boy and girl who were probably around eight and ten and an older girl who was on the verge of young womanhood and who reminded Paul of his wife. It was she who turned suddenly, tugging at her siblings and whispering something. They disappeared around the back of the house and then reappeared some minutes later with two large baskets which proved to contain apples.

  They hesitated on the edge of the trees and Paul motioned them forward. "How much, Señorita?" he asked, in Spanish.

  The girl shook her head. "No payment," she said. "We have too many and not all the fruit is good. My mother used to make cider, but she is gone now."

  "Your father?"

  "I do not know. With the army, I think, we have not seen him for many years. He may be dead."

  Paul studied the pretty face. "Are you living there on your own?"

  "Three of us; I care for Lorenzo and Paulina. Now he has work for the blacksmith, so we have more money. I help Señora Correa sometimes, at the big house. We grow vegetables and have chickens."

  "What's your name, lass?"

  "Elena. I am fourteen. The blacksmith wishes me to marry him but I have told him no."

  Despite himself, Paul laughed. "Elena, you're a very determined young lady. Keep saying it, if he's not to your liking, you'll find a lad who will be. Thank you for the fruit, the soldiers will be very grateful, they're hungry."

  "I like the French," the girl said, completely unexpectedly. "They came to our village many months ago and stayed for some weeks. Three men stayed in our house. They were kind to us. They taught me to speak some of their language."

  Paul thought how fortunate she had been that the soldiers billeted on the little family had been decent men. "There are many good men on both sides," he said gravely.

  He watched as the children moved among the soldiers, offering the apples. There were too few to feed all the prisoners, but the Frenchmen shared them about, trading bites, eating the core as well. Paul thought that the child's story explained the relatively good condition of the village. It was clear that a troop had been billeted there, and presumably had lived off the villagers as they were expected to do, but he suspected they had been well led, by officers who refused to turn a blind eye to rape and looting. Paul wondered if Bonaparte had ever realised that he might have had more success in winning over the Spanish and Portuguese if his army was better behaved.

  Close to where Paul was standing, one of the Frenchmen was talking to the boy. As Paul watched, he took something from his pack, a small notebook and a pencil. Gesturing to the boy to sit, he rested the book on his pack and began to sketch, looking up at the child from time to time and then back to his work.

  Paul walked over to stand behind him. He watched in complete fascination as the child's face came to life on the page, with swift, confident strokes. The boy tried to look and the Frenchman laughed and sat him back down. When the drawing was finished, he tore the page out carefully and handed it to Lorenzo. The boy looked at in in astonishment, then ran shouting to his sisters.

  They came clamouring and the artist obliged, sketching first Paulina and then Elena and handing them the drawings. Paul was particularly impressed with the drawing of the older girl; he had captured an elusive charm which reminded Paul once again of Anne.

  "You're very talented," Paul said in French, as the children left with their empty baskets. The Spanish were beginning to cut up the meat under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Browne, serving their own men first but then calling the prisoners into line to receive a portion along with a morsel of bread and a tack biscuit. The artist put his tools back into his pack and took out a mess tin to collect his share.

  "Thank you. I was an artist in Paris, I earned my living painting portraits of the plain wives of rich men. Many of them lost their heads, and I drew political cartoons and almost lost mine. Now I fight for the emperor and draw what I see."

  "May I?" Paul asked. The man nodded, and took another notebook from the pack then went to join the line of hungry prisoners. Paul sat with his back against a tree and turned the pages. He was enchanted by the sketches, each one a masterpiece in miniature. Portraits of fellow soldiers, studies of camp life and a beautiful drawing of an officer's horse were interspersed with drawings of Madrid, clearly recognisable. Paul looked up as the man returned, sitting down to eat.

  "These are incredible, you're wasted as a soldier," he said, returning the book.

  "I was given no choice, Colonel."

  "That is a great shame. I wish you could paint my wife."

  "Is she pretty?"

  "She's beautiful," Paul said, smiling. "And they are not merely the words of a besotted husband, all men see it. But I've never been able to get a portrai
t painted, we married out here, there's been no opportunity. I thought perhaps I would try to find a local artist when we are in winter quarters, but I'd be hard put to find one as good as you are."

  The Frenchman suddenly smiled, making him look considerably younger. "I do not generally find art lovers in the army," he said. "I also wish I could paint the wife of the man who has probably saved our lives. There would be no charge. Wait."

  He dug into the pack and pulled out a package wrapped in oilskin. There were two more filled notebooks. "Take them," the artist said. "This one also. I will keep the one I have not filled. They will probably take them off me at some point anyway. I do not know why I carry them, they make the pack heavier, but it would sadden me to see them burned or thrown away."

  Paul looked down at the books then up into steady blue eyes. "Thank you," he said. "I'll treasure them. Perhaps, if we both survive this war, I will have the chance to give them back to you one day. Will you give me your name and regiment? Where are you from?"

  "I was born in Paris; my name is Yves Roche, you will see it on my drawings; it is an artist's vanity, I cannot help it."

  Paul handed him one of the books. "Write it down anyway for me, please, along with your regiment and company; I'd like to get word of you from time to time."

  Roche complied. "That is very good of you, Colonel. May I know...?"

  "My name is Van Daan, I command the 110th, and currently the third brigade of the light division. Conditions in prison camps are not always good, but I will make it my business to enquire after your welfare with the transport board."

  Roche handed the book back. "Thank you," he said. "I began the day thinking I would be dead within the week. It has been good to talk with a civilised man."

  Two of the Spanish guards came to sit nearby, eating their rations and Jenson appeared with a mess tin for Paul. They ate in companionable silence for a while. Eventually, Roche said:

  "That man has a face worthy of a portrait."

  Paul looked and could see what the artist meant. The Spaniard was probably in his forties, olive skinned and moustached with dark curly hair and deep set dark eyes. There was a hawk-like quality to his features and an idea struck him. "Why don't you draw him?" he asked softly. "Don't worry about using up your sketch tablet, I'll find out where you are and send you more. Draw a few of them and hand them out."