‘Ah, actually it’s Major now,’ drawled Wickham complacently. ‘My brevet came through at the start of the month, before I left England.’ The newly minted major dismissed their automatic congratulations with becoming modesty. ‘Gentlemen, may I present some members of my old corps . . .’
One of his companions cut in. ‘I am well acquainted with Mr Hanley already, and it is a great pleasure to see you again,’ said Ezekiel Baynes, a round-faced, portly civilian, who looked like a cartoon John Bull sprung to life. Ostensibly he was in the wine trade, but many years of commerce in Spain and Portugal had allowed him to be of service to the government. Hanley had met him in the autumn, when army officers able to speak Spanish were in great demand. ‘Do you recollect that I mentioned Hanley to you not long ago, Colonel D’Urban?’ This was to the third rider, an officer with the laced blue jacket and fur-trimmed pelisse of the light cavalry. The colonel was in his early thirties, with a slim face, long nose and bright eyes that suggested a quick intelligence.
‘I am glad to see you, Mr Baynes,’ said Hanley with a smile. The merchant was good company, although he suspected that his bluff exterior veiled a mind which was both sharp and probably ruthless.
‘This is Ensign Williams, also of our Grenadiers.’ Wickham was somewhat put out to have lost his control of the conversation, but made the most of what little was left to him. He considered Williams to be a rather dull lump of a man, lacking accomplishments or notable friends. ‘This time last year he was a volunteer in the 106th.’ A Gentleman Volunteer was a man who lacked the money to buy an officer’s commission or the friends to secure one for him. He served in the ranks, wore the uniform of the ordinary soldiers, but lived with the officers, waiting for battle to create a vacancy. If Wickham had intended to inform his companions that the fair-haired officer was a man of little standing, he failed.
‘Promoted for gallantry, no doubt,’ said D’Urban enthusiastically. ‘Yes, of course, your regiment did splendidly in Portugal. Let me shake your hand, Mr Williams.’ He reached down and took the ensign’s hand in a hearty grip.
‘You must tell us all about your exploits,’ added the genial Baynes, his red face once again radiating honest joy. ‘And what brings you to us now?’
There was no chance to answer, as a Spanish officer urged his fine Andalusian mount alongside the three Englishmen. ‘Excuse me, your excellencies, but the general is to address his officers. Would you care to follow . . .’ He stopped, obviously astonished. ‘Guillermo! It is you, isn’t it? Holy Mother of God, I’d never have believed it.’
The recognition was not instant. It took Hanley some time to see past the heavily braided white coat, the gold sash and the round hat with its brass plate proclaiming ‘Long live Ferdinand VII – Victory or Death!’ to recognise Luiz Velarde, one of the circle of artists he had known in Madrid. It was hard to detect much trace of the loose-limbed, shabbily dressed sculptor in this dashing officer. Yet the eyes were the same, and immediately confirmed his recognition, for there was the same mix of quick humour and passion, and yet all the while the sense that the soul behind them was impenetrably veiled.
‘Luiz,’ he began, but then their mutual surprise and reunion had to wait, for a voice called for silence and all who were able turned to see the general.
It was the first real glimpse Hanley had had of Lieutenant General Don Gregorio García de la Cuesta, and the first thought that struck him was how old the man looked. He wore a powdered wig, which reinforced the impression of a relic of a bygone age. Yet he sat his horse well, and his gorgeously laced and gilt uniform graced a body still straight. For all his years – Hanley guessed that the general was nearer to seventy than sixty – there was the vigour and determination of a much younger man. Advancing years looked to have made the Spanish commander tough rather than frail. His words were positive, delivered in that rapid, deep tone that was so characteristically Spanish. Hanley translated quietly for Williams’ benefit, for his friend still understood little of the language. He noticed that Wickham was also paying attention to his explanations.
‘Marshal Victor is trapped with his back to the river. There is only the single bridge in Medellín and it will take time for all his guns and men to file across that narrow crossing. So he must fight, and when we beat him his army will have nowhere to go and will be destroyed. The only advantage the French have is in their horsemen. We have a river on either side of us, and they cannot sweep round our flanks. They can only come at us head on and meet our shot and steel.’
The general swept his audience with a fierce, determined glance.
‘Honoured gentlemen,’ Hanley continued to translate. ‘The whole army will continue to attack.’ There were enthusiastic murmurs from the senior officers. ‘Urge your men on and lead them to victory. God is with us!’ A tall priest sat astride a donkey just behind the general, backed by a row of friars. All now bowed their heads in prayer. Many of the officers crossed themselves.
‘This is the beginning. When we smash Marshal Victor the road to Madrid will lie open. The atheists will be driven from the sacred soil of Spain and His Most Catholic Majesty Ferdinand VII restored to his rightful throne. The days of revolution and the rule of the mob are over. Spain will be restored. Let us take back what is ours.
‘Follow me to victory! For God, Spain and Ferdinand VII!’
‘For God, Spain and Ferdinand VII!’ The shout resounded as the officers, and even the grooms and servants, cheered. Hanley could not help joining in as the cry was repeated. ‘For God, Spain and Ferdinand VII!’ The other British officers cheered in their native fashion, although Williams’ enthusiasm was muted.
‘It is a little peculiar for a commander to explain his intentions at so late a juncture,’ he said quietly.
‘Perhaps for your army,’ said Velarde. Hanley had forgotten – if he had ever known – that he spoke good English. In Madrid they had always spoken in Spanish. ‘Not so peculiar for us, and especially for the lieutenant general.’
Neither Williams nor Hanley showed any sign of understanding. Velarde lowered his voice so that they could barely hear him. ‘In the last year Don Gregorio has faced an angry crowd determined to hang him if he did not do what they wanted, and since then he has led a revolution, failed, and been a prisoner.
‘The cry of “Treason” is a common one these days, and often fatal.’ That at least they knew. Spanish generals whose untrained and badly equipped armies had fled from the French had more than once been lynched by their own men. ‘These are dangerous days,’ Velarde continued unnecessarily. ‘But today we should win!’ His enthusiastic smile was back.
‘I trust your task is not urgent?’ asked Colonel D’Urban, leaning down to speak to Hanley.
‘No, sir, we are tasked with recovering stores.’ There was activity all around them. Spanish officers were changing to fresh mounts and some were already heading off bearing orders to the divisions.
‘Just the two of you?’ said Baynes archly. ‘Oh, and your man, of course,’ he added, and Williams could not help finding a little disturbing the ease with which everyone had ignored Dobson.
‘There are two companies of our battalion under the command of Captain Pringle, three days’ ride to the north. He sent us down to Badajoz in case the Spanish authorities there could help us. Instead they sent us here,’ explained Hanley, and then lowered his voice. ‘There was a particular concern that a magazine of shrapnel shells should not fall into the wrong hands.’ Colonel Shrapnel’s new explosive shell was a secret of the British artillery, used for the first time and with great effect last summer.
D’Urban nodded, and then gave an impish grin. ‘Of course, but there will be plenty of time to deal with the matter after we have run Marshal Victor to ground. And in the meantime you fellows can make yourselves useful.
‘Wickham, you are the best mounted of all of us on that hunter of yours. Hanley speaks Spanish, so take him with you and go over to the far right. The Duke of Alburquerque’s division holds that
part of the line. Report to him and observe the fighting. Obviously, do anything you can to assist our gallant allies.’
Major Wickham had arrived the day before, newly attached to the British mission to General Cuesta’s army. It baffled D’Urban that a man unable to comprehend more than a few words of Spanish had been chosen for the task. Wickham’s French was good, but many senior Spanish officers could not speak the language. Others, like Don Gregorio himself, refused to do so. Wickham’s usefulness in other respects was yet to become apparent. He was certainly a personable fellow, and perhaps this was seen as sufficient qualification for his task. More probably, he had powerful friends advancing his career – or perhaps just eager to have him outside the country.
D’Urban tried without much success to dismiss that uncharitable thought. At the least, the man ought to be capable of taking a look at the performance of the Spanish. It was important to judge the mettle of their allies, and see best how Britain could aid their cause.
‘Perhaps Major Velarde would accompany you?’
The Spaniard nodded. ‘An honour, your excellency.’
‘Splendid. Now, Mr Williams, I would like you to go with Mr Baynes and take a look at the left wing, over there, near the River Hortiga. He is only a civilian, and they are rarely safe to be let out on their own, so look after him as if he were a child. Restrain him if he gets any dangerous urges – such as peering down the muzzle of a loaded cannon! Take your man with you. What is your name, Corporal?’
‘Dobson, sir.’ The veteran had stiffened to attention and barked out the reply.
‘You look like you have seen plenty of service.’
‘Aye, sir, a good deal.’
‘Wonderful. In that case you keep an eye on them both and stop either from doing anything foolish!
‘Time to go, gentlemen. I shall remain with the general’s staff and go where he goes. I wish you all the joy of the day.’ With the slightest flick of his heels, D’Urban set his sturdy cob moving.
Dobson unhitched the reins of their mules from a vine branch and brought the animals over. Hanley’s mount bucked and snapped in protest at being forced to stir from rest so soon. The others simply stared mutely, chewing at mouthfuls of thin grass.
The three men were grenadiers, the tallest soldiers in the battalion, and their feet reached almost to the ground when they sat in the rudimentary saddles, legs dangling as there were no stirrups. Their uniforms failed to create a better impression. Both officers wore the same jacket in which they had landed in Portugal last August. Faded by sun and drenched in snow, rain and storm, they were badly frayed and heavily patched. Williams had cut off the long tails of his coat so that at least the patches were red. Purchased in an auction of a dead officer’s effects, the coat had never fitted him well, even before his recent illness. The sleeves of Hanley’s jacket were sewn up with brown Portuguese cloth. His hat was at least military, but now rose to a low, misshapen crown. Williams’ broad-brimmed straw hat shaded his eyes and protected his fair skin from the sun, but little more could be said for it, other than that it was marginally more respectable than his ruined forage cap. His cocked hat had long since been lost. As he sat astride his mule, his bent legs accentuated the almost transparent cotton on the knees of his trousers, showing the skin beneath.
Dobson wore the poorer-quality, duller red coat of the ordinary soldiers, now faded by the sun to a deep brick red. His shako was battered and lacked the white plume marking him as a grenadier. His issue trousers had decayed beyond salvation and been replaced with a pair in dark blue that he had foraged from an unknown source. These were already ragged and sewn up with patches of brown and black cloth. Only his boots were fairly new, well polished, and worn no more than enough to be comfortable. Cut off from the main body of the regiment, and their pay months in arrears, the companies of the 106th stranded by the storm had been unable to re-equip and reclothe themselves fittingly. Only boots had been issued, and they were glad enough to get them, for their existing ones had been worn to destruction in the winter’s campaign.
In spite of his worn uniform, the veteran at least cut a proud martial figure. A country lad in his distant youth, he rode the mule comfortably, his well-cleaned and maintained firelock slung over his shoulder. Williams also carried a long arm, but had to keep grabbing at the stock to stop the musket from slipping off as he sat far less confidently on his own mount. He had no sash, and only his sword – a very fine, slightly curved Russian blade – confirmed that he was an officer.
‘It makes you proud to be British,’ said Ezekiel Baynes, gazing at this reinforcement to the British mission.
2
Wickham gave the tall horse its head, racing off across the hard earth, hoofs brushing aside the long grass. Hanley guessed that the elegant officer was none too keen on being seen with so inelegant a figure as himself. Velarde barely kept up with the chestnut hunter, and his own mule refused to move any faster than a walk, in spite of repeated efforts to kick or slap it onwards. The two horsemen quickly grew distant. The Spanish officer turned, called an apology and gestured in the direction they were going.
Hanley was sure that he knew the way, until a troop of hussars in sky blue and green thundered past in front of him. They had tall, tapering shakos hung with scarlet sashes to complete a most striking uniform. His mule protested at the noise and movement, and bucked so badly that Hanley almost fell off. One boot touched the ground and he pushed hard on it to shift his weight back up into balance. By the time the cavalry had passed and their dust had cleared, he could no longer see the others. The fields, so flat from the modest height from which he had sketched, rolled more than he expected. He knew that they were to go to the far right of the army, and presumed that the duke and his staff would readily stand out as soon as he was closer.
He headed a little to the left, until he was no more than a couple of hundred yards behind the main line of Spanish infantry. The closest battalion wore white uniforms with red facings. Most had bicorne hats, worn crosswise just like Napoleon himself. They were halted for a moment, but then the drums beat furiously and shouted orders sent the battalion moving forward again. A cannon boomed, and then came a smattering of shots as skirmishers fought their private battles ahead of the main lines. A few men came back, some limping and leaning on their muskets as if they were crutches. Others clutched at roughly bandaged arms or heads. A few men carried others, and he knew that in the 106th they were always ordered to leave the wounded to the aid of the bandsmen assigned to the task. Helping others offered too easy an escape to the timid. Perhaps the Spanish did things differently, he thought, but it was clear that the casualties and their helpers were so far few in number.
As Hanley rode along behind the line, he could see that the Spanish were still going forward at all points. Sometimes there were pauses, but always the men would begin to advance again after a few minutes. The infantrymen cheered as they marched on, and he heard cries of ‘Victory or death!’, ‘Viva Ferdinand VII’ and the grimmer ‘No quarter!’ The Army of Estremadura was advancing. The plan still seemed to be working.
It was the same all along the line, although the colours of the uniforms changed, and he passed regiments still in civilian clothes, and another where there were uniform coats of half a dozen colours. The Spanish infantry fired, cheered and moved forward.
Hanley found the Duke of Alburquerque farther forward than he had expected, attended by a gaggle of colourful staff officers and with an escort formed by another troop of hussars like the ones who had passed him. He heard a call, ‘Guillermo!’, and spotted Velarde beckoning to him.
‘Glad you made it,’ came the cheerful greeting. Wickham acknowledged him with a nod, and then they were immediately ushered up to be presented to the duke. Alburquerque was a slim, handsome man with jet-black hair and a ready smile. He clearly liked the English, and via Velarde’s translation displayed great admiration for Wickham’s thoroughbred.
‘Please express my fullest gratitude to His Grace,
and say that I believe much is to be admired in Andalusians, preserving as they do the Arabian bloodlines,’ said Wickham, visibly relishing his reception by the aristocrat.
The duke was even more delighted to be told that Hanley spoke Spanish, and Wickham enjoyed being associated with this enthusiasm and for the moment disregarded his fellow officer’s attire.
‘That is wonderful,’ enthused the duke. ‘I wish I had time to learn the language of our allies, but for the moment there is no time for anything not needed for the field of Mars. I fear that I am unable to pay many compliments to your steed.’
‘Yes, I fear it is not even worth the name Rocinante!’
The duke laughed. ‘Well, of course, we are close to La Mancha today, although sadly it is mainly held by the French. Do you know this country?’
‘I travelled a little hereabouts, but for almost two years I lived in Madrid.’
‘Well,’ said the duke, ‘it is greatly to be hoped that soon we will all march back there. It is good to have the English here to watch. Together, we will drive the invaders forever from Spain. Then it is up to us to build a better country.’ The last words were added as a low afterthought, and Hanley could not be sure that he had heard them precisely.
A cannonball skipped over the infantry battalion some fifty yards ahead of them and bounced just short of the group of staff officers. It flicked up a plume of dust and shattered the front legs of Hanley’s mule. The beast gave a scream of agony that was almost human as it dropped forward, its rider sliding over its head to fall against its neck. Horses whinnied as the other officers managed somehow to drag them back out of the path of the shot. The escort troop split like a shoal of minnows frightened by a pike, but no one else was hurt. There was much urging and cursing as the ranks reformed.
Send Me Safely Back Again (Napoleonic War 3) Page 2
