Send Me Safely Back Again (Napoleonic War 3)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Wickham heard the Frenchmen crying and leaned from the window of the carriage, calling at the driver to halt.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he screamed in French at the pursuing cavalry. ‘We are friends of King Joseph!’

  Ramón did not stop and the Frenchmen splashed down the trail after them. Another man fired, this time with a pistol, and the ball snapped through the window above Wickham’s head, ripping a neat hole in the leather curtain. The major’s head shot back inside, and Williams was sure he caught a burst of clear, feminine laughter.

  ‘Don’t shoot! We are friends!’ This time the shout came from inside the carriage.

  ‘These lads mean business,’ called Dobson, clinging desperately on to the handrail as the carriage lurched and swung. He had his blunderbuss cocked, but knew that one-handed he would not be able to aim and feared wasting his charge when it seemed unlikely they would get the chance to reload.

  Williams leaned back, pointing his heavy pistol at the closest dragoon. The carriage bounced, and the muzzle leapt from its aim squarely at the yellow front at the centre of the Frenchman’s dark green jacket. Thankfully he had not pulled the trigger, but the threat of the gun was enough to make the dragoons rein back a little. Another fired a pistol, but the ball must have gone high or wide, because neither Dobson nor Williams felt it pass near.

  The carriage lurched again as Ramón skilfully took another bend in the road. Williams almost lost his footing as he leaned back, and for a moment his left foot was in the air, his balance going, and then another jolt pitched him back against the back of the car.

  There were more dragoons waiting, this time six men on foot and two more holding their horses. The dismounted men fired a ragged volley. One shot cut a groove in the roof of the carriage, and another twitched at the heavy curtain on the left-hand window and slapped into the far side of the car, prompting a cry of alarm that sounded more male than female.

  The right lead horse was pumping blood from a wound in its neck. Ramón knew the animal was dying, but wanted to get as far as he could, and so he whipped the poor beast and the team ran on. Gouts of blood sprayed back red from the wound.

  After a hundred yards the team began to slow perceptibly. Then more dragoons appeared, weaving through the trees beside the road, four on either side. The green-coated riders had their swords out, and an officer was bellowing orders. Two men raced along beside the team. Dobson aimed as best he could, one arm looped through the handrail so that both hands could try to steady the blunderbuss. He anticipated the bump, waited for the moment when the carriage sank back down on its springs and pulled the trigger.

  The detonation seemed huge and the cloud of filthy smoke blew back around the two men on the rear of the carriage, but the explosion of the nails and scrap metal struck the dragoon on the right from behind, punching through the cloth cover and the brass of his helmet and shattering the rear of the man’s skull. His head flopped to one side, but some nervous reaction kept the man’s knees in their high boots firmly astride the horse, and the animal ran on with its dead rider.

  Williams aimed at the man on the other side, but then another dragoon closed with him, sword lunging, and the ensign swung his arm back and fired with the muzzle of his pistol no more than a yard away. He pulled the trigger and the flint snapped down and sparked. Nothing happened; perhaps the powder in the pan had been shaken out in their jolting drive. The dragoon was closing, and almost by reflex Williams flung the pistol at him, striking him in the mouth and making him yank with his left hand at the reins and swing away. He blocked the path of the men that followed, and for the moment they opened up some distance.

  Williams reached for the other pistol and hoped desperately that this would fire. The carriage was starting to slow, and then the right lead horse died and the left’s collar was grabbed by the French dragoon who had sped up on that side. The trees fell back from the road as they came to a crossroads marked by a little shrine to a local saint. Ramón fumbled for a pistol just as the right lead slumped down. The team swung to the side, tugging the Frenchman from his saddle, and then the front wheel sank into a shallow ditch. There were screams from inside the carriage as the whole car rocked violently and the occupants were flung about. Dobson lost his balance and fell, rolling on the grass. Williams somehow stayed on.

  Half a dozen French dragoons were closing, led by a slim officer whose uncovered helmet had a leopard-skin band and a tall white plume as well as the black horsehair crest. Farther back down the road, more dragoons cantered up in support. Williams jumped to the ground, and levelled the pistol at them, using his free hand to unbutton his greatcoat.

  ‘Jackets, Dob,’ he said. He was not sure the French would be inclined to take prisoners. With one man killed he could not blame them, but at least he would make the effort and show the enemy that they were British soldiers.

  ‘View halloo!’ The cry came as clear and purposeful as the brass call of a trumpet. ‘Tally ho! Come on the Twentieth!’ Williams could not see who was shouting, for the cries came from behind the carriage and the road off to the right. Then there were the thuds of a heavy-footed horse pounding through the mud and an immaculately dressed light dragoon officer shot past. His cloak billowed behind him, his trim-waisted tunic had rows of white lace widening at the shoulders, and he had the distinctively British Tarleton helmet with its comb of a crest. Behind him rode a corporal in the regulation place for a cover man. Both officer and NCO had their heavy curved sabres raised high.

  ‘Charge, my lads!’ the officer called, and behind him another rider appeared, this one a trumpeter in a green uniform Williams did not recognise. The man raised his trumpet and blew the intoxicating notes of the charge.

  Williams fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the shot strike home on the chest of a dragoon’s horse.

  The French fled. Their horses were tired and they were spread out, and that was the worst condition in which to meet a cavalry charge. The officer yelled the order and the men wheeled sharply, and then kicked their spurred boots to send the horses racing as fast as they could back the way they had come. The dragoons coming up in support joined the prudent withdrawal.

  None of the French looked back to share Williams’ surprise when he realised that the three horsemen were alone and that no squadron followed them.

  ‘Mad bugger,’ said Dobson admiringly.

  The Frenchman with the wounded horse lagged behind, and the light dragoon corporal kept after him even after his officer had reined back. He closed steadily, and with a well-aimed and heavy swing the stockily built man cut the French dragoon from his saddle. His cry of pain hastened the flight of the others.

  The light dragoon officer nodded approvingly, and then walked his horse back towards the foundered carriage. He had thick side whiskers framing his open, handsome face.

  ‘Well, that was all rather thrilling,’ he said happily. A couple of shots echoed up the valley. ‘Ah, that must be the excellent Charles, and the admirable Corporal Evans. They should keep Johnny Crapaud amused for a few hours. Corporal Evans displays a natural talent for banditry. Well, he is Welsh. Those fellows will be lucky to get away with their boots by the time he has finished.’

  Williams dropped his long coat and revealed a red jacket which, for all its failings, still showed him to be an ensign in the British Army.

  The light dragoon officer noticed and gave an easy smile. He wore a number of decorations Williams did not recognise. ‘I hope you will not take offence, my dear fellow, but if I were you I would have strong words with your tailor. A horse whip would seem the ideal way to start.

  ‘By the way, my name is Wilson.’

  8

  ‘My lady,’ said Colonel Wilson with an impeccable bow. ‘It is good to see you again. I hope you were not in any way incommoded during the chase?’ Wickham took the Doña Margarita’s hand to help her step down from the carriage. In spite of her condition she did so with graceful ease.

  ‘I am perfectly recovered, Sir Robert.
And must thank you for such a timely and heroic arrival.’ Her voice was deep, the English perfect with the barest trace of an accent, and her speech less formal than before. With her mantilla now around her shoulders, Williams for the first time saw her face clearly. Her long black hair was coiled on top of her head and braided down to her shoulders. Her eyes were such a deep brown as to seem almost black, and she looked boldly at each of them in turn, her gaze strong and unblinking. They were set in a round, almost heart-shaped face, with lips that were wide and a little fleshy. If her features were not perhaps wholly perfect, there was an animation in her expression and movements which leant them a lively beauty. As much as her appearance, Williams admired the coolness she had displayed in the recent chase, confirming what Ramón had told them of the lady’s courage.

  She was taller than he had guessed, or perhaps for the first time was standing straight, so that she was only a few inches shorter than Wickham. Her skin was a dark cream, at the moment still somewhat flushed with excitement. ‘You are the perfect caballeros, appearing at the moment when all seemed lost,’ and after the compliment, she made the slightest motion of a curtsy, hardly bending her knees and yet conveying a considerable elegance.

  ‘I am most delighted to hear it, although I dare say your fellows would have fought the enemy off without our aid.’

  It was a generous, if absurd, compliment. ‘We are most glad you arrived,’ said Williams.

  ‘Indeed, for we were most surely outmatched,’ added Wickham.

  ‘A happy chance,’ replied Sir Robert, ‘and we are pleased to have been of service. Now, we ought to get your carriage ready to move again in case any more of those fellows turn up.’ They were surprised to see the colonel undo his helmet’s chinstrap, take it off, and then peel off his cloak and jacket. ‘Come, Dobson, is it not? Let us see if we can shift this wheel, while the Doña Margarita’s man attends to the team.’

  Williams was surprised to see a senior officer so readily submitting to manual work. Wickham was aghast, but immediately reprieved from copying the example when the lady asked him to help carry her travelling case over to the shade of a tree so that she could sit down. He was all attention.

  The ensign happily joined Wilson, his corporal and Dobson as they clambered down into the shallow ditch. The wheel was undamaged, but the slope of the little trench almost vertical, although no more than eighteen inches deep. Without tools, they could not dig out a gentler slope.

  ‘Well, brute force it is,’ declared the colonel. The dead horse had been taken from the traces and dragged away by the rest of the team. Then the remaining lead was moved back to replace the animal behind, and Ramón led them forward while the four others heaved at the axle to raise the coach. The horses strained, were whipped on, and with a sudden surge the rim of the wheel gripped the top of the bank, crumbling the edge, until the carriage was rolling on. All four of them quickly let go to save themselves from being dragged forward as the team raced a few yards before the driver restrained them.

  ‘I must thank you again, sir, for your most timely appearance,’ said Williams, brushing the dirt and grease from his hands.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Happy to be of service, and simply good luck that we were here.’

  Williams doubted that it was luck, and suspected that the colonel had been looking for them. So had the French dragoons, for there seemed no other reason for such an immediate and determined attack. The other enemy soldiers they had encountered had always behaved with considerable caution. There was, after all, no obvious threat posed by a single carriage.

  The French must have wanted either the lady herself or something she carried. Perhaps they were after the messages she bore, but Williams could not help thinking of Dobson’s suspicion that the carriage concealed something heavy. It had certainly been a bigger effort than he expected for the four of them to lift the wheel of so lightly constructed a vehicle.

  ‘I must say, sir, that it was a bold and gallant stroke to attack so many.’

  ‘Capital sport!’ After a moment Colonel Wilson chuckled to himself. ‘Reminds me of the time back in Flanders when a couple of squadrons of their chasseurs tried to snaffle a battery while most of our fellows were dismounted and resting their horses. Lord Paget, Willy Erskine, myself and a few other officers were the only ones on horseback so we flung ourselves at the Frenchies and laid about for all we were worth. Gave our light dragoons the chance to saddle up and we put the whole lot into the bag. Capital sport, Mr Williams, capital sport!

  ‘Audacity is the key. Never give them time to think or count how many you are. Just go bald-headed at the enemy and he will spring back “as one who has tread on an unseen snake amid the briars, when stepping firmly on the earth.”’

  Williams felt the quote was familiar, and suddenly the rest of it came to him. ‘“And in sudden terror pulls back as it rises in anger and puffs out its purple neck.”’

  ‘“And so we charge and with serried arms flow around them”,’ added Sir Robert, delighting in the exchange. ‘I shall not claim the prowess of a son of Venus and his warriors for myself and Corporal Gorman, but the outcome was just as satisfactory.’

  Wickham and the lady were close enough to hear the conversation and now the major joined them, confident that any unbecoming labour was at an end. ‘Mr Williams and I had the honour of serving under Lord Paget at Sahagun last winter,’ he said, seizing the opportunity of parading any acquaintance with such a great man, and resenting his subordinate’s ready knowledge of the classics. ‘I was on General Paget’s staff. Mr Williams was there to act in the capacity of a translator.’ Wickham’s tone indicated the unimportance of such an unmilitary task. ‘Although in the event Lord Paget was too busy setting about the French to give much thought to communication!’

  ‘Ah, so you are familiar with modern languages as well as ancient, Mr Williams?’ asked the colonel with evident enthusiasm. ‘That is an excellent practice for a young officer.’

  Williams’ honesty surfaced immediately. ‘I fear there was a wholly mistaken esteem for my skills. Since returning to Portugal, I have attempted some small study of the language, but confess that my success is limited.’

  ‘Your diligence does you credit, as does your modesty. Vanity and promotion of one’s own deeds are the most terrible of vices, and ensure that all too often the higher commands go to the braggarts rather than the men of true worth. Such is the world we live in.’

  ‘The Doña Margarita wonders when we shall be recommencing our journey, Sir Robert,’ said Wickham, relishing such a level of intimacy with two persons of title.

  ‘Of course, of course, we shall leave immediately. Mr Charles and Corporal Evans will be able to catch up with us as soon as their business is complete. We ought to move, just in case another stray patrol chances upon us. We will take you on and guide you to a far stronger escort waiting to take the lady the rest of the way.’

  ‘Escort, Sir Robert?’ asked Wickham.

  ‘Two companies of your own corps, under the command of the estimable Captain Pringle. I spoke with him last night and suggested that he wait for you in a little village lying on the old coach route.’

  That was splendid news, and Williams saw no point in commenting that Sir Robert had obviously been aware of their coming – and indeed a good deal more than he was choosing to tell.

  ‘Wickham my dear fellow, I feel it is best if you continue to travel in the carriage and attend to the comforts of La Doña Margarita. She is a fine and spirited lady, but given her situation the journey itself must be fatiguing, apart from the threat of the enemy.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Robert.’ Williams noticed something new in Wickham’s expression, which went beyond mere satisfaction at so comfortable an assignment. The Spanish aristocrat seemed more inclined to conversation than in the past, and perhaps this encouraged the major.

  ‘Mr Williams, we have saddled the spare horse with the Frenchman’s tack, so would you do me the honour of riding with us. An additional pair
of eyes would not go amiss. I doubt that we shall have more trouble with the French, but one can never be sure.’

  The carriage horses were tired, and now reduced to a team of four, but they kept to as fast a pace as possible, helped that the trend in the road was downwards. After two hours, they were joined by Captain Charles, a gunner officer with a boyish face and a nose left crooked by some childhood misadventure. He was followed a few minutes later by a ginger-haired rogue who proved to be Corporal Evans. He had an infantryman’s jacket with yellow facings and yet looked as comfortable on horseback as any cavalryman. He confirmed that no French were following. The two men seemed exhilarated by the recent skirmish, reflecting Sir Robert’s own light-hearted enthusiasm.

  ‘Charles is my adjutant,’ said the colonel, after the gunner and Williams were introduced to each other. ‘He helps me to run the Legion. Without him I would no doubt forget to issue the men with musket balls to shoot or breeches to wear!’

  ‘I am sure you would manage, sir.’

  ‘Well, I do let you have some sport as well as making you slave away. Eh, James, better than manning some godforsaken fort on the windswept cliffs of Sussex?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, sir,’ replied Captain James Charles. ‘That was such a dull existence, without the slightest chance of action. With the Legion there is always such capital sport.’

  Williams could not help noticing the officer using the same expression as his commander. When Sir Robert took a turn riding ahead to scout, the gunner was even more effusive.

  ‘The chief is a wonder. Do you know that with just one battalion of ours, a few dozen horsemen and the support of the local Spanish, we have kept General Lapisse and a whole French corps busy. We move fast, you see, and the chief will attack at any opportunity. Sometimes it’s just a handful of us, a troop of cavalry, a howitzer and a company of infantry, and we’ll pounce on their outposts. There’s usually more of them, but then they don’t know that, do they? So we charge in and overrun the piquets, and usually take every man. The shock of that is sufficient to make their regiment think thousands are attacking. Nine times out of ten they pull back, and we nibble at their heels like terriers. If they do choose to fight, then we will not give them the chance. It’s easier for our small numbers to escape.