Send Me Safely Back Again (Napoleonic War 3)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Kerry Militia?’ he read from the badge painted on the pack. ‘What the blazes are the militia doing here?’ Britain’s second army of the militia regiments served full time with the colours, but were not required to serve overseas.

  ‘Volunteers,’ said Dobson. ‘There’s lots of them transferred into the real army. Good boys, most of them, once they toughen up. A lot haven’t been in long enough to be issued with packs by their new regiments. You see plenty of them wearing their old jackets as well.’

  Hanley thought for a while and then stopped when they were through the camp and no one was near. He shaded his eyes for a moment and looked across beyond the valley and the stream where another, lower hill stood. Troops moved there as well, but these were French, and he saw them as dark masses or shadows in the grass. A few wisps of smoke and some much thicker clouds drifted in the light air from where the enemy guns had fired for a while at the British as they took up position. Beyond the smoke he saw a group of riders racing towards the top of the hill. No doubt they were enemy officers, perhaps even King Joseph himself.

  ‘Are we ready for the French, Dob?’

  Hanley saw Dobson frown in the red light of the setting sun. They could still see it, but lower down the slope the sun must have gone and the shadows were thickening.

  ‘They’re good lads, sir. A lot of second battalions, so plenty of them are young and this will be their first fight. Not too many of us who have seen how it’s done.’

  ‘Can we beat the French? There are a lot of them.’

  ‘Well, they’ll know they’ve been in a scrap.’

  Hanley said no more and they began walking once again. The round peak of the Medellín Hill was a good landmark, and they pushed on towards it as straight as they could for a good five minutes.

  ‘I reckon that is it,’ said Hanley, pointing up the slope towards a low stone enclosure. He followed the wall, and found the carved stone with the figure of a bearded man. It was badly worn, and in the fading light he would have to take the priest’s word for it that it was supposed to be John the Baptist.

  Dobson stiffened. He had been carrying his musket down low. Now he raised it slowly and eased back the hammer to cock it with a firm click. He nodded at two vine trees at the far corner of the pen.

  ‘I could shoot you down where you stand,’ said a voice. ‘Perhaps both of you. I have two pistols.’

  Dobson said nothing, but kept raising his musket. With a sudden rush the butt was couched against his shoulder, the muzzle aimed squarely at the trees.

  ‘You could try,’ said Hanley, with a confidence he did not feel. He imagined a pistol or musket aimed at his chest. Would he see the spark of the flint, the flare of the powder and then the explosion as a ball hurtled towards him to sink deep into his flesh?

  He gulped, hoped no one heard him and then gambled again. ‘Or you could come out and talk, Luiz.’

  There was a pause, then a laugh, and the barely audible sound of a hammer being gently lowered back into place.

  ‘Of course,’ said Velarde, as he stepped from the cover of the trees. ‘We are on the same side, after all. Well, more or less.’ The sun began to sink below the hills to the west.

  Dobson made no move, not understanding the Spanish words. His firelock followed the Spanish colonel, his finger still poised on the trigger.

  ‘It’s all right, Dob,’ said Hanley. The veteran lowered his musket, but kept it cocked and ready.

  ‘I presume we are waiting for the same thing,’ said Velarde. ‘You really do impress me, Guillermo, with your talent for finding things out.’

  ‘We may not be waiting for the same reason.’

  ‘Really.’

  Some distance away a musket fired, the sound soft. It was followed by several more.

  ‘The piquets showing their hate,’ pronounced Velarde.

  Dobson’s eyes flicked down the slope towards the French, but only for a moment.

  ‘And what about you, Luiz? Why did you kill the messenger this morning?’

  ‘Why blame me, and not the French?’

  Hanley said nothing. There was another shot from down the slope of the hill and then silence once again.

  ‘He recognised me,’ said Velarde with the slightest of shrugs. ‘It was unfortunate, but could not be helped. He was not a bright man and would have told everyone that I was a French spy. Someone would probably have been stupid enough to kill me if the word spread.

  ‘You do not seem surprised. Well done indeed, Guillermo.’

  ‘So now I know, why should I not kill you?’

  ‘Because you are smart.’ Velarde shrugged. ‘I tell things to the French. Or rather I tell them to Espinosa and he tells the French. We tell them some nonsense, but more truth even if it is sometimes too late to be of much value. That way we both are trusted and so they give us their own secrets. That way we can fight them.’

  ‘Who is we?’

  ‘I want a new Spain. One country, not divided into the old kingdoms. I want it enlightened and liberal, where men of worth choose their leaders and the king rules by consent. You must remember our talks.’

  ‘I believe King Joseph wants the same thing,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Yes, or so he says, but this new country cannot be made by outsiders. Do you think Bonaparte truly gives anything and does not come simply to take?’

  ‘Which leader promises what you want? Or do you wish to lead this new Spain yourself?’

  ‘They could do worse.’ Velarde chuckled. ‘They could do a lot worse. But no, I do not belong to any faction. Nor does Espinosa. Nor do we agree on the new Spain, but we do agree that it must be made by Spaniards – not Castilians or Andalusians or anyone else, but by Spaniards. So we must beat the French first, and so we help anyone who fights them strongly. Too many of our people are more concerned to outwit their rivals than the real enemy. I will not get caught up in that. I will certainly not die for that. If I must die for my country then so be it, but not for Cuesta, or Palafox or the Junta or anyone else.’

  ‘A good speech,’ said Hanley. ‘How much is true? You never struck me as the stuff martyrs are made from.’

  ‘Still the same.’ Velarde laughed again. ‘I believe what I have said. I believe other things too. I fully plan to survive this war, and it would be nice to be wealthy. Is that what you want to hear, Guillermo? It is just as true.’

  ‘So what do you plan to tell the French tonight?’

  ‘That the Spanish position is impregnable from the front, but that the British Army is stretched thin and vulnerable. Is that not what your General Wellesley wants them to know? Cuesta’s men may panic again. If the battle is to be won then the British must do most of the fighting. None of that is a secret, or at least more than they could work out from their patrols. Yet it is enough to convince them of my usefulness. You may see the note, if you like. It is in cipher, but that should not slow a man like you. Or I could just tell you the key if you do not relish the challenge!’

  ‘Sir!’ Dobson had noticed the darker shape of a figure stumbling down towards them from the crest. The man was running, making the long grass swish about his legs. ‘Up there, sir!’ Dobson was looking higher now. Silhouetted on the highest point of the hill were more figures – a lot more figures. There was a dense crowd of men where there had been none before and where it seemed none were supposed to be.

  Dobson’s musket snapped up to cover the man, leading a little to allow for his movement. He was close now, and they could just make out the shape of a wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘Wait!’ hissed Hanley.

  The running man stumbled, recovered and ran straight into Hanley, who grabbed him to hold him upright. He could see the whites of his eyes as the man looked up in terror. His head flicked from side to side, surprised to see three men where he had expected one.

  ‘Mapi,’ said Hanley. One of his hands was soaking wet and sticky as it touched the man’s side. The messenger was breathing only with difficulty and not because he was tired.<
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  ‘The French,’ he said, and then his whole body went slack.

  A moment later dozens of muskets shattered the night with flame and noise.

  24

  ‘That will be the old Buffs making a blunder as usual,’ said General Rowland Hill wearily.

  Wickham looked up towards the crest and saw the flashes, so very bright in the dim light. He and the general’s staff had ridden after their early dinner to find that the Second Division was in the wrong place, and were doing their best to sort out the mess. Now it looked as if chaos was turning into farce.

  ‘Well, Donellan, I’d be obliged if you put the Forty-eighth into line ready to occupy the hill.’ The order sounded like a polite request to a neighbour in the general’s beloved Shropshire.

  ‘Come on, we had better calm them down.’ The general clapped his spurs into his horse and set off like the bold hunter he was. General Hill – known as Daddy to not just his division, but half the army – looked like an affable country squire. Wickham had begun to realise that his kind nature hid an active and fearless commander. Reluctantly he followed the half-dozen horsemen as their mounts eagerly ran up the slope.

  A battalion in open column of companies was beside them, the lines of men dark shadows. Beyond them another was deploying into line, while the third battalion from the brigade pressed up towards the crest, breaking up into clumps of men as it hurried.

  ‘Be careful. No sense being shot by our own fellows!’ called the general as he and his staff made their way through the dark and straggling line.

  Wickham’s horse could never resist a race. He tried to hold the mare back, but it surged up until it was level with the general and his brigade major. There were men scattered in front of the mass at the top of the rise.

  ‘Cease fire, my good fellows! Cease fire!’ called General Hill. ‘You are firing on our own side!’

  Men milled around them. They had wider tops to their shakos than usual. One grabbed hold of the general’s bridle.

  ‘My God, they’re French!’ yelled the brigade major.

  The gout of flame from the musket seared across Wickham’s vision, so that for a moment all he could see was the glow against pitch black. There was a soft thump and a gasp and the brigade major was flung from his saddle. General Hill yanked hard on his reins and his horse reared, knocking the French infantryman down and making him let go.

  Another shot and a bullet smacked into the horse’s chest, so that the general felt it shudder beneath him. He rammed his heels against its flanks and pulled it round, and the animal leapt away from the cluster of French skirmishers. More shots and one of his staff cried out, but did not fall. Wickham rode with them, but his mare never liked going downhill and would not go faster than a slow and bumpy canter.

  The general and his staff vanished into the darkness ahead of him.

  More flame and a deeper-throated boom than that of a normal musket and something hit him hard on his right arm and shoulder, flinging him sideways. His mare lost her footing at the same moment, stumbling forward, and Wickham was falling, spinning as he dropped to land flat on his back in the grass. His arm hurt savagely and there was blood on his cheek. The frightened mare ran on.

  Wickham looked up at the starry sky, for the moment stunned and so dimly aware of what was happening that he felt no fear, only pain. A figure loomed above him, dark against the sky, and it raised in its hand an axe which glinted faintly and looked small, but very heavy.

  ‘Bastard,’ hissed a voice in strongly accented English.

  Wickham had just the strength to plead. ‘No, please, no.’

  A shot struck the ground just beside him.

  ‘Prisonnier! En avant, mes braves!’ came a voice from farther away, and there was the sound of men trampling the grass as they ran.

  The man standing over him vanished, fleeing into the night.

  ‘Eh coquin, un officier!’ said one of the French infantrymen. Wickham hissed in pain as another began to run his hands through his pockets.

  ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ said Velarde.

  ‘We ought to help, sir.’ Lance Sergeant’s Dobson’s tone stopped just short of being a command.

  Hanley and Dobson ran along the slope. Volleys slashed the darkness on each side. There were screams and shouted orders. Darker shapes came up the slope and then seemed to stop. Men fired, but the heavier volleys came from higher up.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted a voice ahead of them.

  ‘Who is in charge?’ This time it was another voice – a distinctly Scottish voice.

  They got closer. Men fired again, and for an instant Hanley saw the silhouettes of two ranks of men clearly as they shot up the slope at the French.

  ‘Don’t fire!’ came a voice. ‘We are Germans!’

  ‘Bugger! Damn it all! Sergeant Hawkins, cease firing, they’re ours. Where the hell are you, Hawkins?’

  ‘We’re Germans!’ came the cry again.

  There was a break in the firing. Hanley and Dobson heard the rattle of ramrods in the barrels of muskets.

  ‘Who the hell is in charge?’ It was the Scotsman again. ‘Give us orders.’

  Dobson held out an arm to stop Hanley. ‘Down, sir,’ he hissed. They were almost behind the end of what seemed to be the British line, but now that the shooting had stopped the veteran had spotted movement coming up at an angle behind them. There was a dark mass, the head of a column and smaller shapes flitting ahead of it.

  ‘Look out, French to the rear,’ yelled Dobson.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’

  ‘Españoles! Españoles!’ shouted a higher shadow – an officer riding at the head of the column. Hanley thought the accent distinctly French.

  ‘Lying sods,’ whispered Dobson. He eased his bayonet out of its scabbard and fixed it to the muzzle of the musket lying beside him.

  The column pushed up the slope and the skirmishers were flowing around the back of the British line.

  ‘Surrender, you are our prisoners,’ called a voice used to command.

  ‘They’re bloody French!’

  ‘Drop your muskets! You are prisoners.’

  ‘I’m bloody not!’ There was the sound of fighting and blows with the butts of muskets. The British formation broke up. Shots flamed in the night as some fled. Others were being hustled to the rear as prisoners. Some still struggled as Frenchmen grabbed their collars and dragged them down.

  Farther along the slope, another row of flames stabbed up the hill. Closest to them the line had gone, but elsewhere parts of the battalion still fought.

  ‘Give us an order and we will dare anything. For God’s sake give us an order!’ The shouting was more distant now.

  Men ran past them.

  Dobson sprang up. ‘Stop, you buggers!’ he commanded in a voice unmistakably British.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked a voice, but already a dozen men had stopped.

  ‘Who is loaded?’ asked Dobson, ignoring the questions. No one answered. ‘Then fix your spikes, lads.’

  Hanley stood and drew his sword. He did not feel he could do anything better than the lance sergeant, but wanted to show willing. There were more shapes coming towards them, but it was harder for the French to see down the slope than it was for them to pick out the shapes above them.

  ‘Merde! Les anglais!’

  Dobson fired. ‘Charge!’ he screamed, and rushed on through the smoke of his own shot. ‘Come on, lads!’

  Hanley went with them. There was a hiss of pain as Dobson ran a French infantryman through the stomach, and then twisted the blade free as he kicked the man over. All around him men stabbed, hacked and struck at each other with bayonet and musket butt. One redcoat without a weapon pushed a Frenchman’s musket aside with his right hand and then punched the man with all his weight behind his left fist. Another British soldier died as an enemy thrust the muzzle of his musket against his face and then pulled the trigger. Hanley cut at a man with his sword. The blow was clumsy, for
he had never really practised with the blade and all of his movements seemed so very slow. His opponent ducked beneath the slash, and then jabbed forward with the butt of his musket. Hanley gasped and struggled to breathe as he folded double. He collapsed kneeling on to the grass.

  The French infantryman hit him again on the head, knocking him face down on the grass so that he did not see and only felt someone come and place his feet either side of him. With a clang the man parried the French light infantryman’s bayoneted musket as he thrust down to finish off the officer. Then something wet and hot flowed on to Hanley’s head, stirring him to consciousness as the Frenchman screamed in intense agony.

  The French withdrew, leaving three of their number stretched in the grass.

  ‘Stay here, lads. Don’t follow!’ Dobson was still giving the orders, which meant that he was unscathed. ‘We can’t beat the lot of them on our own, but we can give time for our boys to come up and see ’em off properly. Now, kneel down and get them muskets loaded.’ Hanley felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You all right, Mr Hanley?’

  He pushed himself up. ‘I believe so.’ He saw a face that looked familiar kneeling beside Dobson and grinning at him.

  ‘It’s Ramón, sir. The Spanish lady’s coachman. Told you he’s a handy lad. That Frenchie would have done for you if he hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘Gracias,’ said Hanley hoarsely. His throat seemed so very dry and there was a faint taste of vomit.