True Soldier Gentlemen

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Sir, sir!’ A voice was crying out, and Moss heard someone run up beside him. He turned to see Mr Thomas on foot.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Moss spat the words at his adjutant.

  Thomas was breathing hard as he came to attention in front of the colonel. ‘I beg to report that the flanking force has been captured, sir.’

  ‘What? What the devil are you blathering about, man? And where’s your screw of a horse?’ demanded Moss.

  ‘Ambushed, sir. Both companies were defiling through a sunken lane, and found MacAndrews had his men waiting for them. They rolled wagons behind and in front to block the lane, and then two of his companies popped up from the hedges. Had Headley and his men cold.’ For once Moss was speechless. ‘A neat piece of work. They had just sprung the trap when I arrived. It seemed only fair to declare the flanking force dead or captured.’

  ‘You did what?’ Moss was beginning to marshal himself.

  ‘Told them to pile weapons and sit down. They said that I was a prisoner and I told them that I damned well was not. So MacAndrews took my horse and said if that was the case I should walk back.’ Service in the ranks had long since taught Thomas to let a superior officer’s anger flow past him. He also took care not to reveal any trace of his own amusement.

  Moss rallied, realising an opportunity. He turned to Toye, who was still studying the makeshift earthwork with his telescope. ‘Who can you see up there, John?’ he asked, deliberately using the major’s Christian name.

  ‘Captain Wickham. He is standing on the rampart. Couldn’t be anyone else.’

  ‘No other officers?’ enquired Moss eagerly.

  ‘No, sir. Not that I can see.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Moss. ‘We have them, gentlemen. MacAndrews must still be away with the two companies and has just left the grenadiers to hold the redoubt.’ The term was rather grand for what Toye could see, but that was just the colonel’s way. Still, he had his doubts.

  ‘Maybe we just can’t see them?’ he suggested cautiously.

  ‘Nonsense. Use your head, man. Thomas here was on his own and has only just got back. Marching men move more slowly than an individual. MacAndrews is still away being clever and we outnumber the grenadiers by five to one.’ Thomas thought it unnecessary to mention that MacAndrews had made him pledge to wait half an hour before he started back.

  ‘Mr Fletcher,’ Moss called. ‘The 106th will prepare to advance. Uncase the colours.’ He would have liked to give the order to fix bayonets, but that could easily result in accidents and it was prudent to keep the sharp spikes in their scabbards. Still, the unveiling of the two flags gave the moment some drama. Moss felt the excitement rising, feeling the thrill of leading his own battalion – if today only part of it and not against a real enemy. That moment could not come too soon for him.

  Moss waved away the soldier with his horse, and so of course Major Toye immediately did the same. The young colonel drew his sword, an expensive curved blade with an oriental-style hilt. He turned back to face the five-company line.

  ‘Boys, we’re going to take that hill! No shooting, we’ll just go straight at them.’ He nodded to the RSM. ‘Mr Fletcher, if you please. The battalion will advance.’

  ‘’Tallion will advance. Forward march!’ Moss was moving before Fletcher had finished calling the order. Toye was left behind and had to jog to keep up. Yet as the five companies moved forward the colonel slowed to the steady pace of the drill book. This was not a heady charge up the beach in Egypt, but a formal attack on a strong position, and Moss wanted it done properly.

  The 106th marched in silence. Even Hanley at the centre of the line found this stillness a little eerie. There was only the rattle of pouches and equipment, the swish of feet tramping through the long grass, the steady beat of the drums and now and again the sharp call of a sergeant rebuking any man who strayed even slightly from his position in the formation. The sergeants carried a six-foot pike known as a spontoon rather than the muskets of the ordinary soldiers. In each company they were stationed behind the second rank, ready to steady the men, and in extreme cases use the shaft of their pike to straighten the dressing or even force soldiers back into their position. A sergeant stood between Hanley and Trent. Another was to the young ensign’s left and four more stood in the second rank behind them. These men had as their sole duty the protection of the colours. As Hanley understood it, the protection of the ensigns carrying the flags was at best a secondary concern.

  The line went up the gentle slope. The men still had their muskets shouldered. This made them easier to carry, but also its very nonchalance suggested a confidence that could unnerve a real enemy. There was no wind, and the silk colours hung lazily down. Hanley was glad of the belt to help him support the weight. He tried to look as rigid as the men around him, but still found something unreal about his life as a soldier and kept wondering when he would wake up from this dream. The playacting element of today – ‘fighting’ against their fellow soldiers and his own friends – made the whole thing more than a little absurd. The thought made him giggle, and it was difficult to suppress this and impossible not to smile in spite of the stern look from the sergeant next to him.

  At one hundred and fifty yards, Moss saw the redcoats behind the low rampart level their muskets. Wickham had stepped down and the tall white plume of his cocked hat was just visible behind the shakos of his men. Then the whole line vanished in an explosion of dirty smoke. The sound of the volley came a little later.

  Moss wondered for a moment whether to launch the charge now, but knew it was too soon. He turned and walked backwards for a few paces, smiling cheerfully at his men. The second volley came thirty seconds later. The noise was louder now, although not as loud as when using a full charge and a ball. Moss had turned back to face forwards. He raised his sword high. It was time. Rush the enemy so that even if some had reloaded by the time they arrived they would be flustered and not fire in an ordered way. Boldness always paid.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ he screamed, his voice becoming high pitched in the excitement. ‘Charge!’ The colonel ran on, waving his sword in circles over his head. The redcoats behind him cheered and surged, each individually dropping his musket from his shoulder and grabbing it in both hands. There had been no order to bring the firelocks down into the charge position.

  The colonel was the first to reach the small fortification, with the closest of his men five yards behind. The neat line was now very ragged, broken into small clumps and individual running redcoats. Hanley was lagging with the weight of the colour and little Trent was behind him, in spite of the best efforts of the sergeants to keep them together. The men of the attack force were still cheering as Moss jumped lightly down into the ditch in front of the rampart. Muskets went off above him, but he had managed to deny the defenders their organised volley. The ditch was as deep as the wall was high, so that Moss could not reach the top. He tried to scramble up, but the earth was soft and gave under him, causing him to tumble back down. As he scrambled to his feet, cursing, the first men landed down beside him. A hand reached down from the rampart as he tried again. He looked up to see a toothless smile from one of the older soldiers. The man beck to him, and Moss took the proffered aid and let himself be pulled up. He knocked down the turf lying on top of the rampart as he came, staggered and grabbed at the man’s shoulder, yanking hard on the woollen tuft at the fringe of his epaulette. There was something odd about that, but it escaped him at the moment.

  Moss barged through the men, looking for Captain Wickham. He was planning to be complimentary about the defenders in his declaration of the attack’s success. Then the air was shattered by the thunder of a large volley. It came from beyond the redoubt, but men were in the way and Moss could not see what was happening, did not see Major MacAndrews leading his two companies against the attackers’ left flank.

  MacAndrews had been waiting with the grenadiers and Number One Company below the crest to the rear of the ridge. Wickham had been left
at the redoubt to look conspicuous, but was not in command. His role was to signal as soon as the first man came within ten yards of the ditch. A wave of his cocked hat and MacAndrews began to march his men up and around the attackers’ flank. Thomas, who had hung back in the attack, had watched the neat line of almost two hundred men breast the crest and swing round, wheeling till they were at ninety degrees to the ragged line in and around the ditch. MacAndrews halted them when they were just twenty yards away and fired. In a real action he would then have charged, but a little tact seemed necessary when fighting against your commander. He let the men load and began platoon volleys, a quarter of each company firing in turn, then the section to its right and so on, so that fire rippled along the front.

  Moss declared the attack a victory, although a costly one. He paraded the battalion after they had marched back to camp and told them how pleased he was, but his speech was shorter than usual. He told them to be bold, to follow his lead and never give the enemy a moment’s relief. His dented enthusiasm rallied at this, and there was a big cheer when he declared that after fighting against other heroes from the 106th, just facing mere Frenchmen would be child’s play. Inwardly he fumed.

  13

  Williams whistled as he strolled along the well-shaded lane. The late afternoon sun was strong and hot, and even without pack and belts his woollen jacket was heavy. It was pleasantly cool under the trees that grew on either side of the muddy track and closed over it like a tunnel. He was now a good two miles from the regiment’s camp and as usual there was a thrill in the sense of freedom this brought. There was no need to worry about how to behave, balancing the need to be sociable, but not over familiar, and respectful and enthusiastic in his duties, without appearing sycophantic. Worse still, there was never any privacy. Solitary by nature, and used over the years to spending so much time alone happily reading or dreaming, it was this he found most difficult. That made these occasional walks in his off-duty moments all the more precious. It was simply a relief to be away from pipe-clay and shouted orders, from tobacco smoke and constant talk.

  As usual Williams found himself thinking of Miss MacAndrews. He knew that she was beautiful, and yet still found it hard to picture her face clearly in his mind. If only he had a likeness, and perhaps a lock of her red hair to keep with it and wear around his neck. The married officers had taken quarters in the small town near the camp, and Williams had seen the girl only twice in the last week. Admittedly the colonel had kept them all busy and his enthusiasm for them all spending as much time as possible in the mess had prevented most evening strolls and with them the hope of a chance meeting. This evening, however, Moss was attending a dinner at a house some miles away and so attendance in the mess was less important. The mood among the officers was also a little strange and there was a general sense that it would not be an especially convivial evening. Several others planned to be absent.

  Williams had enjoyed this morning’s mock battle. It had been exciting doing more than simply manoeuvring for the sake of practice. The ambush of the flanking force had gone perfectly, and it was especially satisfying for the grenadiers to surprise and overwhelm the light bobs who were always so apt to swagger. Then came the rapid march back to the defences, MacAndrews driving the men hard. Number One Company was determined not to be outdone by the grenadiers and so both moved quickly. He could feel a sense of excitement as the men took to the idea of proving themselves better than the rest of the battalion. The waiting had been harder, once they were in position behind the ridge. MacAndrews had let them sit, but it was difficult not knowing what was happening. Then they heard the defenders of the redoubt fire their first volley and knew that the attack had started. Ordered to their feet, they had still not begun their own advance for what seemed like an age, until Wickham waved his hat as a signal.

  The defenders knew that they had won, and Williams suspected that they would make this clear to the men from the other companies at the first opportunity, whatever the colonel’s judgement. The mock battle had anyway become just a little more real around the redoubt, resulting in a good few bruises and the odd black eye. Williams admired the way MacAndrews had out-thought the enemy, even if it was a little disconcerting since that enemy was their own commanding officer. It had also been reassuring for the company to be led by Pringle. Captain Wickham was a fine gentleman, and yet there was a vagueness about his manner that was just a little unsettling in a commander. MacAndrews always had been – and still was – so definite and precise in his instructions.

  Sadly, it seemed as if the last days of training would be spent in more familiar drills. Williams knew that most of the officers in the attacking force wished for another opportunity and were convinced that they would do far better next time. The lights in particular wanted a chance to outwit the clodhopping grenadiers. Moss had announced, however, that there would be no more mock fights. There were whispers that he was angry with the officers of the attacking force for letting him down, and the defenders for doing too well. Williams hoped that was just malicious gossip, and still admired the colonel, although a small part of him wondered whether he might be a little too rash. Of the two, MacAndrews seemed to possess a surer hand, even if he lacked the colonel’s flamboyance and charisma.

  Williams left the track and climbed over a stile. A path led over a low hill and then down through a little patch of woodland to the river. Ten minutes later he was swimming lazily in the gentle current, enjoying the coolness of the water around him. His uniform was carefully folded and piled on a fallen tree trunk. This was luxury and relaxation, and even a huge sense of freedom. Worries about tensions within the battalion faded as he enjoyed the moment. He ducked his head under the chilly water and swam beneath the surface.

  ‘The tone of this place has really fallen of late,’ said a voice as Williams burst back up. The sneering tone was familiar, but for a moment he could not see who it was.

  ‘Yes, full of bloody peasants,’ agreed another voice. That was Hatch, which meant that the other was Redman. The spot was well known and often used by the 106th’s officersbut even so Williams had hoped for some peace.

  ‘Go to the devil, both of you,’ yelled Williams, slightly surprised at his own vehemence.

  ‘Oh, doesn’t he know some bad words, Redman,’ said Hatch.

  ‘Well, he mixes with common soldiers, Hatch.’

  ‘Look, can’t you leave me in peace. It was so agreeable until you turned up,’ tried Williams in a softer tone.

  ‘So, he doesn’t want our company. Not good enough for him, I suppose,’ said Hatch. ‘Not agreeable indeed. He’s been reading books. Well, we will leave His Grace to his ablutions.’

  ‘Anyway, we had better move upstream where the water is clearer,’ said Redman. There was female laughter at this. Williams had now cleared the water from his eyes and turned towards the bank. Redman stood by the tree trunk, his arm around the waist of young Jenny Dobson. His other hand prodded Williams’ clothes with a stick. Hatch was behind them, holding the reins of a pair of horses.

  ‘Jenny, does your father know you are here?’ asked Williams, realising as he spoke how fatuous it must sound.

  She looked a bit sheepish, but then rallied. ‘I’m a woman now, Mr Williams, and go where I choose.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. Her face was a little thin, but had a gentle prettiness about it, perhaps even beauty, and this was well set off by her thick brown curls.

  ‘That’s true enough for anyone to see.’ Redman dropped the stick and reached round to undo the lace at the front of the girl’s blouse. He struggled for a moment. Jenny looked a little shocked, but then used her own hand to help him. The tie undone, the young ensign pulled the top down and began to fondle the girl’s left breast. ‘And she knows how well gentlemen will treat her. A lady, is our Jenny.’

  Williams was shocked, a little ashamed, but did not manage to look away. He was a quite glad that he was shoulder deep in water. It was only when Jenny Dobson moved to push Redman’s hand away and refas
ten her blouse that Williams himself managed to shift his gaze down.

  ‘You should go home, Jenny,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘You parents will be worried. Best to stop now before you make a mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake.’ Redman was now stroking the girl’s cheek. ‘We’ll look after her and all have a pleasant time.’

  ‘Go home, Jenny,’ repeated Williams. He started to swim towards the bank. Hatch had already mounted.

  ‘Mind your own business and don’t pretend to understand the ways of gentlemen.’ Redman’s voice was dripping with contempt. He put his hands round Jenny’s waist and lifted her up. Hatch took her arms and pulled the girl on to the horse behind him. She did not resist, but Williams noticed that she would no longer look at him. Redman then mounted.

  ‘Let me take you home, Jenny,’ implored Williams.

  ‘Goddam it, stop interfering, you Welsh prick!’ screamed Redman. Hatch rode away with the girl. Redman walked his horse over to the trunk, and reached down to grab the pile of clothes. Williams’ shirt fell away, but the ensign galloped off hallooing and waving his jacket and trousers in his hand. They were fifty yards away by the time Williams scrambled up on to the bank. Their scorn for him did not matter, but to be leading Dobson’s daughter astray brought on a cold rage. He could not catch them now, but he could at least follow them, and maybe bring the girl away bshe was disgraced. The two young officers were more than a little drunk and so there just might be time.

  Williams pulled the shirt on to his wet skin. It was long and fell to the middle of his thighs and would almost be decent if it were not that the dampness made it more than a little transparent. The same was true of his drawers, which he had worn while swimming. He pulled on his boots, and was glad that he had not worn the long black gaiters when he went walking in his fatigue trousers. He lifted his shako up from the ground and put it on his head. It was easier than carrying the thing. Then, in shirt-tails, boots and hat, the gentleman volunteer went off on a quest to preserve a maiden’s honour, in spite of herself.