A voice was yelling obscenities and Williams dimly realised that it was his own. He was at the gun itself now, and two more Frenchmen came at him. One was an officer, his sword long and expertly held as the man bared his teeth wildly. He lunged at Williams, who only just managed to duck so that the blade sliced through the grenadier’s wing on his right shoulder, cutting through the wool decoration. The sword stuck, and Williams felt his jacket tear as he in turn jabbed at the officer’s face with the butt of his musket. The Frenchman jerked back and received only a glancing blow. At the same moment the gunner swung a heavy trailspike and hit Williams in the body, knocking him sideways. His musket fell from his hands as he landed and rolled on the grass.
The man was coming for him, the iron club raised once again, as Williams got up to his knees. Most of his right sleeve and a lot of his jacket had been ripped away, and he glimpsed the French officer trying to disentangle the remains from his sword. Half up, Williams sprang towards the gunner, hitting him in the stomach and knocking the man down beneath him. One hand grabbed the Frenchman’s throat and his right fist pummelled the man’s face bloody. The officer had freed his blade and now came towards them.
‘Monsieur!’ Hanley interrupted, his left arm bandaged and in a sling, but with a cocked pistol in his right hand held straight at the Frenchman’s chest. Several grenadiers were behind him, muskets levelled.
The artillery officer stared at them for a moment, then shrugged and lowered his sword. He threw it on the ground in front of Hanley.
‘Take it, Bills,’ he said. ‘You did the hard work.’
The French attack had been shattered. The three leading battalion columns broke when the British lines charged, and the supporting column joined in the rout as the 82nd closed on it. The Highlanders recaptured the French guns they had taken earlier. One of their corporals also took Brenier himself, finding the French officer wounded and pinned underneath his dead horse. Some British guns arrived and helped to speed the rout. They fired at the dragoons, which were the last formed body of troops, and when the riflemen of the 60th also began to snipe at the green-coated horsemen, the French cavalry withdrew.
Just before Sergeant Darrowfield died, the pain seemed to fade and he became lucid. He smiled at Dobson. ‘I didn’t tell anyone, Dob. I swear I didn’t. I like Mr Williams, and good riddance,’ he gasped. ‘Never liked that bastard Redman. I am glad Pug killed him, but I never said anything. Not me.’
Dobson said nothing, for he could see that the light in the man’s eyes had faded. His own were glassy and he did not notice Ensign Hatch standing just a few feet away, unscrewing the cap from his flask.
Sir Arthur Wellesley knew that all of Junot’s infantry had been broken and more than half of his guns captured. The battle had spread over a wide area, almost two miles separating the fighting around the village and the defeat of the French flank columns. Junot had flung his brigades in individually and they had been thoroughly torn apart as a result. Now Major General Ferguson had sent a report that he had the remnants of one of the French brigades trapped in a valley and asked for permission to attack and complete their destruction. The French were shattered and now all it needed was for the British – and their Portuguese allies – to advance and complete the victory. The Light Dragoons were in no shape to do much, but nearly half the infantry had not yet fired a shot. They were fresh and eager and the enemy would not be able to stop them. It was only noon.
Wellesley sensed the moment, but the army was no longer his to command. At long last General Burrard had arrived, and so the younger man had ridden over to his senior to report and to urge him to give the obvious order. It did not matter that Burrard would take some of the glory, for there should be plenty to spare.
‘Sir Harry, now is your time to advance. The enemy is completely beaten, and we shall be in Lisbon in three days!’ Wellesley’s voice rose in pitch in his enthusiasm.
‘Congratulations, Sir Arthur, on a nobly fought action. But you and the men have done enough for one day.’ For all the generosity of his words, there was a grudging tone to Sir Harry’s reply.
Wickham agreed. He for one could do with eating and then sleeping for the rest of the day. Wellesley’s face betrayed the faintest trace of his anger and frustration, but the decision was no longer his and he obeyed. He was nimmukwallah, and would obey whatever fool his government appointed over him.
The farm where they had left Mata and the others had lain in the path of the French flanking column. Pringle, Hanley and Williams borrowed horses and rode out to the place when the fighting was over. The surgeons were all too busy after the battle to come with them, and Truscott was waiting for his turn, shot in the arm in the last moments of the battle. None of the other three had seen it happen, or known about it until afterwards.
When they reached the farm the dead of the night before lay in a row in the barn just as they had left them. Their pockets had been turned out, but otherwise the French had not disturbed them as they passed through. There was no sign of Mata or his men, no sign of the chest of money, and no sign of Maria.
‘It did happen, didn’t it?’ asked Hanley. Neither of the others could think of a good reply, but Pringlens hand went down to pat the pocket holding Maria’s note. The name was that of a priest, the address that of his church. Pringle smiled.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. Billy Pringle thought back to the nun desperate for help and anticipated his reunion with the courtesan, now that the French seemed well and truly beaten. Poor Truscott was wounded, but apart from that it was proving to be a very good war. Far better than the dull life of a parson!
EPILOGUE
Williams sat on a stone and looked out into the night. There was a large fire on the hill across the v
alley and little black figures capered around it like the warriors of some savage tribe from Africa or America. They were Portuguese peasants, but had shown themselves barbaric enough as they emerged when the fighting was over to strip the French dead and wounded. More than a few injured men were knifed as they lay, and the redcoats had been sickened by the display, but unable to protect the enemy casualties as they were ordered back to the ridge they had occupied before the battle. Hanley said that it was all the French could expect after the way they had behaved in Portugal and Spain, but even he had blanched at some of the sights.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Williams finally. ‘The French were at our mercy and yet we sit here and do nothing.’
‘Not up to Caesar, I’ll agree,’ said Pringle with a grin. ‘But generals are generals. The story is that Wellesley was all for it, but Burrard suspected there might be more French out there.’ It was said that Sir Hew Dalrymple had now arrived from Gibraltar to take over from Sir Harry, so that the army had its third commander in as many days. ‘Who knows, he could be right.’
‘You do not actually believe that, do you?’ asked Hanley.
‘Well, no, of course not, but I am just trying to show you how a responsible lieutenant should behave. No croaking.’
‘It has not quite sunk in yet. I’ll be glad of the extra pay, though.’ Hanley had been made lieutenant. He was the senior ensign and so due for promotion, and all the casualties had created many vacancies.
‘Ah yes, we lieutenants live as kings.’
‘You may be a captain soon,’ said Williams.
‘Maybe.’ Pringle was determined not to take anything for granted. He had the years of experience and seniority, but someone might still purchase over his head, and in any event he was not keen on leaving the Grenadier Company. ‘Anyway, now that you have been an officer for a grand total of five hours, we should be asking you how it feels, Ensign Williams.’
‘Not that different really.’
‘Can’t you manage a little more exuberance?’
‘Hurrah!’ said Williams flatly.
‘Why did MacAndrews say he’d shoot you himself if you did not take it this time?’ asked Hanley.
‘Does it matter?’
�
��Not really, but the story might have passed the time.’
Williams reached down to touch the sword that lay beside him. His promotion had not yet truly sunk in, but the officer’s weapon reassured him that he had not imagined the whole thing. He was now an ensign, and even if he had spent enough time in the ranks to know how scornfully most soldiers thought of these most junior rs, he could sense the excitement within him. It was a pity that he had not been able to keep the sword he had taken from the French artillery officer. When the man offered his parole, there was no choice but to return to him this symbol of his honour.
Dobson had presented him with this blade just over an hour ago. The veteran had taken it from Denilov – it was the bundle he had so mysteriously carried back to camp.
‘Told you you’d be an officer, Pug,’ he had said, his face split into one of the widest grins Williams had ever seen. The old soldier seemed truly delighted. Then he had snapped to attention and delivered a salute which would not have disgraced a sergeant major of the Guards. ‘Congratulations, Mr Williams, sir,’ he said with the greatest formality.
Williams smiled at the memory and gently eased the sword from its scabbard. The hilt was ornate, with a crest which he guessed was from the Russian’s family. The blade was curved, and grenadier officers were supposed to carry a straight sword, but it was so perfectly balanced that even his inexperienced eyed could tell that it was an excellent weapon.
The gift meant one less expense in the next few days as he purchased the uniform and equipment of an officer. Hopefully his share of the money Dobson had taken from the Russian officer would allow him to buy the rest. Soon there would be macabre auctions, as the property of fallen officers was sold so that the profits could be sent to their next of kin, and Williams knew that he would have to take part in these ghoulish affairs. Dobson had helped him in so many ways, and it simply no longer seemed to matter that he had probably killed Redman. Williams worried that his sense of morality was being eroded, but was too tired, and still too happy, to give it much thought.
There was the sound of violent retching and they all looked up as Hatch stumbled past. He was obviously quite drunk. He glared for a moment at Williams, sitting there in the remnants of his torn jacket. Hatch was trying desperately to remember something, but his senses were gone for the moment. It was important, he knew that much, and yet it stubbornly eluded him. Perhaps it would return in time.
‘You look like a beggar,’ he said, and lurched off into the darkness.
‘He’s got a point,’ said Pringle. There was a polite cough and they all sprang to their feet. Jane MacAndrews stood on the edge of the light from their small fire. A soldier waited behind her, and they recognised Truscott’s servant, Private Knowles.
‘How is Mr Truscott?’ asked Williams, for once clear and confident in his speech to the girl.
‘He is asleep. They have taken his arm, unfortunately, but the surgeon says he has an even chance.’ The girl had seen Truscott being carried to the makeshift hospital after the battle and had held his other hand throughout the operation, managing somehow to ignore the ghastly grating of saw on bone. Then she had sat with him alongside Knowles until he drifted into sleep. Her face looked drawn and her eyes were dull.
‘Thank you from all of us,’ said Pringle. ‘I know how much help you will have been.’
‘I did nothing.’ She sighed. ‘The poor, poor boy.’
‘It will have been a huge comfort.’ Hanley tried to lighten the mood. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if half the regiment shoots themselves just to hold your hand.’
Jane smiled dutifully, but then her happiness became genuine. ‘I hear congratulations are in order. I am proud of you all. Especially you, Mr ams.’
Williams beamed, and then dropped down on one knee and grasped the girl’s hand. Pringle and Hanley stepped back a few paces to give him room.
‘Miss MacAndrews, praise from you is sweeter than any reward.’ The words came out fluently, confident at last. ‘I must tell you that I hold you in the very highest esteem. Indeed, that I . . .’ For the first time he hesitated, amazed at his own boldness. ‘I love you.’ He kissed her gloved hand lightly. There were traces of blood on the glove.
Jane’s expression was fond, but overwhelmed by weariness. ‘That is truly kind of you, Mr Williams. I am genuinely touched.’ He remained with his head bowed over her hand which he clasped tightly.
‘I am not in a position to ask for anything,’ he continued. ‘Not yet, but perhaps one day?’ Then he relapsed into silence and once again pressed his lips to her hand.
‘Well, at the very least we shall be friends, as I have said before, and I suspect the firmest of friends,’ said the girl after some time had passed. ‘Now I am tired. May I perhaps have my hand back?’ Williams looked up worshipfully and she dazzled him with a smile.
‘Is that it?’ whispered Pringle into Hanley’s ear.
‘Don’t mock. That was probably the same as a night of passion for us. Bills is an odd cove.’
‘Well, I suppose it is a day for things to end unexpectedly.’
HISTORICAL NOTE
True Soldier Gentlemen is a work of fiction, but it is fiction grounded in fact.
In August
1808 an army under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley landed in Portugal and began Britain’s direct involvement in what would become known as the Peninsular War. Six years later, the British Army had chased the French from Spain and Portugal, had invaded southern France and made a major contribution to the collapse of Napoleon’s empire. In 1815, Wellington faced and defeated the Emperor himself at Waterloo. It was one of the great achievements of the British Army, and it sparked a flood of personal accounts and histories. The memoirs written by veterans, including a substantial number of men from the ranks as well as officers, provide a wealth of material regarding the lives and experiences of Wellington’s men, and I have drawn heavily upon these. Very many of the episodes of the story are based on real incidents.
Regency attitudes differed greatly from those of the present day. Scarcely anyone questioned a system that allowed the purchase of commissions, but purchase was in fact relatively rare except in fashionable regiments. Officers were expected to be gentlemen, but many were not especially wealthy and relied on seniority for promotion. This was often slow, especially if their regiment did not see active service and suffer heavy casualties. Many men grew old as subalterns or captains. There were probably very few veterans of the American War still with the battalions in 1808, but it is certainly not impossible that a man like MacAndrews could have existed.
Gentleman Volunteers were far more common. By the height of the Peninsular War almost one in twenty officers earned his commission in this way. It was a peculiar institution, with a man serving in the ranks, but living with the officers. The path was followed by men who lacked not only the money to purchase rank, but the influence to secure direct appointment to a commission without purchase. There was no guarantee that a volunteer wuld be made an officer, and it could take a considerable time before they proved themselves and a vacancy occurred.
The vast majority of army officers had modest funds and little influence. Promotion was slow. Conspicuous valour might win them a step in promotion, but in most cases they had to wait their turn and rely on seniority. For this, as well as other reasons, most welcomed the prospect of active service and heavy casualties. Uniforms, equipment and other necessities were expensive, and officers’ pay at best barely sufficient. They were gentlemen, but for many their claim to that status rested on fragile grounds.
Regency England is probably now most familiar to us from the genteel world of Jane Austen. In many ways the situation for her heroines mirrored the lives of junior officers in the army and navy. Belonging to the gentry by birth and education, but not truly wealthy, such young women had to hope for a good marriage. The alternatives were posts as companions or governesses, honourable penury, or in extreme cases even prostitution. Such fears underlay the gentili
ty and the rituals of courtship and flirtation and give the stories some of their edge, even though they are only occasionally mentioned. The safe world of Austen concealed real risks.
For officers the dangers were different, but no less real. They had little control over postings. A man’s career might stagnate in Britain, or be ended abruptly by disease if the battalion was sent to the West Indies, which consumed units at quite staggering rates. War service brought more opportunities for advancement at the risk of death and dreadful injury – and indeed increased the chance of succumbing to disease. All the time a man’s conduct was regulated by strict rules. No gentleman could strike another, unless in a formal duel. As in wider Regency society, most army officers drank heavily and many gambled freely. There were plenty of opportunities to disgrace themselves and be forced to resign. There were also constant frustrations as better-connected or wealthier men advanced their careers far faster than was possible for most. Officers who chose to marry, or who had to assist their parents and siblings, struggled even harder to cope, but many somehow managed to do this.
Jane Austen created a witty and incisive portrait of the real world for young women of her own class. Many army officers lived in the same world. The even bleaker conditions of the poor register only slightly. The gentility of Austen’s stories also has little hint of the wider war with France going on in the background. In particular, the contrast with the savagery of the Peninsular War could not be more marked. Yet many army officers experienced both, and it is something of this contrast that I have tried to convey in this story. Hence the inclusion of Wickham, made possible by Austen’s final comments about him, under the convenient assumption that the ‘restoration of peace’ she refers to was the Peace of Amiens in 1803, rather than the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815.
True Soldier Gentlemen Page 38
