Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  That would not happen in the ‘little war’. The guerrilleros hated and were hated in return by the French. When either side bothered to take prisoners at all it was often only to execute them at a later time. This war was bitter and brutal, and was fought in any little place at any time when there was a chance to kill. Pringle could understand the hatred of the Spanish for the invader, and wondered whether he might act as the French had done, hanging and shooting indiscriminately, if he had seen some of his own men tortured and mutilated by angry peasants. He simply prayed that he would never face such implacable and elusive foes.

  For the next hour Pringle did his best to look for any sign of trouble. Once or twice he thought he glimpsed darker shadows amid the trees, but could not swear to it, and it may have been imagination. After a while the woods thinned to isolated trees, until these too failed and all that was left was low scrub. The guide led them into a maze of tight little valleys, until finally they came to a small lake filled with dark water, sitting at the bottom of a circle of high crests. Big boulders and clumps of bushes dotted the grass around them. Little ravines led off on several sides, and the guide led them up one of them. When they came closer they saw a gap between two rocky slopes, the entrance barely wide enough for a man or a mule to pass through. The guide for once gave more detailed instructions, telling them to wait as he walked warily up to the gap.

  ‘I think we might have arrived,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Ya veremos,’ Sinclair replied, giving them all a stage wink.

  The one-eyed guide produced a whistle and blew three short blasts and one long, echoes taking up the sound and repeating it from all sides.

  ‘Would it not be a terrible shame if no one was at home,’ Pringle said.

  ‘Well, we could always leave our cards,’ the major suggested.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you won’t have to.’ Sergeant Murphy moved slowly, and slipped his musket from his shoulder.

  Pringle looked around the great theatre-like bowl of hills and saw nothing. Then the guerrillas appeared. Men in brown stepped out from behind rocks or bushes, saying nothing. Horsemen rode out from the mouths of valleys probably little wider than the one they were near and just as hard to spot from a distance. There were at least thirty, with more appearing, and a good half were mounted. Pringle wondered whether Murphy had spotted them or simply guessed.

  ‘No need for your musket, Sergeant,’ Sinclair said softly. ‘These are friends.’

  ‘Glad to hear that, Your Honour. Glad indeed.’

  Pringle hoped that the major was right.

  3

  Pringle spluttered, turning away as the jet of liquid sprayed all over his face. The laughter was loud, and once he had stopped choking he joined in, although he would have needed far more drink inside him to find the joke as hilarious as his hosts did.

  ‘Waste of good wine,’ he said, wiping his glasses clean with the tip of his long sash. The grinning partisan adjusted the tube coming from the wineskin and, once the officer had opened his mouth, squirted it with less force and more accuracy so that the Englishman could drink. Hanley was next, and was allowed to take a long sip before the Spaniard flicked the nozzle and sent the spray down his neck. This time the laughter was a great roar. When it was Murphy’s turn, the sergeant was ready and jerked his head to follow the jet, swallowing more than went over him, prompting cheers from the guerrilleros.

  After this initiation, the visitors were each provided with a simple mug, filled to the brim with more of the rough wine. Pringle stood and raised his drink.

  ‘To Spain, and to the brave guerrilleros!’

  The partisans cheered and drank and soon there were more toasts. ‘Long live Spain! For Liberty! Death to the French!’

  No one seemed at all concerned about the noise of their celebrations. They sat on the mossy grass, enclosed on all sides by high bluffs. The place, like a natural roofless house, was at the end of the narrow cutting where their guide had whistled to summon the partisans. It had taken some effort to get the mules to follow the path, and even more when for some ten yards or so it went through a cave, and only a good deal of cursing and plenty of blows forced the animals through. Finally they emerged into this glade, and were greeted by the rich aroma of wood smoke and a kid cooking over the fire.

  There was no welcome for the muleteers brought by Sinclair.

  ‘Contrabandistas.’ Pringle had heard the leader of the guerrilleros mutter the word in obvious contempt, and then say a good deal more he did not quite catch. It did not surprise him to learn that the men were smugglers. There were always plenty of them, especially near the coast, where goods came ashore from Africa or Gibraltar and further afield and then were carried through the darkness to avoid tolls and tax alike. Such men knew the country well, but many saw no reason to give up their occupation simply because the French had invaded. All it meant was that they now avoided or bribed King Joseph’s men instead of those serving the old king.

  ‘It is best if I go with them,’ Sinclair had said. ‘Not sure I can find my way back to my fellows on my own,’ he added, his expression making clear that this modesty was feigned. ‘But these two are useful to me and know the country like the back of their hand. And if I have done all that I can here …’

  The leader of the partisans said nothing to restrain him, even though the major spoke in Spanish.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hanley said after a long and increasingly awkward pause. ‘You have been a great aid to us. I am sure that if all goes well, we may foster closer alliances between the bands and make life very difficult for the French.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. I dare say our paths will cross, perhaps even in the next few days?’ He looked enquiringly at the guerrilla leader, but the Spaniard said nothing, until Sinclair went on. ‘Which other bands do you plan on meeting?’

  ‘That is up to El Blanco,’ the man said. Don Antonio was not with the others at the moment, although expected some time during the night. It was the first time that they had heard his nickname, but then almost all the chiefs had nicknames. For the moment his cousin Carlos was in charge. He was a slim man with the mild face of a student and the cold eyes of a killer. Two pistols were tucked into his leather belt, along with a long clasp knife, and slung from his shoulder was a musket. Like most of the men he wore a red-brown jacket and tight-fitting breeches, with big silver buttons on the lapels and running down the seams. His hair was long and tied back in a pigtail – a few of his followers sported colourful ribbons in their hair. All wore broad-brimmed hats, and had either simple leather shoes or sandals. Their weapons were numerous, many of them captured from the enemy, and carried with a confidence suggesting skill in their use.

  Carlos Velasco’s expression was stern, showing no warmth even though he had spoken words of welcome and shown a brief eagerness when he saw the heavily laden mules.

  ‘Well, I suppose I must make do with a “you will see” once again.’ Sinclair still looked cheerful, but then switched to English. ‘I cannot really blame these fighting devils for being cautious of strangers. One day I must get myself a red coat as that seems to help.’ The major wore a pale grey braided jacket in vaguely military style along with a plain cocked hat. ‘Had it made for me in Port Mahon before they sent me out here,’ he had told them during the long journey. ‘Am still not sure what uniform the Chasseurs are supposed to wear – could be bright pink for all I know as I have never seen my damned regiment and they have never seen me!

  ‘Well, good luck to you all! Good luck to you too, Sergeant, although as an Irishman you have it already.’ The muleteers looked for a moment as if they would demand to take the pack mules with them, but Sinclair bustled them away and the three rode off, escorted by the same guide who had brought them here. Pringle noticed that several other partisans left soon afterwards and wondered whether they were sent to shadow the little party on its way. He was now sure that Murphy had been right and they had been watched for some time.

  The mood
changed quickly. He heard several of the Spanish refer to the major as Sinclair el malo – Sinclair the bad. ‘It seems they do not care for him much,’ said Hanley as they sat and rested after arriving in the glade. ‘I believe there is a Captain Sinclair active in the mountains farther east, so do not know whether he is “the good”.’

  ‘He is at least not so bad,’ Carlos Velasco interrupted, speaking in strangely accented but good English. ‘I do not get much practice these days, but spent a long time in your country,’ he said in response to their looks of surprise. ‘It was not through choice, but courtesy of your Lord Nelson.’

  ‘I am very sorry.’ Pringle realised the imbecility of the words even as he spoke them.

  ‘And you are very English to say so.’ Carlos chuckled. ‘It is,’ he hesitated for a moment, frowning, ‘water under the bridge.’ He snapped his fingers when they nodded, and then laughed in delight, his whole face softened. ‘Good, I remember, and as always when the subject arises, I will remind you Englishmen that it was the Spanish who took your Nelson’s arm. Splinters, I would guess. I used to be a surgeon,’ he added. ‘Well, still am, if we are unlucky enough to have wounded. I have sawn limbs off Spanish and English sailors, and on the whole was not treated too badly. Now the French are here in my country and there is not enough hate in the world to balance what they have done, so I am happy enough to be friends with the English.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pringle said. ‘We are most glad to hear it.’

  Carlos sighed. ‘The “good” Sinclair never comes out of Murcia so I have not met him,’ he explained. ‘Your friend Sinclair is a strange man. My cousin does not trust him.’

  ‘He is a British officer,’ Hanley said.

  ‘He is, but he has poor choice in the men he helps. Smugglers like those he had with him, and even worse, bandits and murderers like Pedro the Wolf.’

  ‘I have not heard of him,’ Hanley said.

  ‘Then you are fortunate. He likes to call himself El Lobo, and I do not know his real name, but he has plagued this country for years. Before the war he robbed and murdered, killing for sport and to make his name feared. Now he does the same, and sometimes he probably kills Frenchmen, but more often Spanish. There are plenty of bandits like that around, and your friend Sinclair gives them guns and powder.’ He spat angrily. ‘Scum. The pigs should all be strung up from the nearest trees.’

  ‘Although Major Sinclair belongs to the same army, neither of us had met him before we landed, and I must emphasise that our orders come from Lord Wellington and have nothing to do with the major.’

  ‘Good,’ the guerrilla said, ‘then we may well get on and do each other some good. Now, let us eat and drink.’ His face had hardened once again, but changed as they watched him. Carlos laughed and cheered with the others as they took food and wine, and then came truly alive when a couple of the men began to play guitars. Others danced, and then after many pleas the leader began to play and sing. He had a good voice, and, although Pringle could understand little of the verses, which seemed to be in a dialect or were simply too fast for him to follow, even so he found it deeply moving.

  ‘They are love songs, I am guessing,’ he said quietly to Hanley, ‘but what do they say?’

  His friend did not answer for a while, but looked more deeply moved than he had seen him for a long time. Hanley had black hair and a dark complexion, and after the years he had spent in Spain before the invasion and since then the rigours of campaigning, he looked more Spanish than English. Pringle could not help thinking that he seemed more comfortable here, surrounded by these lean, unmilitary and yet dangerous-looking fighters.

  ‘They are love songs,’ he said eventually. ‘Beautiful and sad.’ His voice sounded wistful, and although it may just have been the firelight, his eyes looked moist. That seemed to be it, until he added so quietly that he may not have realised that he spoke, ‘I do love these people, and I do so love this country.’ Pringle expected his friend to break into a smile and look embarrassed, but instead Hanley just kept staring into the fire. Well, his friend was always something of an odd fish.

  Carlos finished and then embarked on another song, which was clearly more comic than sentimental. Billy Pringle found his mind wandering and began thinking about women, a wonderful, all-encompassing and familiar preoccupation which seemed simpler than concern for countries and causes. He began to smile to himself but did not care, and quickly the image of Miss Williams came to his mind. Anne was the oldest of Williams’ three sisters, and, like his comrade, she was tall, fair haired and blue eyed. There was something of Williams’ primness about her, certainly much of his earnest nature, and yet also that same surprisingly practical – at times even earthy – ability to confront life. Apart from the colouring, there was little resemblance between the pair, and he guessed Williams’ face and build owed more to his Welsh father than his finely featured Scottish mother.

  Pringle had met Anne Williams nearly a year earlier, on a brief visit to the family home in Bristol, and now they engaged in an occasional correspondence. Sometimes he wondered whether if this was no more than her natural interest in a close friend of her brother, reinforced when Billy had helped hunt a younger sister, Kitty, left with child and abandoned by her lover. Pringle had called the man out, wounded him in a duel, and convinced him to marry the silly girl – he still struggled to understand the whole affair and the decisions made by the pair. The husband was a light dragoon, and had since died, but at least Mrs Garland was a respectable widow rather than a ruined woman.

  He knew Anne was grateful, for she had thanked him several times, always with considerable grace. Yet there seemed more than that, some affinity stronger than any obligation, something both felt. Billy Pringle did not fully understand it, even to the extent of knowing what it was he hoped for. That did not make it any less real. She came to his mind often these days, with thoughts of the little things, her movements, gestures, the look of fixed concentration as she laboured at her needlework, the tip of her tongue pressed between pursed lips, or the slight frown when she struggled to follow a conversation, and the sheer joy in her laughter. He found himself thinking of her more than other women, even those he had known with far greater intimacy. There was one image stronger than all the others, a memory of the afternoon when at her mother’s insistence she had played and sung for them on the old pianoforte Mrs Williams had bought at the auction of property when a neighbour died. Never of the best quality, the instrument was barely in tune, and Miss Williams and her sisters had received only the little tutoring their mother could afford. Pringle had heard plenty of other, far more accomplished young ladies, and yet such simple songs had never moved him so deeply. There was something very natural about her performance for all its lack of polish, and he had watched entranced her hands on the keys, her face, and her chest rising and falling as she took breaths that were surely too tight for perfection.

  Pringle had not noticed that the music had stopped, the dancing and merriment stilled.

  ‘Gentlemen, you are welcome.’ The voice was deep, the tone those of a well-educated Spanish gentleman. Pringle and Hanley both sprang to their feet, returning the bow of Don Antonio Velasco. The source of his nickname was obvious, for his thick hair was white – not grey or mottled, but pure white. As the Spaniard straightened up, Pringle looked closely and saw that the chieftain could not have been more than thirty. He was a slim man, of no more than average height, but his every movement was controlled and precise. Dressed in a finer version of the garb of his band, he had a French dragoon’s musket over his shoulder and wore from his belt a sword, its hilt and scabbard lavishly decorated with gold inlay. It was a sword of honour awarded for bravery by Napoleon in the years before he had become emperor. That surely meant that El Blanco had met and killed such a veteran, and that in itself said a lot.

  There were four partisans with him, two much like the others in the glade, if more heavily laden with weapons. Each had a blunderbuss slung from one shoulder and a carbine
from the other, with a couple of pistols and a knife in their belt. The other two were smaller and younger, their hair cut short. Each was swathed in a long black cloak, had black trousers and polished Hessian boots of the type worn by officers. Their faces were smooth, neither old enough to shave, but each had a musket and sword. Pringle wondered whether they were more relatives of the leader, since they seemed unlikely bodyguards.

  Hanley launched into a suitable speech, praising the leader and expressing the hope that as allies they might work together more closely in future. Then he led them all to the piles of equipment lying stacked beside the tethered mules. Lifting one of the muskets, he passed it to Don Antonio.

  The guerrilla chief took it, felt the heft, examined the lock, and then in a fluid motion swept it up, aiming at an imaginary enemy on the bluffs. He pulled it back to full cock, then squeezed the trigger, letting it slam down and spark. Pringle wondered what the reaction would have been had the piece been loaded.

  Don Antonio nodded as he brought the musket back down. ‘English made,’ he said. ‘Tower pattern.’ He looked at Pringle and Hanley in turn. ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’

  One of the boys giggled at their confusion, until Don Antonio silenced him with a glance. Pringle was annoyed. The lad had such smooth features, an almost effeminate air, and he did not liked being mocked by such a creature. It was hard to understand what two children were doing carrying arms. The other boy looked a little older, and his expression was wooden.

  ‘I say again, what do you expect me to do with this musket?’ The chieftain’s expression was stern and proud, but did not seem hostile.

  ‘Shoot Frenchmen,’ Hanley suggested.

  ‘But for how long?’ Don Antonio said. He gave a thin smile, like a teacher disappointed in a pupil. He looked at a bale of cartridges that Murphy held up for inspection. ‘Your muskets fire a bigger ball than our own, or those of the French. So we cannot fire your ammunition from our guns. We can put our cartridges in your muskets, but the ball will be loose and will not fire so well.’