Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Hanley snapped his fingers as the idea came. ‘Why not tell him that the commanders mistrust each other, are hounded by the Regency Council and so may be rash, while the soldiers are inexperienced?’

  Wharton was pleased. ‘Yes, that would convince and should encourage them to boldness. They say Marshal Victor is longing for a chance to beat the British after the repulse at Talavera.’

  ‘Well, he may get his chance soon, God willing,’ Sir Richard said. ‘And God willing Graham can make sure that La Peña does not make a hash of it all.’

  25

  The luck went against them from the very start, when one of the mules bucked off its rider, kicked another animal so badly that its leg was broken, and then sprang over a precipice. That left them with three mounts between five of them, and so they walked the rest of the way, winding around the mountain as they climbed.

  ‘It is not so fast, but it is safer,’ Carlos Velasco explained. ‘There is nothing up here to attract the French.’ Don Juan had provided a local guide, although Carlos seemed to know the country quite well. Another of El Blanco’s men came as escort and so did Guadalupe. The brief intimacy she and Williams had shared was not repeated, and for most of the journey she said little.

  There was no reason for the French to be up so high, and yet, on the third day, the guide hissed a warning and they pressed back against the rock wall beside them, holding the mules tightly and praying that they would not bray. The path was only a couple of yards wide before the ground fell away in a slope so steep that it was virtually a cliff. In the valley beneath them a strong force of infantry – two companies at least – was slowly climbing, skirmishers to the front, flanks and rear.

  Carlos tapped Williams on the shoulder and pointed higher up to a line of figures standing out dark on the crest.

  ‘We cannot go through the pass,’ the guide told them. ‘We must go back or go over the top.’

  Williams wondered whether he should have agreed to go back, but the man was sure the path was not closed. It meant giving up the mules, for they would have to climb as often as they walked, and so El Blanco’s man led them away. Carlos told him to meet them at a village on the far side of the peaks.

  ‘If you are not there by Sunday, we’ll go on.’

  It proved a hard climb, far harder than Williams had expected. These mountains were not so very high, but the land was broken by ravines and cliffs so that walking even a short distance as the crow flew meant precarious descents and hard climbs. They went for two days without seeing any more French, or indeed anyone at all. The Welshman’s leg hurt and became stiff, and Carlos made them stop earlier than the guide wanted because there was the prospect of shelter in a shallow cave – little more than a hollow in the cliff face. Wet snow fell, and a bitter wind howled among the rocks, but they had carried some dry kindling and found enough fuel for a small fire. Huddled together, the thin soup seemed the most wonderful of all foods.

  So much of Williams’ time in Spain had been spent in the wet and cold that these days he laughed at the thought that once he had believed it to be a place of eternal sunshine. The next day the snow became heavier, and they had to be even more careful not to lose the way and stray from the path. Williams was sure that he was going more and more slowly. Guadalupe also found it harder going, and it was odd how he had taken her strength for granted in the past. As he looked at her now, he could see she was a slightly built young woman scarcely out of childhood, and even a year spent with the guerrilleros had not prepared her for so arduous a journey.

  They pressed on, but he and the girl were flagging. The guide’s assurance that they were on their way down cheered them only a little, for it still seemed the same routine of scrambling down rocky scree and then clambering up slopes the other side. Snow turned to rain, but the wind was still cold and it did not feel very different. There was no more kindling and that meant cold camps and no hot food. At the end of the fourth day, the guide took them up again, leading them slowly along a precarious path until they reached a deep cave sunk into the side of the slope. It was pleasantly sheltered, even warm out of the wind, so that their cold food tasted better.

  Carlos was on watch when the shouts echoed up from the valley below. He woke them, and they crept to the mouth of the cave from where Williams saw a big fire a few hundred yards below them. Figures moved around the fire and the men did not seem to care about being seen.

  The sun rose, breaking through the clouds to give the first dry and bright day since they had begun. Williams could see that the men camped beneath them wore no uniforms and were instead clad in the drab blacks and browns of partisans. There were fifteen of them, and as many horses and mules, and they did not seem in any hurry. Most slept late, and the two sentries paced in a leisurely manner as they circled the camp. It was late morning before the others rose, and as they stretched and stamped their feet Williams felt Carlos tense beside him.

  ‘El Lobo,’ he whispered, which settled any thought of leaving the cave in daylight. At noon some of the partisans began to climb the slope towards them, so the guide took them back, crawling through a crack in the rocks to reach a natural chamber, where they lay and waited. Time passed slowly. There was only dim light filtering back from the mouth of the cave. Guadalupe lay beside Williams and her hand pressed his tightly.

  They heard men’s voices, at first faint and then echoing as they stepped into the cave. The accents were strong, and even after months with El Blanco’s band Williams could understand only a few of the words. It did not seem as if they were hunting for them or anyone else. A long sound of splashing made it clear that one of them had decided to use the cave for another purpose. Then there was laughter and the voices receded.

  In the near-darkness they lay and waited. Guadalupe kept a firm grip on his hand, and moulded herself close to him. Eventually Carlos crept forward and peered through the crack. He watched for a while, seeing and hearing nothing, before he went through into the main cave. The guide followed.

  ‘I love you, ’Amish,’ the girl whispered in his ear, hope and desperation in every word, but she was so close that she must have felt the change in him.

  What could he say? Williams admired her and pitied her, and could not deny that she was lovely and there beside him, soft to the touch and so very warm and alive. He did not love her.

  She needed a good man who loved her and would love her forever. Someone who would justify the newfound hope kindling within her after so much pain. She did not need a man who would take her only to leave her and plunge her back into despair. His head told him all this, but still had to struggle as his flesh thrilled at her softness.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he began, and in an instant felt her withdraw, the whole sense of her body beside him immediately different.

  She shook off his attempt to help her up and left him. Williams followed, feeling himself a miserable worm, but not knowing what else to do or say. At the mouth of the cave Carlos and the guide lay, peering out.

  ‘Smugglers,’ the former surgeon said in a low voice. There were more men down below them, seven of them with a string of heavily laden mules. El Lobo went out to greet them, giving the leader a hug and lifting the man off the ground. ‘The old rogue is not letting the war interfere with the chance of making money.’

  The two bands mingled, sharing wine and food with every sign of friendship. Their guide was the first to spot the soldiers, dressed in long coats and coming in file down a path on the far side of the valley.

  ‘French,’ he said.

  It was a few more minutes before anyone down in the valley saw the infantrymen. Someone shouted and Williams watched as El Lobo whipped a pistol from his belt and discharged it into the man he had hugged. One of his men clubbed another of the smugglers to the ground and all the others had weapons in their hands. A smuggler was hacked about the head. The rest threw up their hands. By the time the French soldiers reached them the fight was over.

  ‘Some French general has gone into business with
the bandits,’ was Carlos’ judgement. Not that it mattered to them, but since the partisans and soldiers had camped in the valley for another night it meant that they must wait in their cave. Guadalupe said nothing apart from short acknowledgements when someone passed her something. She never looked at Williams and he was glad when darkness fell and it was impossible to see anyone inside the cave. Sleep eluded him, and he lay on his back hating himself for hurting so fine and brave a young woman.

  El Lobo’s men left in the morning, the voltigeurs following them an hour or two later. They waited for a few more hours before risking leaving the cave. It was another dry day, and they made good progress for a while, but it was already Monday and so they had missed the rendezvous. In fact it took them another day and a half to reach the mountain village. Carlos went ahead to see someone he knew there, found that the man with the mules had never arrived, and that French soldiers had passed through the day before. It was a gamble, but they risked staying the night in one of the little houses, glad of warm food and proper shelter.

  For the next week they went slowly, wary alike of enemy troops and the irregulars of El Lobo. Williams was glad of the slower pace, and felt that his leg was getting better, but worried that it was taking so long for him to carry word of Sinclair’s treachery. He wished now that he had written a letter as El Blanco had suggested, although whether that would have travelled faster and more safely was hard to say.

  When they came nearer to Gibraltar their path was blocked again and again. The country was less sheltered here, and something seemed to have stirred up the French, for there were large detachments marching and countermarching across the country, while patrols seemed to be everywhere. A dozen dragoons with yellow fronts to their dark green coats and drab covers over their brass helmets surprised them as they were leaving the shelter of a straggling pine forest. They fled, seeking cover, and for the next three hours the French horsemen hunted them through the driving rain. Such a small group of soldiers would normally be wary of guerrilleros lying in wait.

  ‘Must be a lot more of them around,’ Carlos gasped as they lay panting in a dense thicket, after having to run for half a mile. Only the broken ground had stopped the horsemen from catching them.

  At long last the dragoons gave up, but they were too weary to go any further and rested in a dell surrounded by thick thorn bushes. ‘Either you’re a Jonah or the French just do not like you, Englishman,’ Carlos Velasco suggested. Guadalupe would still not meet his gaze. The former surgeon obviously sensed something was wrong, although he said nothing.

  The next day they saw more patrols, and drifted steadily north and west to evade them. In the end they gave up trying to cross the lines and reach Gibraltar, and instead made towards Tarifa. They were weary, filthy from their journey, and running low on food. Yet it was like finding the natural grain in a piece of wood, and they found themselves going faster and faster. The guide left them to visit an isolated village and came back with bread and fruit, and that night they had a better meal than they had had for days. As they ate Guadalupe looked at Williams for the first time in a week. He wanted to say again how sorry he was, how he hated to hurt her, but the others were there, and what would the words really have meant? Instead he offered a weak smile. The girl did not return it, but she did not look away, and that at least was something.

  They were close now, and on a drab day when heavy showers rolled in from the sea every hour or so, they headed for where they hoped to find the Allied outposts. The land was rocky, with low sandy hummocks and patches of marsh, and they felt very exposed. No one was in sight, and they tried to take what cover they could as they went towards a low ridge topped by cork trees. Williams unslung the musket he had carried throughout the journey. It was French and felt awkward in his hands.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Carlos asked. Surviving as a guerrilla had given him a healthy respect for men’s instincts.

  ‘I do not know.’ Williams took the wine cork from the muzzle of his firelock, thinking once again that this partisan habit was a good one, and then pulled off the rag covering the lock. Flicking open the pan, he saw that the powder was there and it looked dry.

  They went more slowly now, his wariness spreading to the others, all of whom drew their own weapons. Guadalupe had a pistol in one hand and a curved sabre in the other, with the haft of a clasp knife sticking from her sash.

  When it came the shot sounded dull in the heavy damp air. The ball went nowhere near them, and it must have been a signal, for enemy dragoons appeared from the trees. There were five to their right about a quarter of a mile away, and seven or more further to their left. The Frenchmen whooped and spurred their horses at the fugitives.

  They ran. No one needed to shout the order, the four of them just sprinted for the trees, splashing across the waterlogged ground. It was bad going for horses and that slowed the dragoons, but the closest was within a hundred yards when they burst through the first line of trees. The hill had a wide top and they kept going, dodging between the trunks. Williams stumbled, his weight falling so awkwardly on his bad leg that he cursed in pain. Carlos stopped to fire back at the leading dragoons, and Guadalupe took the Welshman’s arm as he pushed himself up. There was warmth in her eyes as he thanked her, and they ran on, going down the far side of the ridge where the cork trees were thinner. They came into the open, and there was a wide field leading to another, denser wood. It seemed their best chance, so they sped towards it.

  The guide was at the back. He was one of those tough, stocky mountaineers, so common in these parts, but he was not made for sprinting. Hearing the pounding of hoofs coming closer, he spun around and took aim with his carbine as two of the green-coated cavalrymen bore down on him. When he pulled the trigger the flint sparked and powder flared, but the main charge must have been wet or shaken out because the gun did not fire. The leading dragoon hacked down with his straight sword. Its edge was blunt, for French cavalry were taught to thrust, and so the blow bludgeoned the man, knocking him into a crouch. The second horseman had to lean low to spear the tip of his blade into the man’s forehead, the momentum of his cantering horse driving the steel through the bone. With only a grunt, the guide fell, the dragoon pulling his sword free as he rode on.

  Puffs of powder smoke sprouted from the line of trees, and one of the horses reared, screaming in pain. A dragoon following behind was plucked from the saddle, dark blood on the yellow front of his jacket. Another shot followed, flicked Williams’ sleeve and gouged Carlos Velasco’s side. The former doctor was spun round, a puzzled look on his face. Williams went back to him, raising his musket up to his shoulders. The threat and the presence of who knew how many more enemies in the trees was enough to make the dragoons retreat. One lingered to fire a pistol at an absurdly long range.

  Carlos’ hand was red as he felt his side just below the ribcage. He glared angrily back at the French and then at Williams. Guadalupe ran to help him, but he pushed her away and lurched forward.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he hissed.

  The three of them staggered on towards the trees.

  ‘Fire, damn you, fire!’ A shrill voice was calling from somewhere in the shadow of the wood, yelling out in English. Williams knew the voice from somewhere, but could not place it. ‘Shoot them, you bloody fools, shoot them!’ The man was almost shrieking.

  Another voice, louder and deeper, shouted over the first, and then blue-uniformed soldiers appeared, and one of them was calling to him.

  ‘Lieutenant Williams!’ The man had white chevrons on his right sleeve and Williams recognised the face a moment before the name came to him.

  ‘Sergeant Mueller.’

  The German nodded, and barked an order for two of his men to help cover them as they came in. It must have been the sergeant who had ordered the outpost to stop firing.

  ‘We fetch the dead man when French are gone,’ the sergeant explained, nodding in the direction of the corpse of their guide.

  They walked into the shadow of the tr
ees, Carlos striding more confidently and still refusing any aid. The two chasseurs stood with levelled rifles to deter any renewed enthusiasm on the part of the dragoons. No Frenchman appeared.

  An officer stood under the trees, in shadow until they were close.

  ‘Well, you have turned up after all,’ he sniffed.

  It was Hatch. Williams caught a tremor in the usually supercilious voice, and in an instant he knew that the swine had wanted to kill them. The lieutenant scratched at the broad scar across his face, and held a rifle low in his other hand, as if pretending that it was not there. Williams was sure the bullet that had hit Carlos had been aimed at him and fired by Hatch, and perhaps too it was the lieutenant who had tried to kill him at Fuengirola.

  Without conscious thought, the Welshman realised that he had twitched the muzzle of his musket up to point at the lieutenant’s belly.

  Hatch licked his lips. ‘We had heard that you were with the irregulars, but were not expecting you to appear. If it was not for your red coat we might have shot you all down.’ He was talking much faster than was natural.

  Williams stared at him. Carlos looked puzzled, and then ignored them as he dropped his carbine and used both hands to examine his side.

  ‘Hanley told us, d’ye see. Or at least he wrote to MacAndrews, who told us. You were toasted in the mess.’ The lieutenant kept talking.

  Williams brimmed over with hatred and contempt and said nothing.

  ‘He’s back, you know. In charge of a flank battalion with the army come from Cadiz.’

  Guadalupe stood beside him, and he remembered that she had not seen her sister’s attacker, so did not know who this was. She had sheathed her sabre, and stuck the pistol back into her sash.

  Hatch kept rubbing his scar. ‘General Graham has come here with an army, only the Dons have not arrived yet and so he waits and hopes that they will turn up.’