Absolute Honour

by C. C. Humphreys

  The young man bobbed his head then set to upon meat and marrow. Meanwhile, Crawford had poured a bumper and handed it across. Burgoyne nodded his thanks, sipped and gnawed.

  Somerville cleared his throat. ‘May I assume, sir, that the fact that you are here means, uh—’

  ‘That we are finally going into battle? Indeed you may.’

  A muttering passed around the group of still-standing men.

  Crawford leaned forward. ‘Would you be good enough to tell us where, sir?’

  Burgoyne, still savaging the bone, swallowed. ‘Not now. There is much to discuss and we will all need clear heads to do so. I, for one, am exhausted. All I will tell you is that we are to ride tomorrow, under cover of night, and that we are to ride directly against the enemy the night after that.’ He stood, raised his glass. ‘Gentleman, I give you the Queen and her Sixteenth Light Dragoons. Huzzah!’

  ‘Huzzah!’ Bumpers were pledged and drained.

  Burgoyne placed his before him, then said, ‘Now, if one of you would be so good as to show me to my billet?’

  Jack stepped forward. ‘May I have that honour, sir?’

  ‘Of course you may, young whatsyername?’ Burgoyne passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Sorry, my boy. Long road and memory fails. You are?’

  ‘Lieutenant Absolute, sir.’

  He was sure it was a sight not many saw – John Burgoyne’s composure wavering. ‘Ab-Absolute? Well, kiss my arse!’

  Jack smiled. ‘I know, sir. I am dead.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I encountered your parents before I left London. They said you’d been in Bath then vanished. Thought you’d run off with some woman.’ He smiled. ‘Which made sense. Seem to remember that women were your problem, hmm?’

  Talk about pot and kettle, Jack thought. Burgoyne’s affaires d’ amour were legendary. But all he said was, ‘There’s a little more to it than that, sir.’

  ‘Well, you can tell me as we walk,’ said Burgoyne, snagging a bottle.

  As Jack led the way to the villa commandeered for the Colonel, their route took them down a street of low taverns and brothels. Naturally, many men from the regiment were there and, in front of one particularly large bordel, Jack found himself in the novel situation of acknowledging salutes and cheers from both the soldiers of the third troop and their whores.

  Burgoyne raised an eyebrow. ‘How long have you been back with your troop, Absolute?’

  ‘Three days, sir.’

  ‘Really? You seem inordinately popular.’

  Jack flushed. ‘Ah, well, you see, that deer, sir,’ he pointed to the haunch which the Colonel still carried and was nibbling on periodically, ‘I killed it this morning.’

  ‘Did you? And you saw that the men under your command shared your bounty?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Burgoyne smiled. ‘There’s officers who rule by fear and others who make themselves loved. I prefer the latter – just so long as the proper authority is also maintained, hmm?’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Burgoyne tossed the bone to a scabrous dog that had followed them since they’d set out. ‘Now, Absolute. Tell me where the hell you’ve been since we sent you off to Canada and how the hell you’ve found your way back again.’

  Even the simplest version took some time. Burgoyne had not only gained admittance to his billet, but had washed, changed into the nightgown his valet had laid out and was stretched upon the bed before Jack had concluded the Roman part of his tale. He showed no signs, however, of wanting to sleep.

  ‘I know Colonel Turnville. He does a fine job against England’s enemies.’ He sighed. ‘There are those who decry espionage as almost unsporting. I am not one of them. We will win this war – any war – with intelligence, intelligently used. The opposite is also true.’ He sat up. ‘This McClune? I don’t recall the name. You are certain he is in Portugal?’

  ‘It was where I heard he was headed, sir. Somewhere he could do maximum damage to England’s cause. And he has numerous aliases.’

  Burgoyne scissored his legs off the bed, went and fetched a cylindrical map case, opened it, fished out a map and then spread it on the bed. ‘I suppose he may have sought sanctuary with one of our Irish regiments – Armstrong’s or Traherne’s. When last I heard of them, they were both somewhere here in the north, stiffening the resolve of the chaotically organized Portuguese.’ He waved his hand over the country. ‘But, with the Spaniards’ vast superiority in numbers, we will not be able to hold the whole of Portugal. We will contract to defend the heartland – here.’ He traced a line behind the River Tagus, to Lisbon. ‘Meantime, we can delay their advance, indeed sting them quite badly, by our own actions in the next few days. For the Spanish are collecting vast stores for their invasion … here. He jabbed at a point just across the border into Spain. ‘Valencia de Alcántara. That is where we are headed tomorrow.’ The older man straightened, rubbed at the small of his back. ‘So, for the moment, though I expect you, nay require you, to keep one eye open for this Irishman, t’other must be pointed towards Spain. Think you can manage that without going cock-eyed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack stared down at the map, trying to see, amidst the brown-inked hills and the blue rivers, a shock of red hair.

  Something must have shown in his eyes. ‘This McClune? I fancy there’s something more than just employment in Turnville’s service about this, isn’t there?’

  Jack had left out any reference to Letty, implying an entirely professional reason for his hunt. But Burgoyne’s shrewd glance would not be gainsaid. ‘There is something else involved,’ he admitted. ‘Someone. I would rather not say any more. Other than it touches upon my honour.’ Jack looked straight into those appraising eyes. ‘I hope that will suffice.’

  ‘Cherchez la femme?’ murmured Burgoyne. ‘I was right what I said about you before, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir. But I can assure you that I will always put my duty first and my personal ambitions second.’

  ‘Don’t doubt it for a moment, lad. As sure as your name is Absolute. Or Truman. Or Dag … what was your Iroquois name again?’

  ‘Daganoweda. It means, “Inexhaustible”.’

  ‘Wish I was!’ Burgoyne’s smile became a yawn.

  ‘I’ll leave you, sir.’

  Jack was at the door when he remembered. ‘Pardon, General, but a last question?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You mentioned you saw my parents?’

  ‘Indeed. Saw them at Drury Lane the week before I sailed.’

  ‘Their exile is over, then?’

  ‘Aye. Certain representations, mine own as well as others, were made to the King and his ministers. Seems Lord Melbury’s death was not as, um, universally mourned as we first feared. Your father is pardoned and is once more in residence in Mayfair.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it.’

  ‘Your mother was all concerned about you when I saw her at Drury Lane. But Sir James was,’ he chuckled, ‘angry. Claims you cozened him in Bath and then disappeared. It was hard to comprehend entirely because of the volume. But the gist, I think, was that he believes you tried to gull him into letting you marry some penniless girl.’

  Jack sighed. ‘My father tends to interpret events in a rather unique way.’

  ‘Indeed he does. Perhaps you should write to them and tell them something of your adventures.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Jack was nearly out the door when Burgoyne spoke again, his voice very drowsy: ‘Do not your Mohawk brothers take scalps as the prize of war, Absolute? Well, it seems your father, in service in Germany, took a few of his own. Metaphorically, I am sure. Well, almost sure.’ Another yawn came. ‘We could do with Mad Jamie Absolute the day after tomorrow when we storm Valencia de Alcántara.’

  In the dried-up creek bed a vow of silence held, as binding as in any monastery. From his elevated position at the valley’s end, the moonlight showed Jack the shadowy forms of the entire force: four hundred cavalryme
n of the 16th Light Dragoons and two hundred Grenadiers, all stretched upon the ground, recovering from the two nights of hard riding that had brought them within a mile of Valencia de Alcántara.

  Linked horses fed from nosebags, their riders sharing field provisions. Jack had already chewed upon a string of his newly acquired jerky. He had no desire to sit or lie down. Not when he was about to go into battle with his regiment for the first time since he’d joined them three years before. All the officers were standing on or near this knoll, staring to a point beneath the crest of the concealing ridge where Burgoyne, Somerville and Fanshawe, the Grenadier Captain, were conversing with the Portuguese scouts and their extravagantly moustachioed, wildly gesticulating translator.

  ‘Man looks like an Italian knife-thrower,’ whispered Worsley, breaking the silance. ‘What’s he saying, d’ye think?’

  ‘Oops!’ Jack murmured, and both men laughed quietly.

  Stokey turned to glare at them but, as he did, all saw Burgoyne’s shadow, Cornet Griffiths, detach himself from the group.

  ‘Senior officers’ council beneath the bluff,’ he said softly as he came near. Immediately, the captains and lieutenants rose and made their way up. Only one cornet went with them – Glowering Bob, helping Captain Crawford whose horse had stumbled in the darkness, throwing him and breaking his arm. They gathered in a crescent, just below Burgoyne.

  ‘Stroke of luck, lads,’ he said, rubbing his hands before him, ‘for it seems the Dagoes are so unconcerned about attack they’ve left the main gate of the town ajar. I say “seems” because it is possible they may have had wind of our coming and are trying to lure us into a trap. I believe not, as does our friend, Major Gonzalo here.’

  The Portuguese Major, his uniform as gaudy as his facial hair was extensive, bowed and nodded vigorously. ‘Spanish stupid men,’ he growled. ‘Drunk and stupid and asleep.’

  ‘That we shall see,’ said Burgoyne, dryly, ‘and soon enough, for if they are, we shall ride in and take the town. Saves storming the walls which I feared we would have to do.’ He leaned down. ‘May I remind you of our mission, gentlemen: we do not know the extent of the force opposing us. One regiment of foot, certainly, maybe two. More than us, anyway. So we do not want a pitched battle. We want to capture the stores they have amassed for their invasion of Portugal if we have the time, destroy them if we have not.’ He smiled. ‘But if they are indeed soused and napping, we may be able to take the town and accomplish the rest at leisure. Any thoughts so far?’

  No one spoke. He went on. ‘So I have it in mind to send one troop to seize and hold that open gate, the rest to follow fast. If it’s a trap we’ll know soon enough and wheel away sharpish.’

  Crawford raised a hand, the unbroken one, and at Burgoyne’s nod, asked, ‘Which troop, sir?’

  ‘Well, it was going to be you and yours, Crawford, since it was your third as well as the fourth that saw recent action on Belleisle.’ He sighed. ‘But as you are now wingless …’

  ‘I wouldn’t let that worry you, sir, I …’ Crawford, in gesticulating, grimaced in pain.

  Jack had raised his hand. At a nod, he spoke. ‘Might I volunteer, sir?’

  The Captain of the First, Onslow, now stepped forward. ‘Now look here, sir, my men and I are more than fit—’

  Burgoyne raised his hand, and silence returned. ‘I have no doubt as to your lads’ merits, Geoffrey. But I mentioned the fear of a trap. If there is one, I think I’d rather sacrifice a knight than a bishop, eh?’ He smiled. ‘Besides, Absolute here’s been swanning around, ’personating savages and playing at pirates. ’Bout time he won his spurs, don’tcha think?’

  The faintest of dawn’s light was touching the sky when Jack led the third troop over the ridge. It seemed to make the town below them even darker, a silent, black presence sprawled over at least two hills, a castle’s tower on one, walls girdling the whole. A track ran to their left, the main egress from the valley behind them, and swept down to a narrow stone bridge. From there, it was no more than a three-hundred-yard dash to the gate.

  Jack halted the troop fifty paces down the slope and went twenty further on himself. He was not concerned about being spotted. If it was a trap, they would have noted him anyway; if not, a dozing guard was unlikely to notice a deeper darkness against the escarpment. ‘Puxley,’ he called back softly, and was immediately joined by the Sergeant. He had no hesitation in asking the man’s opinion out of earshot of the men. ‘What do you think?’

  The Welshman gazed down. ‘The highway’s little better than a ploughed field to my mind. But we’d not want to stray off it in this light; too many rocks and holes in the fields beside. So no line, I’d say.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Just my thought. Careful to the track, walk to the bridge, form column the other side then – straight to the gallop and damn the furrows?’

  ‘Reckon that’s right, sir.’

  He wheeled his horse about, and Jack called after, ‘Oh, and Sergeant?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Other side of the bridge? Draw swords, I think. Give the command.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Jack led the way, stopping just beyond the bridge. He heard his men trot over it, the noise suddenly harsh in the dawn quiet, then halt.

  ‘Sir?’ came the soft call.

  ‘If you please, Puxley.’

  The voice was low but clear. ‘Draw swords.’

  Jack, with all the others, threw his right hand across his body, seized the handle of his sword, grazing no knuckle this time, withdrew the blade two inches. Counted silently.

  ‘One. Two.’

  He drew it out, taking his hand to opposite his right breast, his fingernails turned in, sword side flat to his body.

  ‘One.’

  Dropping his hand smoothly down, he swivelled his knuckles front, turning the straight blade of the sword forward and sloping it across his chest, its tip before the point of his left shoulder.

  ‘Forward,’ Jack said then, though he had to say it twice, his throat catching the first time. As he moved the first few paces at a walk, he was aware of the regard of the fifty men behind him, many more undoubtedly beginning to emerge from the canyon above. He swallowed, called, ‘Trot.’

  His horse, as biddable in the field as it had been at drill, needed just the word, not a touch of heel. He reacted as well to the next two words: ‘Canter. Gallop!’

  The advance guard of the 16th Light Dragoons began their race toward the gates of Valencia de Alcántara.

  After about a hundred yards, Jack was suddenly unaware of how far he was ahead of his men. He was riding solus, after all, they were in a body. Yet he didn’t think it would do his reputation any good to look back, or rein in. Alarmingly, all he could hear were his own hoofbeats and he suddenly recalled how someone had told him that his mount was probably the swiftest in the whole regiment. ‘Lucky’ was its name, a new one bestowed when its previous owner and his brains became separated. Army humour!

  Dead Man’s Horse, he thought, as the town gates drew nearer. Dead Man’s Sword. Dead Man’s Damn Pinching Boots.

  He could make out the gate now. And the bloody thing was open. Whether that was good or bad he was yet to discover.

  At fifty yards, no more, he heard a shout, saw a man jerking up from where he’d been slumped against one of the open gate doors. As Jack watched, he turned, hands scrabbling at the wood. At twenty yards Jack swung his sword down, leaned forward, his weight behind the weapon. The 16th, unlike most Dragoons, favoured the straight blade, thrust home with the weight of the charge.

  The man must have felt it approaching. With a shriek he gave up his futile shoving and threw himself to the ground. Jack’s point passed over him. He was through the gate. He reined in, his horse coming to an immediate halt under the gate tower. To his left the guard cowered in the dust. To his right was a door. Two men came out of it. One had a musket.

  ‘Yee-ah!’ cried Jack, spurring his mount forward, pulling back almost instantly on the reins. Luck
y came up on his rear legs, front hooves striking out, forcing both men back. When the hooves came down, Jack lunged, the sword point striking the gun near its lock, knocking it from the soldier’s arms. Its charge exploded, the noise thunderous in the stillness.

  It had taken seconds. With the shrieking man falling backwards, Jack was suddenly aware of another noise, a rumble from the ground. Jerking the reins yet again, he forced Lucky to the side, just before the third troop charged in.

  His orders had been clear and thoroughly explained to the men. So though three Spaniards had begun to run, screaming into the town, no trooper gave chase. Instead they rallied in the open space behind the gates.

  ‘Dismount! Handle your carbines!’ Jack’s commands, reinforced by Puxley’s, had the whole troop off in moments, horses linked and led to the side, the three ranks of the troop acting as divisions. The first two ran to the corner of the nearest house, where the main street into the town began. The third rank rallied to Jack at the gate.

  ‘Stokey!’ Jack called, and the fellow ran over fast, enmity swallowed by exhilaration. Jack grabbed his shoulder, turned him to the gate. ‘Out there, man. Sound the advance.’

  As the bugle coughed out its staccato call, Jack led his own rank forward. There was one other entrance to the gate square, a narrower road, and, as he advanced, Jack could see some Spaniards about a hundred yards away, moving cautiously along it.

  ‘Poise your firelocks! Cock your firelocks! Present your firelocks! Hold now, men. Hold!’

  The enemy had begun to advance quicker now, a good twenty of them, bearing muskets, officers driving them on with the flats of their swords. Suddenly they halted, there was a shouted command and a ragged volley made some of his men duck.

  ‘Steady,’ he called, then, ‘Fire!’

  It was a pretty good volley, for cavalrymen, in the near dark. The Spaniards certainly thought so, taking to their heels, two white-clad bodies kicking on the cobbles behind them.