Absolute Honour

by C. C. Humphreys

  Jack ignored the rain that dripped from his nose, counter-pointing the flow off Lucky’s. Man and horse stared down to another man and horse. The brown water had reached the rider’s boot soles; the horse’s legs were submerged. Then, in a sudden movement, the beast’s footing was lost and it was swimming, the flow pushing it downstream. Pulling on the reins, the man managed to guide the horse around, back to the shore. He didn’t pause on the little stretch of flat riverbank but tapped his heels and rode up to where Jack waited above.

  ‘It’s like we thought, sir,’ Puxley said as he reined in. ‘Most of it will be a swim.’

  Jack shivered. ‘Can we do that?’

  The Welshman nodded. ‘Oh, aye. The horses will have no problem, so long as we keep coaxing them. But the men might because I doubt if there’s many of them that can swim.’

  ‘Well, they better hang on tight, then, hadn’t they?’

  ‘There’s no chance of?’ Puxley nodded to the north.

  ‘No.’ While his sergeant had been testing the water, one of Jack’s outriders had come in. There was a ford a few miles upstream but a regiment of Spanish cavalry now stood between them and it. They’d taken on some odds in snarling little skirmishes during the six-week retreat across the Alentejo to the projected defensive line at the Tagus; but a regiment was too strong even for his third troop. There’d be no going south because there were even greater concentrations of the enemy there, no going back for the same reason. ‘It’s across here and that’s the end of it. Do you have a suggestion, Puxley?’ Jack had learned much in the time since he’d rejoined the regiment, but deferring to his experienced sergeant had been the first lesson.

  The Welshman ran his hand over his forehead, flicking water away. ‘I’d link by subdivision, sir, give each man a bit of support from his mate.’

  ‘Not quarter ranks?’

  ‘Four men would be too awkward and if one was in trouble they all would be.’ Puxley shook his head. ‘Two’s grand.’

  ‘Then make it so, if you please. We’ll cross in three separate ranks to prevent bunching. You lead the first across, Stokey will take the second. I’ll come last.’

  ‘Sure, sir? I’d be happy—’

  ‘I want to make certain everyone makes it over. And I need to bring the last outrider in.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Puxley saluted, wheeled his horse and rode over the rise to the slight hollow where the rest of the third waited, most of them lying on the sodden grass.

  Well, thought Jack, turning to look at the swirling brown water, they can’t get much wetter. He squinted. The Tagus was less than a hundred yards wide at this point, but the downpour and the dusk rendered the far bank insubstantial. Still, he could see the two lights Burgoyne had promised would always be lit for him, if he was forced into the option of swimming not fording. Jack had managed to bring his troop to the exact point on the bank opposite the regiment’s camp. Now he just had to make sure they all got across. He hadn’t lost a single man in the retreat across Portugal and he was damned if he was going to begin now.

  He rode to the edge of the rise and looked down. Puxley’s orders were being swiftly obeyed. His men were linking, one collar extended back to meet the one behind. Each two-man subdivision was used to working as a pair. He could only hope they would not let each other drown.

  It was rapidly done, collars linked, carbines, packs and blankets strapped to shoulders. Every man there knew that the Spanish were coming fast and, while Jack was sure that all of them shared his distaste for the plunge that lay ahead, they would also prefer it to a Spanish gaol, though there had been times on this march when he’d missed his dry Roman one.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘If you please, Sergeant,’ Jack replied, and moved Lucky off the slight path. The first rank came up, Puxley in the lead. Down the slope he went, did not hesitate, driving his horse straight into the flood, the first of the men following. All, at the same point, began swimming.

  With the first rank afloat, Jack called down, ‘Now, Cornet Stokey.’ Glowering Bob led the second rank up. The fellow was still sullen, his face set in lines of discontent.

  ‘Where’s Worsley?’ Jack asked as the man drew level.

  ‘Still out.’ Stokey jerked his head behind him, down the canyon they’d ridden to the water. Jack looked, but rain blurred all vision.

  Worsley had volunteered to be the last outrider. But he’d been told to report back long before this. ‘How long since you last blew?’ he asked, pointing at Stokey’s bugle.

  ‘Not long,’ the man muttered, and Jack knew he was lying. With everything else going on, he’d ignored the fact that he hadn’t heard the recall blown this half-hour. Still, there was not time for reprimands. ‘Give that to me,’ he said, reaching and taking the instrument, ‘and get your men over.’

  The second rank did not pass as smoothly. Just over half the troop had gone when three of the horses baulked, spooking others. They were led back, blinkers applied. The animals re-entered the water reluctantly but were coaxed forward to swim behind the rest, although the delay had caused a bottleneck of cavalry upon the bank.

  Frustrated, Jack turned back again, to the third rank below him and the canyon beyond. He’d have to let Stokey sort it out. He had his own rank to get over and a last man to find.

  He rode down to his corporal. ‘When the Cornet has them in the water,’ he instructed, ‘you follow.’

  ‘Sir.’ The man hesitated. ‘Where will you be, sir?’

  ‘Looking for my damned batman.’ Spurring his mount, Jack rode up the other side of the rise, stopped at its crest. He looked down at the instrument. In his brief time of training with the regiment before Canada, one of the things he was meant to have learnt was the use of, and signals for, the bugle. He had managed neither especially well.

  He pursed his lips, applied them to the mouthpiece, blew. A sound like a wet fart dribbled out. Cursing, he adjusted his lips, blew again. This time he sounded a note, strained, cracking. Sure he could get at least an approximation now, he took a deep lungful of air and then realized he wouldn’t need it. Worsley was galloping toward him. But he wasn’t alone. About twenty lengths behind him were five other cavalrymen.

  ‘Spaniards!’ screamed Worsley, unnecessarily.

  Jack’s carbine was loaded, but it was wrapped in cloth in an attempt to keep it dry. However he had a pistol tucked under his greatcoat. By the time he’d fumbled his buttons open and jerked the weapon out, his man was about twenty yards away and the enemy had closed the gap.

  Jack levered the hammer back, levelled, pulled the trigger. There was little aiming involved but the bullet must have passed at least close enough to the leading pursuer for the Spaniard to feel its wind, for he twitched his reins right, his horse moving almost at right angles to its previous course, the other horses following. They swept up the side of the canyon, turned completely about and rode out of it again.

  Worsley came to an excited halt just by him. ‘Bloody hell,’ Jack said, lowering the pistol. ‘Why have we been running from these bastards when a single pistol will scare five of ’em off?’

  ‘Uh, sir?’ Worsley was gesturing behind him. Jack turned – and there was the whole of the third rank drawn up in a rough line, carbines levelled.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack. Swiftly reholstering, he said, ‘Now, Corporal, take ’em across. Smartly now.’ The troopers, remounted, began to move fast toward the river, Jack and his batman bringing up the rear. ‘So, many of them out there?’

  ‘About a squadron.’ The younger man grinned. ‘Was going to charge ’em but then thought: Don’t you be greedy now, Thomas Worsley. You leave some Dagoes for the Colonel to kill.’

  ‘Very considerate of you. Now, if you’ll kindly link horses with me, let’s see if we can join him.’

  ‘The Colonel’s compliments, sir. Was wondering if you could see him in his tent?’ It was Griffiths, Burgoyne’s adjutant.

  When someone had coughed outside his canvas, Jack had been hoping that
it was Worsley bearing the results of his scrounging. It was his major skill and Jack had rarely been disappointed. He’d been promised rum in hot tea at the least, which he hoped would begin to dissipate the shivers. Ever since his semi-immersion in the River Tagus two hours before, it was as if he’d been cursed with an ague.

  ‘I, uh, haven’t got a uniform,’ he said to Griffiths, gesturing at the sodden scarlet and grey-white breeches thrown over his trunk.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, sir. All the other officers will be in their red clothes as well.’

  Jack sighed, threw back the blanket. If the man was surprised to see that beneath it he was already wearing the unlaced frock coat in which all officers slouched about in camp, he didn’t reveal it. Though he might have raised an eyebrow if he’d known that, beneath it, Jack was wearing all three of his dry shirts.

  His batman met him as he emerged from the tent. ‘Here, sir, best I could do.’

  He ate as he walked, Worsley alternately holding the mug of tea – at least half of which was rum – and the platter of thin, brown stew. By the time they reached the command tent, Jack was feeling better. At least the worst of the shakes had stopped.

  ‘Ah, young Absolute.’ Burgoyne was bent over one end of a table and straightened when Jack entered what was more a pavilion than a tent. ‘Glad you’re safe. Your men?’

  ‘All accounted for, thank you, sir.’

  The Colonel was eyeing the bulkiness of his clothing. ‘And you seem to have put on weight. Must be the only soldier in this campaign who’s managed that. Sit, lad. Take a mug.’

  Jack sat at the lower end of the table with the six other lieutenants. The six captains rose in two rows above them in order of seniority up to Major Somerville standing at Burgoyne’s right hand. There was a pot of tea before Jack and he poured himself a mugful, nodding as he did to his fellow subalterns. He immediately smelled the rum in it and took care just to sip; the other one had done its job so well he was beginning, within his four layers, to feel hot.

  The senior officers were discussing matters in quiet tones. Some of his fellow lieutenants were straining to hear but Jack felt he had made quite enough decisions in the last month and was thus content to await orders.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Burgoyne at last, straightening again, ‘now that the third troop has been brought back safe by Lieutenant Absolute,’ he tipped his head toward Jack, ‘the Sixteenth is at last all in one place and, blessedly, pretty near to full strength. We have lost barely a dozen men in the campaign to date, which I put down to both providence and our unique esprit de corps.’

  ‘Here, here,’ called a voice, and rummy tea was lifted, pledged, drunk.

  ‘This damned rain,’ Burgoyne continued, gesturing to the pounding on the canvas roof, ‘may be a nuisance to us but it has been a disaster for the enemy. His large forces have been hard to move up and his heavy guns nigh-on impossible. I doubt he’s fully in position yet, while we are comfortably established at all the crossing points on a river that is just getting deeper. Bridges and fords are manned largely by British forces, if you understand me, though, of course, I mean no disrespect to the gallantry of our esteemed Portuguese allies.’

  This was said with a slight nod to Major Gonzalo, whose moustaches had suffered from the excessive water in the air and now drooped where once they had soared. He bowed, though he was perhaps the only one there not to detect the subtlety in Burgoyne’s remark. No-one could doubt Portuguese courage, their passionate defence of their homeland against their oldest foe. But it was professionalism that won wars and that quality was variable in their army.

  The Colonel now gestured at his adjutant, who lifted the map from the table and held it open toward the officers; each leaned forward for a better view. Burgoyne picked up a baton and pointed at a spot on the map. ‘This is where we are, opposite Villa Velha whose hills the Spaniards are now finally occupying. We are between two crossing points, ready to ride to the aid of either – the bridge at Perriales guarded by the sixty-seventh and the ford at …’ He squinted. ‘Well, it doesn’t appear to have a name but it is held by Traherne’s regiment of Foot. They’ve been there over two months and have built quite the little fort, apparently, to house themselves and two batteries of Portuguese artillery. Anyway, if the rain continues to fall in this manner, they will not be needed there much longer for even the ford will be too deep for guns. And then, the Dagoes will pack up and go home for the winter. The lull will allow our politicians the time to make some dreadful accommodation and give up everything we soldiers have won.’

  A murmur of disgust at politicians of all nations ran around the room. Smiling, Burgoyne added, ‘Still, with fortune ever with us, next spring could see us returned to England to the kisses of our loved ones and the wreaths of a grateful nation for our triumph at Valencia de Alcántara.’

  ‘Huzzah!’ The officers stood and cheered.

  ‘Gentlemen, that is all we need discuss for the present. I am sure you are as desirous of sleep as I. Goodnight, and may tomorrow bring us more rain and a quiet life.’

  To a further cheer, the officers dispersed. The mere mention of sleep had caused Jack’s eyes to droop; that and the rum tea. He got up a little slower than his fellows, was one of the last at the entrance. A conversation there blocked his progress and he turned, saw Burgoyne still staring down at the map. A word from his last speech came to him. A name. He turned back.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Absolute?’

  ‘May I have a word?’

  ‘Have to be quick, lad.’ Burgoyne yawned.

  ‘Traherne’s, sir.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘One of the Irish regiments, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’ Realization came. ‘Oh, I see. Your concerns about Hibernians.’

  Major Somerville, busy folding maps, looked up. ‘Hibernians, sir?’

  ‘The message the lad decoded. He is suspicious of the loyalty of our Irish brethren.’

  ‘Not of all of them, sir. I am half-Irish myself,’ Jack said, hastily. He knew Somerville had been born in Londonderry.

  The Major was thinking too hard to take offence. ‘You know, that’s queer, sir,’ he said, ‘because an officer I know in the third Foot served alongside Traherne’s in the north. He mentioned that they were not …’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘Not entirely steady.’

  ‘Really?’ Burgoyne sat down again and beckoned the other two to do the same. ‘In what way? I understand they were hastily recruited. Perhaps their training was not of the fullest?’

  ‘It was only a remark, en passant, sir. And it had been a … long evening, so I struggle to remember it accurately. But the intimation was that – unlike Armstrong’s, also Irish, but loyal and fierce – Traherne’s was not a regiment you’d want to come to your aid in a hot situation.’

  ‘Shirkers?’

  ‘Malcontents was the term used, as I recall.’

  Burgoyne sucked in his lower lip. ‘Do you have the officer’s roll anywhere?’

  ‘I believe I do, sir.’ The Major went to a collection of papers, rooted among it. ‘Here.’

  The Colonel spread out the tube of paper, flicked through the pages. ‘Crawford’s, Armstrong’s … ah, Traherne’s.’ He spun the roll around. ‘Anything you see there, Absolute?’

  Jack scanned the list of ranks and surnames. He knew McClune would not be there and he struggled to remember the aliases he’d read on the papers Turnville had shown him. ‘O’Malley. Riordan. Lawson. Treach. Burnett …’ He looked up into the concerned faces. ‘I am afraid, sir, I …’ He glanced back, saw it. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘Lieutenant?’

  Jack tapped the page. ‘I think one of McClune’s aliases was Lawson. There’s a Lieutenant Lawson here.’

  ‘Not an uncommon name.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Jack replied, ‘except this is him. This is McClune.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I’ve just realized what t
he middle part of the coded message meant.’

  ‘Galilee?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack stood in his excitement, looked down at the other two men. ‘I am not the greatest of believers, sir, but I did, of course, study scripture at Westminster.’

  ‘Should hope so, too,’ huffed Somerville, who insisted on a full turnout for services when Burgoyne wasn’t around. ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ Jack turned to the Major, ‘wasn’t it at the Sea of Galilee that Jesus performed a miracle?’

  ‘He did. Matthew seventeen to twenty-one.’

  ‘And what did he do there?’

  ‘The miracle? Why, he fed the five thousand.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘But there was something else also.’

  ‘Well, afterwards – verse twenty-five – he walked on water, of course. Surely—’

  The Major was interrupted by his Colonel rising. ‘Great Christ, Absolute,’ said Burgoyne.

  ‘Indeed, sir. The Son of God.’ Jack nodded. ‘He walked on water.’

  They both said it.

  ‘The ford.’

  – NINE –

  Mutiny

  The rain had ceased but its effects had not. It was only five miles to the fort at the ford but every inch of what passed for a track was thick with mud, sucking at the horses’ hooves when it wasn’t causing them to slide. Their progress was also restricted to the speed of the slowest mount and the adeptness of each rider. As the whole of the third troop made up the vanguard, so fifty men dictated the pace, much to Jack’s frustration, who would have charged ahead alone. But Burgoyne had insisted on numbers.

  ‘We do not know how advanced their plot is,’ he’d said. ‘We may have to fight to suppress a mutiny, and for that we’ll want horses and swords. So your troop will go first and the rest of the regiment will follow as swiftly as they are able.’ He’d smiled. ‘But Somerville and I will ride with you.’