Send Me Safely Back Again

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  For Siân

  SEND ME SAFELY

  BACK AGAIN

  Adrian Goldsworthy

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Historical Note

  Cast of Characters

  Also by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Copyright

  Maps

  I’m lonesome since I crossed the hill,

  And o’er the moorland sedgy

  Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,

  Since parting with my Betsey

  I seek for one as fair and gay,

  But find none to remind me

  How sweet the hours I passed away,

  With the girl I left behind me.

  O ne’er shall I forget the night,

  the stars were bright above me

  And gently lent their silv’ry light

  when first she vowed to love me

  But now I’m bound to Brighton camp

  kind heaven then pray guide me

  And send me safely back again,

  to the girl I left behind me.

  Her golden hair in ringlets fair,

  her eyes like diamonds shining

  Her slender waist, her heavenly face,

  that leaves my heart still pining

  Ye gods above oh hear my prayer

  to my beauteous fair to find me

  And send me safely back again,

  to the girl I left behind me.

  The bee shall honey taste no more,

  the dove become a ranger

  The falling waters cease to roar,

  ere I shall seek to change her

  The vows we made to heav’n above

  shall ever cheer and bind me

  In constancy to her I love,

  the girl I left behind me.

  ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ was a common military song and march in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is quite possible that both the words and tune are considerably older.

  1

  Lieutenant William Hanley of His Britannic Majesty’s 106th Regiment of Foot looked down at the great battle unfolding before him and knew that he was not wanted. Far more soldiers than he had ever seen in one place were stretched in a long crescent across the wide plain. There were Spanish regiments in white and brown and blue, and half a mile beyond them the darker masses of the French cavalry and foot. There were far more Spanish soldiers.

  Hanley decided to draw. A tall man, he perched on the low stump of a shrivelled vine tree and crossed one leg over the other to rest his sketch pad. Soon his right hand was moving quickly across the page, caressing the paper as he shaded to give depth to the tiny lines of soldiers. The limits of his skill no longer frustrated him as once they had done. Hanley had lived in Madrid for years, studying art in the company of other passionate young men who believed themselves to be creative and despised those who were not. In those days his constant failure to capture on canvas the images in his mind enraged him. Now, he could sketch or paint for the sheer pleasure of the act, the old dream of artistic greatness long gone.

  The death of Hanley’s father merely confirmed the end of that episode in his life, since his half-brothers had immediately cut the allowance paid to their bastard sibling. Hanley fled the French occupation of Madrid and returned to England with barely a penny to his name. Many years before, when he was just an infant, his father had bought him a commission in the army as a source of income, before such abuses were stamped out. Left with no alternative, Hanley found that he had to become a real soldier. He still found it difficult to see himself as especially martial, and struggled to understand many of his duties, but at least he no longer tortured himself because he was not a great artist. Indeed, his new life made him surprisingly content.

  A thought struck him, and he wrote, ‘The plains before Medellín, 28th March, 1809’ at the top of the page. The picture would be a true record, if nothing else.

  A groom glanced at the Englishman and paused as he brushed down a horse with an ornate saddle and lavishly decorated saddlecloth. The man had the very dark skin of an Andalusian, and although he was still young his black hair was streaked with grey and currently covered with dust and loose hair from the white horse. He shook his head in bafflement at the eccentricity of the foreigner.

  Hanley nodded amicably to the man and then turned to look behind him at the redcoat standing watching over their own three mules.

  ‘How is he, Dob?’

  ‘Sleeping like a baby, sir,’ replied Corporal Dobson, his battered face creased into a smile.

  The loud snore that followed lacked any infant-like quality, but confirmed that Hanley’s friend and fellow officer, Ensign Williams, was indeed still asleep. Dobson had fixed his bayonet on to his musket and driven the point into the hard earth. Then he had stretched the shoulders of his greatcoat between its upturned butt and the branch of another stunted vine, giving some shade from the noon sun to the officer as he lay in a shallow hollow to rest. Williams’ wide-brimmed straw hat covered his face.

  Hanley felt pleasantly warm, for he revelled in the heat and found it hard to remember the snow and bitter cold of three months ago, when the 106th and the rest of the British Army had retreated through the mountains, pursued by Napoleon’s army. Their Spanish allies beaten, Sir John Moore’s British had run to the sea to take ship and escape. Already the horrors of that march seemed unreal to Hanley.

  ‘Think he’s over the worst of it now,’ Dobson concluded, snapping Hanley’s thoughts back to the present. ‘Still tired and weak, but he should be himself again soon. God help us,’ he added out of habit, but his expression betrayed his deep fondness for the dozing officer.

  Williams was shy, rather pious, and seemed a natural soldier. Hanley was unlike him in almost every respect, and yet they were close friends, although he had to admit that the man had not been congenial company in the last few weeks. With a Welsh father and a Scottish mother, Hamish Williams had cast a profound and most definitely Celtic gloom over all those around him. His mood had not been helped by an attack of dysentery, and the ensign was still weak. The ride to get here had been long and exhausting, bouncing on the uncomfortable saddles of the mules which the alcalde of the small town had sworn were the only available mounts.

  Hanley, Williams and Dobson were part of a detachment of their regiment whose ship had been blown back to Portugal instead of returning to England with the rest of the army. The commander in Lisbon had happily employed these additional soldiers, and two weeks ago had sent them into Spain again to secure some supplies left behind in Moore’s campaign. Hanley and the others had ridden ahead to the headquarters of the Army of Estremadura to seek assistance in their task.

  They arrived to find their Spanish allies advancing to attack Marshal Victor’s French Corps, and with a battle to fight the three redcoats
had so far not found anyone with time or inclination to deal with them. Hanley did not mind, for he rather suspected that he was witnessing a miracle, for the French were being beaten.

  Last summer the Spanish had forced a French army to surrender at Bailen, and the British had beaten the French in Portugal. In the autumn, Napoleon himself crossed the Pyrenees with a quarter of a million of his veterans. One after another the Spanish armies were shattered in ruin, and the British chased away. There were no more victories, even after the Emperor himself went back to France and left the mopping up to his generals. A few months ago it looked as if nothing could stop the French from overrunning all of Spain and Portugal.

  Somehow the Spanish armies had recovered, and now one of them was attacking and the outnumbered Marshal Victor was retreating. Hanley could sense the excitement in the men around him. They were mostly grooms, servants and a few junior officers from General Cuesta’s staff. The general himself, and everyone of real importance, was off inspecting the battle line. He was expected back soon, and so Hanley and the others waited for him, instead of chasing him around the field on their weary mules.

  A group of grooms cheered suddenly as a squadron of French cavalry wheeled about and retreated, throwing up great clouds of dust. The Andalusian noticed Hanley once again, and clearly disapproved of this phlegmatic Englishman who sat and drew pictures when he should have been cheering on the victory. He removed his cheroot to spit on the grass, and then shook his head again.

  ‘Jesús, Maria y . . .’

  Hanley could not help smiling when the man stopped halfway through the oath. Patriotic Spaniards were no longer so willing to invoke the name of Joseph, ever since the French Emperor had placed his brother Joseph-Napoleon on the throne of Spain.

  The groom thought for a moment. Hanley’s Spanish was fluent enough to catch the muttered words. ‘And the one who was the father of our Lord on earth. Not the hunchback usurper.’ The man spat again, and crossed himself. Pamphleteers depicted the new king as a one-eyed hunchback of monstrous appetite for food, wine and women.

  ‘Looks like their general’s coming, sir,’ said Dobson. Hanley followed his gaze and noticed a colourful cavalcade of horsemen trotting briskly across the fields towards them, although still a few minutes away.

  ‘Our allies are doing well today. The French are going back everywhere.’

  ‘Aye, sir, they are. But no quicker than they choose to.’ The veteran was knocking out the embers from his clay pipe, evidently deciding that the arrival of senior officers of whatever nation required a degree of formality.

  It was obviously a common instinct, for there was a bustle of activity among the grooms and servants. Fresh horses were brushed down and their tack quickly inspected. Other men prepared jugs of lemon juice or wine to quench the thirst of the approaching officers. Hanley paid little attention, and instead set down his pad and stood up, pulling at the front of his cocked hat to better shade his eyes. Out on the plain, some French cavalry were advancing.

  The British officer extended a heavy telescope. A present from Williams’ mother to her son when he enlisted, it was intended to be mounted on a tripod, and it took Hanley a moment to steady the heavy glass. The effort was worthwhile, for the magnification was excellent. He could see the French cavalry in dark uniforms, and when one of the leading squadrons wheeled to alter its line of advance, a row of flickering dots shone off brass helmets. That meant that the cavalry were dragoons. Hanley smiled to himself, for part of him had come to take a delight in the colourful uniforms worn by the different armies, although personally he struggled with the military obsession for neatness.

  There was another twinkle of light, repeated by each of the three squadrons behind the first as the men drew their long, straight swords. It suggested a considerable complacency and confidence that the French officers were only at this late stage ordering their men to ready their weapons. The leading squadron began to go faster.

  Hanley shifted his gaze a little. A Spanish battery of six cannon was deployed between two regiments of infantry in drab-coats. The French cavalry came closer, going from trot to canter.

  Then the guns fired. Hanley was sure he saw tongues of red flame spit from the distant muzzles before all was lost in thick clouds of dirty smoke. The lines of infantry fired a moment later, adding to the dense bank of powder smoke and blotting the French from sight. The range seemed long for muskets, but the drab-coated battalions were not moving and looked steady. Then he saw French dragoons retreating, no longer in neat ranks, but as little knots of individuals.

  At that moment the noise of the firing came like the rumbling of an approaching storm. Williams sprang up, suddenly awake, his hat falling to the ground, but then he wrapped his head in Dobson’s greatcoat, pulling its sleeves off the branch and musket, and plunging himself into darkness. Muffled cries of alarm and rage came as the ensign fought with the coat, and succeeded only in more tightly entangling himself.

  Hanley watched in amusement as his friend struggled. There was chuckling from some of the grooms and servants, and the lieutenant found it infectious until he dropped the telescope and doubled up with laughter. Several of the closest horsemen from the general’s staff were watching aghast, but he paid them no attention.

  ‘Jesús, Maria y Joseph,’ said the Andalusian, too astonished to stop himself from saying the last name.

  Williams finally won the battle and flung the coat down. He was breathing heavily, his gaze wild eyed. Then he realised where he was and began to recover. A brief flash of anger at his friend’s almost hysterical amusement quickly subsided and he found himself smiling ruefully. He tried to ignore the expressions of amused contempt from the surrounding Spanish, who had only been confirmed in their low opinion of the heretic English.

  The ensign cleared his throat. ‘Any water, Dob?’ he asked.

  The veteran proffered his canteen. ‘Bad dreams, Mr Williams,’ he said softly.

  Williams nodded, and then gulped down a good third of the warm, brackish liquid. He cupped his hand, poured in some water and then splashed it on to his face. Handing back the canteen, the ensign ran his hands through his fair hair, smoothing it into some sort of order.

  Wrenched from sleep, he had mistaken the cannon fire for thunder and in his mind returned to the horror of the storm almost six weeks earlier. He, Hanley and the others had seen little, entombed below decks in their tiny cabin. They had felt the pitching and rolling of the transport ship growing greater and greater, seen the white flashes, and heard the peals of thunder and the dreadful crack when part of the mainmast was shattered, and suddenly the deck was lurching as if giant hands were flinging the Corbridge like a child’s toy. It had seemed an age before the violence began to subside. Several soldiers had been injured and one man was dead, his uniform and skin badly scorched, and his bayonet melted just like lead. The smell of cooked meat was sickening.

  Williams shook his head to clear the memory. ‘I think I shall learn to swim,’ he told Hanley, who had at last recovered from his hysteria.

  ‘This seems hardly the place or the time. Although there are the rivers, I suppose.’ The plain was flanked on one side by the wide Guadiana and on the other by a tributary. ‘However, Billy tells me that many naval men consider that learning to swim is profoundly unlucky.’ Their friend Billy Pringle commanded the Grenadier Company of the 106th in which Hanley, Williams and Dobson all served. Pringle’s poor eyesight had kept him from following the family tradition of serving in the Royal Navy. Hanley still found it more than a little odd that the army had no objection to such a weakness.

  ‘Easier for him to be complacent. After all, some of us are more naturally buoyant than others.’ Williams gave a grin, and that was good to see for it had been rare enough these last weeks. Pringle was a little less tall than Hanley, who in turn lacked an inch or so on Williams, but Billy was a large man, whose girth remained undiminished by the rigours of two campaigns.

  ‘Damn me, if it isn’t Mr Williams! W
e witnessed your dance just now, old fellow. Some local fandango, I presume! And Hanley too. This is a delightful surprise.’

  The voice was immediately familiar, if wholly unexpected, and none of them had noticed the approach of the three horsemen from the wider mass of General Cuesta’s entourage. Wickham was beaming with every show of sincerity, and clear enjoyment of Williams’ recent embarrassing display. Another officer from the 106th, George Wickham, was mounted on a nervous chestnut whose every line proclaimed it to be a thoroughbred. The other horses looked tired, and sweat stained, whereas his gelding seemed barely warmed up. Wickham’s cocked hat was high and obviously new, his uniform jacket was bright scarlet and beautifully cut, his tight grey overalls were trimmed with a row of gleaming silver buttons, and his boots were polished to a high sheen. George Wickham looked every inch the fashionable military gentleman. His back was straight, and although not too much beyond average height, he looked taller. His thick brown hair and luxuriant side whiskers only added to his strikingly handsome face and utterly confident demeanour.

  Williams loathed the man. He knew Wickham to be a scoundrel and strongly believed that he was a coward. Hanley’s feelings were less intense, and he found Wickham pleasant enough company although wholly self-interested. Both of them had assumed that he was in England.

  ‘This is indeed a great surprise, Mr Wickham,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Good day to you, Captain Wickham,’ added Williams, who genuinely believed that there was no excuse for discourtesy. Part of him was desperate to ask Wickham for news. They had received no word of the rest of the regiment since they were swept back to the Portuguese coast, and indeed it was more than likely that their own survival was unknown. As far as they could tell the bulk of the fleet had reached Portsmouth without loss, but Williams longed for certain news that the 106th had got home – most of all that their commander, and his wife and daughter, were safe. He loved Miss MacAndrews with a passion that had only grown as the months passed. All his hopes for happiness rested on her, although their last meeting had ended in an angry refusal of his proposal, and he did not know whether those hopes were forever dashed.