Send Me Safely Back Again

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Get off!’ shouted another English voice from beneath them.

  ‘Leave ’em, this is better than the damned play!’ chipped in another.

  ‘You must make them,’ said Maria.

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes, it is time for you to leave my side and give him his chance. Earn your new rank,’ she added after a moment. ‘After all, you are the hero.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’ Williams rose reluctantly. Reasoning with drunks was rarely profitable, and he could not help thinking that a situation like this could all too readily end in scandal. What if one of the drunks called him out? He knew Hatch disliked him intensely, although was never sure why. ‘I’ll go, then.’

  ‘Do.’

  Williams walked slowly, hoping that the matter would resolve itself. He studied the walls of the corridor as if they were works of art, taking his time.

  As he came out at the back of the stalls a woman’s scream cut through the commotion. Hatch raised his hand high. ‘The call of honour,’ he shouted before tripping over the crawling officer and falling offstage.

  Suddenly the actress playing the daughter ran out on to the stage, wearing only her stays, petticoats and the old-fashioned hoop which would support her skirts when she was wearing them. She was closely pursued by the ensign from the royal regiment, who in turn was followed by several angry men.

  ‘View halloo!’ The man dodged the guardian, knocked the servant down and took the opportunity to kiss the pretty maid as the daughter tried to hide behind the others.

  Most of the audience were yelling protests, apart from a few English voices, and then a red-faced major barged through the doors and led a file of redcoats with muskets past Williams. The curtain fell and ended the first half.

  ‘You, sir!’ The major pointed at Williams. ‘This one is one of yours, isn’t he?’ A soldier was lifting Hatch to his feet. ‘Take him away and see that he does not get into any more scrapes.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Williams without any enthusiasm, but he dutifully supported the ensign.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Hatch, his eyes clearly unable to focus.

  ‘A sad man,’ replied Williams, thinking that he had arrived with a beautiful woman on his arm and was leaving with a drunken lout. He hoped the man would not throw up over his new uniform.

  There was a press of people outside the theatre, where men were selling wine, pastries and cool lemon juice sweetened with sugar. The buzz of conversation ceased for a moment when the two officers appeared, before redoubling in volume.

  ‘Wasn’t much of a play,’ muttered Hatch.

  Williams saw that Maria was there, with the diminutive Howarth attending her. He marvelled that she had worked her magic so quickly. The girl feigned alarm at the sight of him, and the small civilian moved protectively in front of her. Well, the fellow had pluck at least, and good luck to them both. Yet there was something wounding about being seen to lose to such a man – or indeed to lose at all, even if Maria meant nothing to him.

  ‘Look at those tits,’ said Hatch with slow reverence, his eyes evidently responding better.

  Howarth glared at them with a mixture of distaste and triumph and took Maria’s arm to lead her away.

  The next night, Williams found himself in charge of the guard placed on the rear doors of the theatre. Sir Arthur Wellesley himself had given the order for this after similar displays to that of the previous night, but the practice had lapsed when he set off on campaign and soldiers were in short supply. It was also hoped that there were too few British officers left in Lisbon with the energy to cause such mischief.

  Lance Corporal Murphy himself stood outside the dressing room used by the actresses.

  ‘You may have to assure my Mary that I behaved like a gentleman, your honour,’ he said when Williams did his rounds.

  ‘Of course.’ They both tried to ignore the girl wearing only a loose robe who walked out of one of the rooms, looked them up and down and then returned through the door. ‘I trust Mrs Murphy is well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, that she is.’ Having lost an infant to the winter’s cold, Mary Murphy was now once again expecting. ‘She’s sad as well, but happy, if you know what I mean.’

  No rowdy officers appeared and Williams was glad for he had no particular desire for confrontation. Howarth brought Maria to the performance and he was surprised that he found it disturbing to see them together. When the man was not looking, Maria blew him a kiss. Williams smiled, shaking his head, and returned to his duties.

  ‘Be good to be back in the field again,’ he remarked to Murphy at the end of the night. The same girl appeared again, this time clad in only a flimsy shift.

  ‘Aye,’ said the corporal. ‘In a way.’

  Ensign Hatch stayed in his room that night. In part this was because he had neither duties nor funds with which to enjoy himself. He also had something important to do.

  He hated Williams, and the man’s elevation to lieutenant was especially wounding. Hatch was sure that the man had murdered his closest friend in the chaos of Roliça. That was not true, for Dobson had done the killing in revenge for Ensign Redman’s seduction of his daughter, but Hatch did not know this.

  Hatch dared not call Williams out. Duelling was against the Army Act. Sympathetic fellow officers who felt the quarrel was justified might forget what they had seen and so a court martial would collapse. Hatch doubted his comrades would protect him in this way, especially since he had no evidence to offer them. More importantly, Williams was a killer, and he suspected that his prowess as a duellist would be as formidable as his ferocity in battle.

  Ensign Hatch had no wish to die. He must wound his enemy in secrecy and so for months he took every opportunity to make jokes at Williams’ expense, in the hope that his respect in the world of the regiment would crumble. Success was so far modest, but now he realised that there was a better way.

  This time he would write a letter. It was addressed to Captain and Mrs Davenport. Mrs Davenport was an intimate of Mrs Wickham, sure to pass on any gossip about mutual acquaintances to her friend. Telling such stories to Lydia Wickham was much the same as shouting them from the top of a church tower.

  Hatch began slowly, telling of their recent march into Spain. His account suggested a cheerful picnic rather than a grim skirmish.

  Our Mr Williams was much taken by the Spanish lady. She was a handsome lady, no doubt, although her grace diminished by the advanced state of a certain condition. Sadly for our Sir Galahad, she was immune to his rustic charms, which also seemed poor in the company of other, more gallant officers.

  On our return to Lisbon, Mr W set his cap at more attainable goals, and began to be seen in company with a woman – I cannot say lady – famed throughout the city for the mercantile nature of her charms – although I would not mention the title for such a one in a letter or polite society. It appears he had some success, so much so that she paid to dress him in a new uniform of finest materials and he became quite the buck. However, once again fate was not on the side of our brave macaroni, for the female as promptly threw him over for a civilian no less, and a tiny, ugly little brute to be sure. All our Mr W could do was gnash his teeth.

  He was soon consoled for his loss! For now he stands special guard over the actresses in the theatre to protect these damsels from who knows what peril.

  There, that should do it. In time the stories would circulate. There would be laughter, and when the tales reached Miss MacAndrews no doubt there would be anger.

  Hatch laid down his pen with considerable satisfaction.

  16

  News came from the north and it was good.

  ‘Soult’s beaten,’ announced Truscott to the assembled officers of the 106th. ‘General Wellesley slipped across the River Douro under his very nose and hounded him out of Oporto and back through the mountains. He has lost a few thousand men and all his guns.’

  That was indeed good news and particularly satisfying since it was Marshal Soult who had pursued
Sir John Moore’s army all the way to Corunna.

  ‘That begins to even the score,’ said Pringle.

  ‘We may have a chance to do more soon,’ continued Truscott. ‘The formation of the Third Battalion of Detachments is confirmed and we are to be part of it – indeed, the largest single contingent of the battalion. We are to march to Abrantes at the end of the week.

  ‘As you may gather, this means that there will be a good deal to achieve in a very short time. We are relieved of some of our duties, which will be taken on by the advance party of a new battalion just landed. I fear, Mr Williams, that this means your participation in the theatrical arts is terminated.’

  They laughed, and then Hopwood raised the question on almost every mind.

  ‘Who will command, sir?’

  ‘I understand that an officer is to be appointed. Until he arrives our senior captain will oversee the formation of the battalion.’

  ‘Many congratulations,’ said Pringle heartily.

  ‘Misplaced actually. Major Wickham has returned from attachment to the staff and of course naturally takes over.’

  Pringle said nothing, but felt his heart sink and exchanged meaningful glances with Williams and Hopwood. Wickham was usually affable – untrustworthy with money or women, but pleasant enough as company. Yet his lack of interest during the fight with the French chasseurs was worrying. Pringle did not seriously doubt Wickham’s courage, although he knew Williams had stronger feelings on the matter. He was unsure about the major’s ability and judgement and that was not encouraging. Yet Wickham’s apparent unwillingness to exert himself unless in the presence of persons of influence was profoundly worrying. A battalion drawn together from the flotsam and jetsam left behind by other corps needed strong leadership, which in the beginning it did not get.

  ‘I trust you, old boy,’ Wickham told Truscott. ‘And I had better keep my ears open at headquarters to find out what they want us to do.’

  They saw little of the major. Truscott did most of the work, assisted by Pringle and several of the others. Some of the officers drawn from other corps were just as eager and capable. Others struck Pringle as the kind of men their regiments had probably been happy to leave behind. A few were willing, but barely fit enough for their duties.

  The same was true of the men. The hospitals were combed for men well enough for active duty and this yielded a harvest of the genuinely recovered, the unmasked malingerers and good, keen soldiers trying desperately to hide their physical weakness. Others came from the parties posted to the stores and other services, where duties were often light and the prospects of profit frequent. One sergeant proved so obese that he was unable to fasten the buttons of his jacket around his stomach.

  Pringle burst out laughing when the man was dismissed and stamped out of the room in a passable impression of discipline. ‘Clearly the fruits of a righteous life,’ he said to Williams. ‘God help us if he breaks down on the march and we have to carry him.’

  On the second day they received the most welcome addition of Mr Dawney’s improvised company of mounted men, finally released by Sir Robert Wilson after a series of increasingly strident orders to this effect. Wilson kept the mules and horses for his own purposes, so the redcoats were infantry once again by the time they reached Lisbon. They were good men, if inclined to independence, and the months of skirmishing along the border had forged them into a good unit.

  There were seventy men from the 4th Battalion of the 60th Regiment who had somehow found their way to Portugal instead of joining their fellows as garrison of Corunna at the end of the previous year. Officially the Royal Americans, almost all were Germans or Swiss.

  ‘Will they be able to understand us?’ wondered Truscott.

  ‘The lieutenant speaks pretty good English, and the ensign is an Irishman,’ said Pringle. ‘The sergeants ought to be able to comprehend orders at least. Although I cannot help wondering why their Fifth Battalion hasn’t taken them – or the German Legion?’

  ‘The Fifth Battalion are riflemen, trained and equipped as such, so I doubt they would welcome men from a marching regiment.’

  ‘Perhaps that explains it,’ conceded Pringle. ‘However, I wonder whether they have asserted their independence too zealously.’

  ‘Good. We need men with pride. Shall we add them to our strength, sir?’ Truscott took advantage of a rare appearance by Wickham to seek his opinion.

  ‘By all means take them. Now I fear I must leave you.’

  Pringle presumed such active involvement had left the major fatigued. Truscott was not inclined to sympathy.

  ‘There is the question of the new muskets, sir.’

  ‘Muskets?’

  ‘For the convalescents, sir. The stores assure me that these men should have kept the firelocks issued by their own corps, but very few have them. They will not issue new ones without the signature of the officer commanding this battalion.’ Truscott beckoned to a clerk and the corporal dutifully held up a piece of paper.

  ‘Very well.’ Wickham signed and was off before greater burdens could be placed upon him.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ called Truscott after the retreating figure. He turned to the corporal. ‘Take it to Browne and have him copy it on to the other requisitions. Oh, and tell him if Major Wickham’s signature appears anywhere else I’ll have the hide off his back.’ The captain noticed Pringle’s curious expression and explained. ‘Private Browne came to us courtesy of the provosts and has considerable dexterity with pen and ink. That should allow us to prise everything else we need from the most reluctant of quartermasters.’

  Pringle smiled at his friend. ‘It is a good job you are mostly honest.’

  Altogether they had enough men from the 106th to form four decently strong companies. With Dawney’s men and Lieutenant Shroeder’s Germans that made six. The convalescents made up a seventh and a party of twenty-five light infantrymen from the 43rd and thirty men from the Royal Highlanders formed the nucleus of an eighth. Truscott preferred to keep the companies relatively strong and of similar size and so threaded additional men into them rather than attempting to form the full ten companies of a proper battalion.

  In just a few days the 3rd Battalion of Detachments had a ration strength of 748 sergeants, corporals, drummers and privates. The men of the 106th were in their ragged uniforms, and some of the other men no better, and somewhere in the ranks was to be found virtually every facing colour known to the army. Some men had no shakos and wore forage caps instead. Their trousers were of brown, black, grey and blue as often as the regulation white, and most were heavily patched. A few of the Highlanders had their kilts, but most had replaced the thick wool garments with cooler cotton trousers.

  ‘You’re a magician,’ said Pringle to Truscott when the whole battalion paraded for inspection for the first time.

  ‘Pity there are no Colours,’ Truscott said wistfully. ‘Well, cannot be helped. Take post, Mr Pringle.’

  ‘Sir.’ Billy Pringle saluted and marched smartly back to the right flank of his Grenadier Company, which formed the right of the whole line. Hanley stood behind the company with the sergeants. Williams was at the far end of the battalion, attached now to their ‘Light Company’, consisting mainly of the men from the 42nd and 43rd. They were short of officers and could not afford the luxury of two lieutenants as well as a captain with the grenadiers.

  ‘Present arms!’ The voice echoed across the parade ground from the acting sergeant major, a neat and capable Yorkshireman from the 9th Foot. Sergeant Major Fisher was already making his presence felt. Pringle believed him to be a godsend and Truscott was of much the same opinion.

  The movements were scarcely immaculate. There had been little time to drill as companies and none as a battalion, but the men were all experienced enough and if there was some variation in the timing it was certainly not disgraceful.

  Wickham rode past beside the newly arrived officer commanding, a brevet lieutenant colonel with the deep green facings of the 24th. He was a
small, stocky man, with thick and very black eyebrows spreading over the wide forehead of his large face. Together the colonel and the major took the salute, walking their horses along the line before wheeling back to face the centre.

  ‘Men of the Third Battalion,’ said the colonel. ‘My name is Pritchard Jones and I have the honour to command you.’ His voice was deep, with a musical tone and the soft accent of North Wales. ‘You come from many corps, all with fine reputations. Do honour to your regiments by your conduct here and return to them with pride when the campaign is done and the French driven from the field!

  ‘Dismiss the men, Sergeant Major.’

  Pringle felt himself warming to the colonel when the officers were gathered an hour later. There was a confidence and bustle about the man without his seeming overbearing. He was full of praise for the work of Wickham, which was a little disappointing if unsurprising, and also of Truscott and the others, which was deeply satisfying.

  ‘We march tomorrow, gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘so I will not detain you long as I know you have much to prepare. I simply want to meet you all and for you to meet me. We are strangers, sadly, and must somehow manage to create in weeks the trust in each other which in a regular corps is the product of many years.

  ‘I mean to drill as we march. One hour of drill, every day, after camp has been pitched. Longer, if ever we get to rest.’

  Pringle noticed that Pritchard Jones was watching their faces to judge their reaction, already gauging the mettle of his subordinates.

  ‘Any idea where we are going, sir?’ asked Captain Grant of the 42nd, who commanded the Light Company. He was a tall man, almost as big as Williams, but his frame was sadly shrunken and his skin left with a yellowish tinge by the fever which had kept him in Lisbon the previous autumn.

  ‘The border first. The orders are for the army to concentrate at Abrantes on the River Tagus. After that everything adds up to Spain,’ answered Pritchard Jones, and then he grinned. ‘Although I fear the general has yet to tell a mere brevet colonel of his plans in any detail!’