He had something to say to each of the officers, including the subalterns, praising their regiments or asking after acquaintances within them. It struck Pringle again how small the army was. He took its tribalism for granted.
When greeting Williams and hearing he was from Cardiff he launched into a language no one understood.
‘I fear I do not speak Welsh, sir,’ apologised Williams.
The colonel added another comment in the same language and then reverted to English. ‘That is a shame, but no fault of your own. In any event they do not speak well in Glamorganshire and have the most heathen accent from living so close to English Monmouthshire.
‘I am glad to have a fellow countryman with us – and also one promoted for gallantry, if I am not mistaken. And smartly uniformed too. Do you sing?’
‘At every opportunity,’ said Hanley cheerfully before Williams could reply.
‘Excellent, truly excellent, for no Welshman should lack music in his soul.’
Pritchard Jones was true to his word. They marched long before dawn the next morning, and covered a good fifteen miles before laying out a camp. Only the colonel and a few of the officers had tents, but since the nights were now warmer it was comfortable enough to be wrapped in a blanket and lie under the stars. Before they could rest, the drums beat to muster and they drilled. For three evenings they practised as companies before training as a battalion on the fourth. By the end of the week they had improved a little, which was just as well as they were now close to Abrantes.
‘Any of the wives of your company good with needle and thread?’ the colonel had asked Pringle after the first day’s parade was dismissed.
‘A few of them,’ he replied, more than a little puzzled. The colonel’s uniform was well tailored and did not appear in need of repair. Standing next to Pritchard Jones, Pringle was struck by how very short he was. He could not have been more than five foot one or two, and yet had a huge head and very broad shoulders which spoke of great physical strength.
‘Send two of them to my tent in half an hour.’
‘Yes, sir.’ That was a little unusual, and made him think how little they knew about their new commander. Regiments were families, and like families often did their best to conceal from outsiders the eccentricities and weaknesses of their members.
‘Tell them to bring their husbands,’ Pritchard Jones added, and his thick eyebrows seemed to leap up his forehead as he chuckled to himself. ‘Just in case anyone has a squalid imagination.’
They kept up a good pace each day, continued to train after they camped, and every night Mrs Murphy and Mrs Dobson with their husbands were summoned to the colonel’s tent. Pritchard Jones would then take one of his horses out for a lively hack. The women disappeared inside and Dobson and Murphy smoked and told yarns outside. When Pringle tried to find out what was going on the answer was always the same.
‘Regretfully unable to answer, sir. Colonel’s orders, sir. No disrespect meant, sir.’
‘Carry on,’ was the best Billy Pringle could come up with in response.
The sun seemed to grow hotter each day. Many of the men were already burned to that dark brick-red shade which only the British seemed to develop. They marched covered in a thin shroud of pale dust, lips as dry as sandpaper and parched tongues filling their mouths. The sensible ones tried to make their canteens last as long as possible, and some of the veterans put a stone in their mouth to suck on and keep the thirst at bay.
The battalion lost twenty men on the march and that was fewer than Pringle had feared. The weary were lifted on to pack mules to ride when they could not keep up, but the health of some of the convalescents broke down in spite of this care and the men had to be left behind. A pair of healthy men tried to fall out until the sergeant major found them and expressed his opinion forcibly.
On 12th June they saw Abrantes ahead of them. Before they marched the last two miles into camp, Pritchard Jones halted them and formed them into a hollow square.
‘Well done, my brave boys, well done indeed. We will soon be joining Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army. Those of you who were there will remember how he hammered the French last year. We will make sure that he does it again this summer.
‘We don’t have Colours in a provisional regiment, but I thought there ought to be something to show the Frogs who we are.
‘Here is our flag!’
Dobson and Murphy, along with two of the Germans from the 60th, marched in through the open corner of the square, their faded and patched coats brushed and their belts bright white with pipe clay. They escorted fifteen-year-old Ensign Castle, a lad of truly startling ugliness and boundless ignorance who had proved himself unsuited to any of the duties so far assigned to him. Truscott was doing his best to tutor the boy in the barest rudiments of drill and was finding the task frustratingly slow. ‘I do believe he even forgets his own name,’ he had told Pringle wearily. ‘Yet he is willing enough, and eager to please.’
Now the young officer looked as proud as a king as he failed to keep step between the escorting corporals and held aloft the new banner. It was smaller than the standards properly carried, both for lack of material and Pritchard Jones’ desire not to do anything so presumptuous as make proper Colours. Three foot high and three and a half foot long, it was fixed to a plain staff without spearhead or tassels.
Pringle suspected that Williams would be delighted, for the flag was of a red dragon on a green field. Actually, Pringle thought it looked more like a dog, but even if it did, it was a noble, fierce-looking beast and he liked it.
‘Three cheers for the colonel!’ The voice was the sergeant major’s and the response was genuinely enthusiastic.
Behind their new flag, the 3rd Battalion of Detachments marched in to join Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army, which was mustering again after the defeat of Soult. For many regiments that had meant long marches over bad roads and through mountains. They had the confidence of fresh victory, and the lean faces of weeks on poor rations. Pringle knew most of his men envied them, even if many were barefoot or had toes sticking out and soles flapping from worn-out boots. One of Private Browne’s convincing forgeries had given every man in the Provisional Battalion two new pairs of boots.
‘Make sure no one sells their spare pair,’ ordered the colonel. The men of the 3rd were mainly away from their regiments and officers and NCOs who knew them well. Some may well have worked for such an inconspicuous position, but even the good men were apt to have less respect and fear for authorities who were strangers. There had been some looting, and a nasty incident where a private had threatened a Portuguese peasant because the man would not hand over his mule to carry a footsore comrade.
‘By the sound of it things have been worse in the corps marching down from Oporto,’ Pritchard Jones told his officers. ‘Especially some of the regiments full of Irish militiamen. Fortunately they fight as well as they rob otherwise they would be sent home.’
They continued to drill. Sir Arthur Wellesley had decided to group his brigades into divisions and the 3rd Battalion of Detachments found themselves assigned to the Third Division under Major General MacKenzie. Soon there was brigade and divisional training as well as battalion drills.
‘I think I have marched farther than we did on the road to get here,’ said Hanley to Pringle after an especially long day under a sweltering sun.
‘Well, you know the army – keep on moving even if you aren’t going anywhere.’
‘Major MacAndrews would be proud,’ said Williams cheerfully. He longed for another letter from home in the hope that his sister would write of more contact with the major’s family.
‘Yes, I rather think he and Colonel Jones are two of a kind,’ said Hanley.
Pringle nodded thoughtfully. ‘I surely hope so.’
17
Hanley waited in the hall of the house occupied by the general’s headquarters. It was cool, and that was something, for the heat of the day was oppressive and Pritchard Jones had kept the battalion at
drill throughout the long morning.
‘The general bids you attend upon him,’ the colonel had said to him afterwards, his big mouth and wide face once again split into an impish grin. ‘Whatever he asks, refuse at all costs. Spit in his eye if necessary. I have already lost too many officers to spare another to the whim of our commander-in-chief.’
An ensign and a lieutenant had collapsed on the march and had to be left behind. Captain Grant had made it to Abrantes by sheer willpower alone, for the man looked more and more like a moving skeleton and could not keep his food down. He was now in the hospital. Wickham, presuming on distant acquaintance, had secured himself a place as an additional ADC to General Hill of the Second Division.
Hanley waited, sitting on a chair with its back against the wall. A tall clock noisily ticked the seconds away as nothing happened. The noise from the street was more muted, with muffled voices, and then for a good ten minutes the maniacal screams of the ungreased axles of local ox carts.
A servant in civilian clothes came past and offered him a glass of water, waited for him to drain it, and then carried the empty vessel away. This excitement did not last long, but it was reassuring that at least someone had noticed his presence.
The clock ticked on and Hanley waited. He presumed his summons had something to do with the business of Espinosa, although perhaps there was simply a need for someone able to speak Spanish. The pride so many of his fellows took in being unable to understand any language other than their own continued to baffle him.
He wondered about learning Welsh, and that kept him occupied for a good five minutes before he decided that the opportunity to practise it would be too rare for true accomplishment.
The clock ticked on and so he had to accept the fact that time was passing. There was no other evidence of this. Hanley was tired, and had the chair not been so uncomfortable he suspected that he would have fallen asleep.
A cavalry officer appeared from one of the rooms along the corridor, nodded affably to him and then went on his way.
The clock informed him that another ten minutes passed before a captain in the jacket of the Foot Guards came from the same room.
‘Lieutenant Hanley?’
Hanley stood up.
‘Please follow me. I must apologise for the wait. We are all rather on the hop today.’ He led Hanley up the stairs and along another corridor. Rather ominously there were three chairs in a row outside the grand double doors to what was presumably one of the main rooms of the house.
‘If you would like to sit, they will call for you in a few minutes.’ The captain vanished and Hanley sat and waited. He was beginning to feel that he was very good at it. This chair had arms and a padded seat. He was sure that he could doze here if he could just get comfortable.
‘Hanley, dear boy, it is grand to see you again.’ Baynes’ cheerful red face had appeared around the now opened door. ‘Come in, dear boy, come in, we need your advice.
‘May I present Colonel Murray.’
‘We are old acquaintances,’ said the colonel with a warm smile. ‘Welcome.’ Murray had a thin face with high cheekbones and dark expressive eyes. His brown hair was neatly combed apart from one unruly patch above his forehead. Hanley had met him the previous autumn, but was surprised to be remembered with such warmth. It reminded him of Velarde’s and Espinosa’s equally surprising enthusiasm, and made him wonder whether this man had any greater sincerity.
‘Thank you, sir.’ There was silence as they looked at him. He noticed a map spread out on the table. A door to a side room was ajar and he could faintly hear a sharp authoritative voice dictating a letter. The colonel and the merchant paid it no attention and simply watched Hanley for a while.
‘Talkative, ain’t he?’ said Murray to Baynes.
‘Isn’t that an advantage? Perhaps it is better if you explain the situation.’
‘Just so. Well, come over here, Mr Hanley, and I will show you our problem.’ Murray stood on the far side of the table, and pointed the worn stub of a pencil at the map. ‘We are here.’
‘Abrantes,’ said Baynes helpfully. ‘That’s in Portugal.’
‘That is useful to know.’ Hanley grinned.
Murray smiled briefly. ‘Well, it might soon be in France if we make a mess of this, so pay attention.
‘We will have twenty thousand men when all the brigades have arrived. Thanks in part to the papers you brought us from this Espinosa, we have some idea of the enemy’s dispositions. Soult should not trouble us for a month or more until he has licked his army back into shape and found himself some guns. Ney and Mortier are too far to the north to be an immediate threat. We need to keep an eye on them, in case they do move, but there has been no sign of it yet.
‘Marshal Victor is still mainly concentrated around Merida and General Lapisse has retired to join him. Well, you saw something of that. A few weeks ago Victor sent a strong force north to drive back some of Wilson’s men who had seized the bridge at Alcantara.’ Hanley followed the line of the River Tagus eastwards into Spain. Alcantara was not far from the border. ‘His fellows put up a good struggle, but took a real pounding and in the end retreated. Wilson was not with them, and Sir Arthur has just decided to reinforce him with a fresh Portuguese battalion so that he will have a full brigade for the coming campaign.
‘Any questions before I continue?’
Hanley shook his head. It was a lot to take in and he wanted to concentrate.
‘Good. Now that Lapisse is back Marshal Victor has his full corps of three divisions. We hear he has supply problems – and no doubt Bonaparte is barking orders at him from all the way away there in Austria and wanting him to attack. He will probably move soon, but we do not know which way he will go. There is another corps under General Sebastiani – he is a mere general and not a marshal or a prince so I don’t know how the poor fellow upset Boney not to get his promotion and a few new baubles. Probably told him the truth or some other damned fool thing like that. Well, whatever his fault may be, General Sebastiani is farther east, around Toledo.
‘King Joseph has a smaller force of one division or so stationed near Madrid itself. All told, we judge them to have some forty thousand men in the valley of the Tagus. We cannot deal with such numbers unless we co-ordinate our action with the Spanish. General Cuesta’s army watches Victor from a safe distance. A smaller army under General Venegas is to the south-east, somewhere well down here.’ Murray circled the pencil well to the south of Toledo.
‘We need the Spanish and they want to attack. Well, so do we, but after what happened to Moore we want to make sure we know what is happening before we charge deep into Spain.’
‘That is where you can assist us,’ said Baynes. ‘How do you know Espinosa?’
Hanley told them of his years spent in Madrid, a little embarrassed these days to speak of his artistic ambitions, but conscious that only the truth would serve.
Baynes and Murray exchanged glances, and the latter gave the gentlest of nods, before the merchant continued. ‘How well did you know him? Velarde tells me you were all friends.’
‘We knew each other, and knew many of the same people. I would not have said we were especially close.’ He could not help wondering what Velarde had said.
‘Acquaintances rather than friends.’
Hanley nodded.
‘Do you trust him?’ asked Baynes.
‘No.’
‘Do you mean Espinosa or Velarde?’ asked Murray, who had obviously been listening intently.
Hanley smiled. ‘I meant Espinosa, but the answer applies with equal vigour to both of them.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I strongly suspect that Velarde knocked me from my horse and so caused my capture by the French.’
‘Imaginative fellow,’ said Baynes without great surprise. ‘Do you believe he and Espinosa are in league?’
Hanley had wondered about this more than once. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Although I doubt very closely.’
‘Why?’ Murray was watching him i
ntently.
‘They both know the other is quite clever and neither has a trusting nature.’
Baynes snorted with laughter at this judgement. ‘I told you Hanley has the right sort of mind for our business,’ he said. ‘So do you believe they trust you?’
‘They have no reason to do so.’
Murray’s gaze never left Hanley. ‘So tell us, are they patriots or afrancesados – those who welcome the French? Which side are they really on?’
‘I believe both will endeavour to be on the winning side. Whatever it takes.’
‘Good, then I suppose our concern is to ensure that we are victorious.’ Murray rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, Major Velarde is officially on our side. Espinosa is not, and we should take advantage of his willingness to deal with us, even if we don’t actually trust the little rogue farther than we can kick him.’
‘He did ask for payment,’ Hanley reminded them.
‘Him and every other rascal in these wretched countries,’ said Murray with a flash of anger.
‘Sir Arthur is desperately short of funds,’ explained Baynes. ‘Bankers drafts are of little use, and the army needs Portuguese coins to pay the merchants here and Spanish dollars once we cross the border.’
‘Well, we won’t be doing that until we have paid our debts here and somehow hired enough muleteers, carters and animals to lug our supplies with us. That is of course assuming we can buy enough grain, meat and fodder in the first place.’ Murray’s tone expressed a deep weariness. ‘Still, that, God help me, is my difficulty. Yours is to reach Espinosa or his agent and find out what he has to tell us.’
‘Word is already on its way to him along with a small sum of money. I managed to keep back a few hundred dollars before we exchanged them for escudos,’ said Baynes, taking over the explanation.
‘La Doña Margarita is our agent again. Her family has houses in Talavera and Toledo as well as Madrid itself. The message will reach him soon if it has not already done so.
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