Send Me Safely Back Again

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  And he danced with us!! On the next evening he came and asked both Kitty and I for the ‘honour’ – not once, but twice!! He is a most accomplished dancer and attentive as a partner, with an elegant poise and leg. He danced with Miss MacAndrews more often – and they stood out in every set as by far the most elegant of couples. She was in a deep blue gown . . .

  Much as he was fond of picturing Jane MacAndrews, Williams skipped the extensive description of her costume, followed by comparisons with those of his sisters and apparently each one of the other one hundred and fifty or so ladies present.

  Kitty is sure that they are in love and that they make the most perfect pair that anyone could imagine, but Kitty is young [a full fifteen months separated the sisters] and inclined to fancy. Yet I believe she is correct to see a considerable partiality on the part of the colonel beyond simple good manners. Who could not fall in love with so fine a lady as your major’s daughter . . .

  Who indeed, thought Williams bitterly, and how could he compete with a colonel, an aristocrat and a man by all accounts generally held in high esteem. His elevation to lieutenant seemed hollow and perhaps his failure to inspire the company was deserved. Miss MacAndrews was beautiful, kind and courageous – he had seen her fortitude and inventiveness in the winter’s retreat. She was admirable in every way. If he were honest then she surely deserved better than he was able to offer.

  He wished some word would come from her. They had no promise, and the girl admitted nothing beyond friendship. He just wished she would write to him, even as a friend. For the hundredth time he wondered about sending a letter to her. Over and over again he had composed it in his mind, trying the phrases, testing them and refining each word in desperate quest for perfection.

  He could not. He had proposed and she had turned him down. The warmth with which she waved to him from the passing ship still thrilled him with the hope of a change of heart, but perhaps that was merely a presumptuous dream. The letter remained unwritten.

  Williams shook the thoughts away. It was time to visit the company, to see their rigid faces. He still did not know these men, however much he tried. In the winter he had led a band of stragglers, but then there had been no time to learn even the names of some, and yet they had responded to fight like tigers.

  The men of the Light Company – the Highlanders, the 43rd and the mixture of men from the hospitals all alike – struck him as good soldiers. It could be a most excellent command. Williams wondered gloomily whether he was good enough to lead them.

  He passed a cheerful Pringle, out visiting the billets of his grenadiers.

  ‘Rumour has it we will soon be off,’ said Billy. ‘Take a stab at Marshal Victor.’

  ‘Good,’ said Williams, and glumly wondered whether a battle might solve all his worries.

  Hatch paused and absent-mindedly licked the tip of his pencil. The lead tasted sour, making him grimace, and he reached for the wine and took a sip straight out of the bottle. His funds were low, and when faced with the choice of buying ink or wine the decision had been easy. A moth flirted with the candle flame, casting weird flickering shadows against the canvas of his borrowed tent, but the ensign ignored it and stared fixedly at the paper before him. He skimmed over the first few pages of pleasantries and small news and decided that they were engaging enough, imagining Mrs Davenport’s demure chuckles and Lydia Wickham’s brazen giggles.

  The last page was the one that mattered and he studied it closely. The tone must be light, that of a well-meaning friend, amused and generously tolerant of the failings of others.

  Our Mr W continues to provide amusement throughout the battalion and army for his misadventures. Elevated in rank, and now in responsibility since the illness of an experienced officer leaves him at the head of a company – the Light Company, no less! As you know, our ‘light bobs’ as we call them are chosen from slight, agile men with quick wits. Poor W is a slow giant among them, puffing as he runs to keep up, bellowing out orders five minutes after the men have obeyed them. ‘They must learn,’ says he, by which we all know that he must discover for himself what his men already know, and so the weary fellows of the Light Company must run about in the evening sun or under the light of the moon, training an officer who most earnestly believes he is training them! They indulge him generously, for they know the lieutenant means well and is doing his poor best.

  ‘A company must be ordered,’ W declares, his brow furrowed in the sober cares of high command, for even Sir Arthur appears less sensible of his heavy responsibility. The Light Company are regulated in every aspect, and even the soldiers’ wives ordered to starch their petticoats just so, and lay their infants down to rest at seven o’clock precisely. W is always inspecting the company lines and passing the time of day talking to their women. No doubt he is pleased to find them fascinated by his conversation – especially following his previous disappointments with the fair ones (although this term scarcely extends to the followers!). He is quite the success, and these sweet damsels smoke their pipes and listen to his stories of his bravery. If this continues I dare say some husbands will be jealous of their new rival!

  Hatch was tempted to add more, and kept his pencil poised over the page for a while before laying it down. The moth, its wings irreparably burned, tumbled on the table beside him.

  No, that was enough. He would wait and write more strongly in the next letter – for he was determined that there would be more letters. Let Williams be a poltroon for the moment, paving the way to blackguarding him thoroughly in the future. Mockery would readily turn to disdain and contempt. Hatch feared to fight the man, but he would kill his character and reputation stone dead.

  Flicking the dying insect aside, Ensign Hatch folded the pages and slipped them into an envelope. He used the candle’s heat to melt his stick of wax and sealed the letter. Pritchard Jones had arranged for all officers’ correspondence to be carried in a single packet that would leave the next morning.

  Satisfied with a task well begun, Hatch smiled to himself and reached again for the bottle.

  19

  The salvo rolled along the line as Spanish gunners touched the burning match of the linstock to the tube of powder thrust into the touch hole of each dark bronze cannon. It flared and an instant later the main charge boomed out and the cannon jumped back a good two feet. The charge was small, for there was no ball or shell loaded in the barrel, and so there was not the dreadful violence of artillery firing in battle. The booms were flatter, the plumes of smoke smaller and the recoil gentler, but still this was a powerful battery and the flames were vivid against the darkness of night.

  Hanley’s horse flicked its ears back at the noise and stirred underneath him. He patted its neck to calm it and pressed slightly with his heels to stay at a steady pace, trailing at the rear of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s party.

  ‘We’ve woken someone up,’ muttered Sir Charles Stewart, an immaculately dressed cavalryman riding beside the general.

  Torches flamed into light and bonfires were ignited across the rolling plain. They began to walk their horses along the front of the parade.

  Hanley smiled. The sight was dramatic – well worth a picture if he could impress the scene on his memory. It reminded him of the stories of Austerlitz, where Napoleon’s veterans were supposed to have lit torches to cheer their Emperor the night before the battle. Before he had seen the French massacre a crowd in Madrid, Hanley had possessed a great enthusiasm for Bonaparte, and followed his legend with eagerness.

  ‘Must have taken a quick bit of organising to be ready to do this in the dark,’ he said.

  ‘Pity they did not simply give the dragoons a map!’ replied Colonel Murray mischievously. Sir Arthur had been invited to review Cuesta’s army, and a squadron of Spanish cavalry sent to escort the British officers fittingly. Unfortunately, the dragoon officer lost his way on the return trip to his own army. They rode for miles and arrived over four hours late, by which time the sun had set.

  The cavalry were f
irst. Each squadron was in two ranks, officers to front and rear, dark standards hanging limply from their shafts, and drawn sabres flickering redly in the firelight. On and on the line stretched, squadron next to squadron, some six thousand men with a frontage almost two miles long.

  ‘Assuming they did not plan it this way from the start,’ mused Hanley. ‘Darkness hides many sins.’

  Murray grinned at such cynicism. ‘Not completely.’ Plenty of the troopers were having to fight their mounts to keep them in position. The shadows only hinted at ragged uniforms and missing equipment, but Hanley saw bare feet in stirrups, horses of all shapes and sizes mingled together, and he could not help thinking back to the almost instant collapse of many of these squadrons at Medellín barely three months ago. Baynes rode beside them and he wondered whether the merchant was also thinking back to that day.

  High mounds of fresh excrement lay in long lines beneath the horses and the smell was penetrating.

  ‘Botched the feeding,’ said Sir Charles Stewart loudly. Hanley suspected he suffered from the familiar British conceit that no foreigner would understand criticism voiced in English. Sir Charles was supposed to oversee the gathering of intelligence for General Wellesley. From the little Hanley had seen of him it was hard to imagine anyone less suited to the task, and he was glad that his own dealings were with Murray. ‘Need to give the brutes four hours or more to digest their grain before bringing them on parade,’ continued Sir Charles. ‘That’s how the Life Guards stop St James’s getting covered in dung.’

  ‘Perhaps not a planned deception, then,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Human frailties explain a good deal more of this world than human ingenuity,’ conceded Murray.

  Hanley lowered his voice. ‘May I ask, sir, your opinion of General Stewart?’

  Baynes snorted with laughter, but let Murray reply. ‘I trust you are not asking me to comment on a superior.’

  ‘I see.’ Hanley’s teeth caught the light as he smiled.

  ‘The general is a gallant officer.’

  ‘Indeed, most gallant, and does not know the meaning of fear,’ added Baynes, unable to resist.

  ‘Which has unfortunately led him to injudicious and costly affairs at the head of our own cavalry,’ conceded Murray.

  ‘He is also the brother of Lord Castlereagh. Who is by all accounts a man of considerable intellect,’ said Baynes, his voice heavy with implication, ‘and a most efficient Secretary of State.’

  ‘We have not troubled Sir Charles overmuch with the detail of your activities,’ said Murray, his voice just audible over the creak of leather and jingle of harness as the Spanish and British senior officers at last reached the end of the cavalry squadrons and turned to the right to process along the front of the infantry battalions.

  ‘Tall fellows.’ Sir Charles appeared to have been struck by a sudden diplomatic urge, and raised his voice until he was almost shouting. ‘As fine material as ever I saw.’ The compliment did not carry great conviction. Even Hanley could see the rawness of the foot soldiers. Their faces were so desperately young, what uniforms they had were ill fitting and evidently uncomfortable. Muskets were held awkwardly by boys more used to pitchfork and scythe.

  ‘Poor devils,’ said Hanley before he could stop himself. Noticing Murray’s glance, he felt obliged to explain. ‘They look so much younger than the cavalry.’

  ‘They do. Inevitable, I suppose.’

  Hanley did not understand.

  ‘Much easier to get away when you’re mounted,’ explained Baynes.

  ‘Of course.’ Hanley was surprised that he had not recognised that grim and obvious truth. ‘At least they all look willing.’

  ‘They do,’ said Murray. ‘So does the old boy up front.’ He nodded in the direction of the Spanish commander. Captain General Don Gregorio de la Cuesta looked a pale shadow of the bullishly confident man Hanley had seen in March. He looked thin and ancient, and moved only with difficulty and in obvious pain. Two servants walked on either side of his horse to support him in the saddle. They kept a slow pace, and therefore so did Sir Arthur and his staff. Hanley saw the Spanish general speak only twice and then briefly.

  There were plenty of infantry. Hanley counted twenty battalions and judged that most mustered more than seven hundred bayonets. The army was as big or perhaps even bigger than the one at Medellín. It took a long time to pass them all in review and then they took up a position to witness manoeuvres preformed by parts of the army. The cavalry took more time to jostle into position and then their lines on the ride past were ragged. An infantry battalion painfully deployed from line into column and then back again, but ended with irregular gaps between the companies.

  Hanley thought the Army of Estremadura looked much like its commander – defiant, but still badly hurt and only barely limping on. It was a miracle that it was in the field at all, let alone taking the offensive. Then he remembered watching another apparent miracle being cut to ribbons by the French cavalry and tried to dismiss the thought as unlucky.

  It was late into the night when the generals finally began to discuss the campaign. Before they did so the Spanish divisional commanders were each presented to Sir Arthur Wellesley. In turn the senior officers approached, bowed with considerable dignity and then withdrew. They were not to be included in the council of war.

  As the Duke of Alburquerque left he greeted Hanley warmly and nodded amicably to Baynes.

  ‘I must go. Apparently our leader does not require the advice of his senior officers,’ he said. Hanley found his candour even more surprising than the exclusion. The Spanish general strode off quickly to join his own staff.

  ‘Many feel the duke ought to be in charge.’ Velarde had appeared from nowhere, joining the group of British and Spanish officers waiting outside the open flaps of the tent. ‘Including your own Mr Hookam Frere, I understand.’

  ‘My dear colonel,’ said Baynes, his face even redder than usual in the firelight. ‘I am sure our envoy in Seville wants only to assist the junta in every way in his power.’

  ‘I am sure.’ The two men stared at each other, before Velarde smiled. ‘I am glad you are safe and with us again, Guillermo.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Medellín brought death to many and promotion to some. I hear you have seen Espinosa?’

  ‘He is well and loyal to King Joseph.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Velarde paused for a moment. ‘I should not trust him too far if I were you.’

  ‘That is prudent,’ said Hanley. ‘He is a traitor, after all. At least to somebody.’

  ‘As you say. You may not be the only one paying him.’

  ‘Including you?’

  Velarde laughed and startled the officers near by, who glared at him. He stared back, and they spoke no more until the others lost interest and returned to their own conversations.

  ‘They are Palafox’s men,’ he said with amused contempt. ‘Foolish enough to believe the pamphlets and want him to guide the country.’

  ‘Dictatorship?’ said Baynes, as if he had heard the idea for the first time.

  ‘Leadership.’ Velarde shrugged. ‘At least that is what they would call it. A Caesar to drive the Gauls back to their own benighted country.’

  ‘You did not answer my question,’ said Hanley.

  ‘I believe not. However, how could a poor colonel afford the services of a man like Espinosa?’

  Cuesta slammed a fist down on the table and for one brief instant stood tall before his shoulders slumped again and his whole body seemed to shrink.

  ‘I imagine he disagrees,’ said Baynes drily.

  Sir Arthur and Don Gregorio had only one common language and since the Spaniard resolutely refused to speak French, his chief of staff acted as interpreter. Negotiations were slow.

  ‘Little trust, I should guess,’ observed Velarde.

  ‘Alliance is never easy,’ said Baynes in bland response. ‘Yet it is in mutual interest.’

  ‘Of our countries, yes. Of individual
men, well, that is a different matter.’

  There was another disagreement between the generals.

  ‘Difficult to trust a man who has written asking for you to be replaced,’ said Velarde. ‘Well, I must go. Greater rank brings greater burdens. Good night to you both.’

  ‘Is that true?’ whispered Hanley after the Spaniard had departed.

  There was no denial, which seemed as solid confirmation as there could be. ‘Clever devil, that one,’ said Baynes at last. ‘Wouldn’t trust him an inch, but I do rather like him.’

  It was long into the next day before agreement was reached. By the time the British party returned to their own camp the sun was setting.

  ‘We need ’em, Murray, we need ’em,’ Sir Arthur told his quartermaster general on the ride back to camp. ‘We have an opportunity to strike before the French concentrate their forces. It will not last, but now that London have given us permission to advance into Spain we must achieve something. Without the Spaniards we are simply too few, and we cannot wait for them to shape up.

  ‘They probably want six months, maybe even a year, before they will be anything like a real army, but by God we need them now, although I am not sure what we will do with ’em if it comes to a fight.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Put them behind stone walls, and I dare say they would defend them, but to manoeuvre with such rabble under fire is impossible. I am afraid we shall find them an encumbrance rather than otherwise, but we cannot do without them. I would wish for a less obstinate fellow at their head, but nothing can be done about that quickly.

  ‘We also rely on them for food and transport. How much has come in so far?’

  ‘Very little,’ replied Murray. ‘Certainly far less than we need, let alone than we would wish. Most of the men have been issued biscuit rather than fresh bread or even grain. Meat is not yet so short, but we are consuming our own reserves quickly. Carts and mules are promised, but few have arrived. There is still no means of bringing the reserve ammunition or even the treasury forward from Abrantes.’