Send Me Safely Back Again

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Hanley looked at the arid brown fields rolling away on either side. This was a poor country, even before armies began marauding through them. He could not help thinking of Marshal Victor’s letters with their talk of deserts and starvation.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley was not inclined to be understanding. ‘We must tell Frere to press the junta to meet their promises. I shall write to Cuesta as well in the strongest terms. He is a difficult, foolish man, but must understand that I cannot advance if my men have no food. I will begin no operation till I have been supplied with the means of transport which the army requires.

  ‘How do the men behave?’

  ‘There have been many incidents, sir. The men are hungry and see the villagers as unwilling to help the friends risking their lives to free their country.’

  ‘So they see this as licence to plunder.’

  Murray nodded. ‘All too often.’

  ‘Infamous. This army cannot bear victory any more than Sir John Moore’s army could bear defeat. The fault is all too often with the officers.’

  ‘They are hungry too,’ ventured Murray. ‘There have been particular problems with the battalions of detachments. Officers and men do not know each other.’

  ‘Well, damn them, they must learn or I shall order them to inspect their men each hour, just as I did with Donkin’s brigade after those Irish rogues took to plundering. We must have discipline even if we hang dozens of the rascals. Continue as we are and soon every peasant’s hand will be raised against us as it is against the French.

  ‘Where is the fellow who is to ride to Wilson?’

  Murray was used to his commander’s abrupt changes of subject. ‘Hanley,’ he said, and gestured for him to come forward and ride beside them.

  ‘Ah yes, I recollect. You go in the hope of receiving more information?’

  Hanley nodded. ‘I expect to be contacted on the fifteenth, sir.’

  ‘Good. The more we know the better. A courier has already gone to Wilson, but you may confirm his instructions and share intelligence with him. Our army will join with the Spanish of General Cuesta at Oropesa and then advance together on Marshal Victor at Talavera. Wilson’s brigade guards our northern flank. He has his Portuguese and some Spanish regiments. I wished for more, but . . .’ Sir Arthur trailed off for a brief moment. ‘That does not matter. We do not believe that Marshal Soult can press against us from that direction so soon. Tell Sir Robert to send word if there is the slightest hint that this is not true. Anything your man tells us in that regard is invaluable.

  ‘A second Spanish army under General Venegas marches on Madrid from the south. Orders should reach him at the latest three days from now.’ The general glanced at Murray, who nodded in confirmation. ‘Very good. He is to pin the French corps of Sebastiani and King Joseph’s reserves around Toledo. They must face him or Madrid will fall to him. Cuesta and I will march against Victor with more than double his men. He must fight and be beaten or retreat and let us take Madrid.’

  It seemed so clear, and so very simple, and yet Hanley struggled to take it all in. In January Sir John Moore’s army had escaped from Corunna on board ship. In March Cuesta was shattered at Medellín. Now, in July, there seemed every prospect that King Joseph would be chased from Madrid once again.

  ‘Share any information you gain with Wilson. He is to use his initiative and alarm the enemy towards the rear of his right flank, but since the force of his corps is not sufficient to make a serious impression upon the enemy if he is found to be strong in that direction, Sir Robert must act according to circumstances, endeavouring to give the enemy as much jealousy in regard to his operations as possible.

  ‘But he must also be ready always to respond to new orders – quite possibly to join the main army or cover us more closely. Tell him he must report every day so that I can be sure of his location. He must also assist in every way with regard to supplying the main army.

  ‘You are clear?’ Hanley nodded. ‘Good. You will ride as soon as you have a fresh horse. Murray will detail an escort from the Fourteenth Light Dragoons.’

  Before he left, Murray had another word with him. ‘The general has good reason to insist on Brigadier Wilson reporting to us each day. Sir Robert is . . .’ the colonel struggled to find the right words, ‘particularly inclined to independence. For months he has told the authorities in Lisbon that his Legion is part of the British Army and so not subject to their orders, although he earnestly wishes to co-operate with them. He then tried to convince Sir Arthur that the Legion were Portuguese troops and so not under the control of the British.

  ‘We really do need him to cover our flank and guard against any surprise from the north.’

  ‘Will he not do that?’

  ‘He should,’ said Murray. ‘Indeed he should, and probably will. Yet he is by nature a gambler and may not tell us if he scents the prospect of some dramatic stroke.’ Murray smiled ruefully. ‘You were not to know, Hanley, but in many ways it is to be regretted that Wilson received the chest of gold smuggled to him by the lady.’

  ‘I understood the money went to the Spanish at Ciudad Rodrigo.’

  ‘Well, some of it probably did. Some went to pay Sir Robert’s soldiers and secure supplies and new clothing for them. It means we have one less means of exerting control over him.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’ asked Hanley, who had simply assumed it was sent by the Spanish high command to their garrison.

  ‘The junta in Seville.’ Murray spread his hands. ‘Or at least someone or some group in the junta. I fear we began this war with the grave misapprehension that there actually was a single government or leadership guiding the Spanish cause. Perhaps they are now reaching the same conviction in regard to us.’

  ‘I am not sure I follow,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Sir Robert Wilson and his little band may be readier to join in certain schemes than a British lieutenant general with heavier responsibilities and far greater prudence. Brigadier Wilson has prodigious talent and great dash, but I do not believe he can be accused of prudence.’

  A day of hard riding took Hanley to Wilson’s column, where he found Sir Robert enthusiastic and impatient. ‘The Spanish were late and as slow as snails in arriving, while my own fellows spent almost a week repairing worn uniforms, but I am now ready to advance. Praise God, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime. At last we fight this war as we should.’

  The messenger from Espinosa was already waiting, held in custody after announcing himself a friend at the outposts.

  ‘Soult is given command of Ney and Mortier as well as his own corps and is to prepare for a fresh occupation of northern Portugal. He is tasked with capturing Braganza,’ said Hanley as he summarised the letters.

  ‘Good. That will keep Soult far away and unable to intervene.’ The news did not appear to come as a surprise, and Hanley had the sense that Sir Robert was feigning interest. ‘The man brought duplicates directly to me,’ he explained. ‘I suspect that rogue Espinosa is receiving double pay for the same documents. It does not do any harm to review what he says just to ensure that he tells us both the same, but I am already planning accordingly.

  ‘Who knows,’ he added, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘We may beat everyone else into Madrid.’

  Hanley decided to keep one secret, for he guessed that a ciphered note included in the packet of letters gave two addresses where Espinosa might leave a new message before the next monthly delivery. If Sir Robert already knew then no harm was done. If not, then perhaps it would be better to carry the information to Wellesley and Murray first and then pass on anything important to Wilson.

  ‘General Wellesley did ask me to remind you to stay close to the army.’

  ‘Oh my dear fellow, of course, of course. But when each of us is close to the city, then I think you will have to race hard to snatch the lead from my little column. I’ll make the French believe there is a third big army coming against them and they will not know which way to face.’ He laughed f
or sheer joy. ‘We’ll smoke ’em out again, just like last time!’

  20

  ‘It is a pity we do not have a band,’ said Pritchard Jones as the 3rd Battalion of Detachments paraded ready to march out from Plasencia with the rest of the Third Division. The other two battalions in their brigade each had their musicians who would march at their head playing a spirited tune. ‘Pity we do not have some decent bread as well,’ he added to his assembled company commanders. ‘Sadly we do not, and from today the ration is to be halved. You had better warn the men before it is issued to them.’

  Williams did not relish the task, suspecting that many of the men in the Light Company would see him as personally to blame. He knew that he had not won their affection, and yet the weeks at Abrantes and the shorter rest at Plasencia had done much to improve the men’s close and open-order drill. They resented being driven so hard, but dislike or hatred of a lieutenant who made them train when others were resting had become a bond between the three groups. Williams took them on runs and long marches, carrying pack and musket as they did, and the men took fierce delight in competing with the officer. They were turning into a good company, but he was sure they did not thank him for it. It was becoming more and more of an effort not to respond to their hatred in acts of petty vindictiveness.

  The army marched early in the morning of 18th July, following the road as it swung gradually back south towards the Tagus. The sun’s heat was savage, beating down like a hammer on the anvil of the hard-baked soil. Mostly the infantry marched in the fields either side of the road, leaving it to the army’s thirty guns, their caissons and wagons and what little transport had been gathered.

  A thick cloud of dust hung in the still air. Williams’ new jacket looked a pale sandy colour rather than its bright scarlet. He had folded his new breeches and carried them in his pack along with a pair of soldier’s boots, a spare shirt, drawers, cleaning tools and other necessaries, his Bible, a translation of The Gallic Commentaries and a copy of Tom Jones, which he jealously guarded from Hanley’s predatory glances because it was a book for which Jane MacAndrews had expressed fondness.

  Williams stopped to watch the company march past. One of the kilted Highlanders was flagging, his face ruddy and its covering of dust washed by little rivulets of sweat. He looked close to collapse, chest pressed hard by the tight belts of the army’s awkward and uncomfortable pack.

  ‘Not far now, Patterson,’ he said encouragingly, ‘we will be getting a rest soon. Here, let me carry your musket for a while.’

  The soldier looked at him, his face blank, but his eyes suddenly hard. ‘No thank you, sir. I’ll manage, sir.’ The man beside him glanced at his comrade and then at Williams.

  ‘He’ll be fine, sir, he’ll be fine. No need to trouble yourself, sir.’

  There was no point in making an issue of it. ‘Good man. Keep an eye on him, Skerret.’

  Patterson staggered on. It was good that they were so determined, and not a man had fallen behind from the company since they crossed into Spain. Yet Williams still found the resentment troubling. He was sure that even the men from other corps had more readily accepted Captain Grant. Would they fight for him?

  The colonel stopped his horse alongside.

  ‘Not as green as Wales,’ he said, as if noticing the brown fields for the first time. ‘I’ll wager you never thought that you would miss the rain, eh?’

  ‘Or the sea,’ said Williams wistfully. ‘I have never liked being on the water, but to walk beside it gives such peace, even on the rough days.’

  ‘Well, I imagine it will be hotter work for all of us soon. Do you realise Madrid is little more than seventy miles away? I do not believe they will let us march there unmolested. Still, that is for the days to come. The Light Company has shaped up well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. They are good men, even if all would be happier with their own regiments.’ Williams wondered about mentioning his fears.

  ‘That is true of the whole battalion. You have done well, Mr Williams, so keep on earning such accolades.’ Pritchard Jones leaned down more from the saddle and lowered his voice. ‘It is never easy to lead a company, and harder still when the arrangement is temporary and you are the only officer present. Best not to expect too much after so short a time.’

  Williams wondered how much the colonel knew and how he knew it. Was his own worry – or the men’s hostility – so very obvious? If he was visibly lacking in confidence then perhaps that was feeding the poor spirit.

  Pritchard Jones straightened up again. ‘We are about to rest for ten minutes around that hamlet. Keep a close eye on the men. The First and Second Battalions have bad reputations for plundering. I do not want us to match them. Good day to you, Mr Williams.’

  As far as Williams could see no one had the energy to wander. He suspected the main risk would be when they camped for the day and the men rested and had more opportunity to slip away unseen.

  When the march resumed he noticed that Skerret was soon carrying Patterson’s firelock as well as his own, and that Sergeant Rudden of the 43rd had the man’s pack. There was some encouragement in the willingness to help a soldier who was not from his own group.

  The second and third days were as blazingly hot as the first. The landscape rolled along with little change and it became hard to judge distance in any way apart from blistered feet and sore muscles. The 3rd Battalion lost a few stragglers, but fewer than some regiments, and this made Pritchard Jones happy. ‘I suspect we have already lost our weakest men.’

  Throughout the day another thick dust cloud rose to the south, and by the evening British and Spanish armies were both camped outside Oropesa. There were over fifty thousand men in the combined armies when the advance resumed the next morning. Williams had never seen so large a force. The British followed a northern, lesser road, which wandered across the line of little hills and meant that at times he could look down and see the Spanish columns stretched out on either side of the main road. Once or twice the sun caught the sluggish waters of the Tagus itself.

  Talavera was nineteen miles away and the French were still there.

  ‘Think Marshal Victor has had a bit of a shock, seeing the Dons marching against him so boldly,’ Wickham explained as he stopped to pass the time with the 106th’s officers during one of the hourly halts. ‘We are letting the Spanish take the lead and push in his outposts so that he won’t yet know that we are with them. There is a good chance he will stay to fight.’

  ‘Well, it will make a change from walking,’ said Billy Pringle, using his sash to rub the grime off his spectacles. He lifted them up and peered at the lenses. ‘Hmm, think I may have made them worse.’ A very faint rumble of cannon fire drifted towards them. ‘Apparently you are right.’

  ‘There is no need to sound surprised as you say that.’ Wickham laughed, and merriment clearly made him think of something else. He laughed even more. ‘Have any of you fellows received letters from home in the last days?’

  ‘No, nothing for us,’ said Truscott, flapping his good arm in a vain attempt to brush away the flies buzzing around his face. The tiny insects seemed to multiply with every minute of the day.

  Williams simply shook his head, but listened intently.

  ‘Oh well, perhaps they will come soon,’ said Wickham.

  ‘If all carriers are not devoted solely to the comfort of the staff, that is,’ quipped Pringle. ‘We mere mortals of the marching regiments live a more frugal life in every way.’

  Wickham smiled with the others. ‘Well, if we spend any time in Talavera I believe there is somewhere where I may treat you fellows to a good dinner at least.

  ‘However, my wife has written and tells me that everything is well with the regiment back in England. There is general satisfaction with the arrival of Colonel FitzWilliam.’

  ‘You have a connection, I recollect,’ said Truscott.

  ‘Yes, although less close than perhaps it ought to be. I doubt that decided his choice on purchasing command!�
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  ‘Any other news?’ asked Hopwood.

  ‘There is general amusement at the tales of Mr Williams here and his romantic exploits – nights at the theatre in the company of such a “distinguished” lady companion. I believe you are now seen as quite the roistering young blade.’ Wickham clearly thought it hilarious and almost all the other officers were equally beside themselves with laughter. Pringle was amused because it was so ridiculous. Truscott merely smiled faintly, for he both knew Maria and the truth of the matter and also disapproved of open vulgarity. Hatch mingled triumph with almost hysterical laughter. His letter had worked and he knew now that this was a way to hurt his enemy. He would write again soon, and damn the truth if he could not dream up better stories to tell.

  Williams said nothing, but could no longer bear to stay with them. He turned and walked back towards his company.

  ‘Off for another conquest, no doubt.’ Hopwood laughed without any malice.

  Williams struggled to hold down his surging temper. Worries of Miss MacAndrews being swept away by the dashing and wealthy new colonel were now overwhelmed by the horror that she would hear these stories and think him faithless. He wanted to believe that she was wiser than that and knew him better than to believe him a rake. Yet for all her intelligence and wit, Jane MacAndrews was both young and of high spirits. Williams still winced at the memory of her rage when he had proposed marriage in Corunna.

  The drums began to beat.

  ‘On your feet!’ bellowed Williams at the Light Company. ‘Up, you idle rabble, up!’ The men responded to the bark of command even though they were surprised and baffled by the ferocity of his onslaught. His two sergeants happened to be next to each other and exchanged glances, but knew enough to join in.

  ‘Fall in!’ shouted Rudden.