‘Get moving!’ called McNaught in his hoarse voice.
A few moments later the Highlander sergeant stamped to attention in front of Williams and yelled his report. ‘Company fallen in and ready to move, sir!’
Williams returned the salute absent-mindedly, but merely grunted in acknowledgement. They were at the rear of the battalion’s column and it was taking longer for the other companies to prepare. He took the briefest of pleasures in that.
‘Carry on, Sergeant. We shall be moving in a moment.’
As they marched the wind picked up a little. It brought no relief from the heat, and instead the hot air swirled the dust around and blew it into faces and eyes. At times it carried the distant popping of musketry as the Spanish vanguard skirmished with the French. Then a brigade of light dragoons passed them at the trot and flung up even more muck and dust into the breeze.
‘Damned donkey-wallopers,’ muttered one of the men from the 43rd.
‘Silence in the ranks!’ snapped Williams for no other reason than that he felt like shouting.
They marched on, and he brooded and once again wondered whether he had lost the only woman he had ever loved. Another letter from his sister might tell him more of Miss MacAndrews’ mood, and then he worried that the news would be bad.
He noticed that one of the convalescents had stepped out of the ranks and was leaning on his musket, panting for breath. For a moment Williams wanted to savage the man for his weakness or ignore him rather than risk another snub. He took a deep breath.
‘Come on, Hawkins, let me help you. Give me your musket.’ The redcoat handed over the firelock with some reluctance, but looked so ready to drop that it was a relief to pass it across. Williams slung the musket over his own. ‘Now, lean on me.’ They followed the company. Hawkins was a small man, so that it was a little awkward to reach up and put his arm round Williams’ shoulder.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
McNaught dropped back from his station behind the rear rank. ‘I’ll take his other side, sir. Hughes!’ He called to another of the recovered convalescents. ‘Get his pack off. Carry it for ten minutes then pass it on to someone else.’
‘Well done, Sergeant.’
‘It’s my job, sir,’ came the blunt reply.
They marched past the town with its medieval walls, but did not go closer than threading their way through some lanes running between walled gardens. Following the light dragoons, the Third Division marched across a wide rolling plain of parched yellow grass. There were a few Spanish outposts ahead of them, but most of Cuesta’s army was farther south.
For a while the Third Division halted, and the men were given permission to sit on their packs and rest. Few had water left in their canteens and a stream running across their path proved to have dried up apart from a few foul-looking pools infested with insects. Snakes slithered in the grass along its banks, and one the 43rd gave a yell when he tipped a big stone and uncovered a couple of scorpions.
The redcoats were more careful after that. Some started looking for the poisonous creatures and fashioned little nooses out of thread. Then, when one man tipped over a stone, another looped the noose around the creature’s tail. A quick prod with a stick and the scorpion arched its tail over its head ready to sting. The noose was pulled tight and the beast was caught. In half an hour, several dozen were hung up and left dangling from branches on trees.
‘Serve the little sods right,’ said a redcoat with the yellow facings and back badge on his shako of the 28th Foot.
Gallopers rode up to the divisional commander, Major General MacKenzie, who then summoned the commander of his second brigade. Fifteen minutes later the men were marching forward again, most stepping gingerly in the grass now that the word of snakes had spread.
They advanced for a mile and found themselves among rows of vines and clusters of cork trees. There was the sound of artillery firing. Williams counted five, perhaps six, guns, which suggested a battery, and from the direction they were probably Spanish. He could see nothing of the fighting, but more guns responded.
‘Sounds as if the French are not going back too quickly,’ he said to McNaught.
The sergeant seemed to think about it, and Williams was not sure whether he was going to reply at all.
‘Aye,’ said the Highlander, as if at the end of long consideration. ‘They took some shifting in Egypt. We did it, though.’
‘That you did.’
‘Aye.’ No more seemed to be forthcoming.
The battalion halted, as did the only other visible battalion from the brigade. Williams could see the Grenadier Company of the 1/45th Foot over to their left. The regiment had green facings and a high reputation for discipline. He could barely see the end of the Battalion of Detachments’ own line in the other direction, and nothing of the 2/31st beyond them to the right.
As the sun dropped down over the horizon the trees cast long shadows and soon it was too dark to see much at all. Piquets went forward from each battalion, but after half an hour orders were passed for the remainder to stand down.
‘No fires,’ said Pritchard Jones.
‘Good,’ muttered Pringle to Williams, ‘at least that will stop Jenkins from concocting his foul brew.’
There was also no food, apart from whatever was left in the men’s packs, and there was little enough of that. A few still had remnants of hard tack. There was water from the River Albreche, some way to the front, but strict orders were given for only small parties of men to take bundles of canteens forward and fill them.
The night turned cold. Until the moon rose there was only a pale starlight. Men did their best to check their muskets and flints and look to their equipment. Williams could hear rhythmic scraping from all around him as men worked obsessively on their bayonets, honing the points. The sound was reassuring and reminded him of other nights before an action. Men worked in quiet determination as if the better the point the better they would fight, and in desperation, as if a sharp bayonet would keep them alive.
A strangely high-pitched gurgle squeezed on to the night air.
‘Skerret, you pig,’ said someone.
‘I’m hungry,’ said a plaintive voice in justification.
More squeaks and gurgles followed and then a sudden explosive breaking of wind.
‘That’s told them Frenchies we’re here!’
They were woken at three in the morning – at least those who had managed to get any sleep. Bugles and drums were forbidden and sergeants went around shaking each man by the shoulder. All around were the distinctly masculine noises of waking, as redcoats yawned and groaned, stretched and scratched, and finally stamped or rubbed life into their limbs. The Third Division’s women had been ordered to stay with the baggage train outside the town itself.
‘The French are on the high ground east of the river,’ explained Pritchard Jones to his officers. ‘We march south and join the First Division to attack across the fords. The Spanish will be to the south again, on our right. Together we outnumber Victor’s men more than two to one. Even if they realise we are coming they will not be able to stop a determined assault.
‘Back to your companies. The Thirty-first will lead off in column and we will follow.’
It was still too early for much talk in the ranks. The men marched in silence, but Williams could feel their tense excitement because it mirrored his own feelings. Fear remained a vague, lurking presence on the edge of his mind, and he imagined French volleys or blasts of canister from their guns scything through the battalion as they splashed through the river.
The route was not simple, winding between vineyards, copses and scrub. Several times they halted and waited, not knowing why they were delayed. The sky grew lighter. It was an hour before they were in position, ready to advance through a line of cork trees beyond which was the river. The sun rose red and brooding behind the black pillars of smoke from the French campfires.
The 3rd Battalion waited, formed in ranks, but with the men standing
at ease. Nothing happened. They heard a French sentry giving a distant challenge of ‘qui vive!’, but then it was silent again. As the sun climbed higher the heat grew. Williams could feel sweat all down his spine. He never sweated on his face, but any warmth soon made his back wet with perspiration.
Bugles sounded and drums beat in the French camp without any particular urgency. Pritchard Jones and the other battalion commanders were summoned by General MacKenzie.
Williams and the rest of the battalion waited. They were all hungry, having gone more than a day without hot food and very little that was cold.
Pritchard Jones rode back and reached the Light Company on the left of his battalion first. ‘It’s called off,’ he said to Williams as he passed. ‘It seems the Spanish are not coming.’ He spoke calmly, as if this were a minor change to social plans between a few intimate friends. ‘Our brigade is to stay here for the moment and remain stood to.’
Williams felt flat and very tired.
‘Any chance of some hot food, sir?’ asked Sergeant Rudden.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Not until we are relieved.’
‘Sir.’
Williams felt the brief relenting of the men’s hostility was fading as quickly as the prospect of an engagement. Well, damn them, he thought, and damn the Spanish, and damn whoever was gossiping about him back in England. Damn Jane MacAndrews too, if she believed such lies about him. His rebellious anger lasted all of five minutes.
21
Talavera was bustling that evening, Spanish soldiers in white, brown, blue, green and yellow uniforms mingling with the redcoats. Then there were the followers of both armies, women and children of all shapes and sizes looking for food or anything useful or unguarded. Many of the townsfolk who had fled the French occupation had returned. They and the ones who had lived through the days when Marshal Victor’s regiments marched through the streets now looked with almost equal suspicion at the throngs of newcomers. There were soldiers and their women from distant kingdoms of Spain, with strange accents and odd manners.
Then there were the English, and they were heretics and came from a distant island of rain and cold, and what man could understand their speech or their heathen ways. Many looked like thieves, and the stallkeepers in the market kept a close watch on their wares whenever the odd men in their patched red jackets or their grubby women sidled up.
Hanley was dressed in the dark suit of civilian clothes provided by Espinosa. He turned the corner into an alley and then stopped because a Highlander and his family were coming the other way. The man was tall and lanky, his knees bronzed and bony beneath his dark kilt. His jacket had green facings and was faded to look more purple than red, and patched with brown cloth on the sleeves. He had long since lost or sold the feathers from his bonnet and now wore it as a plain blue cap. His wife had a hard face, lined with care, worry and days and nights spent out in all weather. Her drab brown skirt was tattered and stained, her hair greying and dirty where it peeked out from underneath her frayed straw hat. Husband and wife alike showed teeth stained brown as their lips parted in what was perhaps intended to be a polite smile, but came across as a grimace. A small boy scampered beside his mother, and his single tooth was at least a wholesome colour as he stared open mouthed at all around him. A girl a few years older walked with the pride of a queen beside them and a third child was strapped to the mother’s back.
‘Mary, mother of God,’ whispered a well-dressed man beside him. When the Scots had passed he turned to Hanley and crossed himself. ‘They say these men are forced to wear such clothes because they are criminals. Pray God they leave soon, with all the other intruders.’ Hanley was not sure whether the man meant the French or Spain’s own soldiers. He had heard the story about Highland dress before. Billy Pringle reckoned that it was first spread by one of the Scottish regiments who did not wear kilts.
Hanley pushed on. There were fewer people in the alley, but it was still busy. He was reassured that the man had taken him for a Spaniard, and then he saw a group of British officers coming towards him and worried that they might be men he knew and greet him openly.
It was a relief to see that they were strangers, and one of them – a man who was elderly for an ensign and had a sour expression – glared at him in the disdainful way that showed the man saw him as a foreigner, a civilian and no doubt a fool.
‘The buggers wouldn’t fight on a Sunday,’ said one of his companions, a lieutenant with a pronounced stoop and arms which swung in an ungainly way as he walked.
‘Cowardly devils!’ said the ensign. ‘Want others to die to save their precious country.’ He almost spat the words in Hanley’s direction.
Plenty of rumours were spreading throughout the army since the cancellation of the morning’s attack. Hanley had already heard the one about Cuesta refusing to fight on the Sabbath. Baynes had told him it was false. ‘He gave plenty of excuses, but that was not one of them.’
The Spanish general would not attack. Every request, every reminder of their agreement by Sir Arthur, every plea, met the same stubborn response. The Army of Estremadura would not attack today and probably not tomorrow either.
‘He’s a damned old fool,’ Murray said angrily. ‘A craven relic of a man not fit to command a corporal’s guard.’
‘The Spanish say that the enemy position is formidable,’ Baynes responded, without any conviction.
‘Was it any stronger yesterday when he agreed to the plan?’
‘Then perhaps he knows something – or believes he knows something we do not.’ The merchant had then looked at Hanley. ‘See what your man has to say.’
‘If the messenger turns up.’ Espinosa’s note had said that he would try to reach him with more intelligence at the same time in the yard of an old tannery on one of three nights. No one had appeared on the first two although Hanley had waited for more than two hours after the set time.
‘Well, we can but try.’ Murray smiled. ‘Or rather you can but try. Different factions are busy accusing each other of treachery. We need to know as much as we can learn.’
It was dark by the time Hanley walked through the gateway into the courtyard. It had been years since the tannery had last been in proper use and only the faintest of odours lingered. It was a quiet part of the town, the alleys less busy, and the only houses near by were small and occupied by those who could not find or afford better. Most seemed to be empty and there was no light from any window.
The smell of horses, leather and dung was fresher inside the courtyard. Just a few days before it had served as billets to a French battery and all its horses and mules. They had chopped up the few remaining doors and shutters to burn.
‘Mapi,’ hissed a voice from the shadows.
Hanley started in surprise. He was early, and after two days with no sign of a messenger he really had not expected anyone to appear.
‘Follow me.’ The voice was familiar, and so was something about the way the dark shape moved towards the door of the main building.
Hanley was nervous and did not really know why. He followed the man into the hall and off to a small side room which reeked of rotting meat. His boots crunched softly on something. The man lit a lamp on the table and as the light flared hordes of beetles and other vermin scuttled across the floor. There were bones in the corners of the room, and a dish with water.
‘I suspect the officers kept dogs.’ It was Espinosa himself, dressed all in black and with a hooded cloak which gave him a theatrical air. ‘How are you?’
‘Impressed by your luxurious residence.’
‘You cannot be paying me enough.’ Espinosa’s smile was faint and nervous.
‘You have papers?’
‘Nothing written. That is why I came myself. Victor knows you are here and that he is outnumbered. He began to withdraw several hours ago.’
‘He would be a fool not to, and blind if he had not realised that British as well as Spanish faced him.’
‘That is true, but he was also told ea
rly this morning. A dawn attack would still have caught him, even though surprise had gone, but as the hours passed he had his chance and so slipped away.’
‘Who told him?’ asked Hanley.
‘I do not know.’
Hanley grunted.
‘You are surely capable of working out that it would not have been in my interest to do so.’
Hanley let that pass. ‘So what else do you have to tell me? We could have guessed all of this.’
‘You have the money?’
‘What else do you have for me?’ said the Englishman, ignoring the question.
‘Plenty.’
‘I have the money,’ said Hanley.
‘Good. Commerce is so much better than mere trust. Venegas has moved.’
‘As he was supposed to.’
‘Perhaps, but I doubt he was supposed to stop. He is a long way away and no threat to Joseph or his capital. They know you are here and Victor is moving back towards them. The French may soon be able to match your numbers.’
That was bad news. The plan rested on keeping the French armies apart and beating them separately. Espinosa waited for some reaction. ‘You know, you have become more English, my friend.
‘Venegas may be about to move again,’ he said after a long pause.
‘How do you know?’ asked Hanley. It seemed that the Spaniard was aware of far more than the plans of King Joseph and the French commanders.
‘I listen, and people bring me or sell me things, so that I know the Junta in Seville has promised Venegas supreme command if he is the first one to reach Madrid. Cuesta will learn of this by tomorrow if he does not already know. You cannot expect him to care very much for the idea. So no doubt there will soon be two Spanish generals changing from lambs into lions.’
‘What of the French?’
‘Ah yes, it is so easy to forget them with so many different sides in this war. Joseph cannot flee Madrid for a second time, and so when he hears from Marshal Victor he will want to fight, but he must not lose. So he will want all the force he can find. I made one mistake in my earlier reports.’
Send Me Safely Back Again Page 23
