At most he had a matter of weeks, and perhaps less. Sir John Moore was on his way to reinforce the army in Portugal, returning from the fiasco of the expedition to Sweden. Muddled plans in London, and understandable suspicion of Britain’s intentions on the part of the Swedes, had meant his army never disembarked. The whole thing had been a waste of time and effort, although Wellesley suspected little of this was Moore’s fault. His reputation was high, but he was also disliked by powerful members of the government. Therefore, two even more senior lieutenant generals had been appointed as first- and second-in-command of the forces in Portugal. That was not all. More lieutenant generals were arriving and soon Wellesley would be the eighth-in-command of the army.
Sir Harry Burrard could arrive in less than a week; a letter had already come from him. Its content did not suggest any particular perception, let alone a clear sense of purpose. Fortunately another letter had arrived from Castlereagh, the Secretary of State and a friend. Wellesley’s spirits had sunk as he read the details of the new appointments, but it had also instructed him to proceed with the campaign on his own initiative, and that was all that he needed. So now he would advance and seek out a rapid confrontation with the French. The previous night he had written to his old friend the Duke of Richmond, whose young son was serving as one of his ADCs. ‘I hope that I shall have beat Junot before any of them arrive, then they may do as they please with me.’
So he had advanced. It was a risk, but a calculated one, and risk had never frightened him. He would find the French and beat them, opening the road to Lisbon. The job would be done properly before anyone else could make a mess of it. He would show them that he could beat disciplined Frenchmen as readily as the vast and colourful armies of Indian princes.
Wellesley and his staff rode back along the column. He was pleased to see that there were not too many stragglers. Some soldiers had fallen out from their battalions, struggling with the heat and the weight of their equipment. A soldier’s pack was large and wooden framed and its straps cut into a man’s chest, making it hard to breathe. It was said the French had a better design, and it would be worth taking a look at that when the opportunity was offered. Not that the British Army was likely to change its equipment simply becauseit was badly designed.
‘George, see that anyone who can’t walk is taken forward by cart. No one is to leave the column.’ The ADC sped away to arrange things. Wellesley did not want to lose any men unnecessarily. Some would genuinely not have recovered from the inactivity of the voyage. More importantly men away from their units for any reason were liable to misbehave. They would wander off and molest the population, stealing food and valuables, even raping and murdering. An army whose recruitment was aided by magistrates contained many dangerous and bad characters. Some of his meagre force of cavalry were patrolling the flanks of the column to prevent any redcoat from straying. He had some provosts – the army’s policemen – but not enough.
In the last weeks the French army had marauded through Portugal, committing every sort of atrocity. Napoleon’s men routinely foraged and plundered, but now they were massacring men, women and children alike. They hoped to terrify the Portuguese, but had spread as much hatred as fear, and now the hand of every peasant was against them. Lone Frenchmen were apt to have their throats cut. Wellesley was determined that his own men would not provoke similar hatred and reprisals.
Wellesley waved a greeting to General Bowes as he passed. The red-faced Bowes was yelling as he supervised a group of men trying to free an ammunition wagon sunk into the mud. A string of Irish oaths almost drowned out the brigadier’s encouragement. It had taken massive and persistent effort to persuade the authorities to give him two companies of the Irish Wagon Train to carry the expedition’s supplies, but the men and their vehicles were already proving to be worth their weight in gold.
The general and his staff continued their ride, and soon a harsh cacophony of metallic screeches announced the approach of the main baggage train. For some reason the drivers of the local ox carts never greased the axles. The contrast with the regimented efficiency and uniform vehicles of the wagon train was stark, but these hundreds of carts made the campaign possible. Behind them came thousands of mules, driven by some of the most villainous men he had ever seen in his life. They could have gone faster, but it was necessary to keep together, and so they kept to the steady two-mile-an-hour plod of the oxen.
Slowly, the long column snaked forward to find General Junot and to smash him.
22
The Portuguese officer stared blankly after Hanley finished talking to him. He tried again, speaking slowly and clearly in Spanish.
‘These ragamuffins can’t even understand their own damned language,’ said Lieutenant Colonel Moss rather too loudly from behind him. Hanley could see the allied officer understood the tone if not the content of this scornful comment. He bristled, yet was clearly still polite when he spoke. Hanley could understand only a few words. The accent was so strong and so very different to Castilian. He knew that he could gain at least a general understanding of written Portuguese, but had not been prepared for the difference in sound.
The 106th’s Light Company were providing outposts on the second evening of the march and Moss had been visiting them when a group of armed Portuguese had arrived. They were motley in appearance. Two had faded and patched blue jackets, but most were in simple white smocks. Each wore a broad-brimmed civilian hat, but no two were alike. A few had large feathers of various colours tucked into them. Most of the men had simple hide sandals, leaving their s bare. They were part of the Portuguese General Friere’s forces who had come to join the British, but no one was able to understand what they wanted. Then Moss remembered Hanley and immediately sent for him.
The ensign had tried to explain that he had lived in Spain and not Portugal, and that the languages were different, but Moss had brushed such trivialities aside.
‘We don’t need to conduct a debate. Just find out what it is these fellows want.’
Hanley had tried, and only felt more foolish as each effort failed, and more aware of the colonel’s frustration and anger. It was one more disappointment for Moss, reinforcing the realisation that if the battalion was to succeed then he must do everything himself.
Finally, Hanley felt that he might just as well try French. The response was immediate. The Portuguese officer smiled and replied in French that was barely accented and in many ways better than Hanley’s own. The man announced himself as Lieutenant Mata of the 4th Artillery Regiment. A wheel had broken on one of their few guns and they needed the help and tools to replace it.
Hanley explained the situation to the colonel, who had already lost interest. Moss told him to lead the Portuguese to the half-battery with the 3rd Brigade and let the gunners sort it out. Hanley did so, and asked Mata to tell him about the French invasion and what Junot’s men had done. It was a grim story, and if he had not seen the massacre in Madrid he would have been inclined to dismiss it all as tall tales and lies born from hatred. Yet it depressed him. His admiration of the Revolution and its promotion of reason, of the new Emperor and his imposition of order, was still a warm memory. In a way it made it worse that these high ideals had been corrupted into such savagery. Mata loathed the French with a ferocious bitterness, and Hanley could not think less of him for this. He had also come to hate them, and yet there was still something terrible about seeing the well-educated young lieutenant – he was yet another product of Coimbra – consumed by such rage.
They met Pringle on the way, and after the introductions Billy’s cheerfulness lightened the tone of the conversation. It helped that there was something essentially ridiculous about French being their only means of communication. Even so Hanley was glad to leave the Portuguese with the gunners.
*
Williams stood as one of the sentries guarding the regiment’s baggage. Dobson should have been there, but the man was too drunk even to stand, and so Williams had managed to persuade Sergeant Darrowf
ield to turn a blind eye and permit him to cover for the veteran. Earlier in the day the volunteer had noticed that Jenny Hanks had a bruised cheek. A few hours later Private Hanks had appeared on parade with an eye blacked and the signs of a recently staunched nosebleed. Neither he nor Dobson said anything, but it was well known that they had gone off on their own and that the veteran had come back first.
Dobson had started drinking as soon as the parade was dismissed. It had been many months since he had taken more than his ‘daily tipple’, and it was clear that there was more to the incident than a father demonstrating to his son-in-law that it was not safe to lose his temper with his wife. Dobson clearly knew or guessed something, although Williams himself had remained silent. Yet the regiment was always a hotbed of gossip and Jenny was a fool if she thought that everything would remain secret.
Williams watched her now as she carried a pail of water towards the main camp of the regiment. He watched her flirt and joke with the men she passed, but the girl had always done that and in the main it was harmless. Soldiers’ families lived their lives very publicly within the larger family of the regiment, and inevitably most grew up with a thick skin and a robust sense of humour. Then Jenny spotted him, smiled, and came over.
‘Ma says thanks, Mr Williams. Dad will sleep it off by tomorrow. Old bugger ought to know better.’
‘You don’t have to be old to be a fool, Mrs Hanks.’
The girl made a face and lowered the bucket to the ground. As she straightened up she raised a hand to brush back her brown hair. The immediate glance to see his reaction revealed that this was not purely a natural gesture.
‘I don’t want to follow the drum all my life. There’s a world out there of cities and fine things and I mean to live like that one day. It’s mine to take.’
‘Redman won’t give you that,’ said Williams, surprising himself with his directness.
‘Him – he’s just practice.’ The sixteen-year-old’s tone was surprisingly scornful. ‘And the others. They give me nice things, but it’s only a start.’ She eyed him for a moment. ‘I’d do you for free if you like. To say thanks.’
She enjoyed his obvious shock. Williams was dumbfounded and simply shook his head. Jenny chuckled, her laugh that of a child without traces of her recent cynicism. ‘Well then, perhaps you could lift my pail for me? It’s fine once it’s off the ground.’
Manners immediately took over, and since Williams was not at attention, he bent forward and reached for the handle. As he came low Jenny darted forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘That’s from Ma,’ she said, then dropped her tone to a whisper, ‘and this is from me.’ Her lips moved on to his, and before he realised it his mouth was open to her tongue. His eyes widened and he dropped the pail the few inches to the ground. It stayed upright, but splashed on to the hem of her brown skirt.
‘Clumsy bastard,’ she scolded him lightly, adding a wink, which instantly gave Williams the picture of stumbling across the girl and Redman. He was too flustered to apologise. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’ Jenny retrieved the pail herself. ‘Where you men would be without women . . . I don’t know.
‘Well, thanks, Mr Williams, from me and Ma both.’ The girl walked away, seeming to sway in her stride more than was usual and more than the one-sided weight of the bucket would require.
Williams gulped, and renewed his vigil, trying not to think about the last few minutes. The strangest thing was that in spite of everything he liked the girl.
The next day they saw the first signs of the French. They entered a town and saw houses broken into and looted. Others had chalk marks on the doors where French billeting officers had allocated each one to soldiers from different regiments. They had left only a day before and had not stayed long so the damage was limited. In the evening light Hanley went with Truscott, Pringle and Williams to look at the medieval abbey. They had rarely seen him so animated as he enthused about the grand old building. Even Pringle admitted that he had never before had so much pleasure looking at a lot of tombs.
When the army marched onwards they were given a clearer illustration of the enemy’s rapaciousness, when they passed a convent whose ceilings and walls had been roughly stripped of every piece of their gilt decoration. Hanley came close to tears when he saw the wreckage, the floors covered in plaster. Then he worried that the attacks on buildings seemed to affect him more than the mistreatment of people and felt guilty about this. Most of the other officers were disappointed to find the convent empty of nuns. They had nearly all read romances in which nubile young noblewomen were incarcerated in convents by their stern parents, and sat in their cells waiting for a heroic rescuer to arrive. Even Pringle had been surprised at the degree of lust even the mention of nuns provoked in normally staunchly Anglican officers.
He wondered for a moment how many nuns had lived here before the war. With each step he took his boots crunched the pieces of fallen plaster underfoot. He was in a small room – probably really a cell, he thought – and tried to imagine what it would be like to live in such seclusion. His family had meant him to be a parson, once his father had grudgingly accepted that the child’s absurd seasickness was not going to be cured. He had gone along with the idea because it was easier than challenging it. Even then Pringle had liked an easy life and Oxford had provided many pleasures. He had never really worried about what would happen afterwards, but always knew that the Church was not for him. His beliefs were vague and, although observation of the clergy in general suggested this was not a fatal flaw, he had known that he would not follow that path, which seemed so safe and dull.
He had first suggested going into the army as a joke and had been surprised at how readily his father had warmed to the idea. After a while so had he. He liked having so many of his decisions made for him, and found much of the company congenial. Pringle smiled as he overheard Hanley remonstrating with Williams after the volunteer had made some scathing remark about the trappings of popery. Truscott’s deep laughter echoed along the wide empty hall.
Pringle let them go. There was something oddly secure about the little room. He sat down on the straw mattress. For some reason the French had not taken or ripped this apart as they had done in the other cells. His hand felt something tucked down next to the timber frame and drew out a battered little black book. Idly he flicked through the pages. The print was tiny, and he took off his glasses and brought the book close up to his face. Much to his surprise it was neither Latin, nor religious. As far as he could tell from guessing the Portuguese words, it was a romance, telling of knights and damsels in the Middle Ages. There was something written by hand on the inside of the cover. As he continued to flick through the pages, and as was so often the case, his mind turned to thoughts of women. Perhaps a young and pretty inmate of the convent had kept this book as a secret pleasure. He smiled at the thought.
‘Señor, señor!’ The voice startled him, as did the feel of hands clasping his knees imploringly. He had not heard the woman rush into the room and throw herself down before him. ‘Señor, are you English? I beg you to help me, please!’
Pringle dropped the book on to his lap and fumbled for his glasses. The woman was swathed in a black robe which covered her bowed head. He caught one glimpse of a face before she leaned forward to press her forehead against his knees. Voice and movements suggested youth, but until he had hooked his spectacles over his ears he could not see clearly. When he did – after nearly poking himself in the eye in the process – he could not help laughing. It was a nun in distress.
‘Do not mock me, señor, but pity me!’ The woman’s accent was strong, making a soft voice even more charming. ‘I believe the English to be gentlemen and I have nowhere else to turn for help!’ She looked up imploringly. Only her face was uncovered, but it was a remarkable face with a frail beauty which under normal circumstances would have made any man feel protective. Her complexion was dark, and her eyes paler grey than any Pringle had ever seen before. Now they were glazed with tears. ‘Oh,
please help me, señor.’
‘Do not cry, Sister.’ Pringle reached out and lightly grasped the young woman’s shoulders. ‘My name is Lieutenant Pringle. I am an English officer and I am at your service.’ The words sounded pompous even as he said them. He felt that he was either dreaming or inside a romantic novel. It would have been hard to answer any other way. For a moment he wondered where his friends had got to, and why the noise had not brought them back. He tried not to laugh again at the absurdity of the situation, but could not stop himself.
There were more tears and Pringle murmured reassurances and even went so far as to pat her head. It was a little hard to know quite how to treat a nun. As she was kneeling so close to him and kept grabbing his legs he was very aware that she was also a woman and no rough and ill-fitting habit could conceal the fact that she was also an attractive one. Gently he raised her chin and smiled as encouragingly as he could. His other hand took one of hers and pressed softly.
‘Now, what help do you need?’ His thumb began stroking the palm of her hand.
The story came out slowly, with several fresh outbursts of tears. She told him that her name was Sister Maria, and she had a very long surname which Pringle knew he could not pronounce and was struggling even to remember. She was an orphan, but her uncle was rich and had given a generous endowment to the convent, where she was raised until now she was nineteen. Pringle would have guessed her age at a few more years than that, but was not about to quibble. She had not pulled her hand away and he continued to rub his thumb over the palm. His other hand had left her chin and was pressing the rough material of her sleeve.
When the war started her uncle had taken ship to England. He was a merchant in the wine trade and had many connections in that country. Once again the story smacked of fiction, but at that moment it was very hard not to believe. Well, actually it was hard to care with an attractive young woman so desperate for his company – and so close. Pity that she was a nun, but at least his life had become more interesting for the moment, however brief it proved.
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Page 23
