True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Redman came nowhere near the colours,’ he said. ‘You went first anyway.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he was in command, sir, and led the main body.’

  ‘As you say,’ MacAndrews relented. There were so many letters to write and at least this would make one of them easier. It would be harder to phrase the words to the colonel’s father – and his affianced. Damn, he had forgotten her. He looked again at Williams. ‘Very well. You are dismissed, Mr Williams. Good night to you.’

  29

  The 106th mustered seven

  hundred and eighty-four men and twenty-seven officers when it marched out with the rest of the army on the day after the battle. In spite of its losses it was still stronger than several other battalions. Hanley marched with the Grenadier Company. His left arm was bandaged and held for the moment in a sling, and so it would have been impractical for him to carry the colour. He was more than a little surprised to find that this disappointed him and that he felt a vague sense of failure, but he said nothing about this to his friends.

  Williams felt strangely free. There was a curious, even perverse satisfaction in turning down the commission. Somehow it made him feel in control of his own destiny. During the fighting he had felt fear and horror, and yet also something of that same clarity and control. It had all seemed so simple and he found himself able to think clearly and do what needed to be done. Nothing had been quite as he had expected, and yet his initial revulsion at the deaths of Redman and Galbert had diminished. There would be another battle soon, for it was widely known that the French were gathering thir forces. It would be a much larger battle, and he could only assume that that would make it more ferocious. That prospect made it hard to think over much of the past. He had merely shrugged when Dobson had greeted him with a gruff ‘You still with us, Pug?’ He was not yet sure how he felt about the veteran, although he had no doubt that he could rely on him when the fighting resumed. It was simply harder to decide what mattered.

  Billy Pringle was happy to live only in the moment. They had won a victory, if a small one, and he shared the near-universal confidence that they would beat the French main army as soon as they confronted it. Wickham was following on with the regiment’s baggage. He had emerged from the battle with a bad cut to the head – Pringle suspected the result of a fall rather than enemy action. Today he complained of aches and a fever and so excused himself from duty, telling Pringle to look after the lads for him and that he hoped to be well again tomorrow. Billy did not mind. Most of the day would be spent in marching south. The army was heading back towards the coast, for new convoys of reinforcements had arrived and Wellesley was moving to cover their landing. The French had gone back inland and so it was unlikely anything would happen for a few days. There seemed nothing in particular to worry about and he was content to let the future take care of itself. There was something reassuring about having the army make all his decisions for him.

  The British followed the coast road south. It passed through rolling hills and at times they could see the sea to their right. Williams had never seen water look so blue until he had come to Portugal. In the sunlight it sparkled. Even from this distance it helped to make the day seem cooler, although the sun bore down and the dust covered everyone and everything with fine powder. Pringle paused for a moment to let the company pass him, checking as they did that everyone was coping and that none of the men needed help carrying their equipment. As Hanley passed, the man mouthed a word and made Pringle smile. Yes, he had been thinking of Xenophon – the great cry of the Ten Thousand was ‘The Sea! The Sea!’ For those ancient Greek mercenaries it had marked the end of the journey and of their toil. That wasn’t true for the 106th, but still it was a pleasant sight and a diverting thought.

  That evening the army camped on the high ground around the village of Vimeiro, which lay on the main road. Some way to the east were the heights of Torres Vedras and then Lisbon itself. To the west the road wound down to the coast at the tiny hamlet of Porto Novo, overlooking the bay where the reinforcements would land.

  MacAndrews was still very busy, and once again had to work late into the night. Brotherton helped as much as he could, but for all his enthusiasm he could not yet match Thomas, who knew the battalion so well. They had left a small party at Roliça with the wounded who could not be moved, the adjutant among them. Somehow he still clung on to life. Other regiments had also left men and a small hospital had been set up in the church. MacAndrews had spoken to the surgeon to discover which of the wounded still with the battalion were ready for duty. The list of names with the details of injuries and current condition was in front of him now.

  It was one more list in a life that now seemed to consist entirely of lists. He was generally content with the mood of the battalion. They had taken a blow, but had recovered and felt that they had proved themselves more than a match for the enemy. Personally, he was not yet sure of that. By all accounts the French had been heavily outnumbered and so were bound to be forced from the position in the end. Even so the 106th had performed well, and so it seemed had the rest of the army. The general apped to know his business, but then since he was soon to be superseded much might change. Well, there was nothing he could do about that. The arrival of the convoy meant that ships would be returning home afterwards and post could be sent. There were letters to write expressing regret to the families of the fallen officers. He had determined in his own mind that all would be of the same length, but the habits of seniority also meant that he decided to begin with the one to Moss’s father. Then he must also write to General Lepper. Perhaps at the end he would still have energy enough to pen a few words to his dearest Esther. Perhaps. Duty as always would come first.

  The convoys of ships had come from Harwich and Ramsgate and between them brought another four thousand men. There were six battalions of infantry and a couple more companies of riflemen from the 95th. There were also artillerymen, but the familiar problems of finding horses to pull the limbers made these less immediately valuable. The surf was high and the bay offered only limited shelter. Some boats were overturned and men drowned, but after two days almost everyone had been landed and had marched the few miles to join the main force around Vimeiro. The new regiments had all dispensed with hair powder and queues, and brought the formal order from Horse Guards ending the hated practice. Some of the 106th were a little disappointed that this made them less unique in the army, but the general mood of joy quickly spread to them.

  This was increased by a lively expectation of battle. On the evening of 20th August word had spread that the main French army had left Lisbon and was coming towards them. Now that the reinforcements had landed, preparations were under way for the army to move out once more. With the sea behind them the only way to go was forward to meet the French. The new arrivals, and the regiments that had seen little service at Roliça were especially eager to prove themselves. The 106th and the other units that had done the bulk of the fighting were equally keen to demonstrate how it was done.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley’s mood was less optimistic as he was rowed ashore in one of the last boats to make the landing that day. Lieutenant General Sir Harry Burrard had arrived, and this signified the end of his period of independent command. Nothing could alter that, and he had gone out to greet the general on board the frigate that carried him. Carefully and respectfully he had explained the situation. Junot had at last concentrated some fourteen thousand men and was advancing. It was good that he was not waiting longer to gather more of his army. Perhaps he felt that some garrisons needed to be held to keep some control over the Portuguese. More probably he was simply confident that this was enough to crush any British force. Yet, with the two newly arrived brigades, the British could muster more than sixteen thousand men, not counting the Portuguese contingent, whose effectiveness was not yet proven.

  Wellesley had grown animated as he explained his plan, using a map spread out on the table in the frigate captain’s cabin. There was a chance for bold action. Junot
was overconfident and was also unlikely to know about their reinforcements. If the British Army marched to the south they could loop behind the French. At best Junot would be cut off from Lisbon and the loss of the capital should encourage even more Portuguese to rise against the French. At the very least they should catch the enemy strung out on the march and be able to choose when and where to defeat the French general. Everything was ready. Two days’ food had been issued to the men, more would be carried in the wagons, while the ammunition train and other essential baggage would be ready to march before dawn.

  Burrard had listened politely, but when he finally spoke the n seemed far older than his sixty or so years. He commended the zeal and gallantry of his junior, but had to reprimand his recklessness. If there was a chance, there were risks too, and those were unnecessary. Sir John Moore was said to be nearing the coast. With his forces they would be more than twice the strength of the French and whatever he did Junot would not be able to match those numbers in the foreseeable future. Time was on their side, not that of the French. A battle might even be unnecessary altogether once the odds became overwhelmingly in their favour. The army would stay at Vimeiro and wait.

  As the little boat rocked in the swell, Wellesley felt the spray on his face and thought longingly of the years in India when he had been given freedom to do the right thing and to act. Burrard had preferred one last night on board ship rather than spending it under canvas, which meant that in all practical respects he remained in command until Sir Harry came ashore the next day. He could not disobey a direct order. The army would stay in camp, but he would make sure that they were ready to move in the unlikely event that Burrard came to his senses. The old man had been more concerned with minor details of administration, with orders for two men from the regiments to be seconded to his staff as additional ADCs. Influence at work, no doubt, but there was nothing wrong with that in itself.

  The longboat ground ashore. Wellesley took the proffered hand of one of the sailors and leapt out into the knee-deep surf. No, he could not disobey a direct order, but until the moment Burrard took formal charge he would continue to act as he saw fit. Junot was close, and with luck the light dragoons would locate the French during the night. If Junot attacked, or left himself vulnerable, then Wellesley would fight unless specifically ordered not to do so. There was still a chance to do things properly.

  Billy Pringle thought that Wickham looked in good spirits. He sat outside his tent, playing cards with Anstey, Howard and several of the usual gamers. Mosley was missing, left in the makeshift hospital at Roliça, recovering from having a surgeon cut out the ball embedded in his shoulder. The cards were favouring the grenadier captain tonight and he laughed and joked happily with the others. At first he had reached up to his head periodically, and then given the slightest of winces, suggesting serious pain which he controlled with effort. Pringle still liked Wickham. Few men were as pleasant company. Yet he had come to wonder about the man. It was hard to know him, to see past the consummate actor and the elegant charm. Pringle had seen little of Wickham during the battle. He had certainly been drinking heavily in the hours before, but so had many others. Pringle himself had taken a good few gulps from his own flask, although once they had begun moving he had changed to water. They had become separated while going up the gully, but the forced and awkward silence of others made him wonder about the captain’s conduct. He had tried to get more out of Williams, but the volunteer had looked especially stiff and on his honour and said that he was unable to speak. It had been the same when he asked about Redman.

  During a break between games Pringle had asked Wickham how he felt.

  ‘Bearing up,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Have felt a bit of a fraud leaving all the work to you today.’ As ever the smile was charming. Pringle immediately found himself making noises about how he should not consider such things, was sure he was making light of it and that he must wait until he had fully recovered.

  ‘It’s a ghastly nuisance. Lucky too, I suppose. An inch or two’s difference in the Frenchman’s aim and, well, who knows . . . A shallow grave and the end of old ham, who tried his best and was never any good at cards.’

  ‘Would have saved me some gilt anyway,’ said Howard, who was one of the heaviest losers. ‘If I see that Frenchman I’ll have to give him a thrashing on account.’

  ‘I’d steer clear of him, if I were you,’ put in Anstey. ‘Some people’s heads offer bigger targets!’

  ‘Some of us do have a majestic profile, it is true,’ responded the captain. ‘Others can afford a small cranium since it is not required to contain anything.

  ‘Seriously, though.’ Wickham steered the conversation back to himself. ‘It is not all that bad. If the Frogs do come up to scratch tomorrow I’ll manage. Am sure I will. So wake me early if Johnny Frenchman comes a-calling. Can’t have you fellows fighting without me – you might get lost and attack the wrong side!’ He let the scornful laughter subside. Then he looked Pringle in the eye, betraying just the faintest hint of moisture in his own. ‘If not I may have to impose on you to run the company for another day. I am sure I can trust them in your hands.’

  It was just what would be expected. Brave self-doubt conquered by a determination to do his duty if there was serious work to be done – concern for others and bluff confidence. That was the proper behaviour for a gentleman, so why did Pringle not quite believe it? No, that was wrong. He was simply not sure whether or not to believe the captain’s sincerity. In the end did that matter? Weren’t they all actors to a greater or lesser extent, following the rules and doing what was expected? What was important was what he actually did and they would not see that until, or if, the battle came. So Pringle stayed with the group and enjoyed the talk.

  Williams read his Bible by the guttering light of an almost exhausted candle. He would have to see whether he could acquire a new one. It was a strain to make out the tiny printed words, but he read from the Psalms and memory tended to take over. A polite cough betrayed the presence of Hatch, Redman’s friend.

  ‘Seeking comfort?’ asked the ensign.

  ‘And finding it, as always.’ Williams wondered what the man wanted and was ready to respond to any mockery. Then he wondered whether Hatch was suspicious about the death of his friend.

  ‘Never helped me much. Had to recite so much at school. Deuteronomy mostly. Our headmaster was a miserable old sod. Lots of stuff about children being stoned for disobeying their parents. Not encouraging.’

  ‘There is a lot more beyond that, and anyway every passage has its purpose.’

  ‘Scaring schoolboys mostly. Quite liked the Song of Solomon when I grew older. There’s riper stuff around, though.’ Hatch looked extremely awkward. He also seemed to be fully sober and that was rare by this hour. ‘Look, Williams, I wanted a word with you.’

  Again there was an immediate flash of suspicion. Did he know something? It seemed unlikely. As far as he could tell Hatch had been with the main part of the battalion throughout the battle. ‘Please speak freely,’ said Williams.

  ‘You know Forde is dead?’

  Williams nodded.

  ‘I was next to him when it happened . . . A cannon shot . . . Odd thing was that it did not touch him. It whipped just past his head and didn’t give him so much as a scratch. He just gave a sigh and died. Some of the older fellows say they have seen it before. It’s the wind or the shock or something.’ Williams had neverseen Hatch treat anything so seriously. ‘Anyway, he died. So have so many. I do miss Redman.’

  ‘I was sorry about that,’ said Williams to his own surprise. ‘You know we had our differences, but I would never have wished for this.’

  ‘That is good of you, very good.’ Hatch seemed deeply moved. ‘He was an ass, but he was a good fellow. And brave too. None braver.’ Williams nodded since it seemed to be helping the man. ‘Well, that is my point. We may all be dead soon. You and I both. I know that we too have had our differences over these last months. Well, that’s not important
now. I just wanted to say . . . that is to ask . . . well, to take your hand and say that there were no hard feelings.’

  Williams still could not quite convince himself that no game was involved and that the mockery would not resume. Yet Hatch seemed utterly sincere, indeed deeply emotional, and clearly needed this gesture. Williams stood and held out his hand. Hatch took it and shook it fervently.

  ‘Thank you, Williams. Now we are square whatever happens. Thank you.’ Hatch stepped back. ‘There should be no arguments unresolved. This does not mean we need become friends.’

  ‘Well, perhaps,’ said Williams vaguely.

  ‘No, I really do not care for you, but that does not matter.’ The tone was matter-of-fact, not scornful or hostile. Hatch turned and walked away. Williams shook his head and returned to the Psalms. They were so much easier to understand than people.

  MacAndrews sent Brotherton to tell Wickham. The order had come through late, but Captain Wickham of the 106th was to report to General Wellesley’s staff immediately, as a preliminary to being attached to that of General Burrard. Wickham’s friends had obviously been working on his behalf. Staff postings offered hard work, but brought far greater comforts and rewards than the more anonymous service with a regiment. MacAndrews had no doubt that the captain would be healed enough to take up his new duties, for this was a great opportunity. Well, ambition was natural enough, although MacAndrews had a deep-seated suspicion of the staff, perhaps because he had never been given an opportunity to serve in such exalted circles himself.

  That was the last order he needed to give today. He had written five letters of condolence, and decided that now he might at last turn to his own correspondence. He had dismissed his clerk, the round-faced and bespectacled Corporal Atkinson, to get some sleep. This he would do on his own. He pulled out the locket that he always wore around his neck and flipped open the catch. The miniature of Esther had been painted fifteen years ago and yet still captured her better than any other image. The smile was full of mischief. The portrait of Jane was less good, made when she was thirteen and awkward sitting for the artist. The girl had grown so much and he would need to have a new likeness made.