Williams came towards him, bayonet at the ready, but took care to avoid treading on Mata. Denilov dropped his useless pistol and had enough time to draw his sword. He raised the blade in a salute and a challenge.
‘Just a common soldier,’ he sneered.
‘I am a gentleman, sir,’ said Williams. Then he raised his musket to his shoulder. Denilov was no more than two yards away and there was just time for surprise and fear to register on his face before Williams shot him through the body. Powder smoke filled the room as the noise of the shot echoed off the stone walls.
Denilov gasped something in his own language and dropped to his knees. Then he slumped forward. Blood pooled darkly around his body.
Dobson swore as the Russian soldier bit his shoulder, then head-butted the man and pummelled him as he reeled from the blow. Using his greater weight, he held the man down with only one hand and with the other unscrewed the Russian’s bayonet from the musket that lay near by. It was awkward, but eventually he freed it and stabbed the man repeatedly until he lay still.
‘There’s one more,’ warned Truscott, and at the same moment the door to the kitchen was forced open. The last Russian soldier saw Dobson stabbing his comrade and aimed his musket. Williams ran towards him, and without thinking threw his musket and bayonet at the man as if it was a spear. It flew awkwardly, but made the Russian swing back his own weapon to parry the clumsy missile.
Williams was still too far away to reach him as the man pointed the muzzle of his musket at him. He shut his eyes. The shot was deafening, but to his astonishment Williams felt no blow. When he looked the Russian was stretched out on the kitchen floor, moaning. Mata’s two men had come into the house when the Russian at the window had stopped firing. The first one in was no more than fifteen, and had never thought of anything beyond his studieseatedlfew months earlier. Yet he did not hesitate as he entered the room and saw the dark-uniformed man poised to fire. He shot first and much to his astonishment hit the target.
Mata was badly hurt. He could not walk or ride, but the thin-faced student must have been tougher than he looked because he had not died. His men were not so fortunate. When they found the bodies of the two who had only been wounded by the grenade, they found that their throats had been cut. The fifteen-year-old promptly did the same to the wounded Russian and no one acted quickly enough to stop him. Nor did any of them truly blame him.
All the dead were dragged out. Maria cleaned Hanley’s wound and did an even better job of bandaging it with the last remnants of her skirt. They lifted Mata as gently as they could into a bedroom and laid him on a bed. Before he let them do this he had watched as the girl ran her hands over the carved animals decorating the fireplace. She reached behind the head of a bull and with some effort pushed at a metal catch, which sprang open a panel. Inside was a small chest, the key still in the lock. She got Williams to lift it out and lay it on the table before she turned the key and opened it. The gold glistened red in the candlelight. There were hundreds of coins – not a fortune perhaps, but still more money than Williams had ever seen in his life. There was also a bag, which the girl took. She untied the top and slipped her hand inside to check the contents, but did not show them to anyone else.
It was nearly half past two in the morning by Pringle’s watch and Truscott’s piece made it even later than that. They all needed to return to the battalion and their proper duties, promising to come back with a surgeon as soon as they could. Mata’s men would stay with him, as would Maria and the money.
‘He will be cared for by Cleopatra,’ she had announced. A bruise was spreading across her cheek, but Maria looked both assured and determined. Billy Pringle also thought she looked damned attractive, especially as she still lacked a skirt.
Maria noticed where his glance had strayed and smiled, catching his eye when he looked up.
‘I suppose we could not wait half an hour?’ he asked Truscott hopefully.
‘My old schoolmaster used to say that you could only eat cakes if you had brought enough for everyone,’ replied the lieutenant.
‘I knew there was a good reason why I always hated teachers. However, Bills isn’t keen on cakes and poor Hanley is wounded and must be careful.’
‘Still leaves me. Save your strength.’ He led his friend away to join Hanley and Williams by the pile of their packs and other equipment. ‘All ready?’ he asked.
‘Just waiting for Dob,’ said Williams. ‘Said he had to go back for something.’ The veteran appeared a moment later. He was carrying a long bundle wrapped in rags and strapped to his slung musket, and had his hands clasped together.
‘Beg pardon, sirs, but I reckon we’ve earned this.’ Dobson’s tone was assured. ‘Hold out your hands, Mr Truscott, sir.’ The lieutenant did as he was told, and a moment later there was a jingle of coins falling on to his palms. ‘Better take Mr Hanley’s share as well, sir,’ said Dobson as he turned next to Pringle. ‘Him still being a bit Nelson.’
‘Where did you get this?’ Truscott could feel the coins in his hands. There must have been at least a dozen.
‘From that Russian bugger, sir. There was a bag of it in his pouch. Arrogant bastard hadn’t evenidden it.’ The veteran’s tone was contemptuous. ‘He don’t need ’em any more.’ Dobson reached Williams. ‘Come on, Pug. Reckon you’ll be needing this soon. They’re gold. Officers need a proper uniform. Makes it easier for the enemy to shoot at them.’
‘I’m not an officer yet, Dob.’ It was odd to be handling a dead man’s money, but Dobson’s manner did not permit a refusal. None of them was a rich man, and taking spoils from the enemy was as old as war itself. The only one who ventured any concern was Pringle. His gratitude to Maria had grown abundantly when she had slipped a note to him just before they left, whispering to him that the man named would be able to find her if Pringle came to Lisbon in a month’s time. Billy Pringle relished the thought of that reward. To take money in addition seemed excessive.
‘I’m not sure we should take this.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Truscott sharply. ‘You’ve got more out of this than the rest of us.’
‘Do you mean . . . ?’ began Hanley wonderingly, before Truscott cut in.
‘I mean nothing,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Dobson. It is generous of you to share.’
The old soldier simply nodded.
Hanley looked at Pringle and let out a short laugh. Williams looked on uncomprehendingly.
‘We must get back. I think there will be a battle soon,’ said Truscott.
‘You know,’ said Pringle, ‘I had almost forgotten about the French in the midst of our private little war.’
No one bothered to reply. Truscott was rubbing his wrists as they slowly came back to life. Hanley’s arm was paining him, and Pringle’s neck began throbbing from Denilov’s blow to it. Williams was puzzled again by how quickly the intensity of violence faded and the memories began to seem unreal. Dobson, for whom none of this was new, quickly cleared his mind as he always did on a march, walking in that steady rhythm that eats up the miles.
They walked in silence. Fatigue was catching up with them, but they knew that they would get little or no sleep that night. There was a dull satisfaction that this time they had won, but that only went a small way to easing the aching muscles in their tired legs. Hopefully it would be another quiet day of routine. On the way back they ran into a patrol of the 20th Light Dragoons led by a sergeant whose accent proclaimed him to be German.
‘More bloody foreigners,’ muttered Dobson under his breath. It took a while to convince the suspicious NCO of their identity, but fortunately the officer they were taken to remembered Truscott from the dinner in England. They were escorted back, reaching the 106th’s camp just after four.
32
The sun rose over the hills to the east, from where the French would come
, if they came at all. Williams pulled the peak of his shako down as far as he could to shield his eyes from the glow. Soon he would no doubt be cur
sing the heat, but for the moment the first hint of warmth was very welcome. Along with the rest of the army, the 106th had stood to an hour ago and since then had been standing in line, just behind the long ridge to the west of the village of Vimeiro. The night had been cold and uncomfortable, for they had been ordered to sleep in their uniforms, with packs and muskets ready to hand. Old hands had stuck their legs into the arms of their greatcoats and buttoned them on upside down. Then, with their blanket wrapped over the top, they had slept soundly. Williams had tried this once and found it far too restrictive.
So instead he wore the coat normally, used his pack as a pillow, and pulled his blanket over the top. He felt a mixture of elation and weariness after their strange adventure, but even if he had calmed enough to get an hour’s sleep then the cold would have kept him awake. He would never have believed that a place could be so hot in the day and yet so savagely cold at night. Not wanting anyone to think him nervous, he had pretended to sleep, listening to Pringle snore away for a good half-hour. Truscott had gone back to his own company, and Hanley had been silent, but Williams wondered whether he too had lain awake during the short time for rest they had. He was sure that Dobson went to sleep as soon as he lay down, for the old soldier had a remarkable knack for napping at any opportunity.
It had been a relief when the bugles had blown to rouse them. It was still dark, and Williams felt numb, his limbs lifeless as he stamped and rubbed his hands, trying to get warm. Activity had helped, as had the cup of piping-hot tea brought by Pringle’s soldier servant. Billy Pringle actually disliked tea, but had so far failed to convince Private Jenkins of this. He took a few sips, thanked the ever cheerful soldier, and then passed the cup round.
The army had been ordered to be ready. Rations were issued, ammunition pouches filled, and packs worn as the battalions roused themselves in the darkness. There was a smattering of shots from the piquet lines, as sentries discharged their pieces, checking to see whether the powder had grown damp. In a few cases it had, and then the redcoat added a fresh pinch to the pan and tried again. Those muskets which failed to go off after this had to be painfully unloaded.
Williams had flinched at the first shot, but was relieved that no one seemed to notice in the dark. He still felt drowsy and cold, and tried to convince himself that it had only been the shock of the sudden noise. Yet suddenly he knew that he was going to die today. When he closed his eyes he saw the Russian soldier levelling his musket and the fear flooded back. He had been lucky – they all had. It was hard to believe that his luck would hold.
It was all for nothing. The pride he had felt in refusing to be commissioned ebbed away and he called himself a fool for missing the chance. At least then his mother could have been proud of a dead officer son. It was not death itself he feared, for even in the cold pre-dawn he had stubborn confidence in his religion. He just knew that he wanted to live. There was so much left undone – so much he did not understand or had never known. Once again Williams was glad of the darkness for he knew his eyes were glassy. A vision of Jane MacAndrews sprang immediately to mind. How could he have been such a fool not to speak more clearly? Did she know how he felt? He had assumed his admiration must be obvious, but as he thought about it he knew with dread certainty that the girl was most likely completely unaware of the strength, and most of all the sincerity, of his devotion.
The rumour had gone around the battalion that the major’s wife and daughter were here, although how this was possible he could not imagine. He had not seen them, but now he prayed that they were and longed for just one sight of the girl before he died.
Williams started when a hand touched his shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ said Hanley. ‘But could you give me some help with these belts?’ Although his left arm remained in a sling, he insisted upon performing his duty. Williams took the sword belt and sash and eased the belt over Hanleys6s right shoulder. It was easier to be looking after someone else than thinking.
‘Damn, but it’s cold,’ Hanley continued. ‘Maybe it’s because we are so near the sea. That wind just goes through you.’
‘There, that should do. How is the arm?’ asked Williams.
‘Oh, fine. I’m just wearing this to get some sympathy!’ Hanley joked, but in truth the pain in his arm was much stronger than it had been, and the slightest movement made him wince. Fear was growing that the Russians had done serious damage, and his mind raced as he pictured himself under the surgeon’s knife. What sort of artist would he be with one arm? For all that he tried to sound casual.
‘I knew it,’ said Pringle, looming out of the shadows. ‘I am in command of a company of idlers.’
‘That seems appropriate.’ Hanley reached down to lift his sword slightly from his scabbard. ‘You know, I didn’t even draw this last time. It’s probably blunt anyway.’
‘Well, club ’em with it,’ suggested Pringle.
‘If there’s time I can have a go with my whetstone,’ offered Williams.
‘How do you carry so much, Hamish? I reckon if I said I needed a pianoforte, dining table and ten chairs, you’d offer to whip them out of your pack.’ Pringle’s laugh was a little louder and higher pitched than usual. He stopped abruptly and lowered his voice. ‘Now, William, you are behind the company today with the sergeants. Make sure everyone stays in their place and keeps up. Hamish, you are on the left next to Darrowfield and his rear rank man. If anything happens you take over and become left marker. I know I can count on both of you.’
‘Do you know anything?’ asked Williams tentatively.
‘Yes, she’s here, but no, I haven’t seen her.’ His laughter this time was less forced. ‘Or did you mean about the less important question of what the army is doing? Waiting, as far as I know. No advance has been ordered, but we are to be ready for one. Or to meet an attack. The French are out there somewhere.’
General Delaborde cursed the rising sun and the slow progress of the French columns. Under his breath he exercised particular inventiveness in cursing his commander, but as Junot and his staff were riding just a few yards ahead he had to be discreet. At least the damned man was acting. The British were expecting reinforcements to arrive soon and it made sense to attack now. Some thirteen thousand men – somewhat fewer than the British believed – had been concentrated from the garrisons and columns scattered around Portugal. That should give them an advantage of a few thousand over the British. The French had fifteen battalions of infantry, more than had been mustered in one place since the previous autumn. Twenty-four guns rumbled along as fast as their pitiful teams could pull them over these bad roads. That was more than the English had had when he met them at Roliça. They certainly had more cavalry than the enemy, although as they toiled through these hills any fool could see that this was scarcely ideal cavalry country – but then Junot was an old hussar, so whether he thought at all remained to be proved. Still, there might be an opportunity for their use, and at the very least it should help to locate the enemy.
At that moment a dragoon cantered up to give a report to Junot’s staff. The rising sun made the man’s copper helmet glow red. Cavalry had their uses even in this country. Delaborde could not make out the large white numerals on the soldier’s saddle-cloth which would identify his regiment. Not t mattered. The three Dragoon regiments with the army were all provisional formations, formed from detachments taken from the depots of all the different line regiments and grouped together to form a temporary unit. It was not an ideal arrangement. Officers and men did not know each other well, and all were aware that their careers would not be made in such an ad hoc formation. Still, they were French cavalry and would be more than a match for the small number of English horsemen. The Portuguese cavalry were not even worth considering.
Delaborde urged his horse towards the group of staff officers around Junot, ignoring the ADC, who had turned towards him at the general’s beckoning.
‘Henri, we have good news,’ said General Thiebault, the chief of staff, moving his horse in fron
t of Delaborde. Junot pressed on, ignoring the approach of his subordinate. ‘The English are not moving and are camped at some squalid little place called Vimeiro.’
‘It’s night, why should they move?’ Delaborde was in no mood to be cheerful. He knew Thiebault to be a good soldier, and knew what his brigade had done on the Pratzen Heights at Austerlitz. He also knew that the chief of staff was clever, and well read for a former private soldier, and that for all his talent there was no one he trusted less. Thiebault never shared credit, but was generous with blame and acid in his readily expressed views of others.
‘Nevertheless, the duke’s plan appears to be leading us to a great victory.’ As always with Thiebault, his words were carefully chosen.
‘We’re not going to get there by nine.’ Delaborde was deliberately gruff. ‘Worse than that, he’s split up my division. More than half of my lads are off poncing about with Brenier somewhere over there.’ He waved his arm back to the north-east. The brigade he had led at Roliça had been detached and marched by a different road.
‘They will swing round the enemy’s left flank and pin them just as we attack them from the front. It is a neat plan.’
‘If they arrive on time and if the British sit around with their eyes closed.’
‘As I say, our patrols report that they are not moving. Why should they expect an attack?’
Delaborde snorted at that. ‘We’ve spread out too far. Half of my division is with Brenier, and the other brigade coming up behind us. How the hell am I supposed to control them?’
‘As you know, the divisions were only formed a few days ago. Our brigades are used to operating independently.’ Thiebault remained suave. ‘I am sure the duke will make excellent use of both you and the brigades.’
‘Better than if we fought together as a division?’ Thiebault shrugged, but Delaborde did not want to leave the matter. ‘I tell you, he is scattering the army when we should be concentrated. These aren’t just peasants or militia. It’s an army.’
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Page 33
