All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Aye, but we’ll still be outnumbered when Boney comes.’ Murray gestured at the map. ‘Now, there are three ways he can come with a proper army and heavy guns. There’s the central route that Junot took back in ’07, but we can probably discount that one. The land there is barren, the roads scarcely worthy of the name even by Portuguese standards, and the area so heavily plundered that an army would starve. That leaves two choices – north or south. Everyone has known that for centuries and so there are fortresses guarding the roads. In the south we have Elvas in Portugal and Badajoz over in Spain. It’s none too healthy down there – you remember all those men lost to fever when we camped there after Talavera?’ The other two men nodded. ‘But it is certainly perfectly practical as a route.

  ‘The other option is the northern road, guarded by Almeida on this side of the border and Ciudad Rodrigo on the Spanish side, and that is probably the weakest of all the fortresses. I am inclined to think it the more likely of the two routes, and so does Wellington, but it is far from certain. It will be easier for new forces coming from Spain to reach there quickest. However, the French are keeping us guessing, demonstrating against both. Reynier is not too far from Badajoz, while Marshal Ney watches Ciudad Rodrigo. Last month Ney marched from Salamanca and closed on the city, demanding surrender. The governor told him politely to go to hell, and after a couple of days he sloped off.’

  ‘I believe Herrasti to be a good man,’ said Baynes.

  ‘Let us hope so.’ Hanley caught the doubt in Murray’s voice. ‘He did not have much to fear. Ney had no heavy guns and not enough food to mount a siege. We hear tell that he is using his artillery caissons to carry food rather than ammunition because he is so short of wagons.

  ‘The greater part of the army is concentrating to the north, ready to meet the French if they come that way. Wellington is leaving “Daddy” Hill to watch the southern road.’ Hanley remembered the kindly and capable General Hill from Talavera and wondered whether Major Wickham was still on the general’s staff. ‘If they do come that way then the rest of the army can quickly shift to reinforce him.’

  ‘We want you in the north, William,’ said Baynes. ‘It will be important to know as much as we can about what the French are doing. There should be plenty of signs betraying their intentions if we are keen enough to spot them.’

  Murray took over again. ‘When they invade they will need food for a big army, carts to move it and a train of very heavy ordnance to batter their way into any fortress blocking their path. Try as they might, they cannot readily hide such preparations.

  ‘Time is more important than almost anything else. We need time to be ready for them, and then we need to slow them down. A big army consumes supplies at a prodigious rate. The more we can slow them, then the greater their problems will become and all the while we will grow stronger.’

  ‘Will that make enough difference?’ Hanley asked. ‘The odds still appear too great to beat.’

  ‘God help us, another croaker,’ said Murray, rolling his eyes.

  ‘I do not understand.’

  Baynes offered enlightenment. ‘Lord Wellington is plagued by officers, many of them senior, writing home and proclaiming that Portugal cannot be saved and that the war is already as good as lost. Such letters and opinions readily make their way into the newspapers, those sources of so much wisdom.’

  Colonel Murray glared at the heavy irony. ‘A lot will depend on our allies,’ he said. ‘The Portuguese are sound.’

  ‘At least if some of their leaders stop trying to engineer succession rights to the Spanish throne for Ferdinand VII’s Portuguese wife.’ Baynes’ voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘And strangely enough, not all are so convinced that it is worth obeying the British and sacrificing so much on behalf of an ally who may simply sail away if things turn bad and leave them both ruined and subject again to the French.’

  ‘Britain cannot afford to lose this army,’ said Murray defensively. ‘But I suspect that she also cannot afford to lose this war and leave all of Europe under Boney’s thumb. So we must avoid that, and that means holding on here. The Spanish can help, if the guerrillas tell us all they see and make life difficult for the French, and if Ciudad Rodrigo puts up a decent fight.’

  Baynes smiled. ‘Herrasti pledged to fight to the last drop of blood.’

  ‘Words are one thing,’ said Murray, ‘actions another. If talk was all it took, then every last Frenchman would long since be dead or chased back across the Pyrenees.’ He looked meaningfully at the merchant.

  ‘There is a particular reason for sending you, my dear William. In Andalusia there were too many defections to King Joseph. More than a few previously staunch supporters of Ferdinand VII suddenly changed sides. Several now have high offices in Joseph Bonaparte’s regime. Others are simply considerably richer than they were. It is in part a sign of the way the wind is blowing, but the French have some good men at work ahead of their advancing armies.’

  ‘Velarde,’ said Hanley.

  ‘Possibly. We have received no definite news of him since the summer.’

  Luiz Velarde was one of the artistic circle Hanley had known in Madrid before the war. He had risen quickly in the patriot forces, and seemed to be working gathering information for their benefit, sometimes with another of the young artists, José-María Espinosa. The latter had accepted service with King Joseph, but sold secrets to the British and Spanish alike. At Talavera, Velarde had helped with a deception plan, but a pretended defection to the French now seemed real. Since he had gone, Espinosa and most of the network of sources had died at the gallows or in front of firing squads.

  ‘It may be that he is dead,’ Baynes continued. ‘If not, then it would be a happy outcome if we can arrange to make that the case.’

  ‘I am no assassin,’ said Hanley, remembering the last conversation he had had with the merchant before he had left for England last year.

  ‘My dear boy, of course not, but as you told me some time ago, you are a soldier, and killing the enemy is part of the job.’

  For a moment it looked as if Murray would say something, but in the end he must have decided against it.

  ‘You will go to Ciudad Rodrigo,’ Baynes continued. ‘When you report, send first to Brigadier General Craufurd who commands our Light Brigade forming the outposts of the army. Colonel Murray and I will sometimes be visiting his staff, but even when not, he has orders to pass on all your communication to Lord Wellington’s headquarters.’

  ‘Now, I think that is all of my part in this, for the moment.’ Murray looked at Baynes, and the merchant gave a gracious wave of his arm. ‘Good. Now, I must find Colonel Fletcher and ask a few more questions. Good day to you both, and good luck to you, Hanley.’ Murray shook his hand firmly.

  Baynes watched him go. ‘Oh dear, I fear my talk of assassins offended him. It often surprises me how coy some soldiers are when it comes to talk of killing.’

  ‘Not killing, but murder.’

  ‘A distinction that often escapes me, I fear,’ said Baynes with deliberately exaggerated innocence. ‘I have little doubt that Velarde will exert the utmost efforts to kill you.’

  ‘You now sound certain that he is there.’

  ‘Do I?’ Baynes dabbed at his cheeks with his disreputable handkerchief. ‘Well, perhaps I am, or perhaps I am simply getting nervous. So much is at stake that the least thing may tip the balance.’ Hanley had rarely seen the merchant looking so committed. Or so worried. Then the moment passed, and Baynes’ red cheeks seemed to glow with happiness. ‘Oh, I do have some pleasant news, for it is more than likely that you will run across some old friends from your regiment up in that area.’

  ‘The training mission to the Spanish,’ Hanley began.

  ‘Is not far from Ciudad Rodrigo,’ said Baynes, cutting in. ‘I believe your friends Pringle and Williams are there, as well as that splendid rogue Corporal Dobson.’

  ‘It is Sergeant Dobson now.’

  ‘Of course, my mistake.’

&n
bsp; Hanley caught a flicker of amusement and was sure Baynes was playing a game, once again pretending ignorance. ‘Is this your doing?’ he asked, and did not for a moment expect an honest answer.

  ‘My dear boy, I am merely a humble adviser and a simple civilian. How could I possibly play a role in the orders given to soldiers? However, it is certainly a happy chance, and they may be of help to you. You cannot tell me that Dobson is not a skilled killer.’ Baynes smiled, looking like an innocent child except for his eyes. ‘Or your Mr Williams, for that matter.’

  8

  Williams tried to rub some life back into his hands and was grateful for the shelter provided by the officers’ tent, even if the flaps were tied back and let the wind in. There was the heavy drumming of raindrops on the canvas as yet another downpour started, and in less than a minute individual beats were lost in a constant onslaught. The storms did not last long, but were bitter when they came, and his greatcoat was so wet that he had allowed Dobson to take it into the chapel and dry it by one of the fires lit by the greenjackets of the 95th.

  ‘Foul night,’ he said, to make conversation with the three subalterns in the tent, and as true Englishmen they considered the matter and then solemnly assented. Dolosa, one of Morillo’s officers from the Princesa Regiment, nodded politely, while following little of the conversation.

  ‘Been foul days and nights ever since we came up here,’ said the bespectacled Lieutenant Mercer. The three battalions of the Light Brigade had arrived at the end of January and, supported by Hanoverian Hussars of the King’s German Legion, they formed the advance posts of the British army. Since then it had rained almost every day.

  ‘Still better than “Dough Boy hill”.’ That was Simmons, a small, very keen youngster who was undoubtedly on his first campaign.

  ‘True enough. We had almost one hundred men in the company when we landed, part of one of the finest brigades ever to leave England.’

  ‘Yes, I remember seeing you arrive at Talavera,’ said Williams. The Light Brigade had force-marched very hard, but still missed the battle itself.

  ‘You were there, Mr Williams?’ asked Simmons.

  ‘In Mackenzie’s Division.’ Williams felt the mood warming towards him. ‘Captain Pringle was wounded near the end of the battle.’ Pringle had a patrol of Spanish soldiers camped and forming its own outpost a mile and a half further down the River Agueda. Now that the British outposts were ahead of Fort La Concepción and the French had come closer, MacAndrews was extending the training to give more direct experience. In turn, parties of thirty new recruits were sent out on route marches and patrols, with some of the experienced Spanish NCOs and British leaders in charge of them. The French were enough of a presence to help give a sense of purpose to what they were teaching, and care was taken not to expose the training parties too much. This was the furthest forward they had been.

  ‘Well, in just over half a year since then we have lost more than forty men – and none to the French,’ Mercer added. ‘Fever and flux in the main. And so, yes, Mr Simmons, rain or not, it is certainly a good deal healthier up here in the north.

  ‘And rain or not, it is time to do the rounds. Perhaps you will be kind enough to show our guests something of the position?’ The young officer nodded eagerly in response. ‘I’ll not take you down to the pickets themselves, though, Mr Williams,’ Mercer continued. ‘Unfamiliar voices and more people than they expect on a dark night is a recipe for a mistake.’

  Williams understood the caution. At least the rain had stopped, and he was just thinking that it should not be too uncomfortable stepping out into the night without his greatcoat when Dobson appeared, bringing it with him. The sergeant and a Spanish corporal named Gomez joined them as the enthusiastic Simmons showed them the position.

  ‘This is the company’s alarm post,’ he said, tapping the side of a big boulder some fifty yards short of the crest of the ridge. The cloud had cleared for the moment and a bright moon revealed the rugged landscape at the top of the bluff. Simmons led them up. There was just a gleam in the valley below to suggest the line of the river. ‘We have to report every day on the height of the water. At the moment all the rain means that it is almost at flood. Hence the advance of the infantry so far, because most of the fords are too deep to use. If it were dry, we would be further back and only the cavalry so far forward.’

  Williams did his best to explain to Lieutenant Dolosa. His Spanish was improving, and the Spaniard now had a smattering of English, but these were complicated matters. Gomez understood English quite well, and that was the reason they had chosen to bring him.

  ‘Where are your sentries?’ asked Williams.

  ‘Two men on the bridge itself, and then a sergeant’s picket of a dozen men some fifty yards further back up the slope. The path winds tightly on both sides as it climbs up the valley. The rest of the company are where you saw them in the chapel, with half always kept awake, and then three companies back in the village of Barba del Puerco.’

  ‘Beard of a pig,’ said Williams.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Williams?’

  ‘I think that is what the name means – pig’s beard,’ he replied, and sought confirmation from Dolosa. The Spaniard nodded and then shrugged, unwilling to speculate on the whims of the local farmers.

  Simmons chuckled. ‘Funny thing to call a place. They are thirty minutes from us.’

  ‘And the French?’

  ‘Are on the opposite side of the valley. You can see their picket in the daytime. Generally they behave, although they do tend to take pot shots at us now and again. Haven’t hit a thing, though, as the range is absurdly long for a common musket.’ The 95th carried rifles, and in the past Williams had noticed their disdain for more old-fashioned weapons. ‘Most days they call across that they will see us tonight and slit our throats, but as yet they haven’t stirred.’ Simmons grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I nipped across there just after dark and could not see any sign of anyone.’

  Williams could not help smiling. The lad was not boasting, although obviously proud of his boldness. He was also impressed by the young officer’s precise knowledge of numbers and distances, and said as much when he returned to the tent.

  ‘Standing orders for the brigade,’ explained Mercer, who had returned from his rounds. ‘All courtesy of the general, God rot his black soul.’ Simmons and Lieutenant Coane were taking a turn sleeping inside the chapel, and he had sent the rest of his party to join them in resting.

  The hostility of many officers in the Light Brigade to their commander was something Williams had already encountered. In fact, Mercer’s attitude seemed mild compared to some.

  ‘Are you sure that I should not present my compliments to Captain O’Hare?’ asked Williams, wishing to change the subject. Pringle had sent him to inform the British picket of their presence, but by the time they had missed their path in the darkness it was late and the captain had retired for the night. At least Billy had told him not to return until daylight.

  ‘No need, old boy,’ said Mercer. ‘The captain was feeling unwell and it is best not to disturb him.’

  It was rather odd, but from the lieutenant’s expression Williams guessed that this was not an unusual occurrence. The subject was obviously a delicate one, and for a while they lapsed into silence.

  Then a shot split the night air.

  Jean-Baptiste Dalmas had learned how to be patient. It was a skill that had eluded him when he was a schoolmaster and the slowness of his pupils had frustrated and angered him. Most of them tried their best, and he could still picture the strain of concentration on many of their simple faces as they struggled with Latin or geometry alike.

  That was ten years and many lifetimes ago. His exemption from conscription was removed when a local beauty began to favour him instead of the major’s son, and six months later he had fought at Marengo and become a sergeant. After Austerlitz he was commissioned, and by the time the Polish campaign was over and he had charged at Eylau and
Friedland, he was a captain. Dalmas liked being a soldier and knew that he was a good one. The problems were so much simpler, and direct action brought clear results. Much more satisfying than trying to beat knowledge into young minds. Thankfully he had found many enemies to be as unimaginative as his former pupils.

  Dalmas had spent the day watching the bridge and the British soldiers guarding it. There had been little to see, as he lay concealed behind a nest of boulders on the French side of the valley. He watched as sentries were posted, saw them relieved and visited by their officers doing the rounds, and then had watched with amusement when a lone Englishman had crept across the bridge and crawled about on the French bank. It was entertaining tracing the man’s steady progress. The fellow came close at one point, but Dalmas knew that someone who did not move was hard to see and so waited, half holding his breath, until the dark shape of the Englishman moved on. It was all about patience, but at the end of the day the French captain felt that he had the measure of this enemy. They seemed capable soldiers, and Dalmas had fought the British before and knew that they could fight hard and so should not be underestimated. These men wore green uniforms, which meant that they were light infantrymen armed with rifles. Such weapons were accurate, but slow to load, and men who killed from a long distance were often reluctant to let the enemy come close.

  Satisfied at last, Dalmas crawled back from his little nest, feeling pains in his limbs as the blood started to flow again. He was cold and stiff, his long coat drenched from the earlier rain, but he had learned all that he could about the enemy position and knew that the plan could work. He reached the road and followed it as it twisted and turned up the steep side of the valley.

  The first company of infantry was already sitting on its packs just behind the ridge and the others were coming up to join them. A group of officers in long cloaks stood beside the resting men. Dalmas went up to them and saluted.