All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The pair rode on for another four hours, and still the rain fell, but only once did they see any signs of a French patrol, and then in the distance. It was hard to be sure with the steady rain misting the air, but Hanley thought that they were dragoons, and Benito led him away quickly. Patrols were the real danger, because otherwise they gave a wide berth to all the French posts. Ney’s corps was spread thinly, and from captured letters Hanley knew that the French were having problems gathering food and fodder.

  By nightfall they had reached a small band of guerrillas led by a captain who still wore the faded yellow jacket of one of the regular cavalry regiments. He had barely twenty men, a couple of them deserters from the foreign regiments in French service, and so contented himself with watching the enemy, only attacking isolated stragglers or making night-time visits to the houses of those who proclaimed loyalty to Joseph Bonaparte.

  ‘Junot is laying siege to Astorga,’ said the captain, after Hanley had shared some wine with him. They were in a farmhouse high up in the hills, and had sentries posted along the only two paths to come this way. Hanley was not sure whether the farmer was an old friend or too scared to refuse the band of partisans. ‘He moved at the end of March. The city is holding, but for how long …’ The Spanish officer shrugged.

  He was hearing the same news from all his sources, and was sure now that it was true. Ney remained dispersed around Salamanca, and General Junot’s 8th Corps had gone north to attack the fortified city of Astorga. It was almost the last important stronghold in that area, and when it fell – there was no one capable of marching to the city’s relief and so it was not a matter of if, but when – the French would dominate yet more of Spain.

  ‘Sieges are usually costly,’ said Hanley. ‘Think of Saragossa.’ During the early stages of the war, the Aragonese city of Saragossa had tested the French sorely, the defenders not giving up when their walls were breached, but fighting street to street and house to house. It was said that at one stage the French and Spanish battled for days inside the cathedral. The first siege failed, but the French came back, and although their losses were dreadful, in the end they took the place.

  ‘Astorga is not Saragossa,’ said the captain. ‘Its walls are old and there are not many defenders.’

  ‘A month?’ asked Hanley.

  ‘Maybe three weeks,’ said the Spaniard, and Hanley could see the deep gloom in the man’s eyes. He was seeing the same mood wherever he went, for everyone could see that the French were winning. Men like this were not giving up, but were unable to see any real hope, and so they fought on without it because they loved their country and hated to be trampled by the invaders.

  Time was important. Hanley still did not quite understand why Murray and Baynes had hammered home that point, for as far as he could see it would take years and not months to make a difference. Yet if they were right the French did not seem to realise it. Even a few weeks of delay while one of the corps marked down to invade Portugal was sent off to the north meant that it was a little longer before that invasion could start.

  The French did not seem to be in a hurry. Napoleon had not yet come, but a copy of Le Moniteur reported his marriage to Princess Marie Louise of Austria, so perhaps he would soon leave for Spain. For it was certain that the French were preparing, and as Hanley searched through the letters brought by the priest he saw plenty of signs of this. Ney was gathering reserves of supplies at Salamanca, and had ordered the construction of dozens of big new ovens. That meant he planned to turn stocks of grain into bread or hard-tack biscuit for use when the campaign actually started. The French marshal was still short of transport wagons and the beasts to pull them. Hanley’s sources had also managed to steal several orders for local commanders to buy any they could find and send them back to the corps. Hanley smiled. It was always a sign that the French were desperate for something when they spoke of paying, for when things were easy to find they simply took what they wanted. That only made farmers and merchants careful to hide as much as they could, so in harder times coin was used to coax them.

  Money featured heavily in the documents and reports. The Emperor had ordered his armies in Spain to fund themselves locally, and no doubt that was easier to say in Paris than to make a reality in the field. Hanley read of bickering between the marshals and generals, each trying to keep the resources from the region he controlled for personal use. In some cases that use was very personal indeed, as men plundered the country and kept the money for themselves. One of his best sources had sent a bundle of letters describing the row between Ney and General Loison after the latter arrested eleven women from the town of Benevente and demanded a huge ransom from their families for their release.

  ‘I wouldn’t pay,’ said the captain gruffly when Hanley told him about it. ‘There are always more women.’

  It was a woman who provided the best of Hanley’s reports – or rather a lady. The world knew her as La Doña Margarita Madrigal de las Altas Torres, the widowed daughter-in-law of the head of one of the greatest families of Old Castile, and as a heroine of the siege of Saragossa. Hanley knew that her heroism was as real as her identity was false. The real lady had died of fever as she returned from the New World, and so her maid had taken her place and used her mistress’s wealth and position to fight the French. La Doña Margarita – even Hanley still thought of her naturally by that name – received reports from people all over the country, paying where necessary, and passing it on to the Allied armies. Last year she had travelled widely, her family connections securing her passes from both sides, but that was when she had pretended to be pregnant with the heir to the title. The baby was ‘born’ near Christmas, and for the last months she had remained in one of the family’s houses in Salamanca. Hanley did not know where the boy came from, but presumably it was an orphan or a child whose parents were willing to part with him.

  Hanley wondered whether the secret would remain a secret for very long. For the moment, the lady was busily gathering every piece of information she could. There was a lot about the arrival of several companies of engineers. The officers and men were there, but at the moment their equipment and supplies were still at Burgos some three hundred miles away. General Ruty headed the engineers, and one letter forwarded by La Doña Margarita explained that he had had to convince the paymaster of 6th Corps to advance him 200,000 francs to feed his soldiers and purchase tools for them.

  The detail about the engineers was exceptionally good, and La Doña Margarita explained that much came from a new source, the mistress of a major on Ruty’s staff. The woman called herself Molly, claimed to be English and was certainly a foreigner of some sort, and expected to be well paid. La Doña Margarita had given the woman what she wanted, and Hanley believed that she had done the right thing. When the invasion came the French would rely on their engineers to besiege the fortresses in their path, so keeping a close eye on Ruty and his men was well worth the expense.

  Hanley’s mind wandered to think more about La Doña Margarita herself. She was a tall, dark-eyed and dark-skinned young woman, with a round face and very long black hair. He admired her both as an agent and a woman, and that was one of the reasons it was so tempting to sneak into Salamanca and meet her again. Another was the mistress of the engineer officer, but that was for more practical concerns. If the girl really was British, and both willing and able to win the confidence of French officers, then she could prove extremely useful. Hanley also had an idea about her, and although he knew that the odds were long he was more and more convinced that it would prove true. During the retreat to Corunna, Dobson’s daughter Jenny had fled from the army and her newborn baby. After Medellín, Hanley had been captured, and before his escape he had a fleeting glimpse of Jenny working with a party of whores to entertain French officers. Her hair was dyed, and La Doña Margarita said in her letter that the major’s mistress had fair hair. Jenny was determined and very ambitious, and if it was she then Hanley was all the more convinced that she could be useful. He would like to fi
nd out, but he knew that there was more to it than that. La Doña Margarita and Jenny Dobson alike stirred feelings he had not felt since he had ceased to love Mapi, the young dancer he had kept during his years in Madrid. She was out there somewhere, another source spying on the French, but Hanley was still not sure whether he had the courage to face her. A visit to Salamanca held far more appeal.

  Yet it was not to be for some time, and before dawn he and Benito set out, heading back towards Ciudad Rodrigo. The morning was quiet, and for once the sun shone and the rain clouds stayed away. At noon, Benito left Hanley outside and rode into a village not far from the main road. He came back with news that a big French foraging party was sweeping the country ahead of them. They went to the north and rode hard across a stretch of hills too open to provide any real concealment. The ground was wet, so there were not the usual clouds of dust to mark the passage of bodies of troops, and that meant that the French infantry were only a mile away when they came over the brow of a rise and saw them coming towards them.

  Hanley and Benito drove their tired mounts as fast as they could, riding in a wide arc off to the north again. Isolated riders were a suspicious sight in this country, and for a few minutes two mounted French officers gave chase, but when they failed to gain on the fugitives they returned to the safety of the column. It was unwise for one or two Frenchmen to stray too far, for that risked capture or assassination, and after more than two years of war in Spain every one of Napoleon’s soldiers had heard the stories of torture and mutilation.

  The cavalry were usually more determined, and when late in the afternoon Benito jerked his head behind them and said ‘Mira!’ Hanley’s heart sank when he spotted the hussars. There were ten of them, all in the drab grey uniforms of the 3ième Hussars of Ney’s corps, and they came on steadily, no more than half a mile away.

  Hanley doubted that the French were acting on anything more than suspicion. In the past he had bluffed his way past French patrols, but today he wore his red coat and knew that he could not pass as a civilian.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to his guide, and they urged their horses into a canter. The hussars kept pace but did not gain. Hanley and Benito were well mounted, but the animals were tired, and perhaps the French were fresher. After forty minutes the grey-uniformed hussars were barely any further behind them and the two men could feel their horses slowing. Hanley’s mare almost tripped several times and that was a sure sign that she was becoming exhausted.

  A quarter of an hour later and the French had gained a little ground, but at this rate they would not catch up with them before darkness had fallen. Yet the French kept coming, and that could only mean that they did not need to reach their prey, and were confident of driving them into the arms of someone ahead of them.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Hanley, knowing that Benito was more likely to get them out of this situation. The Spaniard nodded forcibly ahead of them, and the British officer felt that the best thing was to trust his guide. If the French caught them then the Spaniard would be hanged or shot. Hanley would be a prisoner, and that would no doubt be dull, but unless he resisted it was unlikely that they would kill him. Grimly he wondered whether he would get to see Salamanca sooner than he thought.

  The French light cavalry crept ever closer, and then one of them fired a carbine at a range that was still absurdly long and Hanley realised that they must be signalling. His mare was foamed in sweat and stumbled so badly that he almost lost his seat. He patted her neck and urged her on.

  There were shouts from their left and another group of grey hussars appeared from behind the ruin of a stone barn. These men were barely five hundred yards away, and when Hanley looked he saw that they wore round fur caps rather than shakos, and that made them members of the elite company of the regiment.

  Benito took them to the right, but not as sharply as Hanley expected, and he wondered whether his guide was trying to avoid the patrol behind them. A glance in that direction showed that these were now a little closer, but the men in black fur caps were much nearer and surely the greater threat as they spurred their horses into a gallop.

  Hanley whipped his mare mercilessly, and from somewhere she found enough strength to break into a canter as they went up the slope of the rise to their right. The men from the elite company were closing, and when he looked back over his shoulder, he could see that they had already halved the distance. Several had stubby carbines in their hands, but were sensible enough not to waste the shots firing at a running target from the back of a bouncing horse.

  Benito was a smaller man, and his little pony was beginning to outstrip the mare bearing the weight of the big Englishman. Then Hanley saw a horseman ride out on to the top of the hill ahead of them and he knew that the game was up. The man wore a drab brown coat, but his helmet was unmistakably the high brass helmet with horsehair crest worn by the French dragoons. Two more riders appeared a moment later, both carrying lances, and while one wore a wide-topped French shako the other had the square hat of a Polish lancer. Hanley was too tired to wonder why a patrol should be so mixed, but that really did not matter because they were boxed in and had nowhere left to go.

  ‘French!’ he called, as Benito headed straight towards the three riders on the ridge, and Hanley could not believe that the man had not seen the new danger. He wondered about trying to cut away to the left, but knew that he would not make it and so in blind faith or resignation he kept after his guide.

  A long line of horsemen appeared on the height, and some wore wide-brimmed hats and others seemed to have every headgear known to the armies fighting in Spain. More than half had lances, but the rest carried bulky infantry muskets, and these now aimed them and fired, the noise and smoke making several of their ponies and horses shy.

  ‘El Charro!’ cried Benito – the closest Hanley had ever heard him come to enthusiasm – and then he saw the man himself, waving in greeting.

  11

  Julián Sánchez García was these days formally Don Julián, a brigadier in the Spanish army, but when men spoke of him it was almost always as ‘El Charro’, for the nicknames sported by the guerrilla leaders made them seem more than mere men. Hanley guessed that he was in his late thirties, but with his big moustache and bushy whiskers it was hard to tell his age more clearly. Brigadier or not, Don Julián had the hard face and hands of a man who had served as a sergeant in the army and then worked his own land for long years before the war. He was as tough and unforgiving as the earth of Old Castile. It was said that the French had slaughtered his family, and when Hanley looked into those cold eyes he could believe it. He hated the French with a passion, but it seemed that he would not kill any of them today.

  ‘No point,’ he said. The hussars had retired at the sight of the guerrillas, but had not gone far and now formed in a single line and watched them. ‘Surprise has gone, and I don’t want to lose anyone for no good reason.’ He winked at Hanley. ‘If I hadn’t come out to save you and the worthless carcass of this old bandit, then it might have been worth an attack. Probably should not have bothered, but there it is. If we charge now they’ll just pull back, and somewhere out there is another squadron or two.’

  The guerrilla leaders who survived were cautious men, fighting when there was least risk and keeping at a safe distance the rest of the time. Don Julián had only some of his men here today, and none would think any less of him for running away. These men planned to be alive on the day they chased away the last Frenchman.

  Hanley had met Don Julián in Ciudad Rodrigo, but this was the first time he had ridden with his band, and seen his men close up. Nearly all wore some items of uniform, but blue French infantry jackets mingled with the green of chasseurs and dragoons, and the whites, yellows, light and dark blues and myriad other colours of Spain. There were battered cocked hats, shakos of every nation – one man even had a Highlander’s bonnet – as well as an array of helmets and sombreros and civilian tricorne hats. Some of the French helmets were dented, and a few coats stained with the blood
of their previous owner. Their weapons were as varied, with rapiers, a few antiquated broadswords and the straight swords or curved sabres of every type of cavalry regiment. Others simply carried wicked-looking knives to back up their lances. Most had some sort of firearm, even if it was just an old horse pistol or blunderbuss. It was hard not to think of Falstaff’s ragged regiment, for the men would almost have been a parody of soldiers if it were not for their capable manner. El Charro’s men did not move in ranks or formations and looked like banditti, but as they went, there were scouts on all sides and the men looked ready to kill or escape without the need for any order.

  They pulled back without leaving a rearguard.

  ‘They won’t believe it isn’t a trap,’ said Don Julián complacently, and as they rode he and Hanley exchanged news.

  The French were getting more active. ‘It’s not yet the big attack,’ said the guerrilla leader, ‘but their foraging expeditions are getting bigger and each time they go further. There are more troops near the border facing the British outposts. You know about Astorga?’

  ‘Junot has attacked the city.’

  ‘Yes, and there is talk of a threat to Badajoz.’

  ‘Lord Wellington still thinks the main attack will come here,’ said Hanley.

  ‘So do I, and I think it will not be long once Astorga falls. You were not here two weeks ago when a French brigade came nosing around outside Ciudad Rodrigo. A lot of those whoresons of hussars who were chasing you, and a couple of battalions of infantry.’ At times the farmer and the sergeant were close beneath the surface. A charro was a nickname for a man from Salamanca, but sometimes it was slang for a roughneck or peasant. ‘They came and had a look, surprised a picket and took some prisoners, and then strolled off again. Must have been looking at the defences and sniffing out the town’s strength.