All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Morning, Ross,’ MacAndrews called out, once again raising his crop so that the broken end flapped wildly for a moment and made one of the horses step to the side, its neck arching away. The rider whispered softly to the beast, and with the gentlest touch of his heels and a firm grasp on the reins steadied him.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel,’ Ross replied when the horse was calm. Captain Ross and his six guns of the Royal Horse Artillery were another recent arrival and were now using the fort as their headquarters. The ‘Chestnut Troop’ – named after their matched teams – looked superb and showed every mark of efficiency. In the RHA not only were the gun limbers drawn by six horses apiece, but all of the gun crews also rode, so that they were fast and highly manoeuvrable. ‘I bring good tidings of great joy.’

  The artillery officer handed his reins to the other rider and swung nimbly down before he spoke again. ‘Tomorrow, sir, I shall have a section of guns at your full disposal. General Craufurd gives his enthusiastic consent, and so my pieces are at your service, ready to smite whomsoever stands in your path.’

  Ross was a bright, eager man, and MacAndrews felt his glum mood recede. ‘That is excellent, most excellent.’ The Scotsman had asked for the loan of a single six-pounder to add some excitement to a field day involving all of his little command. Although the troop was based in the fort and kept many of its carts and wagons there, its guns were usually out serving with Brigadier Craufurd’s outpost and support line. MacAndrews had made gentle enquiries before sending in a formal request, and had not been too hopeful of securing the use of a single gun. Now it seemed that he would have two cannon at his disposal.

  ‘It will be good for the men to hear guns fired,’ Morillo said, for he and MacAndrews had come up with the idea together. ‘There is a danger that the noise of battle overwhelms young soldiers, so it is better if they are prepared.’

  Captain Ross grinned. ‘I am firmly convinced that cannon fire is an essential part of any education. Unimpeachable sources assure me that these days the masters at Eton regularly shoot at their pupils. They do the same at Harrow, it is said, and no doubt it will spread in time to the universities. Sadly the aim of the Fellows is likely to be poor, otherwise they might do the nation a great service.’

  It looked as if the gunner had more to say, but he was interrupted by the arrival of a lieutenant wearing a red-brown uniform and the high-fronted Portuguese shako.

  ‘Beg to report, sir, but the colonel sends word to say that the drill is about to begin.’

  Craufurd’s command had recently been reinforced by the arrival of the 1st and 2nd Regiments of Portuguese caçadores, expanding his brigade into a division. These light infantry battalions were frequently in or near the fort, and MacAndrews had gladly accepted an invitation to watch them at their drills.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant …?’

  ‘Matthews, sir.’ The Portuguese Regency Council had appointed the British Marshal Beresford to reorganise their army, weakened by years of neglect, and then wrecked by the French invasion. It was almost a question of starting from scratch and forming an entirely new army. Beresford brought with him a large number of British officers, each given a step in rank as a reward for transferring to the Portuguese service for the duration of the war. Some were commissioned from capable sergeants, and the Scotsman wondered whether Matthews was such a man, as he looked to be about thirty.

  Matthews proved garrulous, full of enthusiasm for his new regiment and its soldiers, and MacAndrews soon decided that he was not a former sergeant. Such men were often capable, but tended to lack confidence when speaking with men who might once have commanded them. More likely Matthews was simply an elderly ensign, lacking either money or influence, who had seized this opportunity for late advancement. Silently, the Scotsman wished him luck.

  As they followed him out of the fort, Matthews chattered away, mostly telling MacAndrews what he already knew. It was still interesting, since in essence the reorganisation of Portugal’s army had provided the inspiration for his own mission – distant though that purpose now seemed to be. Then for the next hour MacAndrews watched the Portuguese form from column to line and back again, deploy as skirmishers and advance or withdraw with supports in place.

  First impressions were good. The men were well accoutred and neat about their persons, while weapons and equipment were obviously in good order. The care needed to keep a firelock clean was something his staff struggled to convey to their raw recruits. Teaching such a basic thing was far from the original purpose of his mission, and MacAndrews tried to stop himself brooding on the evident impossibility of doing what he was supposed to do. He could not help envying the Portuguese their long months of training, plentiful resources and the active support of higher authorities.

  ‘We follow English drills, of course, and in future the word of command will also be in English,’ Matthews explained. ‘As caçadores – the Englishman mauled the pronunciation of the word – we are modelled on the Ninety-fifth, and follow the system developed under Sir John Moore at Shorncliffe.’

  MacAndrews scanned the ranks of the battalion. Apart from the shape of shakos, and the colour of the uniforms, the Portuguese resembled the green jackets of the 95th. Yet when he looked closer, he saw that all carried the standard long-barrelled musket. ‘I do not see any rifles,’ he said enquiringly.

  ‘None have yet been issued, although we do live in hope,’ Matthews explained. ‘Nevertheless we stress practice firing at a target, and officers are encouraged to take part …’

  After a while Lieutenant Matthews’ commentary flowed past MacAndrews and made little impression. He was much more interested in what his own eyes told him. Yes, the Portuguese were promising, he decided, but as the drills went on he began to spot more than a few moments of confusion or clumsiness. Some of the British officers shouted too much, and he suspected many as yet spoke Portuguese only poorly and tried to make up for this by yelling at their men. Similarly, a good few of the Portuguese officers had little English. Marshal Beresford carefully alternated the nationalities at all levels, so that a Portuguese battalion commander had a British second-in-command and vice versa. It seemed fair, and as far as he could tell there was no serious friction between the two nationalities.

  As they walked back at the end of proceedings, MacAndrews did not have to ask Morillo to know that a similar arrangement would be impossible with the Spanish. The captain also pointed to other changes.

  ‘Being paid regularly and fed most likely makes as big a difference as any training.’

  ‘Eventually, anyway,’ MacAndrews said. All in all he was unsure that the new regiments were ready. Clearly Brigadier General Craufurd and others had similar concerns, for a week later Marshal Beresford sent his Quartermaster General to inspect them. Colonel D’Urban was an intelligent young light cavalryman who cheerfully greeted Williams and explained to MacAndrews how the young officer had helped save General Cuesta at Medellín. He was even more delighted to meet Morillo again.

  ‘I remember your grenadiers charging the French guns.’

  ‘With you riding alongside us, as I recall, Colonel,’ said the Spanish captain.

  ‘Oh, I was only an observer.’ On the next day D’Urban was again an observer, watching both of the Portuguese light infantry regiments marching, performing manoeuvres and acting as skirmishers. His slim, handsome face betrayed no emotion, but in the privacy of his rooms, MacAndrews was able to draw more from him.

  ‘They are not ready – especially the Second Regiment. Oh, there is plenty of promise, but they need more time and training. I cannot think why they were chosen, other than perhaps the logical mind of someone on the staff who must send the battalions out in numerical order.

  ‘You know the importance of the first engagement for young soldiers, MacAndrews?’

  The Scotsman nodded. ‘Yes, for good or ill they tend to carry the spirit of it through the rest of the campaign.’

  ‘Indeed, and so we must make sure that they acquit t
hemselves well. Training is one thing, and they do need more of it, but even the best drills cannot give them that confidence in success that comes from facing the enemy and beating him. The French are still the bogeymen who have enslaved Europe. Our young fellows hate them and want to defend their country. Some of them know that we have beaten the French at Vimeiro and elsewhere, but they haven’t, not yet, and until they do the belief will not be there that they can. The few who served at Oporto and Talavera last year scarcely fired a shot. A wise precaution, but it means that the army as a whole is unblooded. The doubts remain. Worse still, our own countrymen are all too inclined to express similar doubts in a manner that is not tactful.’

  MacAndrews nodded again. As a Scot he firmly believed that the English disdain for foreigners was all too often loud and obvious, and this view was only confirmed that night in the mess. Thankfully D’Urban had hurried away and refused their hospitality.

  ‘Training is all very well,’ said Captain Reynolds of the 51st, emphasising his frank opinion with darting gestures of his cheroot, ‘but in the end it comes down to pluck and bottom.’

  MacAndrews felt that was an uninspiring view for a man forming part of a training mission, but there were clearly others who shared the sentiment, for there were murmurs of approval. Reynolds shot an unkind glance at Lieutenant Dolosa, the only Spaniard visiting with them this evening.

  Reynolds was a heavy drinker, and this tended to make him more than usually free and forthright in his opinions. ‘But in the end we all know that it won’t make a blind bit of difference, even if these chasseurs do put up a decent fight.’ Few of the British officers coped well with pronouncing the word caçadores, and so most preferred to use the French name instead. Foreign corps in the British army were often named chasseurs.

  ‘Not the sort of bottoms I’d like to see at the moment,’ commented a distinctly merry RHA subaltern who was their guest. ‘I could do with my own twenty-four hours in Lisbon!’ He had unruly ginger hair and a face almost wholly covered in freckles.

  Pringle could see that Dolosa was struggling to understand the English and the allusion. ‘Lord Wellington has restricted leave in Lisbon for those near the city to no more than twenty-four hours,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes, says that’s enough time for anyone to be in bed with the same woman!’ the gunner chortled, and was soon choking on his wine, spraying liquid in all directions. Dolosa looked disgusted. MacAndrews had heard the story and doubted its truth – or at least, the truth of the explanation.

  Reynolds seemed to resent the change of subject. ‘Portugal cannot be defended,’ he announced in an unnaturally loud voice. MacAndrews was pleased to see Williams politely ask Dolosa to accompany him on his rounds, ostensibly to deal with any problems of language. From his expression, Billy Pringle looked as if he wanted to go with them.

  ‘Cannot be defended,’ repeated the captain. ‘Sir John Moore said that more than a year ago and he was the finest officer this country has ever produced.’ MacAndrews noted the easy assumption that wherever an Englishman was, Britain remained ‘this’ country.

  Williams cast a look over his shoulder, but could not easily stop and stay in the room. He left, although clearly with regret, for there were fewer more ardent champions of Moore’s name, even if he was equally full of praise for Wellington.

  ‘Moore was a great man and a hero,’ said Pringle. ‘Yet he fell more than a year ago, and it is not reasonable to suppose that he could have possessed knowledge of the future.’

  MacAndrews was pleased. He had wanted to make the same point, but disliked a mess where the colonel dominated talk and so he preferred to listen wherever possible.

  ‘The land has not changed, nor the character of the people.’ Reynolds’ voice was slurring.

  ‘Who gives a damn about the character, just give me my twenty-four hours and I’ll be satisfied!’ the horse gunner chipped in again.

  ‘At the moment you look barely up for ten minutes,’ laughed another subaltern.

  ‘You tell me what has changed!’ Reynolds demanded loudly, his glowing face leaning forward across the table towards Pringle. MacAndrews had to admit that most changes had not been for the better. His first war had been against the American rebels – or patriots, or these days noble heroes – and he knew what it was like to taste the bitterness of defeat. There was something of that air now, everyone waiting for the unstoppable invasion. At least there was no danger of a French fleet brushing aside the Royal Navy and making a new Yorktown. The redcoats would be able to escape, and he had heard a rumour that the newly trained Portuguese would go with them, perhaps to England or to join the royal family in Brazil.

  ‘Lord Wellington knows how to fight, and he seems confident.’ Pringle spoke quietly. MacAndrews had noticed that the bespectacled captain drank far less now that they were busy and back in Spain. Lately he had been finding every excuse to lead marches or go on his own to some of the villages near by. It did not interfere with his duties, and knowing the man well, MacAndrews could not help wondering whether Billy was getting his own twenty-four hours somewhere. That reminded him of something, and he remembered an overdue conversation that he must have with another of his officers.

  ‘Wellesley’s just a glory hunter.’ Reynolds almost shouted the words, and only with an effort calmed himself. ‘Five thousand men sacrificed last year just to win a title!’ Sir Arthur Wellesley became Viscount Wellington after the victory at Talavera. The Whig press had said as much and worse in the months that followed, and claimed the Tory government pretended the battle was a victory merely to save its own tottering reputation.

  ‘You were not there, sir,’ said Pringle levelly.

  MacAndrews was marginally more Whig than Tory, but held all politicians in equal contempt for the mess they had made of the American business and of almost everything else in his lifetime. Politics was always a dangerous subject in the mess, and now was leading to even more serious disagreements.

  ‘What is your meaning, sir?’ said Reynolds, trying hard to focus on Pringle.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted MacAndrews, ‘let us have no party here. I am confident that you will all do your duty well, and leave the great matters to those His Majesty appoints. Now raise your glasses.’ He nodded to the subaltern serving as president.

  ‘Gentlemen, the King!’

  ‘The King, God bless him,’ they chorused.

  ‘And damnation to Bonaparte,’ added MacAndrews with a grin.

  Half an hour later he found Williams standing up on the western rampart. The lieutenant had completed his rounds, and Dolosa must have retired, but MacAndrews knew that Williams had a habit of standing alone on the walls after his duties were done. It was raining again, but so finely that they scarcely noticed.

  ‘Just like home,’ said MacAndrews as he came alongside, waving down the lieutenant’s instinctive stiffening to attention.

  ‘Wales is often like this,’ said Williams after a long moment, ‘and Bristol not much better.’

  ‘Have you had letters from your family in the last package?’

  ‘Yes, I am pleased to say my sister Anne is a reliable correspondent. Indeed, she even writes now occasionally to Pringle. She and my whole family are very grateful to him.’

  MacAndrews did not want to talk about the duel, but certain pleasantries could not be avoided. ‘Your other sister, Mrs Garland, is well, I trust?’

  ‘Oh yes. The child is expected in May.’ Williams’ tone was innocent, and MacAndrews thought it better not to pry. The news that his sister was with child had reached them soon after they arrived at the fort, the post taking time to catch up with them. As far as he could tell Williams seemed delighted.

  Now seemed as good a moment as any, although he wished he had not become involved. ‘Mr Williams,’ he began, ‘I must speak to you for a moment not as your commanding officer, but as Jane’s father.’

  Williams’ face registered surprise, and then obvious fear, and MacAndrews suspected that the
man was terrified of being forbidden to have any more to do with Jane. It was difficult not to laugh, but he knew the lieutenant to be a serious man devoted to honour and proper behaviour. If I tell him to cease all contact with her he probably would, thought Alastair MacAndrews. Either that, or elope with her.

  ‘Her mother writes to me asking that I ask you a question.’

  ‘My intentions are entirely honourable,’ began Williams nervously, ‘and I make no presumption of favour or …’

  MacAndrews cut him off. ‘I do not doubt any of those things, but that is not the point. The point is …’ Now he hesitated, and wished that Esther was here to do her own dirty work. ‘That is to say, my wife asks … Just what in hell’s name did you do to Jane back in England?’

  The shock returned, closely followed by panic, and Williams’ eyes suggested desperate fears of stories about him, until he saw the softness of MacAndrews’ smile.

  ‘I … that is …’ he stammered.

  ‘I am not accusing you of anything improper. Jane was agitated before I left, and her mother writes to say that she has remained in a similar mood as the months have passed. Apparently she talks about you often.’ He smiled. ‘I fear not all is complimentary.’

  Williams’ face fell, and MacAndrews wondered whether he had ever been as naive as this man, and sadly felt that he probably had.

  ‘Jane is a wilful girl,’ said her father. ‘Contrary at times. And trying to force her to do anything is perhaps the best way to prevent her from doing it.’ He patted Williams on the shoulder. ‘You might consider writing to her.’

  Despair was replaced by puzzled hope. ‘You would not mind, sir?’ said Williams, and MacAndrews wondered whether the title was given as father or colonel.

  ‘I am not so stern a parent as to forbid my child all contact with the wider world.’ He kept his expression serious. ‘And I should add permission to write a few letters falls considerably short of a formal blessing.’ MacAndrews was finding it harder and harder to keep his face impassive, if only to maintain his authority.