Williams grinned.
‘Spare me the joke,’ said Pringle, although he broke into a smile for a brief moment. ‘I really am very sorry.’
‘It is an order. Really, do not concern yourself, and I still think it is excellent news. When you get a chance, write to Anne and say that I am well.’
And inside a doomed fortress, thought Pringle. There was one more thing, and the mention of Williams’ sister made him feel more awkward, even though he doubted his friend yet sensed his interest in Anne as anything more than friendly. ‘I must ask a favour.’
‘Of course.’
‘If things turn bad, would you do what you can to protect Josepha?’ Pringle had spoken a little to Williams of the girl, and although his puritanical side did not quite approve, the Welshman remained a true friend.
‘Won’t Don Julián’s men do that?’
‘I am going out with El Charro and his lancers tonight. The governor has decided that cavalry and their horses are so many useless mouths during a siege and would be of more use on the frontier.’
‘Sensible decision,’ Williams said, adopting what he clearly felt was a wise expression. ‘Of course, I will do whatever I can.’
‘Thank you.’
The bell in the cathedral chimed twice. The sound was a little muted near the castle, but tonight there was not much firing from the walls to drown the sound. It was dark, for the sky was cloudy and already a faint drizzle was falling. Pringle’s nose was full of the smell of damp horses and leather. He glanced behind him at the column of almost a hundred riders in the weird harlequin combinations of uniform worn by Don Julián’s lancers. He could not see the colours in the dark, but men had coats, hats and weapons of every shape and size. A man walked past, checking that rags were properly tied over the hoofs of each little horse to muffle their sound.
The governor stood at the side of the square, the bishop beside him, and Billy caught a muffled ‘Go with God’ as they conferred with El Charro, and then the guerrilla leader walked his horse over to join him.
‘Time to go,’ he said.
They began to move. Men were waiting holding torches to guide them through the streets. The Gate of San Jago near the river had stood open each day and night for more than a week, and now they walked their horses through the archway. It was strange how immediately the air felt more open than in the streets of the city.
‘If anything happens and you get lost, then it’s to the right on the far bank and then south-west.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pringle.
‘I promised Hanley.’ Billy caught the glint of El Charro’s smile.
Still walking their horses, the column went along the sunken way inside the ditch until this ran out and they came to open ground beside the River Agueda. The river was wide and although full it flowed nearly silently.
The lancers halted for a moment in front of the low Roman bridge while a sentry reported. Early on in the siege, the French had taken the suburb on the far bank. In the daytime, they did not maintain any outposts in the field ahead of the houses and gardens, but there were expected to be pickets at night.
A softly given order and the hundred horsemen set off, still keeping to a walk. The sound changed as the animals’ feet came on to the stone surface of the bridge, but the horses either had wrapped feet or were unshod ponies and it was no more than a soft drumming. It still seemed loud enough to Pringle, as did the inevitable creaks of harness and saddle as men shifted their weight and the gentle thumps of equipment shaking with the motion. Yet the discipline of El Charro’s men impressed him. They worked well as a team, and if the style was different from a well-run battalion – it was at once less formal and yet blatantly autocratic – it clearly served them well.
Halfway across the bridge and still silence. The fine rain had stopped, and a slow drift of wind uncovered a thin crescent moon. Pringle could see the shapes of rooftops in the suburb of Santa Marina, and the memory came to him of Williams complaining about the Spanish fondness for religious names, and Billy knew that it was a sign of his nervousness whenever he started remembering such ridiculous things. He had to stifle an urge to laugh. His right thigh began to twitch and he was half tempted to pull the leg free from the stirrup and flex it, but knew that he could not risk anything so stupid when his very life might depend on keeping a good seat.
‘Qui vive?’
The shout came from ahead, on the far bank; they were almost at the end of the bridge already. Without an order the lancers went into a trot, Pringle’s horse copying the others before he had asked it.
‘Qui vive?’ Pringle pitied the poor sentry and wondered whether the second challenge was a rigorous obedience of orders or a desperate hope that someone would answer ‘Amis!’
A shot split the darkness.
‘Go!’ yelled El Charro, and the lancers gave their horses their heads. Pringle’s borrowed mount lurched as it quickened pace and he bounced uncomfortably for a moment before it fell into a nice rhythm.
There was a scream as the French sentry was spitted on one of the long lances, the guerrilla expertly using his own momentum to flick the point free and ride on. Beside him another man with lesser skill drove his spear so deeply into a second infantryman that the point came through the man’s stomach and stuck fast, so he let it go and rode on.
More shots came, this time in a little volley, and Pringle guessed that this was the supports for the sentries, and again he felt sorry for the sergeant and ten or twenty men who found themselves at night suddenly faced by scores of wild devils on horseback.
‘Go!’ called El Charro again. It was not a formed charge, but a deluge of galloping horsemen. Pringle saw that one man was already down, his horse shot, but El Charro had ordered his men not to stop for anyone and no one paused to help him. Men who fell were to find their own way out or back to the town – or try to take a Frenchman with them before they died.
They were past now, but shots pursued them, and Pringle heard a scream as a rider was shot through the body and tumbled from the saddle. There were shouts too, and a bell ringing, which must be an alarm. On they went, still galloping, and now they were on a wide earth road.
Pringle was near the head of the pack, and saw the sudden burst of flame stabbing at them as a cannon fired from just beside the road. Almost instantly there was a deep growling tear as a ball punched the air. The rider beside him vanished from the waist up, his chest, arms and head disintegrating and spraying blood, flesh, bone and pieces of clothing all around. Billy was drenched with still-warm blood and something heavier slapped against his cheek.
More flames, from a volley this time, and there were screams of pain from men and horses. Riders were down, and all were slowing. Billy Pringle’s mount lurched again, dropping its shoulder, and he almost lost balance, but the speed had gone from the column.
‘Go! Kill them all!’ El Charro’s voice carried over the confusion. As more muskets flared, Billy saw the guerrilla leader gallop straight at the line of French soldiers, his sabre gleaming red as it caught the light of a fire. A French officer rode to meet him, the man much bigger than the guerrilla leader.
‘El Charro! El Charro!’ His men shouted their leader’s name and drove their big spurs deep to bloody their horses’ flanks, and the animals surged forward again. Lance points dropped into the attack.
Don Julián dodged the officer’s thrust, and cut once, tumbling his opponent with ease. The French infantry wavered, some beginning to run, and the guerrilla leader was now in among them, horse rearing to pummel with his front hoofs, while the rider cut down precisely to left and right.
Then the lancers arrived. Pringle was in the middle of the mass and could see little. There was the clatter of blade on blade, some shots, the discharges almost blindingly bright, and the thud of points driving into flesh and bullets striking home. More horses were down, and Billy’s mount was kicked by an animal thrashing out in its agony, but there seemed to be no serious harm done.
‘Go!�
� yelled El Charro once more.
The column was moving on. Pringle had come near the head again. He had never seen a Frenchman up close, and now the enemy was gone. At least, they were gone for the moment.
Don Julián’s lancers rode on into the night.
18
Hanley did his best to appear interested in the stall-owner’s boasts.
‘It is the finest ivory,’ the little man maintained, ‘from China itself.’ His smile radiating honesty with such fervent intensity that even had Hanley not known that neither statement was true he would still have been reluctant to trust the man.
He was in the market again, waiting and feigning interest because Langer had brushed past him in warning. It was the second time already today and that was worrying. He did not think the Swiss was the type of man to start at shadows.
‘No thank you,’ Hanley said to the trader, but then asked to look at a poorly painted metal figure of the Madonna simply to keep the fellow talking. The one statue occupied the trader’s rapturous enthusiasm for the rest of the ten minutes, encouraged by no more than one or two gestures of continued interest. Hanley bought the piece in the end, paying more than it was worth, and as he walked away he smirked at the thought that if they were being watched the stall-owner might well find himself arrested by the French for passing something to an English spy.
There seemed to be even more soldiers in Salamanca today: the wide square was packed, so that it was difficult to move through the crowd. Being jostled became normal, and then someone punched him heavily in the stomach.
‘Sorry, Father,’ said a voice, and as Hanley gasped for breath he saw that it was Ramón. A bundle was pressed into his hands as they clutched at his belly. ‘So sorry, Father.’ The last words were in a whisper. ‘Get out!’ Then the man was gone.
Hanley slipped the bundle into his robes and walked on, still aching. A couple of men in French-style coats that were red rather than blue grinned at the sight of a priest almost being knocked over and joked with each other in German. Hanley bit back the urge to snarl at them in the same language.
Everything now seemed more sinister, but the officer did his best to walk at a pace that was steady, without being unnaturally slow. He made himself stop and give his approximation of a blessing to an old woman who implored him to pray for her granddaughter. Part of him wondered whether even this was a trap. Ramón had said yesterday that the message would be delivered in the usual manner, and so Hanley had been on his way to pick it up from a little covered niche in a spot they knew in an out-of-the-way cloister. That Ramón had come to him was as big a warning as the man’s words.
Hanley walked in no particular direction for twenty minutes, in the vague hope that this might be confusing to anyone following. He trusted that Langer was back in place, but somehow he did not feel the man watching him. Perhaps it was simply his growing nervousness. Then he headed towards their room. If time permitted he would scan the contents of the package before gathering his things for the journey.
The door of his little room above the potter’s shop creaked with appalling loudness as Hanley edged it open. It had always done this, but today it seemed unnecessarily sinister. He peered in and saw no one, and then his tension seemed to deflate, for there was no need to fear an immediate threat.
Ramón’s package was well worth the risk of the extra day. There were lists of the numbers and the weights of the heavy siege train rolling towards Ciudad Rodrigo – almost fifty pieces in total. Better yet, La Doña Margarita had been as good as her word, and gained some insight into the Emperor’s orders. Masséna had been told to move slowly, taking both Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida. He was not to aim to be in Lisbon before the end of August, the Emperor ‘not choosing’ to go there any earlier, since it would be difficult to feed the captured town before the local harvest. Hanley marvelled at the complacency, and knew from all Murray and Baynes had said that this would be very pleasing to Lord Wellington.
There was one note, in Jenny Dobson’s sprawling letters.
HAVE THE NEWS YOU WANTED. BRING MONEY. SAME PLACE AT 6. He smiled when he saw there was another message from the girl in with La Doña Margarita’s papers.
It was now a quarter to five. Langer had not appeared, and the man had never before taken so long. Hanley took off his priest’s robes. He donned plain boots, drab trousers and a thin shirt and then buttoned on his uniform jacket and sash. Over the top went a long brown overcoat like the ones worn by coachmen, and a broad straw hat.
Before five Hanley slipped out of the door, made his way to the busy street where Jenny lived and waited. There were enough loafers as well as passers-by to make it easy to blend in, and he stayed a few hundred yards further along the street, where a tavern spilled out its customers, and so he drank, surrounded by as many soldiers as townsfolk. No one paid him particular attention.
He almost missed Jenny as she left, and if her hood had not fallen for a brief moment and given a flash of movement and bleached hair, he suspected that he would have missed her as he tried not to watch too obviously.
Hanley swallowed the rest of his wine, grimaced because it was not good and then followed the girl through the streets, keeping as far back as he could. Jenny was alone, and he saw no one following her. For five minutes they stayed on the main street, Hanley finding the girl’s slow progress frustrating. Then they were into ever smaller and less frequented roads and narrow alleys. There was still no sign of anything wrong.
Jenny turned a corner, and Hanley hurried after the young woman because he knew this place was a maze and did not want to lose her. Just before the turn he stopped and then peered cautiously around.
‘Hello.’
Hanley gave a start, yelping in surprise.
Jenny laughed. ‘Like following girls, do you?’ She turned so that her back was to him again and gave an exaggerated wiggle of her hips.
As usual with Jenny, Hanley felt there was little choice but to laugh with her, even though his heart was still pounding. He came around the corner.
‘What do you have for me?’
The girl leered and gave another shake of her hips, before feigning enlightenment. ‘Oh, you mean news. Seen that fellow again. He’s …’ Jenny’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Look out!’
Hanley spun around. A figure emerged from the mouth of a lane on the opposite side of the alley, a pistol aimed at the British officer.
The shot was sudden, and numbingly loud as it echoed off the high walls, and Hanley threw himself at Jenny, knowing it was too late, but hoping perhaps he could save her. They rolled in the mud, the girl struggling and cursing.
‘You English are so romantic,’ said a voice.
Hanley was on top of the girl, his face pressed against her chest and feeling the bare skin above her dress because Jenny’s cloak had come undone. He knew the voice and the style. He pushed with his hands against the mud of the alleyway to raise himself; there was something in his mouth until he spat out one of the draw-strings of the girl’s cloak.
Jenny was silent, and that was unusual for her. She said nothing in response to Hanley’s apologies as he got to his feet and helped her up. No more shots had come. Langer lay in the mud and dung, the back of his head missing. Jenny saw the corpse and bit back a scream.
‘I have just saved your life, Guillermo,’ said Luiz Velarde as he emerged fully into the alley. A still smoking pistol was in his right hand, and one that was surely loaded now held out in his left.
‘To kill me yourself?’ Hanley asked.
‘The pistol? Merely a precaution. I intend to live to enjoy a fine and debauched old age.’
Hanley said nothing. The muzzle of the pistol looked very big, and was pointing straight at him.
‘That man had orders to kill you. Do you believe that?’
The British officer did suspect Baynes had told the man not to let the French capture him alive, but saw no point in honesty. ‘No,’ he said.
‘It’s true. And since I was the one who ordere
d him to kill you, I do feel that I should know.’ Velarde spotted the flicker of reaction. ‘Ah, at last some surprise. This may not be a complete waste of effort after all.’ He tossed the empty pistol aside and reached with his free hand for something. ‘Langer’s desertion last year was at my encouragement. He was to make himself useful to the British, and I believe he did that rather well for so unimaginative a brute.
‘However, such stories can wait. At the place you were supposed to meet with your charming companion, a French officer named Dalmas is waiting with several men. They will most certainly kill you. Eventually.’
‘I am a British officer, wearing uniform.’ Hanley reached up to unbutton his coat, saw Velarde stiffen and so stopped, spreading his hands wide and then keeping his gestures very slow. Pulling back the top of the coat, he revealed his scarlet jacket.
Velarde was unimpressed. ‘You would not be wearing that when they hang you, and who would ever know the truth. Dalmas is very capable.’ The Spaniard took a pace closer and undid his own long coat. Beneath was a tunic cut in the French pattern, but from brown cloth. ‘Do you like it? I am a colonel these days, in the new army of Spain. Viva tío Pepe!’ he added, using one of the kindlier nicknames given by the Spanish to Joseph Napoleon.
Hanley watched him closely, looking for an opportunity. If Velarde came within reach and relaxed his guard for a moment, Hanley could lunge and … and perhaps get a lead bullet driven through his brain or belly, he thought chillingly. Jenny’s father would know what to do. So too would Williams, but Hanley thought back to the duel all those months ago and how Billy had so suddenly said that he had never killed anyone. Nor had Hanley, and there must be better alternatives than trying to find out whether he was capable of such a thing in so unfavourable a situation.
‘Thank you, Molly – or should I say Jenny,’ Velarde said, without looking away from Hanley. ‘You played your part admirably. I hope the French have already paid you, but here is the same amount again, from me.’ He produced a jingling purse from his jacket pocket.
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Page 19
