All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  This captain was short and barrel-chested, with a thick red-brown moustache and gold earrings. He wore the round fur hat favoured by the elite skirmishers of some light infantry regiments. If less nimble, he was no less heroic than his predecessor, and the light infantrymen followed him as willingly. Williams could only marvel at their sheer pluck; as thoughts raced through his head and he imagined the mingled fear and excitement of the Frenchmen as they attacked.

  Rodriguez reacted first, aiming and firing a little quickly, so the ball went low and slammed into the French captain’s thigh just above his right knee. The man stopped, and as Williams was about to yell the order, Dobson fired into the smoke of the Spaniard’s musket and the officer dropped, obviously hit badly. With Rose aiming his firelock squarely at them, the light infantrymen dragged their officer back, prompting agonising cries as he bumped down over the broken steps and corpses.

  There were no more attacks. Shots came at the windows, and one recruit lost an eye not from a musket ball, but from the big shard of stone it flung off the side of the window arch. The chapel and storeroom burned, but as dawn approached the French withdrew to their lines. The Convent of Santa Cruz was still in Spanish hands. The outside wall was irreparably breached, everything apart from the main cloister was now a burned-out shell, and the cloister itself had been left badly scarred by the Spanish guns days before, but the garrison held on.

  The governor issued a proclamation and toured the main defences, praising the gallantry of the Avila Regiment and assuring people that the English would come.

  As the company was pulled back to take its turn sleeping in a less exposed post, some citizens still had the energy to cheer the handful of redcoats.

  ‘Ninth night, that,’ said Dobson, as he marched beside Williams. ‘Ninth since they started digging.’

  ‘It’s the 23rd June,’ the officer replied. ‘No, I tell a lie, that was yesterday. It’s now the twenty-fourth.’

  ‘Long way to go still,’ said the veteran.

  ‘Here’s to Christmas at home!’ Williams had found himself reviving the old joke.

  Dobson puffed on his clay pipe. ‘Aye, that’d be good.’

  20

  Velarde was struggling to breathe, lying with his head back against the side of the gully, unable for the moment to speak. Hanley felt as exhausted as the Spaniard looked, but was doing his best not to show it.

  ‘Halfway there,’ he panted.

  His companion still said nothing, but just gave a faint nod. Both men were covered in mud, so that only their eyes reflected the first hints of dawn light.

  ‘We need to go,’ Hanley said after ten minutes. They needed the cover of darkness to sneak through the siege lines and into the town, and it would be day soon. It was all taking too long. Velarde’s assurance and papers were fine on the road or with wandering patrols, but the Spaniard had no hope that they would convince officers in charge of pickets not to send him to ever more senior commanders. That meant they had to be careful and avoid attention.

  They followed the road from Caridad as long as possible, approaching Ciudad Rodrigo from the east, but for the last few miles they cut across country. Between them they knew something of the French dispositions and judged that this was the most open side. A mile out they left Benito and their horses.

  ‘I don’t think that man likes me,’ Velarde had said once they were away from the one-armed guerrilla.

  Hanley ignored him, for he was trying to find his way in the darkness and had no time for wit. They nearly stumbled across the first group of sentries, but fortunately the soldiers seemed just as surprised as they were, and after a vague challenge the Frenchmen made no attempt to search for the retreating figures. More careful, or perhaps simply luckier, they went slowly and were not surprised again, but the cost was in time. At one point the noises of horses, lots of horses, shifting their feet, snorting or relieving themselves noisily, seemed all around them as they moved bent double through a ditch. Hanley’s nostrils told him that there was more than simply wet earth in the clinging mud they squelched through. The sounds of their movements seemed deafening, but there were no shouts or other attention.

  When Hanley saw the walls of the town outlined against the night sky he knew that they had gone wrong and had drifted westwards, so that in front of them were the walls and houses of the suburbs. They wandered for half an hour, but the need to avoid the enemy pickets and use every wall, ditch or fold for cover confused them and they were not really much further over by the time they felt that they had worked through the main positions. Ahead would be the outposts closest to the town, men who knew that their own survival depended on stealth, and that would make them very hard to see. From then on they crawled, aware that the darkness contained French skirmishers sitting or lying in holes, not moving, and waiting with loaded muskets for any raiders from the city. The only hope was that all would be looking that way, and not searching for figures slipping through their own lines.

  At first they crawled quickly. After ten yards both men were sweating so that their backs were as damp as their mud-smeared fronts, and they soon slowed. By fifty yards they were tired, and yet a glance up revealed that the town walls did not seem to be so much as an inch nearer. At twice that distance the muscles in their arms screamed angrily at the effort required of them. Hanley was in front, and they stopped when over the pounding of his heart he thought he heard something from over to their right. They waited for several minutes, but the pause gave no real rest and as soon as they started again the agony returned. When they tumbled suddenly into the drainage ditch, each man had simply slumped back against the side and stared unseeing up at the sky.

  ‘We need to go,’ Hanley said, his voice at least returning.

  ‘Can’t we just let Napoleon have Spain,’ Velarde gasped, and the humour suggested that he was coming back to life. Neither man moved to get up. The light was changing moment by moment.

  Then the guns fired.

  Hanley and Velarde had both seen and heard the French grand battery at Talavera when something like sixty field guns had hammered at the redcoats. That had been louder and more terrible than anything either man had ever known, the fury of the guns smashing men into ruin. There were fewer pieces emplaced and firing at Ciudad Rodrigo today, but even so the noise and menace were far greater. The biggest guns at Talavera were twelve-pounders, and there were only a handful of those. This morning these biggest of field pieces were the smallest to take part in the barrage. Today there were substantially larger sixteen-pounder cannon, and some of the even more massive twenty-four pounders, and with them were big howitzers and mortars. They were not in a single long line as at Talavera, but entrenched to protect them, and cunningly sited in groups of half a dozen or less, aiming at vulnerable spots in the defences. This was not a barrage to smash men, but to smash the town itself. The bigger, deeper roar of gun after gun was followed by the dull sound of blows as shot pummelled the medieval stone or buried itself deep in earthen banks. Howitzer and mortar shells exploded, raining debris in great fountains.

  Later, Hanley would realise that none of the guns was firing over them, and yet still they felt ripples of shock. The two men instinctively shrank, pulling in their limbs protectively as they lay in the ditch. After the first great, rolling onslaught the silence was so oppressive that he wondered whether he had lost his hearing for ever.

  ‘They’re early!’ Velarde half shouted the words, sounding more puzzled than involved.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not supposed to start for two days!’

  Hanley shrugged. ‘Most inconvenient.’

  Siege guns were big, and it took a large team to reload and drag them back into position, and that meant the process was slower. Gun captains took great care aiming, to ensure each shot was worth the effort, and so it was a couple of minutes before the guns began to fire again.

  Hanley pushed himself up, looking over the lip of the ditch. He grabbed Velarde.

  ‘Run!’ He sh
outed to be heard over the noise, and without bothering to say more he scrambled over the bank and lumbered into a run. He was stiff, and the movement awkward for a few paces, and then he began to get his stride and the weariness of all that crawling seemed like a distant memory. Velarde followed, although the man looked to be fading. The sun was an immense red ball over to Hanley’s left and he squinted as he veered a little in that direction.

  The rumbling of the second salvo came to its end and now he could hear shouts. Ahead, two white faces appeared from a pit scraped in the ground and both had muskets, although they were not yet aiming them. Still there was no reply from the town.

  Hanley ran on, and now his legs were aching with every step. He swung away from the French skirmishers, ignoring their challenge, and kept going.

  ‘Come on!’ he called without looking back, and trusted Velarde to follow him.

  A musket banged, the noise close, but almost puny after the great guns. Hanley did not see where the shot went and felt nothing come close to him, so perhaps it was a warning. He did not bother to waste breath on any more encouragement. They were near the suburbs now. He could see the earthworks in front of the nearest houses and saw movement at them.

  Another shot, and this time he felt the ball pluck the air close by him, and then there was a thump. Velarde shrieked.

  Hanley turned and saw that the Spaniard had been hit in the calf and pitched on to the ground. He turned, ran back and was surprised at how close the man was behind him, for he had not heard his footfalls in the soft earth.

  ‘Come on!’ he said, lifting him. ‘You have to walk.’

  Velarde cursed him and the French, and everyone else, but he let himself be lifted and then they went on, the Spaniard wincing with pain at every step. The soldiers manning the earthwork were firing now, not at them, but at the French, and it was enough to keep the voltigeurs in their holes. Shots snapped the air or flicked the grass near them, but somehow they staggered on, Velarde cursing or complaining.

  ‘Trinidad!’ Hanley shouted, and hoped they had not changed the password for a friend. ‘Trinidad!’

  Hands reached out to pull them up over the chest-high emplacement. At that moment the first guns on the town walls began to reply to the French barrage.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Hanley of the English army,’ he announced. ‘And this is Colonel Velarde. We must see the governor urgently.’

  ‘You’d have to speak to the major,’ said a sergeant dubiously.

  ‘Then get him, man,’ Hanley snapped.

  They waited, gratefully accepting water and using it as much to clean the mud off their faces as to drink.

  ‘Thank you for saving my life,’ Velarde said.

  ‘Well, you saved mine.’

  ‘When did you start to trust me?’

  Hanley threw more water over his now moderately clean face simply for the joy of feeling the cold liquid against his hot skin.

  ‘What?’ Hanley frowned. ‘Oh well, it seemed too big a risk not to trust you. Or perhaps I always have.’

  The major appeared, an eager young man who had no doubt found that the war made for rapid promotion and short lives.

  ‘We need to see General Herrasti immediately,’ Hanley said convincingly. ‘I can assure you that he will want to see us. Now where can we find him?’

  Cannon fired again from the high medieval walls.

  ‘The governor will be on the walls,’ said the young major proudly.

  They were escorted by a sergeant and four men, and Hanley’s impression of the major’s good sense was reinforced by this sign of still qualified belief. It also helped them to find their way through the suburb and be admitted through the gate into the city itself. Two of the men supported Velarde and that gave the officer someone else to curse. The sergeant said little, but whistled tunelessly just under his breath.

  Inside the town, they climbed up to the walls, just as one of the Spanish guns fired, leaping back on its trails, and jetting a cloud of dirty smoke through the embrasure. To the right a French howitzer shell sailed down to land neatly on the wide walkway. Men dived to the floor because there was no cover. The shell spun, fuse sparking, and then erupted in flame and dust and jagged fragments. A boy of twelve carrying buckets of water to the gun crews was left as a bloodstained pile of old clothes. Another lad, who looked even younger, knelt down and wept.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Hanley.

  Beside them a tall house was burning. The French fire no longer came in great salvoes, but as each crew made ready and found a target. There was a crack as a heavy shot struck the wall itself. Others sailed high, smashing lumps off the parapet or the buildings behind the wall. As they went towards it, acting on reports that the governor had gone that way, Hanley saw that the tower of the cathedral seemed to attract particular attention. Already there were a few scars in the stonework.

  They pressed on, waiting whenever a gun was about to fire rather than risk being crushed by the recoil. When they found General Herrasti the old man looked as if he was having the time of his life. He urged on the gun crews and the civilians carrying for them, telling them they were punishing the French and that Napoleon would soon shudder when he heard the name of Ciudad Rodrigo. Orders flowed from him in rapid succession, sending officers scurrying away to shift the positions of some guns, or more often to concentrate their aim on particular French pieces.

  ‘We count forty-six guns and howitzers in their batteries,’ the old man said to Hanley when at last they were ushered forward and given a moment of his time. ‘I have more than a hundred, but sadly not many can see the French works. Still, we have enough to surprise them. It is good to see you, Hanley, and nice to be giving you information for a change!’ He laughed. Hanley thought the general looked years younger. ‘Now what can I do for you? You realise I am quite busy!’

  ‘There is a conspiracy to betray the city.’ Hanley’s words were lost in the thunder of a Spanish twelve-pounder slamming back on its trails as it flung a shot at the embrasure in one of the French batteries up on the Great Teson. Further along the wall and clear of the smoke, an officer with a glass trained on the spot whooped in delight and shouted out that he saw pieces of sandbag and gabion flying into the air. Between shots, the French gunners covered the vulnerable gaps in their earthworks. Men cheered.

  ‘Well done, boys!’ Herrasti yelled, patting the sergeant in charge of the gun on the back. ‘That’s how it’s done.’

  Inside the city there was a thunderous explosion when a French shell landed in the open door of a magazine with ammunition ready for immediate use on the walls.

  The governor winced. ‘Don’t worry, boys! Plenty more powder where that came from! You were saying, my dear Hanley?’

  ‘There is a conspiracy to betray Ciudad Rodrigo to the French. Joseph Napoleon has agents working to bribe men to seize power.’

  The governor looked grave and dropped his voice. ‘You know this? Who?’

  ‘This is Colonel Velarde.’ Hanley gestured and Velarde straightened, letting go of the two soldiers, but then he hissed in pain and let one of them support him on the side of his wounded leg.

  ‘Your servant, General.’ Velarde managed a feeble bow.

  Hanley cut in before he could say any more. ‘Colonel Velarde has full information about the plot, sir, because he is a traitor and has come to Ciudad Rodrigo to make it happen.’

  Herrasti blinked, just once, but showed no other sign of surprise. ‘Indeed.’

  Luiz Velarde looked stunned and unbalanced for the first time Hanley could remember. It was only for an instant, and the Englishman suspected that the pain in his leg played a part.

  ‘I strongly suggest that you arrest him and throw him into a cell,’ Hanley said.

  ‘It is nonsense!’ Velarde reacted at last. ‘I am loyal to King Ferdinand and …’

  A French eight-inch shell dropped from the sky just behind the Spanish gun. Its fuse was a little short, but if the gunner who cut it had ever known he would not hav
e quibbled at the result. It exploded ten feet above the walkway. Twisted pieces of casing killed the gun captain, ripped open the ribcage of the ventman, and smashed limbs on three more of the crew. The biggest shard struck the top of Luiz Velarde’s head and shattered it like an overripe fruit, spraying blood, brains and bone over all the others. The soldier supporting him died a few seconds later, killed by part of Velarde’s lower jaw which had driven into his neck and severed the artery.

  Hanley and the other survivors were knocked down and stunned. His ears rang, and he had to scrape blood and flesh off his face so that he could see again. Feeling his limbs and finding no sign of injury, he pushed himself up. With the sergeant, he helped the governor to rise, relieved that he was unscathed.

  ‘Well, that was all very dramatic,’ said the old man. He glanced down and saw what was left of Velarde. ‘Oh well, one less traitor. And one less problem.’ He turned to the gunners. ‘Get those men to the hospital. Captain, I want replacements here immediately. Can’t let this one fall silent. We’ve got them worried, boys, we’ve got them worried!

  ‘Hanley?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I have a meeting at noon, so you can tell me more then.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The matter appeared to be closed for the moment. ‘Damn,’ said William Hanley.

  21

  ‘Unfortunate,’ Williams said, ‘but surely a good deal better than if you had been struck.’ The two sat in the little room he had shared with Pringle. Hanley preferred this to going back to the chamber he had been given in the past. There was something reassuringly simple about his friend, and after the last week he craved simplicity.

  ‘Oh, if ever a man deserved to be killed I suspect it was Luiz Velarde. I just wish I could have got at some of the stuff in his head before it was spread all over the ramparts.’ Hanley had looked through the papers the French agent had with him. Some were of minor interest, and although a little stained with mud and gore there were also the letters and passes which had got them past the French patrols, but there was nothing of use concerning the plots here or elsewhere. Hanley had not really expected to find anything, but had still hoped that he was wrong. The only probably important sheet was in a code that he could not fathom.