All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘There is food in Lisbon no doubt,’ Hanley said.

  ‘Oh aye, warehouses full to the brim.’

  ‘Then they will not starve for long. So perhaps the sacrifice is too high a price to pay for giving the French a few lean weeks? Is that all that the people of Ciudad Rodrigo achieved?’

  Baynes smiled. ‘Leaving them to their fate has won us few friends in Spain.’

  ‘Except Don Julián Sánchez.’

  ‘Yes, and he is a friend worth having. He understands the war better than many. Perhaps one day they will all understand.’ Baynes winked at a little boy being carried by an old man. The child covered its face in fright, but then peeked through his fingers at the beaming merchant.

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘Time, William, time. That is what it has all been about. I told you that months ago. Ciudad Rodrigo bought us five precious weeks, perhaps more.’

  ‘And Almeida?’

  ‘That was unfortunate.’ Early in the siege, a lucky French shell had landed and ignited a trail of loose powder left behind by a leaking cask. The gunpowder flared and led straight back into the vaults of the cathedral that served as the garrison’s magazine. When that vast store exploded, a great swathe of the city was reduced to rubble in the blink of an eye. Hanley and the others had felt a tremor and shortly after heard the dull rumble of the blast even though they were almost forty miles away.

  ‘Unfortunate!’ Hundreds had died instantly, and many more been left scorched and maimed. Without powder for their guns and muskets the fortress was defenceless and had surrendered. ‘Are we sure it was an accident?’ he added after a moment.

  Baynes chuckled with delight. ‘It is always a joy talking to you, my friend. Yes, there is no hint of anything else. If Velarde was alive, then perhaps I should wonder … You are sure that he is dead?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hanley said, remembering the shell exploding on the walls of the fortress and the man’s head shattering.

  ‘Splendid, splendid. He was a dangerous fellow, and if he were still up to no good I would wonder whether he had been at work. Cox did not want to surrender, but his Portuguese officers decided for him and sent out a white flag. Hard to blame them. They had no hope, and after Ciudad Rodrigo they knew the army would not come to save them. A fair few soldiers volunteered to join Napoleon’s Portuguese regiment, but many are already back with us, having deserted at the first opportunity. With commanders and soldiers alike, I believe there was more pragmatism than hatred of their ally.’

  ‘What about Lander?’ Hanley had told the merchant of Velarde’s claim that the Swiss was in his pay. ‘How pragmatic was he?’

  ‘The question is now purely academic,’ Baynes said, showing not the slightest trace of discomfort. ‘I have no good reason to believe that he planned to disobey my instructions. Apart from that, I had no doubt that you would cope.’ The merchant’s smile was broad. ‘You should never underestimate yourself, William.’

  Hanley realised that he would get nothing more on that subject and so asked about something else. ‘Have you had any luck deciphering the code? Velarde spoke of French sympathisers in Lisbon as well as Spain.’

  ‘Nothing so far, I am afraid.’ Baynes seemed genuinely disappointed. ‘I know the trouble you went through to get that to us.’ He chuckled again. ‘Might have helped if you had not dunked it in water so often, but we have a clever fellow working on it and I am sure he will find the key eventually. In the meantime the Regency Council in Lisbon has been persuaded to give Lord Wellington their full support. They do not have a lot of choice if they are to pay all their bills and keep the army in being.’

  ‘More sacrifice?’

  ‘More prudent politics, and that is a murkier and less noble business all around. Much like ours.’ The merchant gave another beaming smile.

  ‘To what end?’ Hanley was still unconvinced. ‘The French have wasted time, although not very much at Almeida. They still have a larger army and there is nothing to stop them marching all the way to Lisbon.’

  Baynes looked at him for a while. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe. But they will find it less easy than everyone seems to think. Do you recollect those forts we saw being built in the heights beyond Lisbon?’

  Hanley nodded, but was not impressed. ‘Small works compared to Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida, and Masséna’s men now hold both of those.’

  ‘They do indeed, but those towns did not have all of Lord Wellington’s army to wait behind them and attack any force breaking through. Soldiers like Murray assure me these lines of forts will be the toughest of nuts to crack and nothing like them has ever been seen before. By the time he gets there Masséna will be a long way from home, in a country stripped of resources. He may not find a siege too easy.

  ‘Napoleon may have made a great mistake in not coming himself, and in not insisting on more urgency for the campaign. Every week that passes consumes their food supplies and makes us grow stronger. By the sound of it Wellington may risk a battle to slow them down a little more.

  ‘And now I understand that you will be leaving us, William.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘I am ordered to go with Major MacAndrews and the others to join the regiment in Gibraltar.’ Hanley had no doubt that Baynes already knew every detail.

  ‘Call on me in Lisbon before you sail.’ Baynes spoke lightly. ‘I may have some little tasks for you down south. Indeed, for all of you.’ Hanley felt the usual mix of fear and excitement at the prospect of playing a role in another of the merchant’s schemes.

  ‘Adiós for the moment, William. Your friends are at an inn in the village over yonder and I suggest you join them for the night.’ It was getting dark and once again the rain was starting to fall. Hanley doubted many of the refugees would find a dry bed or a warm fire tonight.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Still have a long way to go. So do we all, Hanley.’ Baynes set off briskly on the road that led eventually to Lisbon. ‘Come to see me, William,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Hanley was not surprised that MacAndrews, Pringle, Williams and the others were at the inn as Baynes had said. The merchant always seemed to know. He decided not to mention to the others any talk of ‘little tasks’. He knew that Williams did not trust the merchant and suspected that all of them were bitter for being brought here. Their mission had proved a failure, and if MacAndrews’ charge at the Côa had won him a name in the army, that was unlikely to bring more tangible reward.

  The mood had been gloomy before Hanley left them to meet Baynes and report at headquarters to Murray. They were all proud men and they worried that the war was lost. Williams doggedly claimed that they would win in the end, but even he did not seem to base this on anything other than blind faith. Hanley was not sure that he was yet sufficiently convinced by Baynes to sway them. Perhaps he would say something when they approached the city and saw the lines of forts.

  Something had changed, for the gloom now seemed worse than when he had left. Two arrivals had probably done little to help. From nowhere Ensign Hatch had appeared, his face horribly scarred from the wound he had taken in the face at Talavera. He hated Williams, although none of the others understood quite why. With him was Major Wickham, whose well-cultivated good looks only made the ensign seem all the uglier. The major had served in staff postings for some time, but now it seemed both were to return to the 106th. Wickham showed no great enthusiasm for this, and dinner had obviously been an uncomfortable affair for everyone. Williams was sunk more deeply into gloom than Hanley had seen him since the previous year when they had feared half the regiment – and Jane MacAndrews – lost at sea.

  Pringle, happy now that he had his spare glasses from his valise, tried to explain when he and Hanley shared a cigar and a glass of brandy together after the others had gone to sleep.

  ‘Garland is dead,’ he said flatly. ‘The wound turned bad and he just died.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Pringle gave a humourless laugh. �
�Might just as well have shot him last year.’ He drank deeply and then refilled his glass.

  ‘Then you would probably have hanged, and perhaps others of us as well.’ Hanley stared at his friend until Pringle sensed the scrutiny and looked up from his drink. ‘And it would still be Miss Williams, mother of a bastard child, and not the poor widow Mrs Garland and her son. Believe me, I know something of this and would not wish it on anyone.’

  Billy Pringle sighed, and then he put down the glass firmly and reached for another cheroot. ‘Better for me,’ he muttered, and lifted the lighted taper to its tip.

  ‘So is that the cause of Bills’ melancholy?’

  Pringle blew on the cheroot until it glowed properly. ‘No. In fact for all that he says I suspect it is a small part of it. He has had other news, in a joyous letter from Miss MacAndrews telling of her good fortune. A relative has died in America.’

  ‘An ill wind,’ Hanley said tartly.

  ‘In this case it has made her a more than moderately wealthy young lady.’ He blew out a thin cloud of tobacco smoke with obvious relish.

  ‘Is that not good news?’

  ‘You know Bills,’ Pringle explained. ‘He says she is now far above him, and that he would seem a fortune hunter if he pursued her.’

  ‘It is scarcely a new affection.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, but he talks of honour and how he must do the decent thing, and then walks around with a face like sour milk, spreading sunshine all around.’

  ‘Ah, a matter of honour,’ said Hanley, shaking his head.

  They did not speak for a while. Pringle drank no more and they both took pleasure in the cheroots. Then suddenly Hanley raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to Christmas at home,’ he said.

  Pringle was jerked from his thoughts, but then smiled at the old toast. ‘I suspect “with the regiment” is more likely.’

  Hanley thought for a moment. ‘I am beginning to wonder if that is the same thing,’ he said. ‘I certainly do not have another one.’

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Like its predecessors, All in Scarlet Uniform is a work of fiction, but the setting is based on the real events of 1809–10 and I have tried to make the background as accurate as possible. The 106th Regiment of Foot is an invention, unconnected with the real unit bearing that number which briefly existed in the 1790s. I have done my best to make the fictional characters of this fictional regiment behave in a way true to life for the era. All the major engagements in the story – the night attack at Barba del Puerco, the siege and skirmishes around Ciudad Rodrigo, the botched cavalry raid at Barquilla, and the desperate rearguard action at the Côa – occurred very much as described, many of the small details coming from eyewitness accounts.

  Alongside the fictional characters are many real people, and perhaps the most remarkable of these are Marshal Ney and Brigadier General Craufurd. Ney, who had a ruddy complexion and not the red hair often claimed, was later dubbed the ‘bravest of the brave’ by an emperor fond of such tags. This was after the retreat from Moscow, when the marshal had held together the rearguard, carrying and using a musket just like an ordinary soldier. Later, the Emperor blamed Ney for the failure of the Waterloo campaign, in part to cover up his own mistakes. Ney’s repeated – and ultimately fruitless – cavalry charges against the squares of Wellington’s infantry have contributed to the image of a man braver than he was prudent, a common enough failing for the hussar he had once been.

  This is not quite the whole story. In his earlier campaigns Ney showed considerable skill and subtlety, and he would do so again when his corps formed the rearguard to Masséna’s army in 1811. Yet there is no doubting his hot temper, and this made the marshal unpredictable, and an extremely difficult subordinate. At one point in 1810 he tried to incite Junot to join him in rejecting Masséna’s orders and effectively leading a mutiny. Fortunately for both of them, Junot had enough sense to refuse. On a smaller scale of disobedience, Ney began the bombardment of Ciudad Rodrigo two days early in spite of an explicit instruction to wait. As in the story, he turned his reconnaissance towards Almeida into a full attack on the Light Division. If he had not, then no doubt critics would accuse him of missing an opportunity, for he came close to inflicting crippling losses on the British and Portuguese regiments.

  Craufurd should not have fought the battle. Wellington had sent repeated orders over the preceding week for him to withdraw the Light Division to the western bank of the River Côa. Instead he lingered, and then seems to have procrastinated on the day itself, leaving his withdrawal until it was almost too late. The words quoted by Baynes in the Epilogue were written by Wellington and reflected his opinion. He had asked specifically for Craufurd and given him the plum command of the Light Division over the heads of more senior generals. Throughout he kept faith with his difficult subordinate and was surely vindicated by the results. Craufurd had managed the outpost line with tremendous skill – it was used as a model for training the army in such work well into the nineteenth century. For all his hot temper, ‘Black Bob’ was a serious soldier, well versed in theory. He was able to speak to the hussars of the KGL in their own language, was willing to spend hours in the saddle visiting and placing pickets, and created a system whereby the depths of rivers were monitored on a daily basis to know when fords were usable.

  Much of the business of maintaining an army’s outpost was a question of guessing the enemy’s next move, and each side sought to bluff and confuse. On more than one occasion Craufurd deployed the entire division in a single line to make it seem that they were merely the front of a much larger force. The French were experienced and dangerous opponents and we should not forget the skill with which they observed the Light Division and concealed their own intentions. Yet in the end, the Allies were on the defensive, and Craufurd’s men kept the enemy at a distance for months on end, maintaining communications with Ciudad Rodrigo for a long time even as the French began the siege. The French were never able to surprise and take any of the Light Division’s outposts. Much of the credit must go to the skill of the 1st KGL Hussars, and the regiments of the Light Division, but the control and regulations imposed on them by Craufurd played a big part.

  Respected by the ordinary soldiers, the general was not popular with his officers, who were inclined to speak of his tyranny and were rapid to blame him for the near disaster at the Côa. Probably his mistakes were a natural consequence of meeting the enemy’s bluffs and feints over so many long weeks. It was a bad misjudgement, and the memory of his surrender in South America may well have gnawed at him and further sapped his judgement on the day. The quality of his regiments got him out of the fix and he was never again to place himself in so bad a situation. Craufurd’s ability as a battlefield commander is debatable. That he was clearly the best available commander for leading the army’s outposts, rearguard and vanguard is hard to doubt.

  In 1810 the chief burden of resisting the French fell for the first time on Wellington’s army. Spanish fortunes were at a very low ebb, especially after Soult overran much of the south. Their armies were the shattered remnants of too many defeats, and the greater part of the country, including almost all important cities, was under French control. It took immense optimism – and often a good deal of pride and sheer stubbornness – to keep fighting when the war seemed lost. Yet this is precisely what so many Spaniards did. Herrasti represents one side of this. Old by the time the war began, he was a career soldier who found himself in charge of an outdated fortress with an inadequate garrison and at times a turbulent population. The British were inclined to doubt his resolution, but they were proved wrong. Ciudad Rodrigo resisted stubbornly, and although the French were sometimes dismissive of the skill of the defenders, the fortress held them up for precious weeks. It required a great expenditure of ammunition and material as well as considerable suffering and loss for their soldiers working to dig the parallels and saps. Herrasti and most other Spaniards felt bitter when their efforts were not rewarded by Wellington ma
rching to save the city. He was not strong enough to do this, and wisely did not attempt it, but that was much easier to see with hindsight.

  Today ‘El Charro’ is probably more famous than the elderly governor. The guerrillas then and now had a glamour lacking in the regular army so often beaten in the field. On the other hand, his career highlights the fact that almost all successful partisan leaders eventually turned their bands into something almost indistinguishable from regular units. Named a brigadier in the army, Don Julián Sánchez García led his regiment of lancers for years, more often than not operating with Wellington’s army. On their own the guerrillas made life very difficult for the French, but could never drive them from a region through their efforts alone.

  Josepha was also real, although I have brought her story forward by a year and introduced Pringle as an added complication. Betrothed to Don Julián Sánchez, she ran off and lived with the German commissary officer Augustus Schaumann and also Edward Cocks of the 16th Light Dragoons, who appears briefly in the story. In each case she hoped for marriage, since the prospect of wedding the guerrilla leader was clearly unattractive. Her father protested to Wellington, who ordered Schaumann to return her to her family. The German claimed that she went back with her virtue intact, but this seems unlikely. Cocks’ diary makes it clear that their relationship was most certainly physical, and although he does not seem to have planned marriage, he was deeply upset when she left him. Her ultimate fate is unknown, but she did not marry El Charro. I could not resist including something of the story on the basis that truth is so often far more unlikely than fiction.

  Almost as unlikely – at least to many people on all sides – was the possibility that the French would not reoccupy all of Portugal by the end of 1810. After the Talavera campaign ended in disappointment and retreat, the situation in the Iberian peninsula looked distinctly bleak for the Allies. The position in central Europe was even worse. Austria had broken the peace with France in 1809, and after some early successes had suffered defeat at Wagram and surrendered. Britain’s government had dithered over providing direct support to Austria, and finally launched the expedition to Holland and landed a large army on Walcheren Island. It was too late to help the Austrians. The army captured Flushing, but suffered appalling losses to ‘Walcheren fever’, which killed or crippled many men who had survived the harsh retreat to Corunna. It is possible that more than one disease was to blame, but malaria played a part and many victims would suffer repeated attacks long after they thought that they had recovered. After a while, Wellington asked that no more regiments that had served on the expedition be sent to him in Spain because the soldiers’ health was so poor. This was at a time when he was desperate for reinforcements.