‘There was no reason for Hanks and his wife to be so far away from the army’s outposts when I stumbled across them. I think they were planning to run.’ He doubted Hanks had played much part in the decision, but did not question his wife’s power of persuasion. ‘Jenny does not care much for the life of a soldier’s wife.’
Miss MacAndrews considered this for a while, thinking back to the many times Jenny had spoken eagerly of wealth and splendour. ‘It seems unlikely that a deserter would give her anything better.’
‘He could help her get away more easily than she could on her own, and offer some protection as they travelled.’
‘There still appears no great reason for her to give up her child. Would not her husband be reluctant to aid such a deed? Or was he a vicious man?’
‘Not at all. Gentle, slow, and very quiet.’
‘Then surely …’
‘I suspect that she would have left him and the baby as she left us.’ Williams spoke forcefully, interrupting the girl. ‘I cannot be certain, but I doubt that Jenny ever planned to raise the child herself, or return to her parents and the army. Where she is going I do not know. Perhaps to find a rich Spaniard or even a Frenchman? Perhaps she hopes to get to England? She often speaks of London.’
Jane frowned. ‘Nevertheless, I cannot believe her so callous as to abandon her baby to a fate even more precarious than her own.’
‘She did not, did she?’ Williams smiled ironically. ‘She knows us both well enough to be certain that we would do everything for the babe, giving our lives if necessary.’ Suddenly it all seemed so comic to him. ‘I fear this is the price of having a good reputation!’
Jane was amused, but still wondering whether the officer was right when the distant popping of musketry interrupted them. They turned to stare back across the river as the Spanish soldiers ran to arms. Three squadrons of French cavalry had appeared and were walking their horses inexorably towards the bridge and the town beyond. Behind them were another three squadrons, and more cavalry were appearing at every moment.
The Spanish captain did his best with his battalion to anchor the flank. He formed them behind one of the ditches, so that it would be hard for the enemy to sweep over them, and for a while he kept his men from wasting their shots, even though the rest of the brigade was firing at absurdly long range. When the closest French squadron approached them, he waited until they were less than two hundred paces away and gave the order. They emptied a handful of saddles, and the French halted to reply with their own carbines. Elsewhere the Spanish brigade was collapsing. They fled before the French horsemen could reach them, but men on foot struggle to outrun horsemen and soon the chasseurs and dragoons were among them, stabbing and slicing as they passed.
Perhaps the captain could have kept his men together and reached the bridge in some order. The soldiers were nervous, but they trusted him, and enough were experienced and knew that flight was far more dangerous than keeping together. The line split into two wings. One retreated a hundred paces and then halted, ready to fire to cover the rest of the battalion as it pulled back past them. The squadron ahead watched them warily. Those elsewhere were distracted by other, far easier targets. Then there was drumming of hoofs behind them, and a new force of French cavalry appeared as if from nowhere.
‘Colloseros!’ yelled the lieutenant, using the Spaniards’ nickname for the big cuirassiers. Dalmas’ men had rolled their cloaks and strapped them to the valise on the back of each saddle. Their swords were drawn and their armour and helmets gleamed in the pale sun. To their left the Poles had untied the red and white pennants on their slim lances, and the little flags whipped in the breeze as they lowered them to the charge position.
The line collapsed. It probably did not matter, for there was no time to form a square, and anyway the captain doubted that his men were capable of performing the drill. As his soldiers fled, he drew his pistol and pulled back the hammer. He aimed carefully, lining up the barrel to point at the fast-approaching leader of the enemy lancers. The man had an immense blond moustache and the Spanish officer decided that this was as good a reason as any to end his life.
He waited, ignoring his lieutenant’s cries to come on. At twenty yards he squeezed the trigger, willing the shot to strike squarely in the middle of the Polish officer’s yellow-fronted coat. The hammer slammed down and the flint sparked, but the low-grade powder in the pan merely fizzled and failed to set off the charge. It seemed fitting for such a day. The Polish officer’s sabre cut down across his face, destroying his left eye in a moment of searing pain. One of the lancers in the rank behind impaled him neatly near the heart, and then swung his arm round so that as he rushed past the lance was yanked from the Spaniard’s falling body. The Pole rode on.
From the hill beyond the river, Williams and Miss MacAndrews could not see the fate of individuals. The French squadrons simply washed over the few thin lines and clusters of Spanish infantry.
‘Poor devils,’ said Williams quietly. ‘We need to move quickly.’
14
‘We must attack.’ Graham translated the Spanish general’s words. ‘He believes that Bonaparte is overextended, his army straggling back through the mountain passes. If we together march to the south-west, we can strike at his flank.’
Sir John Moore struggled to control his anger. La Romana was no doubt a brave man, but command of an army required a good deal more than courage. This new proposal to attack was just the latest in a succession of wildly unrealistic plans put forward by the Spanish general, ideas all the more fantastic in view of Romana’s frequent expressions of despair at the state of his own army.
‘Tell him we do not have food or transport,’ Sir John said to Graham. ‘We cannot fight, and so we must continue to withdraw. Tell him he must let me have this road and find another for his own men. He must. If we both retreat by the same route we will go slowly and the French will catch up with us when we are in no condition to fight.’ Moore waited for his friend to repeat what he had said, and was pleased to hear a definite emphasis in the later sections.
The British and Spanish armies had come together at the town of Astorga. That should not have happened, since Sir John had specifically asked his ally to follow a different route and avoid the town, and had believed the matter to be settled. Instead there were five thousand or more half-naked and emaciated men in the place before he added five times as many of his own soldiers. By the sound of things, most of the Spanish had not eaten for three or four days, and it was obvious that many were desperately sick. He dreaded to think how many had already died, or been left behind on the road.
‘He repeats his complaint at the misbehaviour of our soldiers,’ said Graham wearily.
Sir John forced himself to wait a moment, lest his rage become apparent. He also noted that the Spanish general had changed the subject and suspected that this was meant as a distraction from the main issue.
‘Tell him that as commanders we must each look to the discipline and welfare of our own men. That soldiers without food are inclined to take whatever they need.’
The Spanish soldiers were desperate. They broke into houses searching for food and drink. Others rifled the stores carefully prepared here to support both armies. The British quartermasters and commissaries were already struggling to prepare some of their supplies for immediate issue, others for transport and the rest for destruction, when the system was thrown into chaos by mobs of starving Spanish troops. His own soldiers – Moore had never before in his life believed that he could be ashamed that they were his – were quick to follow suit. They hunted for food and most of all for wine. Spanish and British soldiers threatened the townspeople if they did not get what they wanted. They were equally ready to turn on each other. There was fighting, and he would be surprised if no deaths had occurred.
‘His officers must take back control of their men, as my own will do with our soldiers,’ said Sir John. Privately he doubted that order would be restored until the troops left the town.
At present it was simply too easy for individuals to vanish into the streets, and avoid the gaze of the regimental officers and sergeants who would recognise them and be able to inflict punishment.
Astorga was a grim sight, and the acrid smell of smoke was everywhere, filling Sir John’s nostrils. Fires burned on open patches of ground as stocks of stores were destroyed to deny them to the enemy. Dead horses and bullocks lay in all of the yards and even in the streets, killed because they were no longer able to go on. More animals were still waiting dumbly for execution. There had been sufficient order to issue a musket to every Spanish soldier who lacked one. Moore’s own men got less attention. Blankets, uniforms and boots so desperately needed were all too often burned instead of being given out.
La Romana sighed heavily, and then plunged again into another enthusiastic oration. Sir John waited for the translation.
‘He says that Bonaparte himself has left the army,’ explained Graham. They had already heard the rumour, but did not know whether it was true. ‘Surely this is a time to strike, when the French are without their leader.’
Sir John restated the impossibility of attacking, and the risk they would run remaining where they were. There were only two passes into Astorga, and in other circumstances he would have been happy to hold them. At present there was simply no useful object to be served. In the end, Romana gave up his wild plans with a most generous grace.
‘The Spanish artillery cannot use the road to the west,’ Graham summarised the general’s explanation. ‘So they must continue north to Lugo. The rest of the Army of Galicia will march to Orense, away from us.’
‘Express my thanks.’ That was good enough. Sir John had already decided to send some of his own brigades by the western roads, which in time would take them to the port of Vigo. It spread the burden when it came to quarters and supplies, and it would also give him a chance to hold the port open, should he have to shift the rest of the army in that direction.
One problem was dealt with, although he still had to decide how much of his army to send by the western route. Explaining his actions to London was unlikely to be so simple. He returned to a small room in the house chosen as his headquarters, trying to compose the letter he would write. If only the ministers could see the wretched state of the Spanish soldiers, starving and riddled with fever, or know what it meant to deal with such unpredictable and disorganised allies. How could he fight on his own, when the Spanish were so woefully unprepared? He was sceptical that the government, at such a safe distance, still in a comfortable haze of optimism and false reports, would understand the true position. Even if they did privately, politicians were unlikely to make public acknowledgement of the truth if it was personally inexpedient. Sir John’s own time as an MP had taught him that lesson most thoroughly.
Out in the streets of Astorga, Major MacAndrews almost screamed aloud as he saw boxes full of shoes perishing in the flames. He and Esther went to the headquarters of each brigade, asking in case anyone had news of his daughter. His wife was shrewd enough to know as he did that there was little hope. If Jane, or for that matter Williams, had made their way here, they would have sought out and found the regiment. They looked anyway. He knew that Pringle and Hanley were out and about on the same errand. Indeed, it had taken something close to a direct order delivered to the other officers via Brotherton to stop almost everyone else joining them.
There was no news, only the signs of looting and destruction. Most of the Spanish and other British troops had begun to move out earlier in the day, and so the streets themselves were less crowded. Despondently he returned to their billet, and found that he was ordered to attend General Paget.
Hanley and Pringle gave up at about the same time. The Grenadier Company was divided between two big houses, and once again the officers had no separate accommodation. When they had arrived, the town was too full to allow any more generous allowance. Pringle had felt it better for each of them to reside with half of the company, rather than together. Hanley would have preferred to stay with his friend. He felt like an intruder among the men and their families, unable to understand them. Some of the smaller children stared at him in a way that made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He felt a reserve among the adults, and was at a loss how to talk with them. It seemed so much easier for Williams, no doubt from his time as a volunteer serving alongside the men. Yet even Pringle was more at ease with the company than Hanley felt he would ever find possible. The redcoats seemed separate from him in every way, stronger than he was, while being as wild and unpredictable as infants.
The house allocated to his half of the company was quieter by the time Hanley returned, and had lost just a little of its Hogarthian quality. Most of the children were now asleep, or at least quiet, and the little wine the company possessed had already been drunk. His earnest hope that none had been able to drink to excess appeared to be doomed as he watched a burly fellow named Eyles strutting at the end of the room, next to one of the three locked doors where the owners slept and kept their valuables.
‘Br-br-bruck-buck-buckbuck.’ The impression was remarkably good, if rather startling in its unexpectedness. He tried again, leaning down to the bottom of the door. Moving on, he began to make more chicken noises at the next door.
‘What the devil …?’ Hanley began.
‘Sam’ll have ’em soon,’ Sergeant Probert replied. ‘He grew up on a farm.’ It seemed an inadequate explanation, but none of the expectant soldiers was inclined to add any more. At the third door, Eyles tried again. He stopped to listen and then clucked even more loudly. The answer was faint. He repeated the call and again came the reply.
‘Right, lads, that’s the one.’ Probert sprang towards the door as one of the men tried to use his bayonet to get into the crack and spring the lock. ‘Out the way, let Salty have a go.’ The sergeant was one of very few genuine Welshmen in the 106th, in spite of their official designation as ‘The Glamorganshire Regiment’. At his bidding Jim Salt, a man whose military career began at the suggestion of a magistrate, crouched down over the lock, a curiously shaped piece of metal in his hand.
Hanley was too fascinated to remember that as an officer he should probably be preventing this. They had the door open in less than a minute, and as Eyles repeated his call, a cockerel and half a dozen hens processed into the main room. The speed and savagery with which each was seized and its neck wrung dismayed him, after which it seemed too late for any protest. This was not the opinion of the owner of the house, who must have been drawn by the strange noise. His complaints were shrill, although he did not risk coming fully into the room packed with the frightening foreign soldiers.
At that moment Corporal Atkinson from the battalion headquarters appeared, informing Hanley that officers were summoned by the major. He was glad to go, feeling there was nothing to be said. If the redcoats didn’t take the owner’s poultry then the French surely would. Hanley wondered about giving him some money as payment, and then realised he was too tired to care.
‘We are now the rearguard,’ MacAndrews told his assembled officers. ‘The light brigades are marching to Vigo. The hussars are staying with us for the moment, but the burden of the work is likely to fall on the Reserve Division. It is the usual form. The rest of the army will be between one and two days’ march in advance of us. Our task is to keep an eye on the French, and stop them from getting too forward.’
Hanley was yawning when he got back to the house. A boiled chicken leg was presented to him almost immediately. Eating it reminded him of just how hungry he was. He was also so very tired that even the bare stone floor in a crowded room seemed the height of luxury as he lay down, covered himself in a blanket and was quickly asleep.
The next morning the battalion went only five miles along the grand road, built not long before by the Spanish to connect Madrid to the north coast. A convoy of carts blocked the road ahead of them for a long while. Each wagon was full of sick and wounded Spanish soldiers, whose numbers had swamped the few surgeons i
n their army. Hanley had never before seen so many faces of people so obviously waiting for death.
The division was to stop for the night and for once the 106th were comfortable. The village did not look much, but the remaining inhabitants were welcoming, and their houses showed every sign of being well maintained in spite of their poverty. There was ample chopped straw to keep the fires going, and more that provided the most luxurious bedding they had enjoyed for a long time. If there was less food than they would have liked, then that was merely a proof that life was not perfect. The officers at least were content to discover very little wine in the place. On the whole the battalion was happy. Hanley was not surprised when he heard the grenadiers singing.
The drums beat to muster ten minutes later. Hussars were falling back past the houses as the Reserve Division mustered in the fields outside. The French were coming and there would be no easy night. As the redcoats stood in formation, big flakes of snow began to drift down, settling for a moment on the tops of shakos before they melted. Soon the march resumed, but it was good to be on a road that had a firm rocky bed, leaving behind the sucking mud of so many miles. Steadily, the route wound upwards, into hills already covered with inches of snow. There was no wind and Hanley soon found that he did not notice the cold. He marched at the rear of the Grenadier Company, and the steady tread of their boots on the hard road became the only sound in the world. No one sang, and no one talked. They were marching at ease, and yet habit and convenience kept them all in step.
Hanley woke with a start as he fell against Murphy’s wooden-framed backpack. The battalion ahead had stopped for some reason, and so the 106th had also halted.
‘Are you all right, your Honour?’ Private Murphy had wrapped his shoeless feet in rags for warmth, and he must have been as tired as everyone else, as well as worried about his wife and child, walking with the baggage. He still looked as if he were merely out for a gentle stroll on a summer’s afternoon.
Beat the Drums Slowly Page 16
