Whose Business is to Die, page 5
‘Well,’ Baynes continued after a moment, ‘the marshal has a formidable appearance. He is a big fellow, bigger even than you. One of his eyes no longer works – I believe a shooting accident when he was young, although how anyone could mistake that tower of a man for a pheasant escapes me. Nevertheless, I tell you this for it can be disconcerting when you meet him for the first time. As to the rest, he is not the most mannered of gentlemen, quite the Goth in fact, and no doubt you know about Buenos Aires? No? Well, the marshal captured the place back in ‘06 when we tried to steal the Spanish Americas, and then had to surrender when the Spaniards – rather impudently you might feel – decided they would take the city back. You would know better than I, but such a thing might well prey on a soldier’s mind.’
The disastrous expeditions to South America were a source of continued shame and anger in the army, not least because they were so woefully mismanaged. Williams knew little of them and had not realised that Beresford was involved.
There was no time to reply because they were almost there. Closest to them was a squadron of heavy cavalry who sat on their horses and waited, a low murmur of conversation coming from them since they were obviously at ease, swords still in scabbards. Several of the horses were cropping the grass, only half-heartedly restrained by their riders. The men wore red jackets of similar pattern to the infantry, although in this case they were as faded and patched as any he had ever seen. Their collars and cuffs were green, and so these must be the 4th Dragoons, which meant, reasonably enough, that the senior regiment, the 3rd Dragoon Guards, was in the place of seniority over on the right. The 4th had been in Portugal and Spain for years now, and showed every sign of hard service. Most still wore their bicorne hats, but often so misshapen by the weather that they were barely recognisable. The sergeant on the end of the rear rank had a large chunk missing from the front of his hat, the hole ragged where it had been. Beside him was a man in a forage cap, and next to him another with a tall hat more like an infantry shako. Perhaps it was this raggedness, perhaps the reassuring red jackets, but somehow Williams felt more akin to a regiment like this than to the light dragoons or hussars, fine fellows though they were – at least for cavalrymen.
They rode past the squadrons of the 4th Dragoons and saw a cluster of horsemen in capes, cloaks and neat cocked hats behind them. Marshal Beresford stood out for his bulk, and because it was clear that he was at the centre of things. Williams slowed his horse to a walk, and as he made his way forward saw a familiar face.
‘Ah, Williams, it is good to see you.’ Colonel D’Urban’s smile was genuinely warm, but there was no time for other pleasantries. ‘You are with Colborne, I understand.’ D’Urban was Marshal Beresford’s quartermaster general, and so the head of his staff. The colonel noticed Baynes and raised a gloved finger to the peak of his Tarleton helmet, his smile remaining warm, if a little wary. ‘Ah, something is afoot, I gather. Well, I am sure we can speak privately later. Now, Williams, what does Colonel Colborne have to say?’
‘I am in with Colborne, sir,’ Williams said, at last able to get a word in to interrupt the flow, ‘but I come now with a message from General Long.’
D’Urban’s smile faded. ‘Ah, then that is important. Come, you must report to the marshal.’
Beresford proved as formidable in appearance as Baynes had suggested, his milky white left eye looking as if it stared off at some distant object. Williams struggled to resist the urge to follow its gaze. There was also a glumness about the man, his heavy features giving a sense of despondency.
‘General Long’s compliments, sir,’ Williams began, ‘and he asks that the Heavy Brigade advance to support him. If it advances then he says that we will have trapped the French column on the highway, especially if our artillery has arrived. General Long reports that the Thirteenth and the Seventh Portuguese are gone, and that he has only the First Regiment with him, hence his need for the heavy dragoons to complete the victory.’
Beresford stared at him, the dead eye no longer focused on the far distance, but now seeming to bore into him. He did not seem pleased by the report.
‘No, sir, it will not do.’ The marshal shook his head, as if to reinforce his conclusion. In his heavy cloak there was something immense and bear-like about the man. ‘Where is Brigadier General Long?’
‘On the far side of the road by now, about three-quarters of a mile to our front,’ Williams said, and wondered why the staff were here behind the heavies. If they moved just a little to the side then Long and his Portuguese would be clearly visible.
‘He has the First Regiment with him. How steady are they after such losses?’
‘Losses, sir?’
‘Do you not know the meaning of the word, young man?’ The marshal’s voice was gruff and getting louder.
‘The First Regiment appeared steady, sir, and our losses are trifling.’ Williams used the word before thinking. It was the way of things to speak of such matters in this manner, but a little voice inside his head murmured that it would not be so very trifling to bleeding men waiting for the surgeons, or to the families of the dead. The wound in his hip began to ache for the first time in weeks.
‘Trifling, sir, trifling!’ The marshal’s face blazed red. ‘Damn you, young man, do you call a whole regiment taken a trifling loss!’ Men stirred in the rear rank of the 4th Dragoons at the scale of the marshal’s anger and the dreadful news. ‘The Thirteenth are lost. Surrounded by French cavalry and taken. You have just told me that they are gone, have you not, sir? Yet you see this as a mere trifle. Now, out of my sight, sir!’
Williams was dismissed and for the moment stunned. As he walked his horse away to join Baynes, the marshal was issuing an order to one of his own aides, telling General Long to halt where he was. Williams could not believe it. Yet if the 13th Light Dragoons were gone, what of the Portuguese and Hanley? Was his friend in French hands or dead?
‘I do not believe it,’ he said aloud, before realising that D’Urban was still beside Baynes. Now that he had spoken, there seemed no point in hiding his views, especially since the colonel had always struck him as a shrewd man. ‘The French were broken and the Thirteenth following in pursuit. The Portuguese went after them so they have supports. There was no sign of any reverse.’
D’Urban was sympathetic, but unconvinced. ‘We have certain word that the Thirteenth were faced with overwhelming numbers of French cavalry and forced to surrender. Such things can happen so quickly with cavalry. After such a reverse we must be cautious. If the guns come up in time then we may still achieve something.’ There was little trace of confidence, and then the colonel was called away.
‘Best if we move off a short way,’ Baynes suggested.
‘They are wrong, utterly wrong,’ Williams told him.
‘They are also far more senior than a lieutenant,’ Baynes said quietly, ‘and although a civilian, I believe it is not considered proper behaviour for a lieutenant to tell generals that they are wrong.’
‘Even if they are.’ Williams’ anger was fading a little.
‘Especially when they are.’
Clear of the 4th Dragoons, Williams fished out the cheap telescope he had bought in Lisbon and studied General Long’s Portuguese squadrons. They had formed in line, facing not the road, but to their left. He moved the glass and saw a dark line of horsemen opposite them. Once again he regretted the loss of his old glass, for he could not be sure about the numbers, although evidently these were French. Their appearance placed Long in a difficult position, for he had been moving parallel to the road. He was level with the infantry squares as they slowly made their way to safety, and the rearguard of French hussars was almost behind him.
There was sudden movement on the edge of the lens, and Williams shifted the glass, found the Portuguese squadrons, lost them and found them again. He just glimpsed a little red speck on a dark horse ahead of the lines of dark blue as Long led them in a charge against the hundred or so Frenchmen. Smoke blossomed from the side of the square as they passed and the Portuguese line staggered, men and horses falling. It wavered, became ragged, and then broke up into many little figures as one after another the cavalry turned and sped to the rear. The red dot on the dark horse was left on its own, and then followed as French horsemen hurried towards him.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘The Portuguese cavalry are put to flight,’ he explained. Baynes had been watching with one hand shading his eyes and had probably not seen clearly.
‘Do you then fear that things are as bad as the marshal believes?’ the merchant asked, for once uncertain.
‘No. Perhaps a squadron or so of French cavalry have rallied – their hussars were not much engaged by the Thirteenth, but I do not believe there would have been enough to change the fortunes of the day. And if the heavies had advanced as requested, none of this need have happened.’
‘I doubt very much that this would be an appropriate moment to express that view to the marshal or his staff,’ Baynes said, patting Williams on the arm. He had not realised that his fingers were clenching and unclenching in frustration.
‘Oh, for Lord Wellington,’ Williams sighed.
‘Oh, indeed,’ the merchant agreed. ‘But since he is up north keeping an eye on Marshal Masséna, we must do as best we can in other hands. And “oh” again, for we appear to be moving.’
The heavy brigade walked forward for almost two hundred yards and then stopped. The French continued their stately progression along the highway.
‘At last,’ Williams said as two teams of horses came at a slow trot from behind them. There were four to each team, pulling a limber and a six-pounder cannon, the KGL gunners jogging along behind. They passed the heavy cavalry and then wheeled off to the left of the road. The artillerymen were well trained and experienced, working smoothly as a team, and Williams knew that no one could have deployed more quickly, and yet even so he resented every second. At long last – in fact after only a couple of minutes – each gun captain raised an arm to show that his piece was loaded and laid on the target.
‘Fire!’ Captain Cleves shouted, and the guns belched flame and smoke and leaped back a good six feet. Williams was watching the French and saw one of the shot strike the stone of the road, then skip up to shatter the legs of two of the hussar horses from the rearguard squadron. The French did not stop.
‘Fire!’ The second salvo came not much more than a minute after the first, which was testament in itself to the practised skill of the German gunners. Williams did not see the strikes this time, but the hussars wheeled away to each side of the highway, leaving a dark bundle behind them.
‘Why do we not move?’ Williams said to Baynes. He realised that once again his hand was restless and he clenched it into a fist and held it shut. Marshal Beresford had come forward to watch the guns play on the French, but there was no sign that he planned to advance.
‘Fire!’ Cleves shouted again and again. The guns could see the rearmost square now that the hussars had moved. Williams saw the ranks ripple as the shot struck home and could well imagine the carnage. Yet the French did not stop and the British did not seem inclined to chase them. The British cavalry were fresher and far outnumbered the remaining French squadrons, and were heavier than the hussars, for they were bigger men on bigger horses. They could expect to drive them off with ease and leave the two squares on their own. It was a shame that there were only two guns – where the rest of Cleves’ brigade was baffled Williams – but even so they could pound the squares while the cavalry watched. When the French infantry started to waver the dragoons could charge and ride down the broken squares. It would take an hour at the most – half an hour if someone had the sense to bring forward the 2/66th and the Light Companies from his own brigade.
‘I do not understand this,’ he said, loud enough to make D’Urban turn and glare at him.
‘Nor so I, but I am a mere civilian.’ Baynes spoke softly, with only a little of his usual amusement at the folly of others. ‘However, it is clear that we have nothing to do here. I ought to stay just in case, but I do not believe that I will need you to identify any French rogue for me. Best go back to your own duties. I will make sure that the horse is sent to you.’ He chuckled. ‘Better to take the sergeant’s rather than the officer’s! You are a bright fellow, Mr Williams, but best not to linger here.’
Williams rode off, the noise of each discharge from the guns getting quieter as he cantered away. Colborne was still on the hilltop with Dunbar, the Light Companies and the 2/66th sitting or lying in formation in the valley behind. Williams suspected quite a few were asleep.
‘Where have you been, sir?’ Colonel Colborne’s manner was surprisingly brusque. Williams noticed that Dunbar was avoiding the gaze of either man. Unsure of how to respond, he hesitated. ‘Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?’
The truth was simplest, and as Williams explained what had happened he could see the colonel’s mood soften. The frustration remained, but was no longer directed at him, and by the end he was able to smile.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Williams replied, ‘a good steady beast, I think, if not perhaps able to meet Captain Dunbar’s standards for the aesthetic.’ Dunbar was free in his distaste for Francesca’s ungainly looks.
‘Well, at least someone has achieved something today.’ Colborne spoke bitterly. ‘Fools or knaves, I cannot decide which, but the harm has been great.’
The French column was far away and the guns had gone silent. The heavy cavalry had not moved.
‘I do not understand why everyone has become convinced that the Thirteenth are taken by the French,’ Williams said, feeling his own frustration bubbling up again. Dunbar was gesturing for him to stop, and he guessed this was already a well-trodden theme, but he could not desist. ‘There was no sign of it, none at all, and yet they are all so convinced.’
‘Fools.’ Colborne steadied himself, breathing hard for a few moments. He had a reputation for never swearing – an attribute Williams greatly admired and did his best to match, but a rare one in this army. He suspected that he had come very close to seeing the habit broken.
‘Fools,’ the colonel said more softly. ‘We saw the charge from here – the most beautiful thing I ever did see – and the French were swept from the field. An aide tried to tell me that they were surrounded, but I sent him back to assure Marshal Beresford that they were not. We saw it all as plain as day, and yet we were not believed.’
‘The marshal did not have clear sight of the action,’ Williams offered, knowing that it was a weak justification. A general in charge of an army should find the best spot from which to survey the field. Moore would have done, and so would Lord Wellington.
‘Fools or knaves.’ Colborne repeated the phrase. There was something rueful about the way he spoke the next words. ‘There was a most brilliant coup de main staring us in the face and we threw the chance away.
‘Well, I had better ride and see what our lords and masters want of the brigade, since they have not deigned to inform us.’ Colborne kicked angrily at the side of his horse and cantered off down the hill.
Dunbar sighed. He had removed his cloak to show the silver epaulettes and green facings of his regiment, for like the colonel he served in the 2/66th and the two men knew each other well. Williams found the captain to be a friendly man and a good soldier, and was sure that without the latter quality he would not have held this post regardless of his affability.
‘The colonel has had a trying day,’ Dunbar said. ‘He cannot abide mismanagement or lack of spirit, and unfortunately he expressed himself fully when the marshal’s aide came to us. Sadly, General Stewart was with us and he took the criticism as a personal insult – though I have no doubt that none of it was directed at him.’ Major General Stewart had commanded the brigade until he was moved up to have charge of the entire Second Division. He was a slim terrier of a man, well liked and well respected.
‘Stewart demanded a retraction. The colonel would only say that a brilliant opportunity had been squandered. The general looked at him coldly and said, “Well, then, in future, Colonel Colborne, I shall only address you in the most official manner.” Just like that, and then he galloped off. It is sad for they have always been good friends. I have heard the colonel say more than once that General Stewart is the bravest man he has ever known. So sad.’ Dunbar shook his head.
The French were now a dark smear on the landscape, almost at the horizon. No one was following them, and the heavy dragoons had dismounted to rest their horses. Williams wondered where Hanley was, and where the cavalry had gone.
‘We are such a happy army,’ Dunbar said, half to himself.
5
The horses pounded over the earth. The grass was wet, but the soil had been so dry that now they were on the plain it had simply sucked up the rain and was still as hard as rock. Hanley felt his horse excited by the sheer joy of running with so many others, a herd rushing it did not matter where so long as they were running.
At the start the Portuguese cavalry had kept to formation, moving no faster than a trot. Then they saw a dozen dragoons forming up – they must have fled off to the side and avoided the onslaught of the 13th Light Dragoons.
Swords scraped on scabbards as they were drawn and without orders the leading squadron charged, the others following. They did not cheer, but shrieked like excited children. Hanley gripped his own sword tighter and drove his horse forward, its longer legs stretching out and soon passing the smaller animals ridden by the cavalry. His mouth was open and he was whooping with delight.
The French ran. Before the deluge of blue-coated cavalry and the redcoated officer at their head reached them their horses went about and they fled. Hanley saw their backs and realised that he was yelling with delight as he gave chase. The French scattered, but their horses were already weary and a couple of them tried to flee straight back. Hanley closed with one, a trumpeter in an orange coat laced with green. He looked to be barely eighteen, fresh faced and terrified as he turned and stared back at his pursuers.
