Run Them Ashore (30 page)

He loved Miss MacAndrews, even if treacherous thoughts kept coming to his mind as he wondered about touching the skin of the Andalusian girl, of pressing her close, and clamping his mouth against hers. Yet he loved Jane and only Jane, even though he knew that he could not make her his wife and be with her. Guadalupe was lovely and kind, and he owed her his life. His heart swelled with pity for someone who had endured so much and had not been destroyed by it. He pitied her, was fond of her, and was stirred by her beauty, but did not love her. He was sure he did not.

‘I think I will take a walk,’ he said as Carlos noticed him getting up.

‘Good. A patient should get plenty of exercise.’ The former surgeon was showing the signs of his prodigious drinking and waved him a cheerful farewell before resuming his playing.

Williams was cold and stiff, and for the moment felt only a dull ache. He rubbed his hands, although the night was not
really so very chill. As he wandered away from the fire, life came back to his limbs and the pain increased, but he walked on, trying to push through it. It was a truly beautiful night, and the absence of the moon made the great field of stars even brighter. After a while he stopped and stared up at the sky, wondering how anyone could see such wonder and not believe in God. He thought of Hanley, that clever man who said that nothing in the world suggested purpose let alone goodness behind it, and he could not understand him.

He heard the soft footsteps, but did not turn, for he was not sure what to say. An arm came and looped through his as she stood beside him.

‘You should rest,’ Guadalupe said. Neither of them moved, and they stood for a long while looking at the stars.

‘Your dancing is wonderful,’ he said after some time, wondering whether he got the compliment right. His Spanish was now good, but many subtleties still escaped him.

‘It has been a long time. A very long time, and I never thought that I would dance again.’

Silence followed, save for the distant sound of Carlos’ guitar.

Williams turned and looked down at her. ‘You feel gratitude to me,’ he began. ‘Gratitude because I was in time to protect your sister from the worst, and there was no one there to help you.’

She did not speak, but she pressed close to him and he did not pull back. Her head rested on his chest, her hair against his chin.

‘I am sorry no one was there,’ he continued. ‘It was wrong and it was terrible, but there was no one. Now you have helped me to live when I would surely have died, and you have cared for me as if I was a child. It is not love, not real love, at best the love of brother for sister.’ He hoped the words were right.

‘You did and you did not save Paula.’ Her voice was muffled, for her head still leaned against him.

‘I do not understand.’ Williams patted her head and tried to
make the girl turn her face to him, but she would not. ‘I thought I was in time,’ he said.

‘For the first men, you were. They hurt her and frightened her, but you stopped them before they did more. Then you left another officer to guard my sister, and he raped her.’

Williams groaned, pulling away from her and feeling a pain greater than any his wound had caused. He had failed, utterly and completely, for as soon as she spoke he knew that she was telling the truth.

‘I’ll see him hang,’ he said in English. He was shocked to learn that Hatch could do so foul a thing. ‘Or if they won’t do that then I’ll call him out and blow his bloody head off.’ It was rare for him to swear, but he felt the anger surging within him, a fury that burned bright. Then all at once it turned into sorrow and pity for this poor young woman, her own childhood and innocence cut short in so brutal a manner, and now no doubt living again all of those horrors.

He sprang forward, flinging his arms around her and pulling her close to him.

‘You poor child,’ he murmured, ‘you poor, poor child.’ She pressed tighter against him, and he felt her tremble as she wept, and he almost cried because there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. He kissed her on the top of the head, feeling her wiry hair, and when she turned her head he pecked her again on the cheek, mumbling words of sympathy.

Their lips met, and there was a desperation, even an anger, in the way she kissed him. One hand ran through her hair, smoothing it, and the other ran along her back, but hers were at the back of his neck, pulling him ever closer.

Guadalupe shook as they kissed, her whole body quivering. Williams’ face was damp as the girl sobbed uncontrollably, the horrible memories all coming back. She gasped as if in pain. He tried to pull away, but her grip was so tight that it was painful. They kissed again and he was drawn back into the moment, grabbing her almost as tightly.

A shot echoed up from the edge of the valley, and only then did they part, the army officer and the partisan both alert.

‘The French,’ she hissed. They looked down to the southern path and saw shapes moving where their sentry had been. There was a scream, very short, before it was cut off.

23

T
he thatched roof of the barn collapsed in a great shower of sparks. Beside it the house itself burned steadily, flames licking out from the windows. On the coast the sun was already coming up, but the steep-sided valley remained in shadow lit only by the fires consuming the buildings. It was lighter on the ridge top, and Williams and Guadalupe found that they were no longer alone as Carlos and two more of the partisans scurried up to join them, crouching so that they stayed behind the crest.

‘You left this behind,’ the former surgeon said, handing Williams his sword. He had taken to wearing it even though it rested against his injured hip, forcing himself to accept the discomfort in his impatience to get well. During the feast he had unbuckled it to sit more at ease.

‘Thanks. I thought that I had lost it.’ He suspected that his pack with all his other possessions had either been looted or was burning away in the farmhouse.

Carlos shrugged. ‘Not much of an armoury between us.’ One of the guerrilleros had a musket and the other a pistol in his belt. Each also had a knife, and after a short discussion they gave one to the girl and the other to the former surgeon, who were both unarmed.

‘Has anyone seen my sister or Don Antonio?’ Guadalupe asked, to be greeted by shaking heads.

‘There may be more of us scattered over the hills,’ one of the men suggested. ‘The first I knew of it was the shot, but poor Ramón died to give us that warning, and then they were among us.’

The light was growing, and Williams counted seven corpses sprawled around the fire and the buildings, as well as a circle of a dozen or so prisoners sitting under guard. There was no sign of a woman, but there had been shots and sounds of fighting from all along the valley floor and there were probably more dead where they could not see.

Williams reckoned that the French had consisted of a full squadron of dragoons and three companies of voltigeurs, the skirmishers of a battalion and men chosen to move quickly and use their initiative. Such men had yellow and green epaulettes and tall plumes to mark their status as elite, and one of the companies also had the yellow-fronted jackets of the Polish regiment which had fought so well at Sohail Castle. They had come first, slipping forward through the darkness, and only the vigilance of the man on guard had allowed him to spot them in time to give a warning. Then the voltigeurs surged through the defile and opened a path for a score of the cavalry to charge towards the bonfire. Another company had marched all the way round to seal the valley off from the other side. It had been neat and efficient.

‘Didn’t think they knew this place,’ Carlos said, ‘but we were wrong.’ He sighed. ‘Don Antonio will miss Francisco. He was very fond of that horse.’ All of the mules and horses of the partisans were tethered in a row, being inspected by a dragoon officer. If others had escaped, then they would be on foot.

‘That’s if he is alive to care,’ one of the guerrilleros suggested.

‘They won’t get El Blanco.’ Carlos’ face belied such optimism, but then reddened with anger. ‘Ramirez is with them.’ They saw a man dressed as a partisan riding a piebald horse with a couple of dragoons. He had a musket slung on his shoulder and was clearly not a prisoner.

‘Whore-bastard,’ hissed one of the men.

‘Don Antonio threw him out for robbing anyone whether or not they sided with the French. No doubt he is being well paid.’

‘We will pay him properly,’ the other partisan said, fingering the lock on his musket.

‘We will, we will indeed,’ Carlos said, ‘but there is nothing we can do here, so we had better go.’

‘Just a minute.’ Williams was staring down as an officer joined the traitor and the dragoons. The man was mounted on a grey, had a plume in his shako, and wore a light green jacket. None of the voltigeurs wore green and this looked like the commander of the force. ‘I am sure I know that man.’ He wished he had his glass to be sure, but there was something about the way the man sat and gestured that looked very familiar.

‘You can wave to him later,’ Carlos said, and led them off down into the next valley. They moved with care, keeping amid the scrub as much as possible, before climbing up the far side and then dropping down into a ravine leading to a path which climbed like a snake up to a big peak. They had not seen any French coming up the side of the valley, but that did not mean that patrols were not roving the hills. Williams struggled to keep up, and his hip complained at every step. Guadalupe clung to him, giving support, and he could tell that she needed the comfort of touch, afraid not for herself, but for her sister. She never spoke during all the long hours they climbed. After a while, Carlos became even more wary, scouting ahead every few hundred yards before he beckoned them on.

‘This is Buera country,’ one of the men explained. ‘El Blanco and Don Juan fell out a few months ago. He wanted the chief to come under his command and the chief said no.’

‘Good thing too,’ said the other man. ‘Too many damned foreigners fight with Buera, and I don’t trust the buggers.’

Williams did not see any point in commenting, and soon afterwards Carlos waved for them to come on. The man was grinning broadly, and when they came over a low rise they saw why, for he was not alone. Guadalupe pulled free and ran to embrace her sister. El Blanco patted her on the back and welcomed them all. There were eleven men with him, and most of them still had muskets or carbines.

‘We are being watched,’ he added more quietly, ‘but I do not think it is the French.’

He was right on both counts, for a quarter of an hour later a circle of men surrounded them, coming out from behind bushes or boulders. They were stocky mountaineers, all in broad-brimmed hats and with cloaks slung from their shoulders, and heavily armed. They did not look any different from El Blanco’s men, and did not show any signs of hostility.

That night Don Juan Buera entertained them around a fire lit in the mouth of a great cave opening out on to a hidden ravine. The red light cast tall flickering shadows on the rock and Williams could not help thinking that things would not have looked so very different when ancient man lived in such places thousands of years ago. The mountain chieftain was friendly from the start, but as the evening wore on his manner became even warmer. Williams guessed that El Blanco had agreed to serve in his band, at least until he could rebuild his own numbers. In a way this was the very thing that Hanley and other officers were urging, wanting the separate bands to merge and act together.

The thought had hardly crossed his mind when Don Antonio beckoned for him to come over.

‘We are to see your friend tomorrow,’ he said.

‘So Sinclair sends word.’ Don Juan Buera was an older man, balding on the top of his head. He was broad shouldered, wide chested and short like many of his men, but had a quick glance and bright eyes which spoke of considerable intelligence. ‘More importantly, this Hanley is bringing us ten mules carrying powder and muskets. I would like to know more of this man, for these days it is hard to know who to trust.’

‘He is a good man,’ Williams said. ‘I have fought beside him for three years and trust him with my life.’

‘But should I trust him with my life and the lives of my men just so I can arm those who come to me without the means to fight?’ Don Antonio ignored the jibe. Paula and her sister had withdrawn for the night to a little alcove shielded by a curtain, and the partisan leader seemed to have relaxed. It might hurt his pride, but he needed Buera’s protection.

‘Then trust, but not blindly.’ He could not remember where
he had heard the expression and wondered whether it was something another guerrilla leader, the famous El Charro, had said back in Ciudad Rodrigo.

Don Juan Buera was pleased with that. ‘Spoken like a man of the mountains. So I will speak to you like one. If your friend Hanley plays us false, then I will have you shot.’

‘As I said, I trust him with my life.’ Williams admitted to himself that there were some qualifications to that, for if he trusted his friend he did have doubts about his judgement. Something else was nagging him, something about the officer who had led the attack. ‘
Festina lente
,’ he added.

One of Buera’s lieutenants chuckled. He was a thin man with a sallow complexion and the scars of disease on his face.

Don Juan glared at him. ‘One does not need to be a priest to have a little education, Xavier,’ he said. The lieutenant hung his head. He was dressed as the others, but Williams had heard that there were many monks and priests with the partisans, fighting the war until they could go back to their calling.

‘A saying of Caesar Augustus, I believe,’ Buera continued. ‘From Suetonius, perhaps, but the sense is an apt one for an emperor or a man who fights the little war. Yes, we shall “hurry slowly”.’

They left before dawn. ‘Better to be there first, and better still not to let them see your own country too closely,’ Don Juan told them as they set out. Williams and Carlos Velasco went off with the young priest and five partisans. ‘Take a look at the place before we arrive,’ they were told. ‘If anything is wrong fire three shots and run fast because you will not catch us.’

The meeting place was a cluster of five little houses and a small church set on the crest of one of the foothills. They rode on mules and the priest took them on a long route to approach from the far side. Williams was fortunate to find his mount sure footed and compliant by the standards of its race, but even so the jogging motion hour after hour was an ordeal. Carlos noticed, but could do nothing.

‘Don’t die on me, Englishman. I have so few patients who are still alive.’

An hour before noon they were in an olive grove looking up at the houses. Three horses were tethered outside the church, and a guerrilla stood beside them.

‘There’s someone in the tower,’ the young priest said. There were no other signs of life. ‘People tend to be nervous when they see soldiers – any soldiers,’ he added.

They waited for half an hour, Williams very glad to be off the mule and able to massage his leg. ‘Is Don Juan here?’ he asked.

‘Of course, that is why you cannot see him,’ the priest replied. Carlos rolled his eyes.

Ten minutes later a partisan on a donkey rode up the track towards the little village. He stopped, staring up the gentle slope, and waited. A man came from the church, dressed in a cocked hat and grey jacket.

‘Sinclair,’ the priest grunted.

The Irishman swung himself up on to a grey horse and put her into a walk. He rode with one hand folded back and resting on his hip in the proper posture for a gentleman on horseback.

‘It looks fine.’ Carlos sounded satisfied, and clearly he was not alone, for the partisan swept his hat in a great circle. A little column emerged behind him, with three more irregulars leading a string of ten mules. Ahead rode an officer with his drab cloak thrown back to reveal his red coat. Williams smiled; it was the first time he had seen Hanley or anyone else from the battalion or the army for three long months.

Sinclair kept his grey at a slow pace, and lifted his arm to wave. Something about the gesture sparked a memory, and then it seemed so very artificial, not a casual greeting but a signal. Williams was thinking of a horseman in a green jacket watching from the shore at Las Arenas and riding through the valley past the burning farm. He could not understand why he had taken so long to see it.

‘Fire the shots,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Sinclair is false,’ he insisted. ‘He is with the enemy. Fire the shots now!’

‘Are you sure?’ Carlos asked, but he had unslung his carbine. Williams had wanted a musket, but feared that it was too awkward to carry and so instead drew the pistol from the belt and ran back towards the mules at the back gate to the olive grove. Cocking the gun, he pointed it in the air and fired. Carlos let off another shot and then one of the partisans raised his own musket and pulled the trigger.

Williams dragged the reins free and jumped on to the mule, kicking it forward. He was too far away to shout and needed to warn his friend. Reaching back, he slapped the beast on the rump so that it trotted along the wall of the grove. When he came out into the open he saw that everything seemed to have frozen in place. Sinclair was some thirty yards from the scout and as far again from Hanley and the mules. Everyone was looking around, trying to understand what was happening, and then Sinclair gave a shout and spurred his horse forward. Men came rushing out of the church and houses, men with tall yellow and green plumes in their shakos and yellow fronts to their blue jackets.

‘Run!’ Williams shouted as loud as he could. ‘Run, you fool!’

The scout had his musketoon resting across the neck of the donkey, and now he aimed and fired at the Polish voltigeurs. The bullet went high and frightened his mount, which bayed in alarm and began to buck. Two voltigeurs stopped to fire, and a ball slapped into the panicking beast’s neck. The rider fell to the ground.

‘Run! Get away!’ Williams yelled as he urged his mule on.

‘Bills?’ Hanley saw him and forgot everything else in his shock. The voltigeurs were spilling down the slope, at least half a company with more coming from the houses furthest away. Sinclair spurred past the dying donkey and its fallen rider, heading towards Hanley and the mules.

‘Bills, is that you?’ His friend was waving, and a great smile spread across his face.

‘Who do you think it is, Lord Wellington? Run, you damned fool! Run!’

More Poles stopped, dropped down on to one knee and raised
their muskets. A ball flicked through the long grass just ahead of Williams. Another took the partisan scout in the shoulder, flinging him back down as he tried to rise. Sinclair’s grey reared up and the officer sprang from the stirrups and fell rolling on to the ground.

Williams saw Hanley head towards the fallen major. ‘Leave him! Run!’ he shouted. Shots flicked past his friend and one struck the leading mule in the head, so that it sank down on its haunches and died, the bell around its collar tinkling.