True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (12 page)

It was latin the evening, and they were lying on the floor of his small tent. MacAndrews had a travelling cot, but it was too narrow for the two of them, so he had done the best he could by spreading some straw-filled sacks on the ground. From outside came the sound of someone singing. Jane had been given a tent near by and a crowd of the 106th’s officers had gathered to serenade her. The voice was a pleasing tenor, which suggested young Derryck.

The proximity of so many of his officers had meant that their lovemaking had had to be unnaturally silent.

‘Reminds me of another time,’ said Esther, fondly stroking her husband’s cheek.

He knew what she meant. They had met a long time ago, when he was a prisoner of the American rebels. His battalion of the 71st Highlanders had been led to disaster by that damn fool Banastre Tarleton at Cowpens in January ’81. The Americans knew him as ‘Bloody Ban’, but that was nothing to what MacAndrews or anyone else from the 71st called him.

The captivity was comfortable enough, billeted as they were for much of the time in a small town whose inhabitants were friendly. A fair few had Scottish connections, which did no harm, but it was wearisome. MacAndrews was a fifteen-year-old ensign when he had landed with General Howe on Long Island in ’76. Battle followed battle, and by the time of Cowpens he was a lieutenant and acting company commander. Tarleton’s recklessness left him a wounded and penniless prisoner – the poverty had always been there, but at least when fighting there was a chance of distinction and advancement. He chafed at captivity for eighteen long months.

Then came the escape. He and another officer planned carefully, but then this fellow changed everything by bringing along his American mistress, a girl eloping with him from a good
family. They moved more slowly and ate more of their scanty rations. In the end they had to take chances, going to smaller settlements and hoping to find Tory aid. Betrayed, they were hunted by the militia and the other officer had cut and run, leaving MacAndrews with the girl.

Esther had been just seventeen then, and had only just realised that she was pregnant. The revelation may well have encouraged her lover’s flight. Somehow MacAndrews and the girl had evaded capture and finally reached the British Army at New York. They had also fallen in love, and were married the day after they reached safety. The first time they had lain together had been in a dense thicket, militiamen hunting for them not more than twenty yards away.

Outside their tent a new voice began singing in a language neither of them knew. It was Williams, singing a love song in Welsh – indeed, the only words he knew in that language. He had a deep melodic voice, but like so much Celtic music it sounded like a dirge.

‘Our Jane has plenty of admirers,’ said Esther with a mother’s satisfaction.

‘At least they will get in each other’s way,’ said her husband gruffly.

‘Yes, she will be safe.’

‘Yes, but will they?’ MacAndrews ran his fingers along his wife’s arm as if to confirm that she was really there. ‘She has grown so much.’

‘Charleston agreed with her. For a while at least. Then she became bored. I was the same at her age.’ He refrained from pointing out that before she had reached her daughter’s present age, Esther had conducted a torrid affair, followed two prisoners of war in a desperate flight, taken and married a second lover before giving birth to the child of the first. MacAndrews hoped that Jane was taking things rather more gentl Not that it had ever bothered him that he had not been Esther’s first choice. Although he had admired her looks, he had come to love her only as they travelled secretly together in the last stages of their
escape. That love had only grown stronger with the passing years. It still amazed him that such a spectacular woman should choose to be with such an ordinary man. He had tried to tell her this so many times, but had always been brushed aside, and had long since given up saying it. Instead he returned to the subject of Jane.

‘Was she tempted to stay?’ he asked. Esther had gone home because her father had died and her mother had written wanting to make peace. There had been offers of a good position for her husband and herself if he settled in Carolina, talk of finding a wealthy match for Jane.

‘No more than I was. It is a petty, small society, however rich. And the climate. I had forgotten just how oppressive the heat can be. It turns men to drink and women to religion.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway,’ Esther continued. ‘She is a soldier’s daughter and she’ll be a soldier’s wife one day. It’s in her soul.’

‘I had hoped she might have better,’ said MacAndrews wistfully.

‘We have been happy,’ she said firmly.

‘In spite of everything?’

‘Because of everything.’ Esther shook her head. ‘I still think you don’t believe me. Alastair, together we have lived, and our companionship has been closer than anything experienced by most people. If there has been pain and sorrow there has been so much joy. You know there has been sorrow. Three great sorrows. I carried those babies which we had to bury, and not a day goes past when I do not see their tiny faces or hear their voices.’ The first had been a boy, the child of her fugitive lover and with the same soulful brown eyes that had won her heart. He had been five when a fever took him.

‘That was the hardest. All three times.’ MacAndrews emphasised the number.

‘I know, all three. You did care for them all and that is one reason why I love you. So we have known sorrow. Few have not. But we have a daughter to be proud of and I have revelled in the love of the finest man alive. Happiness is much rarer than you think and we have known our full share.’

When young, MacAndrews would probably have demanded
to know who this rival was, but now he just looked fondly into her blue eyes. They had had this conversation so many times, but still he felt he had somehow let her down.

‘Fine, but poor – it sounds like a poem. Couldn’t we find Jane a man that was fine, but rich?’

‘She will choose for herself. Like I did, and I did not do so badly.’ MacAndrews resisted the urge to remind her of the lover who had abandoned her. His wife continued, ‘Don’t worry, she won’t rush. She is just practising. Maybe he will be rich or poor. I was rich once and it did not make me happy.’

MacAndrews had never had the chance to test this from personal experience. There was no point arguing. He would never win with Esther – would never want to win. She would get her way. It was no coincidence that she had brought along the two other wives when she came to the camp. If just she and Jane had come Esther knew that her dutiful husband would have felt obliged to send her away, so that he alone did not enjoy a privilege. It was best simply to be glad that she had not dragged Mrs Wickham along as well. The lieutenant was certainly pleased, and had been an eager participant in the frequent evening card games played in the mess. Apparently his wife could notride and had no access to a carriage.

‘I fear Jane may be a sore distraction to my officers,’ he said with a shake of his head.

Esther laughed. ‘You even sound like a major now.’

L
ieutenant Colonel Moss arrived the day after the two wings of the 106th had reunited. He ordered an immediate parade and inspected the men. Then he led them in two hours of battalion drill, driving them hard, wanting every formation change performed at his own rapid speed. After that he gathered the officers together in the main room of the inn where he had set up his headquarters. The regiment’s two volunteers were included – Forde had nodded amicably to Williams – and altogether thirty-seven men sat on the high-backed wooden chairs and benches around the dark oak tables. Moss looked down on them from the open first-floor corridor which ran along one of the narrow sides of the tavern. There was a solid wooden banister, but George Moss was never one to lean. Occasionally he gripped the bar hard with both hands, to stop himself from pacing up and down. The faces were watching him expectantly. It took an effort to wait a few more moments just to be sure that he had their attention.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘I intend the 106th to be the finest regiment in the British Army.’ They liked that, pounding the tables with their right hands. Moss waited for the din to die down.

‘We shall be the best because I expect you all to be the best. The 106th is the youngest regiment of the line. As yet, it has not seen action. I know some of us have with other corps. I know Mr Anstey was with us in Egypt.’ That was true, but Anstey was surprised the colonel was aware of it. ‘Captain Mosley is an old India hand. If the enemy come at us with elephants he’s the man who will know what to do!’ Moss let them laugh, pleased that
Mosley joined in. ‘Mr Kidwell has seen more service than I have enjoyed hot dinners.’ It was good to include the former ranker and now quartermaster in his praise.

‘Finally we have our two majors, and they were fighting before we were born. However, for the benefit of our younger gentlemen I am able to quash the rumour that Major MacAndrews was at Agincourt.’ They liked that, although one or two needed a whispered explanation before they got the joke. Moss had brought confirmation that MacAndrews was to be gazetted as major. Lieutenant Wickham had also purchased his captaincy and would now command the Grenadier Company. He certainly looked the part of a dashing flank company officer.

‘Now comes the answer to the question you have all been asking. In a week’s time we will march for Portsmouth, there to join with the Twentieth Light Dragoons and some gunners and embark on board transports.’ There was hush now, the faces eager and craning up to find out which of the rumours was true. ‘From Portsmouth we shall sail to the Irish Sea and join a much stronger force of some eleven thousand men off Cork. It is commanded by Lieutenant General Sir Arthur Wellesley.’

There was a burst of conversation and Moss let them talk. Wellesley’s victories in India were well known, and he was young and aggressive. Moss had seen a little of him in Ireland and liked what he saw, sensing a man after his own heart. In a few years, it should be General Moss leading one of England’s armies on a great expedition.

Moss raised his voice. ‘From Ireland we shall sail again to land in Europe and confront the legions of Bonaparte.’ The hubbub increased in ume. He raised his hand and brought silence. ‘Our destination – Spain! We are to help the Spanish chase out the French invaders.

‘Gentlemen, we are going to war!’ Cheers now as well as hands pounding on the table. Moss raised his own hand. ‘At last we have the chance to show what the 106th can do. I know that none of you will disappoint me. On and off the field you shall conduct yourselves as English gentlemen. Do that, and we shall drive the
King’s enemies before us like the dogs they are!’ That had them cheering again. Moss let them go on longer this time. A servant arrived bearing a tray. The colonel held up his hand until there was silence.

‘As officers you will lead your men. You must always go first.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And I shall always lead you.’ Moss raised a glass. ‘Gentlemen, the King.’

They rose to their feet for the toast. Standing straight, they raised their glasses. ‘The King’ came from thirty-seven throats.

A moment later, Moss gave them another. ‘The 106th and glory!’ This time the emptied glasses were followed by three cheers for the colonel.

Moss gave the regiment a light day by his standards. There were company drills for an hour, and then a thorough inspection of the regiment’s tent lines. Everywhere there was activity and excitement. News that they were to go on campaign had spread rapidly and lent a new urgency to everything.

One of the colonel’s new regulations was greeted with enormous enthusiasm. He had announced it at the end of this morning’s parade. The army had decided to abolish queues and the practice of putting powder on hair. The new code had not yet been formally announced, but Moss had decided that the 106th would lead the way. Sufficient clippers had been found – somehow the RSM had known how to procure such things at short notice – and as the afternoon wore on each company took delight in removing the hated queues. In barrels of water the men washed out the equally loathed white powder, which mice were apt to nibble at while they lay asleep. Barbers were appointed for each company and one by one the long pigtails were chopped off. Hair was now to end just above the collar. Every company had built a fire and burned the hair in a strange ritual. Each left behind a pool of lead, for the end of each queue was weighted down by a musket ball.

‘Well, that should stop witchcraft,’ said Hanley as he watched the grenadiers go through the process. There was something very
pagan about the scene, but Hanley was the only man in the company who already had short hair and so did not need to be shorn.

Williams looked a little disconcerted, while Pringle was curious. ‘How so?’

‘Parts of the body have power. You are supposed to be able to control the person if you have part of them.’

‘Well, you have travelled and know about these things. Anyway, I don’t think the French employ magicians so you needn’t worry,’ said Pringle.

‘Heathen nonsense, anyway,’ asserted Williams. He was waiting for the barber, his long fair hair hanging down past his shoulders.

Hanley and Pringle exchanged looks. ‘You know, Bills,’ said the lieutenant, ‘I sometimes think you might have been happier serving with Cromwell’s Ironsides.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t taken part in a witch-burning for ages.’

Pringle laughed, but decided to change the subject. It always seemed wiser to avoid discussion of organised religion with the earnest Wiliams.

‘So, Hanley,’ he said, ‘do you welcome the prospect of going back to Spain?’ Hanley had told them a little of his travels in the last few years. He thought for a moment before replying.

‘Yes, I believe I do. When I left Madrid I was full of hate for the French. The things I saw them do there . . .’

There did not seem to be any more. ‘Well, you must tell us everything important about the place. You know, what are the women like?’

‘Very pretty. Brown eyes and trim figures. And unpredictable. Curse you one minute and then kiss you the next.’

‘Doesn’t sound that different from here.’

‘Well, it’s hotter, and the curses are stronger. Their nails are sharper too.’

‘You must teach me some useful expressions. “Is your husband away for long?” – that sort of thing.’

‘Isn’t it enough to have the French to fight without outraged husbands?’ asked Williams, being as flippant as he could on what
he felt was a serious subject. In his case, he was utterly sure that no Spanish lady could possibly compare to the exquisite Miss MacAndrews.

‘I shall be discreet.’

‘You never have been before, Billy,’ said Wickham as he strode up behind them, trying to keep pace with Lieutenant Colonel Moss. The new captain of the grenadiers looked immaculate. He had long ago cultivated thick sideburns, which had always looked a little odd when his hair was powdered. Now they set off the thick and curly brown hair, which seemed just a little neater than anyone else’s. He had had his hair cut privately, like the colonel and a few other officers. Most had cheerfully joined in with their men. There was something of a holiday atmosphere that day in the 106th’s camp. The officers’ wives were all discreetly absent, but many of the men’s wives watched and cheered on the haircutting. Hanley noticed Dobson’s pretty daughter, and was shocked when the girl winked at him again. No wonder her father was worried.

Moss waved the men down as the nearest sprang to attention. This was not a formal visit. ‘Discretion is to be expected of all my officers,’ declared Moss. ‘Any lady must always be treated with utmost respect. So always take your boots off.’ The laughter was genuine and even Williams joined in. Moss was already popular.

‘Mr Hanley was telling us about Spain, sir,’ volunteered Pringle.

‘Yes, I heard. I shall make sure I am careful not to get scratched too heavily.’ More laughter. ‘How long did you spend in Spain, Mr Hanley?’

‘Nearly two years, sir.’

‘And you speak the language – beyond enquiring about the whereabouts of husbands?’

Hanley grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Excellent, that may prove very useful. I know that I can rely on all of my grenadiers.’ Moss had raised his voice to carry as far as possible. His quick stride had already taken him past the chair where Dobson was having his queue cut off.

‘Bet this must feel odd for an old soldier like you,’ said the colonel cheerfully.

‘Glad to see the back of it, sir.’

Moss smiled warmly. ‘Well, there is one thing I do know, and that is that the French will never see the backs of us!’ They cheered that. Moss was already halfway towards the lines of Number Three Company, and siply waved vaguely back in acknowledgement. He was pleased, and decided to try the same joke again. George Moss was going to war again at last.

Lisbon gleamed white in the bright sunlight as the pilot boat came alongside the Russian merchant ship. Its captain yelled at the group of soldiers to get out of the way as his men prepared to take the ship into the Tagus, and tried to ignore the deliberate hesitation before the surly, one-eyed sergeant in charge gestured to the men and took them below.

No one disturbed Count Denilov, who leaned on the rail and stared hungrily at the city. Three days earlier they had let the general’s wasted body slide down a board and into the sea, the soldiers firing a salute with their muskets. His orders – vaguely worded, but commanding full co-operation with the bearer and his deputy in the pursuit of their mission – were now in Denilov’s pocket. He had also taken the purse of gold coins intended to finance their mission.

It was more money than he had carried for some time, but would have been only a drop in the ocean of his debts. He had left Russia because all that remained for him there was suicide or a debtor’s prison. Voluntary exile had been one way out, but had little to commend it. This mission was an opportunity, another game of chance, and already the hand was going his way. Denilov had the general’s orders and now his authority. Admiral Siniavin would have no choice but to assist him in spite of his modest rank, for he was a representative of the Tsar himself. It would give him access to the French high command, and to the remaining aristocracy of Portugal, including those who resented the invader.

There was a war on, and he knew that wars meant chaos, and also opportunity for a bold man. It was a question of sniffing around to catch the scent of profit. The French were looting
widely and no one was likely to be able to trace the source of anything he was able to grab for himself. If fortune smiled, then he might go back home rich again and with the fresh prestige of performing a service for Tsar Alexander. If not, then a good man with a sword should have no trouble finding employment in Napoleon’s armies, especially since he would bring with him the names of disloyal Portuguese nobles, and knowledge of the concerns of the Russian court.

To Denilov, Lisbon looked ripe for the plucking.