True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (31 page)

‘Seeking comfort?’ asked the ensign.

‘And finding it, as always.’ Williams wondered what the man wanted and was ready to respond to any mockery. Then he wondered whether Hatch was suspicious about the death of his friend.

‘Never helped me much. Had to recite so much at school. Deuteronomy mostly. Our headmaster was a miserable old sod. Lots of stuff about children being stoned for disobeying their parents. Not encouraging.’

‘There is a lot more beyond that, and anyway every passage has its purpose.’

‘Scaring schoolboys mostly. Quite liked the Song of Solomon when I grew older. There’s riper stuff around, though.’ Hatch looked extremely awkward. He also seemed to be fully sober and that was rare by this hour. ‘Look, Williams, I wanted a word with you.’

Again there was an immediate flash of suspicion. Did he know something? It seemed unlikely. As far as he could tell Hatch had been with the main part of the battalion throughout the battle. ‘Please speak freely,’ said Williams.

‘You know Forde is dead?’

Williams nodded.

‘I was next to him when it happened . . . A cannon shot . . . Odd thing was that it did not touch him. It whipped just past his head and didn’t give him so much as a scratch. He just gave a sigh and died. Some of the older fellows say they have seen it before. It’s the wind or the shock or something.’ Williams had neverseen Hatch treat anything so seriously. ‘Anyway, he died. So have so many. I do miss Redman.’

‘I was sorry about that,’ said Williams to his own surprise. ‘You know we had our differences, but I would never have wished for this.’

‘That is good of you, very good.’ Hatch seemed deeply moved. ‘He was an ass, but he was a good fellow. And brave too. None braver.’ Williams nodded since it seemed to be helping the man. ‘Well, that is my point. We may all be dead soon. You and I both. I
know that we too have had our differences over these last months. Well, that’s not important now. I just wanted to say . . . that is to ask . . . well, to take your hand and say that there were no hard feelings.’

Williams still could not quite convince himself that no game was involved and that the mockery would not resume. Yet Hatch seemed utterly sincere, indeed deeply emotional, and clearly needed this gesture. Williams stood and held out his hand. Hatch took it and shook it fervently.

‘Thank you, Williams. Now we are square whatever happens. Thank you.’ Hatch stepped back. ‘There should be no arguments unresolved. This does not mean we need become friends.’

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Williams vaguely.

‘No, I really do not care for you, but that does not matter.’ The tone was matter-of-fact, not scornful or hostile. Hatch turned and walked away. Williams shook his head and returned to the Psalms. They were so much easier to understand than people.

MacAndrews sent Brotherton to tell Wickham. The order had come through late, but Captain Wickham of the 106th was to report to General Wellesley’s staff immediately, as a preliminary to being attached to that of General Burrard. Wickham’s friends had obviously been working on his behalf. Staff postings offered hard work, but brought far greater comforts and rewards than the more anonymous service with a regiment. MacAndrews had no doubt that the captain would be healed enough to take up his new duties, for this was a great opportunity. Well, ambition was natural enough, although MacAndrews had a deep-seated suspicion of the staff, perhaps because he had never been given an opportunity to serve in such exalted circles himself.

That was the last order he needed to give today. He had written five letters of condolence, and decided that now he might at last turn to his own correspondence. He had dismissed his clerk, the round-faced and bespectacled Corporal Atkinson, to get some sleep. This he would do on his own. He pulled out the locket that he always wore around his neck and flipped open the catch.
The miniature of Esther had been painted fifteen years ago and yet still captured her better than any other image. The smile was full of mischief. The portrait of Jane was less good, made when she was thirteen and awkward sitting for the artist. The girl had grown so much and he would need to have a new likeness made.

It was odd, but although he thought of them always he found it hard to picture their faces whenever he was away from them. He knew what they looked like, but struggled to see it. The pictures were a comfort and a reminder, and he stared at them for a long time, before he dipped his pen and began.

My dearest wife and sweetest daughter

Are you well? I think always of you, even as I go about my duties. You are both with me, are part of me. I miss you and long to be with you again.

He heard the sentryllenge someone outside, but tried for a moment to ignore the noises of the camp. Then the flaps of his tent were pulled open.

‘Hello, Mr MacAndrews,’ said his wife. ‘Do you have a welcome for two weary travellers?’

T
he girl’s smile was lavish, and her s
lim beauty made even stronger by the harsh shadows of the firelight. On the day of the battle Pringle had managed to forget about Maria. The battle itself already had a strangely dreamlike quality in his memory, and everything before it seemed both hazy and unimportant. The fact that he had been unconscious for much of the time doubtless added to this. Now Maria was back, but she was no longer a nun. Her long hair framed her face. She wore a tight-fitting orange-brown jacket and a flared skirt. This was short, like those worn by many of the Portuguese women, and revealed her ankles sheathed in white stockings and light black shoes tied up with straps around them.

Maria knew she was being inspected and leaned back in the camp chair she had been ushered to. The motion let her hemline rise another fraction, and helped to display her figure to full force. She reached up apparently absent-mindedly to smooth her long hair back over her right ear.

Pringle revelled in looking at the young Portuguese woman, and he could sense that Truscott, who sat on a boulder beside him, was almost equally appreciative. Hanley and Williams were on piquet duty, but he could sense that many of the officers of the 106th were finding reasons to drift nearer to the fire made by the officers of the Grenadier Company.

Lieutenant Miguel Mata coughed. ‘We need your help,’ he said slowly in French. Pringle had a basic knowledge of the language and Truscott spoke it well. ‘I think you owe me a favour.’ The former student turned gunner – though in an artillery regiment
with scarcely a cannon to call their own and no horses to move the few they had – had arrived with the girl. He was clearly bursting with pride to be in the company of such a beautiful woman, flattered that she chose him out of a literal army of men. Truscott silently suspected that the young officer did not know how far out of his depth he was. Pringle just thought ruefully that he had got the nun, while Mata had damn well got the courtesan.

‘Shall we take a walk and speak more privately?’ said Maria in her excellent but accented English. Truscott wondered whether she exaggerated this to sound more exotic and fascinating. If so, then he had to admit that it worked.

She slipped her arm into Mata’s, who beamed happily as they walked out from the regiment’s lines. He no longer cared that the conversation was in English. Maria let Pringle take her other arm.

‘Denilov is an evil man, and a desperate one,’ she explained. ‘He has gambled away his family’s wealth and cannot honour his debts.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Truscott.

‘Men tell me things.’

‘I am sure they do,’ said Pringle before he could help himself. For a moment her expression was once again that of the nun. Both Englishmen felt sheepish. Mata had understood none of the exchange and smiled with contentment.

‘I met Count Denilov at a reception more than a month ago. There were usually a few Russians at these affairs ever since their fleet arrived off Lisbon. But he is a soldier, not a sailor, an officer in the Tsar’s guards, and see weline gentleman. He can be very charming.’

Truscott grunted. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘My uncle – at least that is what he is in public – had already fled and I had no secure protector. I might have found one among the French, but there are some things I will not bring myself to do. Not ever.’ The bitterness in Maria’s voice was surprising and seemed genuine, although Truscott was no longer sure what to believe about her. She had decided that a good deal of the truth had to be revealed, even though she still found it hard to
trust anyone after Denilov’s betrayal. ‘It was already dangerous to travel outside the city and I needed help. Everything I told you about my uncle and the money left to help the convent is true, I assure you. The duke is a generous man. With the money are some things he promised to me. I want only what is my due. I have come with Mata to show that I am honest. He is a good man and will make sure the money goes to the sisters. I want no more than my due.’

‘Which is?’ Pringle had spoken, surprising Truscott, who had thought he was the only one listening with any scepticism to Maria’s story. His friend had voiced the question he had himself been on the verge of asking.

‘Jewellery. Especially pearls. The duke used to like me to dress as Cleopatra and she was famous for her pearls.’

‘Among other things,’ muttered Truscott. ‘And Denilov promised to get them for you?’ he said aloud.

Maria nodded. ‘But I realised too late he would take everything and leave me nothing. He is a beast.’ She shuddered, and for the first time Mata looked concerned. She smiled at him reassuringly, and pressed her hand to his cheek. The former student, who was still little more than a boy, beamed.

‘He fooled me and I told him everything I knew, even the name of the man the duke had put in charge of the business. I did not know where he was, and by the time I had found him, Denilov and his soldiers were also looking. Varandas the steward was an old man who did not approve of me, but I managed to persuade him to tell me what he knew.

‘Denilov must have followed. I doubt the old man is still alive, for he must have told the Russians everything.’

‘They may have persuaded him, just as you did,’ suggested Truscott.

‘Not as I did.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? Do you really know?’ The flash of temper vanished in an instant. Maria shrugged, startling Mata with her sudden movement. ‘Does any man really know?

‘Denilov knows only how to kill. You saw what they did to the poor priest. He would do that to anyone if it suited his purpose or merely to amuse himself. Anyway, it had become a race, but it was hard for me to be faster than them. I needed help and I found you.’

‘Not that it did you much good,’ said Truscott. The bitterness of failure had faded during the battle, but now returned to savage his pride.

‘Or us for that matter.’ Pringle rubbed the bruise on the back of his head, which had throbbed unpleasantly on today’s march.

‘How did you get away from Denilov?’ Truscott had not meant to sound so blunt, but the question had to be asked.

‘How do you think?’ Maria’s expression was both hard and bitter. Then she sagged. ‘I was lucky. Before too long we ran into a French cavalry patrol. They fired before asking who we were. The vile man they hawith them as interpreter was killed beside me. Denilov tried to tell the French that they were allies, but before they stopped shooting I managed to run. The Russians couldn’t chase me and persuade the French that they were innocent allies at the same time. Both the French and the Russians came after me later, but it was getting dark and they were nervous of running into any militiamen out for their blood. I hid and they did not find me. As I said, I was lucky.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Very lucky.’

‘You understand that I had to ask.’ Truscott was almost apologetic.

‘I would have done so if you had not,’ said Pringle, surprising his friend. ‘Anyway, this rather brings us to the point. What are you asking us to do?’

‘Not here.’ They were still near the camp of another battalion, and Maria had already attracted plenty of interested glances. ‘Could we walk somewhere a little more private?’ she asked.

‘Armies aren’t exactly designed for privacy,’ muttered Truscott. They walked towards the beach, heading away from the brigade’s lines. They passed occasional sentries, pausing in conversation until they were again out of earshot. For a while they let Maria explain, not interrupting her assurances of honesty.

‘There is a farm on the little road east from here. Perhaps two miles away, maybe less. It is owned by the duke. The money is hidden in a panel set into the fireplace. What looks like solid stone slides back to reveal a niche. That was all the priest knew and so all that Denilov knows. I know how to open the panel.’

‘How do you know Denilov has not been there already and opened it up through brute force?’ Truscott sounded interested, although far from committing himself.

‘Perhaps he has, but that does not mean we should not try. It does mean we should hurry. Still, he would not find it easy to reach the farm. The priest was vague and it is marked on no map. It is different for me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was born there.’

Pringle thought again how little he knew about the woman. She had deceived them before and now she came asking them to risk their lives again. He had survived one battle, and another was expected. Pringle could not quite make up his mind whether that meant there were so many dangers to life and limb that another did not matter. The shame of being bested by Denilov’s men was still raw, but it was very hard to trust Maria, particularly because he was so aware of her beauty and how that sapped his resolve. The intimacy of walking beside her was intoxicating, and there was a promise when she gently squeezed his arm.

‘We cannot simply wander around at will, you know. We are officers and have duties.’ Truscott saved him from having to say something.

‘Miguel will help me.’ Maria repeated the statement in Portuguese and the young officer fervently assured her of his willingness. In spite of her reluctance, she resorted to French to include him. ‘Yet it may be difficult for him to move through your army and its patrols. Apart from that, he has only a few men he can trust.

‘At the very least, will you take him to your officers and ask permission for him to take a patrol through your . . . I do not know the word?’

‘Outposts,’ said Truscott. He thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘That at least is something I am happy to do. Shall we go?’

‘Take the lieutenant.’ Maria smiled. ‘I may look a little uncial.’ She spoke quickly to Mata, and again touched his cheek with one hand. ‘Mr Pringle can escort me back to your camp in a moment. I am sure a nun is still safe with him.’

Truscott’s eyes flicked suspiciously from Maria’s innocent expression to his friend, but Mata was all eagerness to go about their task and he quickly led the man away.

Maria let them go, their shapes soon lost in the dark shadows. ‘I do love the scent of salt in the air,’ she said and stretched, arching her back.

‘Shall we walk back?’ Pringle asked after a moment, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

‘That way,’ the girl said, pointing towards a small copse. Her head leaned to one side as she looked up at him. ‘I still need to persuade you.’

‘Perhaps you cannot.’

Maria shook her head. ‘I am very persuasive.’ She took his hand and led him among the trees. Pringle decided to stop thinking.

‘I’m going with them,’ said Billy Pringle, ensuring that he did not look any of his friends in the eye. It took all his willpower not to keep breaking out into a grin.

Truscott sniffed. ‘I am not surprised.’ Hanley looked puzzled, but Williams did not seem to notice. The other two had gone out to meet them as they returned from piquet duty and explained Mata’s request.

‘We owe the lieutenant, I suppose,’ said Truscott, weighing his words. ‘After all, he and his men pulled us out of the soup. We have to be grateful for that.’

‘Enough to take another foolish risk?’ Hanley could not quite believe what they were saying. No one replied. ‘I mean, aren’t there rules about this sort of thing?’ Again there was no response. ‘What would MacAndrews say?’

Truscott shrugged. Their earlier exploit had been no secret and they could not simply wander off without permission. Yet he doubted anyone would try to stop them. It was a humbling judgement on their significance. Not that it mattered any more. Pringle was his closest friend in the regiment and, if he was going, then Truscott would go with him. He knew the others felt the same, and would go in spite of every misgiving.

Williams was checking the lock on his musket. He nodded. ‘They need to be stopped,’ he said simply.

‘So that’s settled,’ said Hanley wearily, still not quite sure how and why this was happening, but unwilling to be parted from his friends. He did not have much else in the world left to him.

‘We are to meet Maria and Mata in twenty minutes, just behind the piquet line on the east road,’ said Billy Pringle.

As they walked off, Truscott let Hanley and Williams go a short way ahead and then whispered to Pringle, ‘I hope it was worth this.’ Billy Pringle’s only reply was a beaming smile.

The moon was bright and silvered the landscape as they marched towards the farm in search of treasure. Williams always found such nights a little unreal in their beauty, but in this case that seemed appropriate. Pringle had gone to MacAndrews and got permission to take a patrol out in company with Portuguese soldiers during the night. As far as he could see the major had just wanted to get rid of him quickly, although he wondered whether MacAndrews knew far more than he was revealing, because his expression suggested that he thought Pringle and his fellows were damned fools. Co-operation with the Portuguese was one of the standing orders, howevererhaps that was why he gave them permission. On the other hand Pringle had heard that the major’s family had arrived and guessed there could be other reasons for such a curt dismissal.

Pringle had gone to confirm the matter with the brigade major, who had to be woken and promptly told him to take his patrol to the devil and stop disturbing honest men at their rest. As he departed, there was a shout telling him to make sure to tell the
officers on the outposts unless he wanted his damned fool head blown off by his own side.