Whose Business Is to Die (17 page)

‘The officer and the soldier wore pale green jackets.’

‘Precisely. Sinclair is at the bottom of this. As far as we can tell he went south after Campo Major, to help Marshal Soult stamp out the embers of rebellion in Andalusia. Dalmas stayed here – well, your friend Williams saw him that night. What a pity his shot missed! Still, that cannot be helped, and my feeling is that Dalmas is still at heart a soldier, and whatever he does will aim at advantage on the battlefield. Sinclair is by far the bigger rascal, for his instincts are political and so he may strike far deeper.’

Hanley rubbed his shoulder, which was sore from firing the rifle, especially at the beginning when he failed to couch it properly. ‘I am inclined to doubt that Gutiérrez’s treachery is the sole end of Sinclair’s mischief, or even a major part of it.’

‘Certainly, I suspect it offers no more than an indication of their methods. If they have reached one of our men then I would be most surprised if they have not found others. Bribery and threats may have turned others as well. I doubt Gutiérrez’s daughter is the only hostage in Badajoz, indeed I am sure of it, although I cannot learn their identities.’

‘There is more,’ Hanley said. ‘There has to be more, some greater game, given Bertrand’s secrets, the money, and all this.’

‘As I said before, we must work out what the French want. We want Badajoz, and now at last we have the place surrounded and have driven the French back, at least for the moment. One thing they wanted was time to repair the defences of the place, and since it is three weeks since we advanced I believe they have
gained plenty of that. Or perhaps it is better to say that they have been handed it on a silver platter.

‘Lord Wellington is on his way, and it is to be hoped that he creates more sense of urgency before he has to return to the north.’

‘Can we take Badajoz?’

‘You are the soldier, my dear fellow, you tell me.’

‘I doubt it will be easy,’ Hanley said.

‘It is hard to contest such simple wisdom.’

Hanley got up and went to the fireplace, lifting the tails of his coat to warm himself. ‘Sinclair would know what the French want,’ he said.

‘Once again, I am not inclined to dispute the claim. And since we cannot simply ask the man and expect him to tell us, I presume you have something to suggest.’

‘A trap. Draw him out, and then do what we failed to do at Campo Major – catch him or kill him, or Dalmas or both if we are lucky. Let us use Gutiérrez, feed him some information to reassure them of his trustworthiness, and then dangle the bait before them.’

‘The bait? I presume you have something – or is it someone in mind.’ There was a knowing look in the merchant’s eyes. ‘I see,’ he added after a moment. ‘It is a risk, a considerable risk.’

‘And a considerable prize.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, I believe you may have something. It will take very careful judgement and we must not rush anything, so let us think on the problem.

‘Now,’ Baynes said with a smile, ‘it is growing dark and I imagine you do not care to waste your night in Elvas talking to me. I understand that the Dobson girl is responding well?’ There was more than one way of taking that, even though Baynes’ expression did not change. ‘Her tutors are satisfactory. I have arranged for Major MacAndrews’ wife and daughter to take part of a house when they arrive. They will be near Colonel Dalbiac and his wife. The colonel is ill, and his wife cares for him, and I believe the ladies are known to each other, so friendship will
explain their presence here as well. I leave it to you to explain matters to them – to one or both as you see fit – and convince them to assist us. Is there anything else you require?’

‘Not for the moment.’

‘I should think not! Let us hope there is some gain to be made from all this in the months to come. Well then, goodnight to you.’

He had reached the door before Baynes spoke again. ‘Oh, and Hanley, do try to get some sleep. You look quite fagged, old man.’ Ezekiel Baynes was beaming even more brightly than usual. ‘Thank God I am too old for such exertions!’

Jenny was reading when Hanley arrived, and this no longer surprised him. The dye had almost wholly washed out of her hair, which was back to its old rich brown – less striking perhaps, but he felt more becoming. She did not look up, but continued to read, frowning at the pages.

‘I don’t see that it is so very funny,’ she said after a moment.

Hanley peered over her shoulder. It was a copy of
The Rivals
bought when they auctioned off the effects of a captain in the 43rd who had died of fever. The Light Division was always staging productions.

‘It helps to see it being performed,’ he said. ‘Helps even more if you have drunk a fair bit. It is a well-known principle of the theatre that a comedy’s success relies a good deal on the extent of inebriation in the audience.’

‘Mrs Malaprop makes me laugh,’ Jenny admitted. ‘Not as funny as Bottom and the others, though.’ There was a collection of Shakespeare among the books he had managed to obtain, and the girl had surprised him by preferring it to everything else, even Fielding and Richardson. ‘Too slow,’ she told him. ‘Nothing much seems to happen for chapter after chapter. With Shakespeare they’re more like real folk you meet, frightened or jealous and foolish.’ Hanley wished that he could take her to see a play performed. He asked her about the day’s lessons.

‘My feet hurt.’

‘Dancing is hard work,’ he said.

‘It’s these ruddy shoes,’ she replied, and Hanley reflected that in some spheres there was a good deal left to do.

‘The new pairs are being made, but this is not a big town, nor a wealthy one. I have had to have the last sent away. Are you happy with this place?’

‘It is nice,’ she said, and then thought for a moment. ‘Thank you.’ Hanley was renting a small house in one of the narrow side streets. He had hired a maid and a cook, who shared a room next to the kitchen on the ground floor. Jenny had a large and almost empty sitting room as well as a bedroom to herself. ‘There is a man watching us,’ she added.

‘Just to keep you safe,’ he said, and was relieved that she had noticed only the one man, no doubt the fellow with the limp, harelip and tall hat hired because he would draw attention away from the real guardians.

‘And to keep me here.’

Hanley walked over to the open wardrobe, and felt the muslin of a dress. ‘Do you wish to leave?’

‘No.’

‘I’m glad. Now show me what Monsieur Lafayette has been teaching you.’

‘My feet are sore.’

‘A lady would never mention such a thing. Take off your shoes if they are uncomfortable.’

Jenny did not bother, but rose and walked to face Hanley. He bowed, and she curtsied, a little too deeply for perfect modesty.

‘Do you like the clothes?’ he asked.

The girl stood upright again, making her neckline less revealing. ‘Some of them are pretty. Not sure about this one. It’s rough on the skin.’ The gown was of cheap cotton, but at least was shaped to the modern style, as far as Hanley could judge. Many of the other garments Baynes had obtained were old fashioned, or styled for local taste.

‘I shall try to get you better. There is also a simple answer if you are uncomfortable,’ he suggested.

‘Huh.’

‘Then shall we begin with a quadrille?’

‘Lots of imagining to do,’ she said. ‘And hard without music. Monsieur always counts out loud.’

Hanley did his best to keep calling out the rhythm and to act as her partner in an imaginary line of dancers. It had been some time since he had attended a ball, and his memories were vague.

‘Wrong way,’ she said more than once to call him back. ‘And again.’ Three times they collided, and twice they met when they should not.

When he started to laugh Jenny looked offended.

‘You wanted to do this,’ she said, trying to continue.

‘Ten, eleven, fifteen,’ he called out, as he staggered happily against her.

‘Daft sod.’ Jenny stopped, glaring at him, so he took her by the waist.

‘Oh yes,’ the girl said, eyes bold.

Hanley ran a hand up her back. The other went lower, both feeling the cotton of her dress and the body underneath. ‘This is rough.’

‘Told you.’

‘It must be uncomfortable.’ He pressed open the highest of the hooks at the back and began working downwards.

Her eyes never left his. ‘Is this how gentlemen behave?’

‘When they get a chance.’ Hanley finished his task, and his fingers spread around the young woman’s bottom. Jenny pulled herself closer to him.

‘I know this dance,’ she said, and they kissed.

13

W
illiams woke with a start when the drums beat. The dream, a wondrous, lustful dream, was already fading. He had been in Cadiz again, watching as Jane MacAndrews climbed a long stone staircase and was caught in a swirling storm of wind, her skirts flying high, exposing the glorious curves of her legs sheathed in white silk stockings. The cherished memory was often in his mind, preserved as best he could manage, but in his dream it was vividly real, and he had run after the girl, as he had not dared to do at the time, swept her up in his arms, kissed her, and … He was not an experienced man, knowing little of such things, and yet the dream carried on and felt real, even if part of him knew as he was dreaming and that it was no more than that.

There was a basin on a folding stand beside his cot, once more part of his recently purchased camp equipment. Williams got up and cupped his hands in the water left there from the night before and threw it over his face. His back ached and he felt even more tired than when he had lain down some four hours ago. Colonel Colborne kept his brigade busy, and his staff even busier, and Williams had thought himself exhausted and yet deep sleep had not come. He had dozed, dreaming and waking time after time. Some of the dreams had been nightmares – twice he relived the panic on the beach at Fuengirola, and the slam of the ball driving into his side, and then the burning pain as the second shot gouged his scalp. Even worse was watching as a woman died – he could not now remember whether it was Jane or one of his sisters. Such horrors were familiar, common whenever he
did not sink down into real slumber, and he hoped that he had not cried out loud enough to be heard by anyone outside.

A shave would have to wait until later – one of the advantages of having fine, light-coloured hair was that no one was likely to notice. He had slept in his overalls and boots, and now pulled on his jacket and began to fasten it up.

Another dream was more disturbing than all the others, for all the pleasure of the moment itself, for it too had been erotic. Williams sometimes dreamed in this way of women other than Miss MacAndrews, but the faces were never of people he knew. This time he had dreamed of Lupe, poor hurt Guadalupe, the sister of the wife of the partisan leader El Blanco. Little more than a child, she had been ravished by the French, and then Williams had failed to save the sister from being raped by a British officer. That man was dead, his throat slit from side to side by Lupe, for the two women fought alongside the men, and they were brave and skilful.

Lupe had nursed Williams back to life after he had been shot and had fallen in love with him. He was grateful, admired her, but there was no love, and yet one night she had come to him and he had taken her in his arms. It was only the fear in her eyes and the trembling of her body which had made him pull away, a decision made simpler minutes later when the French launched a sudden attack on the band’s camp. In his dream he had not pulled away. Once again he had watched as Lupe danced in the wild, passionate southern fashion, and in his dream he had gone to her. Trembling and afraid, Lupe cried out as he tore off her clothes and flung her to the ground.

Then he had woken up, his back soaked in sweat.

Williams fastened his sash around his waist, buckled on his sword belt, and put on his cocked hat. That dream had not faded so quickly and it worried him. He did not like to think that he could be unfaithful to his love for Jane MacAndrews, even if there was little hope of fulfilment. Worse was the fear of violent, predatory demons lurking inside him. Williams confessed himself to be a sinner, unworthy of the salvation offered by his Lord. He
knew that he was a mere man, weak and wicked in his instincts, and tried to do his poor best. It frightened him to think that he might be capable of acting in this way.

He picked up his gloves and bent down to leave his little tent.

‘You look fresh and rested,’ Captain Dunbar told him, the irony heavy in his words. It did not look as if the brigade major had managed to get much sleep either. He stamped his feet to fight off the cold of the early morning.

‘Bright as a spring flower, ready for the burdens of the day,’ Williams replied, pretending to hobble like an old man.

‘That is good to hear, for I am sure that I can find plenty to keep the pair of you occupied.’ Lieutenant Colonel Colborne gave the impression of having slept twelve hours in a feather bed.

It was nine minutes to six o’clock and an hour before dawn. The brigade was not due to move today, and so, just as they did every other day, along with every British corps in the field, the four battalions stood to arms in case of attack. Each company paraded and then marched to form with its battalion at its alarm post. The time just before dawn was when men felt low in spirits and drowsy, making it a good time for the enemy to attack.

‘All ready, sir,’ Dunbar reported. An officer had come from each of the battalions to report.

‘Good, then let us be off.’ Colborne strode to their waiting horses.

‘Morning, sir,’ Corporal Stiles said to Williams. ‘I think he will do you proud.’ He was leading the captured gelding, now much slimmed down after weeks of gradually replacing his green fodder with grain.

‘I’ve made another couple of holes,’ he whispered as Williams put his boot in the stirrup. Yesterday he had tried the horse out, and when he rose to trot the saddle had shifted under him, rolling to the right. It had not happened quickly, and so he had slid sideways, managing to free himself and jump down rather than fall. The girth had been as tight as it would go, but with the horse so much thinner than when he had taken her it was simply
not enough. Captain Dunbar had had hysterics, and almost fallen from his own mount, and even the colonel had laughed.