Whose Business Is to Die (24 page)

‘It appears they could not provide us with a real engineer, sir,’ Pringle announced.

‘You may be right, Mr Pringle,’ Lieutenant Colonel Fitz-William agreed, his teeth very white in the darkness as his own face split into a smile. ‘Good evening, Mr Truscott.’

As the sun set two hundred men from the 106th had paraded without packs or muskets. They had drawn tools instead and spent the last two hours waiting to be led forward, and then two more tramping the five miles from the camp, sited because it was the only suitable place anywhere near the fortress. Some also carried empty sacks and another party were rolling gabions, wicker baskets taller than a man and twice as broad. Both bags and baskets were to be filled with earth to help build the first of the Allied batteries.

‘Good evening, sir.’ Truscott saluted, and then plucked out his watch and stared until he made out the time. ‘We have five minutes before we should move.’

It was the night of 8th May, and the Allies planned to begin work on the trenches and gun positions around Badajoz. Their task was to start Number One Battery, facing the San Cristoval fort, but on the other side of the Guadiana; other working parties would cut trenches to threaten the Pardeleras and Picurina outworks. Those were diversions, and the main attack was to be directed at the San Cristoval.

While the colonel wandered along the lines of men,
encouraging and joking with them, Truscott asked after his brother.

‘The young rascal is well, becoming ever closer to Derryck and his minions,’ Billy said, ‘so they are probably drinking or playing japes on each other rather than getting a good night’s sleep like good Christians. He has not drawn a work detail until three nights’ time.’ Pringle lowered his voice. ‘I suspect the colonel has ensured that only the older soldiers are called upon for this on the first two nights.’

Five minutes passed slowly, but eventually Truscott told the colonel that it was time, and then led them off.

‘Right, lads,’ hissed FitzWilliam, ‘quietly now.’

None of them apart from Truscott had seen the ground in daylight, for it was clearly unwise to draw too much attention to the place. Sticks had been driven into the earth every thirty or so yards and bits of white rag tied around the tops to mark the route up to the ridge. Truscott went slowly, knowing that it would be easy for the column to break up into little groups. There was a covering party of fifty men with muskets and ammunition somewhere in the darkness. Pringle heard them once when Truscott halted this column, but he did not see them.

As they reached the top of the ridge, the cloud parted and the light of a crescent moon showed them the fortress of Badajoz, its shape a silhouette darker than the night itself. Two engineer officers were waiting, one taking charge of the men with gabions. The other took half of the work party, while Truscott led the rest. Pringle followed his friend down the slope until he stopped at a row of markers running in a long line across the hillside. The clouds had closed again, but he could make out the shape of the San Cristoval and guessed that they were some four hundred yards away from its ramparts. The engineer led the men rolling the gabions and had them set up in a row a few yards in front of the markers. Still empty, the wicker drums would offer no real protection, and yet Pringle did feel a warm illusion of security.

‘Come on, lads, spread yourselves along the line.’ His own voice sounded deafeningly loud, and surely the sentries pacing
the wall would hear and give the alarm. The men, most of them his own grenadiers, filed past him. He had divided them into teams, one with a pick and two with shovels, and was pleased to see that each group had stayed together. The colonel had gone with the other group, and Billy wondered whether that was a mark of confidence or simply chance.

Sergeant Murphy passed him, and he thought he saw the man wink. He was pleased that he had managed to get Mary Murphy sent to Elvas, where Major MacAndrews’ family had taken her under their protection. Dobson was at the rear of the column, and as always the presence of the man reassured Pringle that the company would cope, whatever task was set before them.

‘When you start, pile the spoil in front or behind the trench. Only fill the gabions or sacks from the heap behind.’ Truscott’s instructions were precise, but Pringle had always felt his friend was inclined to be too detailed, and at times fussy. The men had been told, and the main thing was to get as deep into the earth as fast as they could. The French would spot them as soon as the sun came up, even if by some blessed good fortune they did not realise what the British were up too long before that. Then every gun that could bear would pound the work. He could remember watching the Spanish guns at Ciudad Rodrigo sending ball after ball and countless shells against the French besiegers as they toiled. It was no longer such a happy memory.

‘Right, use the spades to cut the turf and then break it up with the picks before you shovel it out.’ Pringle wished Truscott would just let the men work instead of spelling out each thing they were to do, and then he wondered whether his own nervousness was getting the better of him.

‘Come on, then, lads.’ That was Dobson, keeping it simple. Pringle stood beside the sergeant as he jabbed with the blade of his spade and cut down an inch or two, then did it again in a line until he had cut out a square.

‘Roll it up, boy,’ he told one of the redcoats, who kneeled down and grunted as he pulled the grass roots free and then rolled up the turf. ‘Good. Put it over there by the marker. That’s
where you heap up the earth.’ Pringle saw the veteran glance up and wondered whether he was explaining as much to his officer as to the men. He could not resist walking over and prodding the rolled turf with his boot. It was surprisingly solid.

Dobson cut out three more patches of turf, until they had cleared an area several square yards in size. All along the line men were doing the same, producing a low hubbub of whispers and grunts. Three lanterns rested on the ground to give a little light, their open side pointing away from the French.

‘Now, Jenkins, put your back into it, lad.’ The grenadier spat on to his hands and then grabbed the pick and raised it. He slammed it down – the dull thunk appallingly loud to Pringle’s ears – and then raised it and struck again and again. The same chipping sound was repeated as other teams got to work. Once he had worked on one corner he moved on to the next and Dobson and the other man began to dig the earth out and fling it on to the row of turves. It did not look like much of a rampart.

Within five minutes men were taking off their jackets. No one had asked, but Pringle saw no reason to stop them, even though the white of their shirts seemed so very stark. He walked along the line, not bothering to say anything, for the men needed neither instruction nor encouragement. By the time he had got back to Dobson’s group at the far left of the trench, he saw that Jenkins was back in the spot where he had begun. The ritual was the same. Lower the pick, spit on hands, grasp it again and raise it high before slamming it down. This time the sound was different, much sharper, and Pringle saw a spark fly from the strike. Jenkins raised it again, brought it down, and the crack was louder this time. The pick stuck in the hard soil and he had to struggle to wrench it out.

‘Here, lad, let me have a go,’ Dobson said, and took it from him. He did not bother to spit, and lifted the tool less high, before bringing it down with tremendous violence. The spark leapt high, the noise almost like striking against metal.

‘Bugger, I was afraid of that.’ The veteran looked up at Pringle.
‘It’s more stone than earth, sir. We’ll have to chip it out bit by bloody bit.’

The other teams were making the same discovery, and the noise of rocks being struck and all the attendant grunts and curses rose.

‘Quiet there, quiet as you can!’ The senior engineer’s voice was loud and nervous. ‘Captain, can you not keep your men quiet!’

Pringle was about to reply that they were quieter than some fellow yelling, and then he noticed a figure appear beside the man. It was FitzWilliam, and even in the dark his shape conveyed the poise and calm of the aristocratic former Guards officer. Billy did not catch the words, but could guess their sense. The colonel had a knack for reassuring others.

Dobson launched a powerful assault on the hard ground, the point of the pick driving into the solid earth, clacking against stone with vivid flashes of light.

‘Right, boys. Ten hits with all your might and then pass it on to the next man.’

Jenkins took back the pick and began to work again, his blows wilder than the veteran’s. Then the third man took over.

‘Get shovelling,’ Dobson told Jenkins as the man finished, and the pair of them scooped out the dislodged lumps of earth, but almost every thrust of the spades grated on stone. When the looser earth was cleared away the corner of the pit did not look any deeper to Pringle.

He wandered along the line, and saw that most of the teams were working like Dobson’s group, sharing the brutal work with the picks. A few had not, and men leaned on shovels as they watched the third man work, so he told them to take turns.

Time passed. Billy could not tell whether it was minutes or hours. He felt idle and useless, but when he finally decided to have a word with Dobson and suggest that he take a turn the answer was blunt.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you won’t be much damned use.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

The men laboured on, dim, distorted figures in the faint light
of the hooded lanterns. Time after time they savaged the ground with picks and then scraped away the meagre clods of broken earth.

When the French sent up a blue light from the San Cristoval the brightness was dazzling.

‘Down! Down!’ Billy waited for the men to stop and crouch in the trench – if something little more than six or seven inches deep could be dignified with the name. At least the gabions offered some shelter if no protection.

He could hear the faint fizzing of the rocket, the strange flickering light showing him the gaunt faces huddled down as close to the earth as was humanly possible. As it faded, there was another flaring of light, red this time, as a flaming carcase of combustible material was flung from the rampart of the fort. The whole shape of the outwork was almost as clear as day, and Pringle could even see figures moving on top of the wall and hear their shouts. The French must have feared an attempt at escalade, because the burning carcase would make it hard for them to see much further into the dark until it went out.

‘Get going, lads,’ said Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam, before any of the engineers stirred.

Dobson was first up, and grunted with sheer effort as he drove the pick into the earth and then prised it back and forth to break up the heavy soil. Pringle watched him, but the glow of the carcase still filled his eyes and it was hard to see properly. He took off his glasses and rubbed them.

The French were silent for a while, and slowly the burning carcase faded until it was no more than a dull glow and the outline of the fort was barely visible in the night. They worked on, and Billy could tell that the pace was slowing. He walked back to where three of the battalion’s drummers waited, each with the dozen canteens of water they had carried piled up beside them.

‘Lads, take three canteens each and offer them to the men,’ he said. One of the musicians was Dobson’s son, a stocky, plump youth more like his poor dead mother than his massive father. ‘Let them have two sips each and no more for the moment.’
Sergeant Dobson had suggested bringing the water to Pringle, who had in turn gone to the colonel and received his enthusiastic blessing.

They worked on, and the drink seemed to give them renewed energy, at least for a while. Yet Pringle could tell that the pace was slackening. Men were groaning more and more loudly with the sheer effort of driving the tools into the iron-hard soil. The picks still set off sparks, but the blows were less frequent and over time became weaker.

‘Good work, boys,’ he said, pacing along the shallow trench. He was about to suggest that the men with the gabions take a turn, but before he could the engineer set them to taking earth from the low spoil heap and starting to fill up the great baskets.

Truscott appeared. ‘Slow work. No one realised that the ground was so hard.’

Pringle bit back the suggestion that perhaps someone ought to have checked. His friend had a tidy mind, resentful of mistakes and inefficiency, and was unlikely to welcome such an obvious comment.

‘This is to be the main attack,’ the acting engineer explained. Billy sensed that Truscott was as frustrated with watching and waiting as he was, and needed to talk simply to fill the time. ‘The others are diversions. This will be the main battery. We knock a hole in the San Cristoval, storm that, and then put a battery there to breach the castle walls of Badajoz itself.’

‘Might take a while,’ Billy ventured. ‘If the pace here is anything to go by.’

‘It’s worse than you think. I have seen the guns brought from the stores on Elvas.’ Truscott sounded offended. ‘You can see the dates when they were cast moulded on the barrels – half are from the seventeenth century.’

‘Dear God.’

‘We will need His help for certain if we are to have any chance at all. They are dreadful brass things, the bores distorted by age. The gunners have been sitting for days measuring shot with great care in the hope of finding enough to fit.’

Pringle tried to cheer his friend. ‘It’s all a waste. As I told you, what you clever engineers should really be doing is building a great wooden …’ He stopped, for out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash from the San Cristoval, followed by the dull thump. A gun had fired, and the thought that it must be a short-barrelled howitzer was confirmed when he caught a tiny spot of light high in the air and coming towards them.

‘Down!’ he shouted. ‘Everyone down!’ Pringle pushed his friend into the trench.

The men dropped tools and flung themselves into the pitiful scrape of a trench. The ones working on the gabions knelt behind them even though none had more than a few inches of soil in them.