Whose Business Is to Die (3 page)

‘Look, Bills, I really should not worry …’ Hanley began, only to be interrupted. A rotund civilian escorted by four hussars from the King’s German Legion had joined them.

‘Mr Williams, it is a pleasure to see you. I trust that you are enjoying your duties with Colonel Colborne?’ Mr Ezekiel Baynes was fat and red faced, the very image of the stout English yeoman beloved of cartoons. Before the war a trader in wines and spirits, he had become a master of spies for Lord Wellington. His voice was gruff, his speech rapid so the words tumbled out one after another like coals poured from a sack. ‘You are looking well, sir, indeed you are. I see that you are quite recovered from your wound. Splendid.’

‘Thank you, sir, I am pleased to say that it no longer troubles me.’ Williams had been shot in the hip back in the autumn, which had undoubtedly saved his life since it pitched him over and meant that a second bullet aimed at his head merely grazed him. Left behind by the army, he had spent weeks lost in fever and then even longer recovering, sheltered by a band of
guerrilleros
, partisan fighters who fought the bitter ‘little war’ against the French. Those months already had a dreamlike quality, and he
knew that he had not yet made peace with himself for all that he had seen and done. As with so much else, not least the matter of Miss MacAndrews, there had not been time. It was typical of Baynes to parade his knowledge, while giving the impression that he knew much more than he said. Given the man’s rapid intelligence and his occupation, it was quite possible that he did.

It seemed that Hanley, Baynes and their escort were also seeking out General Long. ‘A happy chance,’ Baynes declared. ‘We shall be most glad of your company, and perhaps your assistance.’

Williams was very fond of Hanley, but had serious doubts about his judgement. His friend was a gambler to his core, a man who enjoyed cleverness for its own sake, his thrill growing with the size of the stakes, and so was all too ready to risk the lives of those around him in elaborate schemes to outwit the enemy. Baynes’ bluff and open manner veiled a sharp, ruthless mind, judging the benefit and price of every venture in the war with as calm a manner as he had once run his business. Together the two men were likely to prove dangerous company.

As they rode along, Williams confessed to his true errand, prompting a benevolent smile from Baynes and a snort of amusement from Hanley.

‘Pringle was right,’ his friend said, ‘you have turned pirate!’

The previous year Hanley, Billy Pringle and Williams had spent months in Andalusia working with the partisans along the coast, carried ashore and retrieved each time by the Navy. One night Williams had taken part in a cutting-out expedition, capturing privateers and merchantmen from an enemy harbour. As a result, he later found himself the surprised recipient of six hundred and twelve pounds, seventeen shillings and thruppence prize money, paid into his account at the regimental agents of Greenwood, Cox, and Company, agents to the 106th as they were to half the army. It was only this fortunate event which permitted him to accept the invitation to become a staff officer. More than half had gone on equipping himself for the field, since Lisbon prices were grossly inflated after four years of war and with the entire army wintering near the city.

‘It appears the simplest solution to my want,’ Williams said in his defence. ‘There is no prospect of purchasing a replacement for some time.’

Baynes chuckled, his face bright scarlet. ‘Clear, reasonable thought,’ he said. ‘The world is often so unfair when it dismisses the intellect of soldiers!’

Williams bowed as far as it was possible in the saddle.

‘Yet, though as a mere civilian I may be mistaken,’ Baynes continued, ‘is it not the rule that captured horses are to be offered for sale to the commissaries, so that the entire army and the wider cause may benefit from their capture?’

That was the rule, and although Hanley’s expression betrayed his lack of concern for such regulation, Williams had feared that this would prove an obstacle and so had hoped to avoid anyone too senior from finding out about the business. The justification that the rule was often ignored, and that a horse taken from the foe was the only plunder considered acceptable for an officer to take, seemed weak.

‘It is for the good of the service,’ he ventured, disliking the pomposity of his claim and hoping that the unmilitary Baynes would not pursue the issue.

‘I have no doubt of it, so perhaps we should leave it at that, and leave you, my young friend, with the more pressing problem of dividing an unwilling Frenchman from his horse. Of course,’ he went on, ‘though I am no real judge, I am told that our own cavalry officers ride finer horses than the French. Indeed, it is said their comrades garrisoned in France write to friends asking them to capture such a beast, with the promise of rich reward. Perhaps for the pure good of the service you should look elsewhere?’

Williams grinned, and a few moments later Baynes chuckled again to demonstrate that it was – almost certainly – a witticism.

‘I doubt in the circumstances that the Army will be much inclined to examine the details of your acquisition, since part of our purpose today is to arrange theft on a far grander scale. Damn the man, will he not sit still for a moment!’ This last was
presumably directed at General Long and the light cavalry, who had set off forward again, just as they were coming up to them.

Hanley waved a hand at the corporal in charge of their escort to show that they would keep at a walk and not race forward to catch up.

‘Don’t want the horses tired,’ he explained to Williams.

‘Indeed not, indeed not,’ Baynes mumbled. ‘And no doubt they will halt again soon enough.’ He stared at Williams for a moment and then turned to Hanley. ‘Your friend is not the most curious of fellows, is he, William? We confess a conspiracy to rob and he says nothing. Too caught up with plotting his own act of brigandage, no doubt.’

‘It is for the good of the service,’ Captain William Hanley agreed.

‘Since manners or disinterest prevent you from asking,’ Baynes began, ‘I shall declare that our interest is with cannon – at least one of our interests. Does that stir your curiosity?’

‘The French siege train?’ Williams ventured.

Baynes turned back to Hanley and gave a nod of exaggerated approval. ‘Your Mr Williams may not be inclined towards curiosity, but at least his mind works quickly. Yes, Lieutenant,’ he continued, smiling now at Williams, ‘the enemy brought some fifteen or sixteen heavy guns to besiege Campo Major.’

‘They left just before dawn,’ Hanley added. ‘The Portuguese cavalry saw them. They must be three or four miles away by now. It would be better for us if they did not reach Badajoz.’ The big fortress town protected the Spanish side of the frontier.

Baynes’ face became serious for the first time. ‘It really is all about Badajoz. Are you familiar with the place?’

Williams nodded. He had seen the fortress back in ’09, when the army was forced to retreat even though it had beaten back the French attacks at Talavera. Those were bad times, with sickness rampant and claiming almost as many lives as the battle, and perhaps those bad memories shaped his recollections for to his mind there was something sinister about the place. Built in a naturally strong position, the King of Spain’s engineers had
done a fine job, following the most modern principles of military science to fortify it. Its defences were as far removed from those of Campo Major as a rifled musket was from the flint-headed spear of some primitive tribe.

‘It is formidable,’ he said, trying not to think of the horror that would come when regiments were thrown against its walls. The French had had trouble taking the place, and it was only the death of its tough old commander and his replacement by a weaker man which had taken the heart out of the Spanish defenders.

‘The French have held the place for two weeks,’ Hanley said. ‘The longer they hold on to it then the more chance they have to repair the damage inflicted on the walls by their own guns. So our best chance is to attack soon, and for that we need a siege train.’

‘We do not possess such a thing.’ Baynes spread out his palms and then calmed his horse when the animal stirred. ‘Or to be more accurate I should say that we do possess one, but it is sitting on board ship somewhere off Lisbon and it would take a month or more to bring it all ashore, and even longer to fetch it up here.

‘And since we cannot hope to purchase siege guns up here on the frontier, we are left with Mr Williams’ simple solution. If you soldiers can overcome the French rearguard in the next few hours, it should be possible to catch their cannon before they reach safety.’

The plan appeared sound, the prospects of success good, and then Williams had an idea which might help in some small way. Leaving the reins in his left hand, he used the other to unfasten the top of his saddle-holster.

‘Good God, you really have turned pirate!’ Hanley gasped as the Welshman pulled out a naval boarding axe.

‘If you do overrun the siege train, it may be wise to cut the traces,’ Williams suggested, offering the axe to his friend.

‘Won’t we need the harness to pull them away?’

‘Just in case they have to be left for a while. It will mean that
the French cannot carry them off, whatever happens.’ Williams moved to replace the weapon. ‘It was merely a suggestion.’

‘And a good one, I am sure, although let us hope it does not come to that.’ Mr Baynes was beaming again. ‘Take it, my dear boy, take it. And I do believe that we should let the lieutenant more fully into our confidence.’

‘Badajoz fell too easily,’ Hanley said, his face doubtful as he took the short heavy staff of the axe. Ahead of them the cavalry column had halted again, and they were getting closer. ‘It is all too likely that French agents were at work, and French gold helped to open the gates of the fortress. Do you remember Sinclair?’

Williams stiffened at the name. Major Sinclair had posed as a British officer, riding among the partisan bands in Andalusia gathering information. The group sheltering Williams had been surprised by French soldiers led by the Irishman, who was in fact a member of Napoleon’s green-jacketed Irish Legion. For a moment he saw again the burning farm, the
guerrilleros
dead or in flight, and remembered the feel of Guadalupe clinging to him.

‘I remember Sinclair.’

‘He serves on Marshal Soult’s staff, helping him to gather intelligence – among other things. And then, of course, you know Dalmas. He is now also a major and serves in a similar capacity.’ Williams remembered the big cuirassier officer, but felt less distaste for him than for Sinclair. He had first met the Frenchman when he had gathered a tag, rag and bobtail group of stragglers left behind by the army as it slogged through the snow to Corunna. Dalmas was trying to find a way around Sir John Moore’s army to cut the British off from the sea, and Williams and his little band had stopped him, holding a bridge long enough for reinforcements to arrive – reinforcements led by Colborne, who was then one of Moore’s ADCs. Since then their paths had crossed more than once.

‘Dalmas is a proper soldier,’ he said in the Frenchman’s defence.

‘Aye, right enough, but he is more than that,’ Baynes concluded. ‘And one of our sources says that a man from Soult’s
staff came to Campo Major with the French, and they do not believe he has left – at least not before today. Whoever it is, but especially if it is one of that pair of rascals, it would be a handy blow for our cause if he never leaves.’

‘You wish him dead.’ Williams kept his tone level to make it clear that he was not asking a question. Yet he could not keep the distaste from his voice.

‘We wish them all dead or to the Devil,’ Hanley cut in quickly, ‘but it would be better to take whoever it is. If we cannot, then he would be less of a threat to us if killed. They are dangerous men.’

Williams did not presume to point out that the same might be said of someone who talked so readily of deliberate killing.

‘For the good of the service,’ Hanley continued. ‘Or at least for the good of the cause.’ The last words were in a whisper, for they had come up with the rear of the cavalry. Closest to them were the 13th Light Dragoons, wearing their tall crested tarleton helmets and with buff facings and braid on their blue jackets. Orders were shouted and the front of the regiment wheeled to the right and went over a hump in the ground. The light dragoons deployed smoothly, the horses going at a brisk walk, scabbards, carbines and other equipment bumping and the harness jingling with the motion.

‘The French must be close,’ Williams said. Even after all these years he was unsure how well his friend could read a battlefield. His hand slid across and took the grip of his sword, lifting gently to make sure that it would be easy to draw if he needed it.

They waited for the cavalry to deploy before following. The enemy were indeed close, and when they topped the small bank they could see that the five small squadrons of Portuguese cavalry were formed on the left. From this distance their uniform was similar to that of the British light horse, with dark blue jackets, grey trousers and black helmets. If he went close, a man would see that the coats were plainer and without braid, although the red plume in each helmet offered a flash of colour brighter than anything in their allies’ appearance. Even from this distance their
horses were clearly small, ill-fed beasts, and alongside the fine chestnuts and light bays of British light dragoons the appearance was most ill.

‘Looking for your mark?’ Hanley whispered, having seen Williams observing the cavalry.

‘They are not sufficiently close,’ he replied. Almost five hundred yards ahead of the 13th Light Dragoons was a line of French horsemen – to Williams’ eye it looked a slightly longer and more numerous line than that of the British regiment. The enemy were dressed in dark green coats and even without a glass he could see the warm orange fronts of the jackets. Most of the men had baggy brown trousers, and only a few wore the regulation grey breeches above their high black boots. All wore brass helmets in Grecian style, decorated with brown turbans and trailing black horsehair plumes.