Whose Business Is to Die (32 page)

As he rode back to report, Dalmas spared only a brief thought for Sinclair. The Irishman was off trying to capture the exploring officer Hanley. He was a prize, but what truly mattered was the fight about to flare into a battle. Dalmas thrilled at the prospect, for at heart he was a soldier, and if he could not prove his worth in the sight of the Emperor then at least he would do it with a marshal of France as witness. One British officer really did not matter so very much when they had a chance to cut an entire army to pieces.

Dalmas saluted as he joined the group of officers, sitting watching the infantry crossing the stream and forming up. ‘The heights are empty, Your Grace.’

A squall of rain blew in, clattering noisily against his helmet and breastplate.

‘Unoccupied?’ Marshal Soult’s face was eager, making him look younger than usual. The last few days of manoeuvring the
army seemed to have brought the man to life. If he revelled in administration, meetings and lists, Jean-de-Dieu Soult remained a soldier at heart.

‘There are no enemy formations much beyond half a mile from the village. The higher positions on the ridge are quite empty.’

‘We have them,’ said General Girard, the commander of the leading division of infantry and also acting commander of the V Corps. If Dalmas had a concern, it was that since they had left Seville the army’s command structure had been thrown into confusion. La Tour-Maubourg was relieved of command of the corps and put in charge of the cavalry and replaced by Girard. This was one of several changes, and with the Army of the South’s headquarters as well as V Corps headquarters there were almost too many staff officers and not enough clarity over responsibility.

‘How are the enemy formed?’ This was from Gazan, the chief of staff and until recently commander of the army’s second infantry division.

‘The Spanish are closest,’ Dalmas explained, ‘the English in the centre and the Portuguese on their far left. There are a few cavalry squadrons behind the line.’

‘How many Spanish?’ Soult asked. ‘Has Blake arrived?’ They had seen the colourful Spanish regiments in the enemy line, but did not know whether they were the remnants of the often defeated army of Estremadura or the fresh regiments from Cadiz.

‘I cannot say, Your Grace,’ Dalmas confessed. ‘I would guess at two divisions.’ That probably meant that they were outnumbered, even if many of the Spanish were most likely raw troops and the Portuguese not much better. Everything else was in their favour.

‘Well, their weakest soldiers are here at the point of most danger,’ General Girard said. He had a beak of a nose and with an unusually short neck his head rested on his collar and made him seem even more bird-like. ‘The Spanish can never manoeuvre.’

‘Do they know we are here?’ Gazan asked. ‘Is there any sign of retreat?’ A prudent general would withdraw when outflanked
so completely. Turning a whole army to face while the enemy pressed was a recipe for disaster.

‘They are not moving, sir.’ Dalmas did not bother to say that the enemy would soon realise what was happening even if they had not already done so. The movement of La Tour-Mauborg and the cavalry would give the game away.

‘Gentlemen, it does not matter.’ Marshal Soult passed a hand across his face to rub the rainwater from his eyes. ‘If they stay we will smash them, and if they run we will cut them to pieces. ‘General Girard, how long to form your leading division?’

‘Another twenty minutes, Your Grace.’ The wind and rain were making him duck his head repeatedly, and Dalmas thought of a little sparrow, even though he knew the general’s reputation as a fighter. ‘The first brigade is already in position.’

‘Excellent. We move as soon as you are ready. The Second Division is to follow and form behind you.’

The rain stopped and just for a moment the clouds parted and a beam of sunlight speared through to warm them. It was ten minutes to ten o’clock and the Emperor’s soldiers were about to march to triumph.

25

‘W
e cannot let this go on, sir!’ Corporal Scott shouted from the edge of the wood. Hanley saw that he was standing up, rifle held down low. He stepped out of the shade, the red collar and cuffs still bright on his faded and patched green jacket. ‘We cannot stand by and let the lass be violated.’

Schwartz appeared alongside him, his face full of doubt.

‘Listen to them, Hanley,’ Sinclair called out. ‘You do not have a choice. Now where is the third of your men?’

Hanley stood, his right hand held up with the pistol pointing into the air. ‘I do not like this, Corporal.’

‘Isn’t much choice, sir.’ Scott’s tone was flat, and once again Hanley wished that he had Dobson or Murphy or someone else he knew better.

‘He is right, Hanley old fellow. There is not much choice. Now where is the other man? We heard three shots so do not try anything foolish.’

‘There are only two of us, Your Honour.’ Scott sounded as confident as any NCO reporting to a superior officer. He nodded to Schwartz. ‘Show him, lad.’

The Brunswicker took his own rifle in his left hand and then unslung the other from his shoulder.

‘Do you see, Your Honour, three guns, but only two of us.’

‘Lay them down, Corporal,’ Sinclair told him.

‘Begging your pardon, Your Honour, but not until we see that the lass is safe. Otherwise …’ Scott shifted only slightly, and his rifle did not move in his hands, and yet his posture now
suggested that he could raise it and fire in a moment. ‘Let us see the girl, sir.’

Hanley had a familiar feeling that an NCO was taking charge, his tone making it clear that no sane officer would try to challenge him.

Sinclair levelled his pistol at Hanley. ‘No tricks. That would be most unwise. Bring her out, boys,’ he ordered.

The rain started again, as one of the soldiers brought out the girl. She was still wearing a shift, but her hair was loose and there was a bruise swelling around one eye. Hanley was surprised, for he had suspected that they were simply making her cry out, but that Sinclair would not actually let her be harmed. He had decided to call the Irishman’s bluff before Scott had come out. It still seemed a reasonable plan, and he could only hope that the corporal had some idea beyond surrender.

Brandt limped as he came behind, and Hanley thought that there was something odd about the musket he carried.

‘Drop your weapons, lads,’ Sinclair said, his aim never wavering. ‘You too, Captain.’

Hanley threw down the pistol.

‘The sword too.’

Hanley reached down slowly and gripped the handle. It resisted his tug, and he had to yank it out with some violence. He kept his left arm hanging limply at his side, the bandage obvious.

Sinclair grinned. ‘How do you English ever beat anyone? You have lost, old fellow, and from all that I hear your army will be crushed before the day is out. Soult is not coming the way you expect, do you know that? He will surprise you just as we did and the French will slice through your men like a scythe through grass. It’s a shame I shall not be there in time to see the redcoats running. But this is pleasure enough, I suppose.

‘Now, Corporal, drop your rifle. You too, my German friend.’

‘Do as he says,’ Hanley told them.

Scott took a pace forward. ‘First let the lass go, sir.’

‘You are not in any position to make demands.’ Sinclair sounded more weary than annoyed. ‘Perhaps this would persuade
you.’ He shifted the pistol so that it pointed at the girl. She was shivering, her shift growing wet with rain.

Gutiérrez scrabbled along the floor, bending down to kiss the Irishman’s boots and beg him to spare his daughter. The priest moaned softly, still doubled up on himself with the bayonet and musket sticking from his back. Hanley had assumed that the man was dead, and he saw Sinclair turn in surprise.

There was a shout, the sound of horses galloping as the three KGL hussars burst out from the trees near the convent, curved sabres raised high. Hanley ran forward, yelling as loud as he could. Scott raised his rifle in a fluid motion and fired, but Gutiérrez had grabbed Sinclair by the knees, and so the ball took the Irishman in the shoulder instead of the middle of his chest.

Schwartz had his rifle held low at the hip, an awkward posture, but it was levelled at Brandt. He pulled the trigger and the hammer sparked, but the powder in the pan must have got wet because it did not fire. He dropped it and pulled the slung rifle from his shoulder.

Brandt had his gun raised, and Hanley realised that it had two barrels. The German switched his aim from target to target. First Hanley, then Scott, but then he saw Schwartz and he fixed on him. His shot struck the Brunswicker in the belly, flinging him back. Gutiérrez still had a firm hold around Sinclair’s legs, and one of the greenjacketed soldiers thrust down with his bayonet into the Spaniard’s side. His daughter screamed, louder than ever before. When he did not let go the soldier wrenched the blade free and stabbed down again.

Hanley ran on. One of the soldiers was helping Sinclair away, but he ignored them and went for the one who was grappling with the shrieking girl, pulling her away. Brandt pulled back the hammer on the second barrel and pointed it at him, but the hussars were close now and he switched his aim to them. Another soldier appeared inside the animal pen and fired at the horsemen, who rode on unscathed. Hanley slammed his shoulder into the man dragging the girl away, wincing because it was his wounded left side. The soldier reeled back, tearing her shift as he
grasped it. Hanley punched him in the face and he let go and staggered away from the shelter of the walled pen. The noise and smell of the horses filled Hanley’s nostrils.

A musket boomed, the ball driving into the neck of one of the horses, making it swerve away and block the path of the corporal. The third hussar came on, slicing down into the shoulder of the man Hanley had pushed away. He yelled, dropping his musket and raising his good arm protectively over his face. The German’s horse reared, hoofs flailing and knocking the man down. Hanley shied away from the beast, took the girl around the waist and dived against the bottom of the wall, covering her with his own body.

Sinclair and his men were inside the shelter of the walls, and as the hussar urged his mount through the open gate bayonets thrust up at him, piercing his thigh, and then a pistol fired and the ball struck him in the mouth. The German’s head was flung back, his arms spreading wide, and he rolled down out of the saddle.

‘Come on, sir!’ Scott yelled. ‘Run!’

Hanley hauled himself and the señorita up, accidentally widening the rent in her damp shift as he pulled her, and started to run. The girl saw her father lying bleeding into the grass and stopped, hands pressed to her mouth, but no sound coming from her. Hanley took her arm and hauled her with him.

‘Look out!’ Scott was kneeling, the only loaded rifle at his shoulder. There was a shot, the sound lighter than a musket, and Hanley guessed it was a pistol ball that flicked through the girl’s long hair.

Scott fired, there was a satisfying cry of pain from behind, but then another pistol fired and red blood blossomed on the corporal’s kneecap. Scott hissed in agony as he fell to the side, rifle gone and his hands clutching at the wound. Not far away, Schwartz lay groaning.

‘Down!’ Hanley said, forgetting to speak in Spanish, but he pushed the girl off her feet so that she sprawled on her front, grunting as she hit the ground hard. He dropped alongside her,
vaguely noting that her ragged shift was almost transparent from the rain, but more concerned with scooping up Scott’s rifle.

‘Cartridge,’ he called.

The hussar corporal sat on his horse some twenty yards back from the pen. Not far away, the wounded horse had slumped down on its knees and the other German stood beside it, loading his stubby carbine.

Scott reached out, blood from his hand on a cartridge he had fished out of his pouch.

‘Careful, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Use your hand to shield the pan when you put the powder in.’

He could see the heads and light green coats of Sinclair and his men above the stone wall of the pen, riding mounts they must have hidden in the animal shed. The KGL corporal saw them too, and brought his sabre up into the regulation high guard. Hanley was loading as fast as he could, not having time to wrap the leather patch around the ball so that it fitted snugly into the barrel, gripping the spiralled grooves that gave the rifle its deadly precision.

With a shout Sinclair and his men surged out of the gateway. There was a dark patch of blood on the Irishman’s jacket, and he let one of the soldiers go a little ahead of him. Brandt and the other man came next, and they urged their horses out so that the four formed a ragged line.

The German corporal set his horse off in a canter straight at them.

‘Bloody hell,’ Scott said with admiration.

The dismounted hussar fired, the ball driving through Brandt’s cheek, smashing teeth and bursting out through the other cheek. The sergeant shook in the saddle, but did not fall. Hanley drove the ball and charge down the barrel of his rifle as the rain hammered against his face. As he worked he stared at the girl’s shape, but his admiration was slight in comparison to his desire to finish loading.

‘Get the sod!’ Scott yelled in encouragement as the hussar corporal and Sinclair’s men closed. With a slash the leading
infantryman was chopped from the saddle, his neck sliced through so that his head hung down at an unnatural angle. Sinclair stabbed before the corporal had recovered his guard, driving his blade hard into the neck of the German’s horse, so deeply that the blade stuck and the major was almost pulled from the saddle before he could free his hand of the wrist strap. The dying horse pitched forward, flinging the rider high over its head.

Hanley was sitting up, resting the rifle on his legs so that he could use one hand to shield the pan as Scott had suggested. With care he emptied the last bit of powder from the waxed paper cartridge into the pan. The paper ought really to have gone in with the main charge, but he had saved it in the hope of keeping his priming dry. He closed the pan, brought the hammer back to full cock and knelt, raising the rifle to his shoulder. Then he waited, steadying his breath.