Whose Business Is to Die (6 page)

‘The heavies are not far behind us, and part of my brigade not much farther behind them. We should be able to force the column to surrender. Though perhaps we should attend General Long to discover his intentions.’ From where they were, they could see the French around the road, but could not see much behind them of their own supports. There was no sign of the heavy brigade, although it must be close.

‘In a moment perhaps. Go, Hanley, be off with you and do not come back without plenty of cannon!’ Baynes dropped his voice. ‘And better yet one of those rogues for me to talk to. I’ll keep Williams so that he can recognise Sinclair or Dalmas if it turns out that they are with the column. Now, off with you.’

Hanley cantered towards the Portuguese, the corporal and the private just behind him. He exchanged greetings with the English colonel leading them, who showed no particular interest, but was happy for them to tag along. They dropped to a trot to match the two squadrons as they went steadily on, the ground rising a little before again dropping away. They passed a couple of bodies stretched on the ground, Frenchmen with their heads badly cut about, and a wounded light dragoon leading along some bloodstained and battered prisoners.

Once over the rise they could see the light dragoons chasing after their quarry, both now spread out.

‘View halloa!’ said the English colonel softly. Without any order the trot quickened and Hanley could feel the exhilaration stirring all of them. More to his surprise, he felt it himself, the sense of power as the horses surged forward. He realised that he still held his sword and then the thought came to him that he had killed a man, and yet the world did not seem so very different.

‘View halloa!’ he said, and laughed out loud.

4

W
illiams took a rag from one of his saddle holsters and wiped his sword clean before sliding it back into the scabbard. He sat on his horse beside Baynes and the remaining hussar, as they waited at a polite distance for Brigadier General Long to give a message to an ADC.

‘Tell Marshal Beresford that I have lost sight of the Thirteenth Light Dragoons and the Seventh Portuguese under Colonel Otway, but I have the First Portuguese with me. If the Heavy Brigade comes up then we can complete our victory. Go.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Williams caught the hint of an accent before the man galloped off.

‘That is Baron Tripp – a Dutchman, although he now holds the King’s commission,’ Baynes said as if passing the time of day. ‘General Long has been less than a week with the army, and his own staff and camp equipment have not yet arrived.’ That explained why the general was riding a troop horse.

Baynes edged a little closer, but the general’s expression was scarcely welcoming.

‘You may follow if you wish, sir, but I have no time for you,’ Long said, the force of the rebuff weakened by a sudden rumble from his stomach. Without looking at them, he trotted over to the head of the remaining three squadrons of Portuguese horse, with white collars and cuffs to their dark blue tunics. Riding beside the regiment’s commander, he led them forward, veering towards the road. The French column had begun moving again almost as soon as the 13th Light Dragoons had chased away their opponents. The infantry were still in square, which made
marching a slow business, yet even so they were making clear progress along the highway. The rearmost squadron of French hussars was several hundred yards away, with just a few skirmishers out covering the withdrawal. They were dressed in a faded light blue and had carbines in hand, although as yet none had fired.

General Long halted just short of the highway and stared at the retreating enemy. Then he looked round to the rear past Williams and the others. The Welshman followed his gaze and realised that the heavy brigade had not followed them. He could see the two regiments, formed in column some distance away, but to the south of the road. They looked to be almost half a mile away, and at this distance their dark horses looked black, topped by a streak of red from the jackets of the men.

‘Mr Williams.’ Brigadier General Long did not shout, but had a carrying voice. ‘Would you be so good as to join me.’

Williams reached the general and saluted. Long looked even paler than before, the red rims around his eyes standing out against his pale cheeks.

‘Mr Williams, I do not have all my staff with me today and so I must ask you to carry a message for me.’ It was politely done, even if neither man could possibly imagine a lieutenant refusing the request of a general.

‘Find Marshal Beresford. I think it likely that he is with the heavies. Give him my best compliments and tell him that the Heavy Brigade must advance to support me. If it does then we have these fellows trapped. If the artillery is up then all the better. Tell the marshal that the Thirteenth and the Seventh Portuguese have gone, and I have only the First Regiment still with me, and so I need the heavy dragoons to finish the job. Have you got that?’

Williams repeated the message, even after a few days used to the routines of staff work, and the solemnity of the moment passed without any more unfortunate eruptions from the general’s stomach.

‘Good,’ Long said, ‘then go, and better take that fellow with
you.’ He nodded in Baynes’ direction, his voice raised so that the merchant would hear. Williams glanced at the French column and saw that they were still moving, and then turned his horse, pretending not to notice a fresh churning gurgle from the general’s innards.

‘It seems my presence is not wanted,’ Baynes said drily once they were out of earshot. Williams put Francesca into a canter, and the others matched her pace. Baynes was a better horseman than his looks suggested. ‘Still, the poor man appears most unwell. And he is a twin, of course, and it is always interesting to see how a twin copes without his sibling. Some are not good on their own.’

Williams said nothing, not caring to discuss a senior officer, especially one he scarcely knew. He was surprised to learn that Long was a twin. Williams had three sisters, the middle one already married and widowed, but, growing up as the lone male in a female household, he had often felt that a brother would have been welcome company. The idea of a twin was a strange one, a fellow like himself in looks and much of his character. A gloomy thought, probably inspired by his mix of Scots and Welsh blood, made him suspect that the brother would have possessed all the charm, confidence and poise he felt lacking in himself. Bet the swine would have had better luck in love, he thought.

‘Are you acquainted with Marshal Beresford?’ Baynes’ question thankfully interrupted the inevitable despair concerning Jane MacAndrews.

‘I have not had the good fortune to meet the marshal.’ Beresford was a general in the British Army and a marshal in the Portuguese. Appointed to command Portugal’s land forces, in the last few years he had thoroughly reorganised and retrained them, fighting battle after battle with a sclerotic bureaucracy in a country whose resources had been drained by French invasion. He had brought in officers and sergeants from British regiments, giving some of the latter commissions, and mingled them with the Portuguese. The results were promising indeed. Williams had seen Portuguese infantry fight well alongside their redcoat allies,
and had heard of other similar incidents. They were said to have done very well at Busaco the previous year.

‘Well,’ Baynes continued after a moment, ‘the marshal has a formidable appearance. He is a big fellow, bigger even than you. One of his eyes no longer works – I believe a shooting accident when he was young, although how anyone could mistake that tower of a man for a pheasant escapes me. Nevertheless, I tell you this for it can be disconcerting when you meet him for the first time. As to the rest, he is not the most mannered of gentlemen, quite the Goth in fact, and no doubt you know about Buenos Aires? No? Well, the marshal captured the place back in ‘06 when we tried to steal the Spanish Americas, and then had to surrender when the Spaniards – rather impudently you might feel – decided they would take the city back. You would know better than I, but such a thing might well prey on a soldier’s mind.’

The disastrous expeditions to South America were a source of continued shame and anger in the army, not least because they were so woefully mismanaged. Williams knew little of them and had not realised that Beresford was involved.

There was no time to reply because they were almost there. Closest to them was a squadron of heavy cavalry who sat on their horses and waited, a low murmur of conversation coming from them since they were obviously at ease, swords still in scabbards. Several of the horses were cropping the grass, only half-heartedly restrained by their riders. The men wore red jackets of similar pattern to the infantry, although in this case they were as faded and patched as any he had ever seen. Their collars and cuffs were green, and so these must be the 4th Dragoons, which meant, reasonably enough, that the senior regiment, the 3rd Dragoon Guards, was in the place of seniority over on the right. The 4th had been in Portugal and Spain for years now, and showed every sign of hard service. Most still wore their bicorne hats, but often so misshapen by the weather that they were barely recognisable. The sergeant on the end of the rear rank had a large chunk missing from the front of his hat, the hole ragged where it had
been. Beside him was a man in a forage cap, and next to him another with a tall hat more like an infantry shako. Perhaps it was this raggedness, perhaps the reassuring red jackets, but somehow Williams felt more akin to a regiment like this than to the light dragoons or hussars, fine fellows though they were – at least for cavalrymen.

They rode past the squadrons of the 4th Dragoons and saw a cluster of horsemen in capes, cloaks and neat cocked hats behind them. Marshal Beresford stood out for his bulk, and because it was clear that he was at the centre of things. Williams slowed his horse to a walk, and as he made his way forward saw a familiar face.

‘Ah, Williams, it is good to see you.’ Colonel D’Urban’s smile was genuinely warm, but there was no time for other pleasantries. ‘You are with Colborne, I understand.’ D’Urban was Marshal Beresford’s quartermaster general, and so the head of his staff. The colonel noticed Baynes and raised a gloved finger to the peak of his Tarleton helmet, his smile remaining warm, if a little wary. ‘Ah, something is afoot, I gather. Well, I am sure we can speak privately later. Now, Williams, what does Colonel Colborne have to say?’

‘I am in with Colborne, sir,’ Williams said, at last able to get a word in to interrupt the flow, ‘but I come now with a message from General Long.’

D’Urban’s smile faded. ‘Ah, then that is important. Come, you must report to the marshal.’

Beresford proved as formidable in appearance as Baynes had suggested, his milky white left eye looking as if it stared off at some distant object. Williams struggled to resist the urge to follow its gaze. There was also a glumness about the man, his heavy features giving a sense of despondency.

‘General Long’s compliments, sir,’ Williams began, ‘and he asks that the Heavy Brigade advance to support him. If it advances then he says that we will have trapped the French column on the highway, especially if our artillery has arrived. General Long reports that the Thirteenth and the Seventh Portuguese are gone,
and that he has only the First Regiment with him, hence his need for the heavy dragoons to complete the victory.’

Beresford stared at him, the dead eye no longer focused on the far distance, but now seeming to bore into him. He did not seem pleased by the report.

‘No, sir, it will not do.’ The marshal shook his head, as if to reinforce his conclusion. In his heavy cloak there was something immense and bear-like about the man. ‘Where is Brigadier General Long?’

‘On the far side of the road by now, about three-quarters of a mile to our front,’ Williams said, and wondered why the staff were here behind the heavies. If they moved just a little to the side then Long and his Portuguese would be clearly visible.

‘He has the First Regiment with him. How steady are they after such losses?’

‘Losses, sir?’

‘Do you not know the meaning of the word, young man?’ The marshal’s voice was gruff and getting louder.

‘The First Regiment appeared steady, sir, and our losses are trifling.’ Williams used the word before thinking. It was the way of things to speak of such matters in this manner, but a little voice inside his head murmured that it would not be so very trifling to bleeding men waiting for the surgeons, or to the families of the dead. The wound in his hip began to ache for the first time in weeks.

‘Trifling, sir, trifling!’ The marshal’s face blazed red. ‘Damn you, young man, do you call a whole regiment taken a trifling loss!’ Men stirred in the rear rank of the 4th Dragoons at the scale of the marshal’s anger and the dreadful news. ‘The Thirteenth are lost. Surrounded by French cavalry and taken. You have just told me that they are gone, have you not, sir? Yet you see this as a mere trifle. Now, out of my sight, sir!’

Williams was dismissed and for the moment stunned. As he walked his horse away to join Baynes, the marshal was issuing an order to one of his own aides, telling General Long to halt where he was. Williams could not believe it. Yet if the 13th Light
Dragoons were gone, what of the Portuguese and Hanley? Was his friend in French hands or dead?

‘I do not believe it,’ he said aloud, before realising that D’Urban was still beside Baynes. Now that he had spoken, there seemed no point in hiding his views, especially since the colonel had always struck him as a shrewd man. ‘The French were broken and the Thirteenth following in pursuit. The Portuguese went after them so they have supports. There was no sign of any reverse.’

D’Urban was sympathetic, but unconvinced. ‘We have certain word that the Thirteenth were faced with overwhelming numbers of French cavalry and forced to surrender. Such things can happen so quickly with cavalry. After such a reverse we must be cautious. If the guns come up in time then we may still achieve something.’ There was little trace of confidence, and then the colonel was called away.