Whose Business Is to Die (7 page)

‘Best if we move off a short way,’ Baynes suggested.

‘They are wrong, utterly wrong,’ Williams told him.

‘They are also far more senior than a lieutenant,’ Baynes said quietly, ‘and although a civilian, I believe it is not considered proper behaviour for a lieutenant to tell generals that they are wrong.’

‘Even if they are.’ Williams’ anger was fading a little.

‘Especially when they are.’

Clear of the 4th Dragoons, Williams fished out the cheap telescope he had bought in Lisbon and studied General Long’s Portuguese squadrons. They had formed in line, facing not the road, but to their left. He moved the glass and saw a dark line of horsemen opposite them. Once again he regretted the loss of his old glass, for he could not be sure about the numbers, although evidently these were French. Their appearance placed Long in a difficult position, for he had been moving parallel to the road. He was level with the infantry squares as they slowly made their way to safety, and the rearguard of French hussars was almost behind him.

There was sudden movement on the edge of the lens, and Williams shifted the glass, found the Portuguese squadrons, lost
them and found them again. He just glimpsed a little red speck on a dark horse ahead of the lines of dark blue as Long led them in a charge against the hundred or so Frenchmen. Smoke blossomed from the side of the square as they passed and the Portuguese line staggered, men and horses falling. It wavered, became ragged, and then broke up into many little figures as one after another the cavalry turned and sped to the rear. The red dot on the dark horse was left on its own, and then followed as French horsemen hurried towards him.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘The Portuguese cavalry are put to flight,’ he explained. Baynes had been watching with one hand shading his eyes and had probably not seen clearly.

‘Do you then fear that things are as bad as the marshal believes?’ the merchant asked, for once uncertain.

‘No. Perhaps a squadron or so of French cavalry have rallied – their hussars were not much engaged by the Thirteenth, but I do not believe there would have been enough to change the fortunes of the day. And if the heavies had advanced as requested, none of this need have happened.’

‘I doubt very much that this would be an appropriate moment to express that view to the marshal or his staff,’ Baynes said, patting Williams on the arm. He had not realised that his fingers were clenching and unclenching in frustration.

‘Oh, for Lord Wellington,’ Williams sighed.

‘Oh, indeed,’ the merchant agreed. ‘But since he is up north keeping an eye on Marshal Masséna, we must do as best we can in other hands. And “oh” again, for we appear to be moving.’

The heavy brigade walked forward for almost two hundred yards and then stopped. The French continued their stately progression along the highway.

‘At last,’ Williams said as two teams of horses came at a slow trot from behind them. There were four to each team, pulling a limber and a six-pounder cannon, the KGL gunners jogging along behind. They passed the heavy cavalry and then wheeled off to the left of the road. The artillerymen were well trained and experienced, working smoothly as a team, and Williams knew
that no one could have deployed more quickly, and yet even so he resented every second. At long last – in fact after only a couple of minutes – each gun captain raised an arm to show that his piece was loaded and laid on the target.

‘Fire!’ Captain Cleves shouted, and the guns belched flame and smoke and leaped back a good six feet. Williams was watching the French and saw one of the shot strike the stone of the road, then skip up to shatter the legs of two of the hussar horses from the rearguard squadron. The French did not stop.

‘Fire!’ The second salvo came not much more than a minute after the first, which was testament in itself to the practised skill of the German gunners. Williams did not see the strikes this time, but the hussars wheeled away to each side of the highway, leaving a dark bundle behind them.

‘Why do we not move?’ Williams said to Baynes. He realised that once again his hand was restless and he clenched it into a fist and held it shut. Marshal Beresford had come forward to watch the guns play on the French, but there was no sign that he planned to advance.

‘Fire!’ Cleves shouted again and again. The guns could see the rearmost square now that the hussars had moved. Williams saw the ranks ripple as the shot struck home and could well imagine the carnage. Yet the French did not stop and the British did not seem inclined to chase them. The British cavalry were fresher and far outnumbered the remaining French squadrons, and were heavier than the hussars, for they were bigger men on bigger horses. They could expect to drive them off with ease and leave the two squares on their own. It was a shame that there were only two guns – where the rest of Cleves’ brigade was baffled Williams – but even so they could pound the squares while the cavalry watched. When the French infantry started to waver the dragoons could charge and ride down the broken squares. It would take an hour at the most – half an hour if someone had the sense to bring forward the 2/66th and the Light Companies from his own brigade.

‘I do not understand this,’ he said, loud enough to make D’Urban turn and glare at him.

‘Nor so I, but I am a mere civilian.’ Baynes spoke softly, with only a little of his usual amusement at the folly of others. ‘However, it is clear that we have nothing to do here. I ought to stay just in case, but I do not believe that I will need you to identify any French rogue for me. Best go back to your own duties. I will make sure that the horse is sent to you.’ He chuckled. ‘Better to take the sergeant’s rather than the officer’s! You are a bright fellow, Mr Williams, but best not to linger here.’

Williams rode off, the noise of each discharge from the guns getting quieter as he cantered away. Colborne was still on the hilltop with Dunbar, the Light Companies and the 2/66th sitting or lying in formation in the valley behind. Williams suspected quite a few were asleep.

‘Where have you been, sir?’ Colonel Colborne’s manner was surprisingly brusque. Williams noticed that Dunbar was avoiding the gaze of either man. Unsure of how to respond, he hesitated. ‘Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?’

The truth was simplest, and as Williams explained what had happened he could see the colonel’s mood soften. The frustration remained, but was no longer directed at him, and by the end he was able to smile.

‘Did you get what you wanted?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Williams replied, ‘a good steady beast, I think, if not perhaps able to meet Captain Dunbar’s standards for the aesthetic.’ Dunbar was free in his distaste for Francesca’s ungainly looks.

‘Well, at least someone has achieved something today.’ Colborne spoke bitterly. ‘Fools or knaves, I cannot decide which, but the harm has been great.’

The French column was far away and the guns had gone silent. The heavy cavalry had not moved.

‘I do not understand why everyone has become convinced that the Thirteenth are taken by the French,’ Williams said, feeling his own frustration bubbling up again. Dunbar was gesturing for him to stop, and he guessed this was already a well-trodden
theme, but he could not desist. ‘There was no sign of it, none at all, and yet they are all so convinced.’

‘Fools.’ Colborne steadied himself, breathing hard for a few moments. He had a reputation for never swearing – an attribute Williams greatly admired and did his best to match, but a rare one in this army. He suspected that he had come very close to seeing the habit broken.

‘Fools,’ the colonel said more softly. ‘We saw the charge from here – the most beautiful thing I ever did see – and the French were swept from the field. An aide tried to tell me that they were surrounded, but I sent him back to assure Marshal Beresford that they were not. We saw it all as plain as day, and yet we were not believed.’

‘The marshal did not have clear sight of the action,’ Williams offered, knowing that it was a weak justification. A general in charge of an army should find the best spot from which to survey the field. Moore would have done, and so would Lord Wellington.

‘Fools or knaves.’ Colborne repeated the phrase. There was something rueful about the way he spoke the next words. ‘There was a most brilliant
coup de main
staring us in the face and we threw the chance away.

‘Well, I had better ride and see what our lords and masters want of the brigade, since they have not deigned to inform us.’ Colborne kicked angrily at the side of his horse and cantered off down the hill.

Dunbar sighed. He had removed his cloak to show the silver epaulettes and green facings of his regiment, for like the colonel he served in the 2/66th and the two men knew each other well. Williams found the captain to be a friendly man and a good soldier, and was sure that without the latter quality he would not have held this post regardless of his affability.

‘The colonel has had a trying day,’ Dunbar said. ‘He cannot abide mismanagement or lack of spirit, and unfortunately he expressed himself fully when the marshal’s aide came to us. Sadly, General Stewart was with us and he took the criticism as a
personal insult – though I have no doubt that none of it was directed at him.’ Major General Stewart had commanded the brigade until he was moved up to have charge of the entire Second Division. He was a slim terrier of a man, well liked and well respected.

‘Stewart demanded a retraction. The colonel would only say that a brilliant opportunity had been squandered. The general looked at him coldly and said, “Well, then, in future, Colonel Colborne, I shall only address you in the most official manner.” Just like that, and then he galloped off. It is sad for they have always been good friends. I have heard the colonel say more than once that General Stewart is the bravest man he has ever known. So sad.’ Dunbar shook his head.

The French were now a dark smear on the landscape, almost at the horizon. No one was following them, and the heavy dragoons had dismounted to rest their horses. Williams wondered where Hanley was, and where the cavalry had gone.

‘We are such a happy army,’ Dunbar said, half to himself.

5

T
he horses pounded over the earth. The grass was wet, but the soil had been so dry that now they were on the plain it had simply sucked up the rain and was still as hard as rock. Hanley felt his horse excited by the sheer joy of running with so many others, a herd rushing it did not matter where so long as they were running.

At the start the Portuguese cavalry had kept to formation, moving no faster than a trot. Then they saw a dozen dragoons forming up – they must have fled off to the side and avoided the onslaught of the 13th Light Dragoons.

Swords scraped on scabbards as they were drawn and without orders the leading squadron charged, the others following. They did not cheer, but shrieked like excited children. Hanley gripped his own sword tighter and drove his horse forward, its longer legs stretching out and soon passing the smaller animals ridden by the cavalry. His mouth was open and he was whooping with delight.

The French ran. Before the deluge of blue-coated cavalry and the redcoated officer at their head reached them their horses went about and they fled. Hanley saw their backs and realised that he was yelling with delight as he gave chase. The French scattered, but their horses were already weary and a couple of them tried to flee straight back. Hanley closed with one, a trumpeter in an orange coat laced with green. He looked to be barely eighteen, fresh faced and terrified as he turned and stared back at his pursuers.

Hanley grinned and urged his horse on, reaching back to slap the flat of his blade against it to make it run faster. He was closing
quickly, saw another hurried look of terror from his target, who reined in, and then he was passing so fast that he simply slashed backwards and knocked the wind from the trumpeter and the trumpeter from the saddle. The man looked shocked as he lay on his back with his booted legs in the air. Hanley had meant to use the edge, but had forgotten to tighten his grip. He looked back and saw the trumpeter push himself up only to be hacked on the shoulder by a passing cavalryman and flung down again.

They rode on. Hanley looked and saw that the two hussars were still with him, the corporal looking a little bemused. All three of them slowed their mounts, for they were running away from the smaller and poorly conditioned cavalry horses. They went at a comfortable easy canter, which matched the little Portuguese horses’ gallop. A few more French stragglers were caught and cut down, others lay on the grass, and after a couple of miles they saw the 13th Light Dragoons, still haring across the plain and spread out as they hunted the enemy down.

Hanley found it all intoxicating, but as the time passed he began to think for the first time since they had set off. He had wanted to kill the trumpeter, and thought the man’s desperate fear amusing as he had run him down. The urge to kill again, so soon after he had killed for the first time, was disturbing. Hanley thought himself a peaceable man. He loved Spain and the Spanish people, admired the Portuguese, although with a lesser acquaintance, and he had found the closest friendships of his life with men like Pringle, Truscott and Williams. For all those reasons he devoted his energy and passion to driving the French back across the Pyrenees. His war was fought away from the battlefield, using stealth and deception to outwit the enemy.

Hanley knew that his successes often meant that the enemy were brought to the field at a disadvantage. Men died when they were beaten, perhaps more of them than if he had done nothing, but it was all at a distance. In his service with the 106th he had never taken a man’s life, and as far as he knew the same was true of Pringle, if not of Williams. The Welshman killed with a chilling fluency. Now he had run a man through and was puzzled
because he felt no revulsion. It was almost as if there was now more honesty in what he did – not with the world, but with himself. Still, he wished one of the others were here and there was time to talk. Williams would have been hard to draw forth, Pringle would have joked, and Truscott looked to philosophy, so he was not sure how much they would have helped. Since he was being honest in his thoughts, perhaps it was better to say that he wanted them here to listen.