by Lynn Bryant
Simon Carlyon did not speak. He could feel his stomach churning. He had heard the basics of the story but it was never spoken of at home, and his friends in the regiment knew better than to mention it around him. He drank the wine and they sat in silence for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry, lad. It's not pretty."
"I know. Look, sir, you've been really good about this, more so than I expected."
"There is a 'but' in there, isn't there, Mr Carlyon?"
Carlyon shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know what I feel. When I applied for this promotion, I knew, realistically, that I might meet you - and her. But I didn't expect to be serving under you. Besides..."
"Go on."
Carlyon looked up and met the blue eyes steadily. "Is he still here?" he asked. "The man who killed my brother?"
Colonel van Daan was silent for a long time, giving Carlyon the answer he needed. Finally he said:
"Yes. I could lie to you, but once it becomes known who you are - and it will - some arsehole will tell you."
"I already know his name, sir, it isn't something you forget that easily. Captain Wheeler."
"Actually it's Colonel Wheeler these days. He commands the 112th and is my second-in-command."
Carlyon felt a flood of pure rage. He set down his glass. "Then I think I had better apply for a transfer, sir. Because I don't feel able to salute the man who shot my brother dead."
There was a painful silence. It was broken by a sound at the tent flap. Colonel van Daan looked around and then got to his feet. "I thought you'd be longer," he said quietly, and Carlyon did not need to guess who was there. The expression on his formidable colonel's face had warmed and softened. Carlyon rose and turned and a girl came into the tent.
"Am I de trop? I can go away and come back later...oh dear God!"
Simon Carlyon studied his former sister-in-law. He had not seen her since they were both in their early teens and he had sometimes wondered if his memory had exaggerated her beauty, but it had not. She was tall and slender with shining dark hair which she wore in an unusual style, low on her neck, and almond shaped dark eyes which looked almost black. The perfection of her features was as he had remembered it, made lovelier as she had grown into young womanhood, and her figure was enhanced by the cut of the wine coloured riding habit. She was a woman male eyes must follow everywhere and for two years she had belonged to his brother Robert who had, if Colonel van Daan's simple story were true, used her brutally. Looking at her, Carlyon wondered how any man could want to hurt a girl as young and lovely as this one.
"Mrs van Daan. I'm sorry..."
The girl came fully into the tent dropping the flap. There was an upheaval behind her and Carlyon stared at the sound. Anne sighed. "Do you like dogs?"
"Dogs?" Carlyon said, disoriented. "Yes. But..."
"Good." Anne van Daan lifted the flap "Come in, Craufurd. Don't jump on the colonel, he's not changed yet."
A huge dog of indeterminate parentage erupted into the room and went straight to Colonel van Daan, shoving its large head into his hand. Paul van Daan bent to ruffle the shaggy ears.
"Good evening, Craufurd. Don't hesitate to cover my uniform in dog hairs, will you, Jenson has nothing better to do than brush it? Bed. Now."
The dog padded to a blanket on the floor and settled down comfortably and Carlyon turned his gaze back to Anne. She was studying him.
"Simon Carlyon. I didn't even know you were in the army, let alone in the 115th. I don't know whether to shake your hand or embrace you. Seeing you takes me right back to those dreadful dancing lessons with the Battersleys' Italian dancing master."
"Oh – I'd forgotten that." The memory brought laughter, the last thing Carlyon had expected from this meeting. "Didn't he...?"
"Yes, he seduced Frances Dearburn, who cannot have been more than sixteen and ran away with her. Shocking man. I must have been about thirteen when he tried to kiss me in the schoolroom. Dancing with him was a constant battle, his hands were everywhere."
"I am trying to imagine you at thirteen, girl of my heart, and I have more sympathy with the Italian dancing master than is at all suitable," the colonel said, sounding amused. "Why did he run off with Miss Dearburn and not you?"
"Possibly the slap around the face put him off me a little, but I rather suspect he disliked me in the end when I began to question his knowledge of Italian. I had learned a little from my music master, you know. I've always wondered where he was really from."
"There are more Italians in your girlhood than I'm comfortable with. Did you murder the farrier?"
"No, but I supervised him redoing the shoe very carefully. He's competent enough, just lazy. Sit down, Simon. I'm rather guessing this is not a social visit; the uniform gives it away. Are you posted here?"
Carlyon nodded. "I've been with the second battalion in India, got the chance of promotion. Second company. I didn't realise until I got to Lisbon...I am sorry, ma'am."
"Oh for what, don't be silly," the girl said warmly. "As if anything that happened between your brother and I, three or four years ago has anything to do with you. It is good to see you. I had a dreadful tendre for you that summer."
Her husband gave a splutter of laughter. "No, I am not listening to this. I have no objection to you serving under me on principle, Carlyon, but if she is going to spend her entire time reliving her girlish devotion..."
"Ignore him," Anne said calmly. "How are your parents, Simon?"
"They're well, thank you," Carlyon said. "I'll be honest with you, ma'am, I wasn't expecting you to be so welcoming."
"Well I wasn't expecting you at all, so we're both surprised here. Simon – this can't be easy for you. I think it's incredibly brave that you've stayed in the army at all, let alone come here. It must have been a shock finding out who you were serving under."
Carlyon nodded, his eyes on her face. "I didn't know what to think," he said. "Honestly, I'd have been excited – getting the chance to serve in the light division."
Anne studied him with sympathetic eyes. "Do you not think you can?" she asked.
"I don't know, ma'am. I've not had a chance to think. In the short term, I'll do my duty, it's what I signed up to do. In the long term...I don't know."
Anne van Daan moved forward. "I do understand," she said. "So does the colonel. I'm sorry this is such a rush; these things never happen in winter quarters when we've time. Simon, just think about it. Please don't rush into making a decision. I'm going to call Jenson to show you where your tent is pitched. Unpack, come to supper and give yourself time to think. Don't write us off without giving us a chance. Will you promise me that?"
Carlyon took the hand she offered him and raised it to his lips. He was aware that at that moment, he would have promised Anne the world and he suspected it was a common reaction. "Yes, ma'am," he said.
His former sister-in-law laughed. "That is so formal," she said. "If you decide to stay - and I hope you will - you're my brother, and we were always good friends. My name is Nan, I hope you'll feel comfortable enough to use it soon."
Carlyon could think of nothing to say. He saluted and turned to leave. The colonel got up. "And meanwhile," he said in grim tones, "I am off to visit the fourth company of the 110th light infantry and hopefully, to put them off wine for life."
Chapter Three
Rueda was an attractive little town on the left bank of the Duero. In terms of population it was little more than a large village, but it had a fine selection of buildings, including several churches, a collection of large houses, a convent, a monastery and a huge abandoned building which Paul thought might have some kind of seminary. The poorer houses in the town huddled together in narrow streets and alleyways, a tangle of red tiled roofs, whitewashed walls and small plots and gardens growing fruit trees and a few vegetables.
Beyond the village was a landscape of rolling hills with corn fields and vineyards, dotted with farm buildings. The countryside was in fairly good condition and Paul supposed
that the French occupation had been in place for several years here. However the inhabitants of the Duero valley felt about the invasion, they had been free, at least, from the devastation of constant war, with armies marching over the landscape, looting and burning and leaving towns and villages in ruins.
The wine cellars and caves of the Valladolid region were cut into the hillsides, stretching in places for miles underground. Some of them were centuries old, and Paul had been taken on a tour of some of them several days earlier by a local winegrower, with Anne and some of his other officers. The Spaniard had been hospitable and generous with a gift of wine and Paul had promised to do his best to curb the depredations of his troops, which he knew was the point of the gesture.
Paul had called together his officers and given his instructions and sent them out to give the same speech to the men of his brigade. He had known that it would be impossible to stop all looting with the troops spread out in a string of camps. The rest of the light division was quartered in the town of Rueda itself and Paul knew that the officers of the first and second brigades were delighted with their accommodation. His friends in the other brigades had been equally delighted that the third brigade was housed in tents. Paul's brigade had a long-standing reputation for grabbing the best billets wherever they stopped and Andrew Barnard who was currently in command of the first brigade had been gleeful.
"What happened, Paul, did your quarter-master fall asleep?" he had asked, watching Paul's men setting up camp. "It gets very cold out here at night, you know."
"Thank you very much for your concern, Colonel Barnard, I shall remember it in winter quarters when you show up wanting a dinner invitation because your billet is damp and your cook's caught the ague," Paul retorted with a grin. "Anyway, aren't your lot expected to turn out every night in case of an attack?"
"We're on the alert, certainly, but I think we'll still sleep better than you will. My officers are overjoyed; they've commandeered the old college building, it has a dining hall the size of a ballroom. Your officers are cordially invited to join us for a dance this evening, by the way. And probably every other evening while we're here. Kincaid and a few others are touring the area begging the company of every presentable female who can trip a measure."
"Probably a few less presentable ones as well, knowing that lot. I'll pass the word around and when they're not on picket duty they can join in the party. How are your fever patients getting along?"
Barnard pulled a face. "Still a good few down with it; it's why they've let us stay in the town, I think. They're hoping warm, dry billets will help them get over it quicker."
"I wondered if that was it, Hookey isn't usually that generous. Where's he staying?"
"Big house at the far end, they're just moving him in now. Somehow I doubt we'll see him at the evening hop, dancing with a farmer's daughter."
"You might, if I bring my wife down, Andrew."
Barnard laughed aloud. "Bring her. Wellington might not be there, but I'd love to dance with her."
"I will. In the meantime, I suspect we'll all have a full time job keeping these drunken bastards out of the wine cellars."
Barnard had grinned at him. "Good wine, though."
Paul had not told Barnard that it had been his choice to camp rather than to find billets in the overcrowded town. His brigade was well equipped and he hoped to avoid the illness which had laid low too many of the other two brigades by staying away from them. He also knew that it would be easier to keep an eye on the men if they were all camped together rather than split up throughout the town and neighbouring farms. It had seemed to be working until the fourth company had been sent out on picket duty.
Paul collected his horse and his orderly and rode out towards the river. The sun was beginning to sink, giving the cooling landscape a bluish tinge, with orange and gold streaking the sky and reflecting off the sluggish waters of the river, visible through shrubs and stunted trees. The pickets of the 112th could be seen on the low hill, silhouetted against the skyline and across the river the cooking fires of the French were already lit, a smell of food wafting across the water and making Paul hungry.
It was less than a mile to the first of the wine caves, its entrance guarded by a wooden farmhouse and a small yard. The caves were centuries old and had been dug out of the sides of the hills, enormous chambers underground, hewn from the rock. One chamber led into another, some appearing to go on for miles, and they were lined with huge barrels and pipes of wine. It was in one of these, that Rifleman Taylor had breathed his last two days earlier, drowned in one of the large open casks having presumably fallen in while inebriated. Taylor had been a notorious drunkard who must have found the ready supply of wine irresistible but Paul knew that very few of the men would be immune to temptation.
Paul found a small group of officers on the hillside by the cave entrance. Captain Barry came forward, saluting, as Paul dismounted and handed the reins of Rufus, his big roan gelding, to Jenson.
"Sir. Sorry about this. I didn't want to trouble you..."
"You mean you didn't want the bollocking you thought I'd give you, Captain Barry," Paul said grimly. "What the hell happened?"
Barry shook his head, looking depressed. "No idea, sir. It's our second stint on duty, last night went fine, tonight they went off to relieve the day sentries. Mr Hart rode up about an hour and a half ago to make sure they were all where they should be and couldn't find any of them. He searched, found them in here, and sent a message back to me."
Paul surveyed his junior thoughtfully. Nick Barry had joined the 110th as an ensign when Paul had first arrived in Portugal. From an army family, he was intelligent and conscientious and Paul was fairly sure that he was guilty of nothing more than bad luck.
"Well, short of sitting on top of them constantly, I'm not sure what else you could have done, lad," he admitted. "Even I, with my highly suspicious mind, wouldn't have expected an entire company to suddenly decide that picket duty was overrated and go on a spree instead. What happened to the previous pickets - were they ours?"
"No, sir the 95th. They're in there with them."
"Jesus Christ, are you telling me that this section of the line has been unguarded for twelve hours? Thank God the French are so dopey, they could have cut through the line and slaughtered us. Jenson, are the 112th in position?"
"Yes, sir. Major Clevedon has given the order that all pickets are to be accompanied by an officer at all times."
"We'll make that general from now on. Which is going to interfere with the officers' social lives in town, but that can't be helped. Jenson, ride back to camp. My compliments to Captain Manson, will you get him to bring the rest of the light company out here. And get Sergeant-Major Carter if he's there."
"Yes, sir."
"While we're waiting for them, let's get them lined up, Captain - at least, those who can stand."
"Yes, sir. What about the riflemen?"
"Those too. Will you send one of your ensigns over to speak to Colonel Barnard - I think they're his."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him he can collect them from our camp when he's ready," Paul said. "By the time he does, I rather imagine they'll have sobered up a fair bit. Get moving, Captain."
***
With his tent up and his bags unpacked, Nicholas Witham went in search of his friend and found Carlyon in his own tent, looking around in slight bewilderment.
"Organised, isn't it?" Witham said with a grin. "I feel a bit superfluous, to be honest. Have you met Captain Lewis, yet?"
"Yes, he just stopped by," Carlyon said. "Gave me the welcome speech and said he'd introduce us to the men in the morning. It's all very leisurely."
Witham shook his head. "It's an illusion," he said positively. "They didn't get this way by studying their manners; this is the result of a lot of hard work on somebody's part. Are you going up to supper with the 110th? I wondered..."
"Yes, we're invited, it'd be rude not to," Carlyon said quickly. He seemed to interpret With
am's look of enquiry and shook his head. "I don't know, Nick. I can't get my head straight yet. One day at a time. Come on, let's walk up."
There was a good deal of activity in the lines of the 110th as Witham and Carlyon arrived. A sentry made a token challenge, having seen them earlier, and Carlyon led the way towards the colonel's tent. Cooking fires were being tended by the camp women and those on mess duty, but Witham's attention was drawn to the path down to the river, where a large number of men seemed to have congregated. Curiously, they followed the crowd and joined a group of officers.
"What's going on?" Carlyon asked.
One of the men turned and surveyed him with interest. "New?" he asked.
Witham nodded. "Witham and Carlyon, 115th second company," he said. "Just arrived."
"Welcome to Spain," the officer said. "Lieutenant Crispin, 110th fifth company. This is Lieutenant Steele who serves with me. As to the excitement, I'm not sure, but I've been told that the entire fourth company has just been found drunk in a wine cellar and dumped into the Duero by our esteemed commander, who has lost his sense of humour. I can't believe..."
"David, look," Steele interrupted. Witham followed his pointing finger. A mule cart was approaching, driven by a dark haired sergeant and it appeared to be piled high with a collection of clothing and kit, including muskets, coats, shoes and a miscellany of other garments. The sergeant was grinning and as he drove it past, somebody raised a cheer. Others followed and the sergeant laughed and waved.
"What on earth is happening?" Carlyon said.
"I'm not sure," Steele said. "But I suspect the fourth company have just been ordered into the river to sober up. It must be freezing at this time of day."