An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  Paul studied his chief. "You think they're going to run."

  "Yes," Wellington said briefly. "Eventually. They might well make for the fords at Hueta, it depends on where they break first, but if they go through Alba de Tormes, I want you there to steady the Spanish. They're brave enough but they don't have the experience. I've orders here, giving you operational command."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get moving, Colonel, it will take you a couple of hours to get into position."

  "Possibly less, sir, given that we're well rested. Good luck."

  Even allowing for the fact that Paul was moving away from the action. it felt good to be on the move with a purpose. He led the eighteen hundred men of his brigade at a fast march towards the river Tormes , skirting widely around the French troops through the woods. Paul kept his men on the alert in case Foy's remaining men became aware of their movement, but it was clear that the General's attention was fixed on the battlefield.

  Paul's men were fresh and ready to fight and Paul pushed them hard wanting them in position well before any retreat began. As Wellington had said, the French might well make for the fords but if they did head for the bridge at Alba de Tormes, it would be a good position to hold them off.

  It was summer and despite yesterday's heavy rain the ford was low, reaching barely to their ankles as they splashed through. With the distance covered, Paul gave orders for the men to drink and fill water bottles and Jenson and the other orderlies and grooms watered the horses. Paul wandered among his men, stopping to talk here and there, and noticed that his NCOs were using the opportunity to check that all the men had their bottles. There was a thriving market in the sale of equipment, usually to fund drinking or women, and penalties were severe for a man caught without some vital article when it was needed. Paul was lenient in matters of uniform. Over their years of service, the men had acquired a variety of garments from the French or the locals to replace items grown threadbare or fallen apart and as long as they retained their recognisable coat he did not care what they wore. But items such as blankets for the freezing nights, kettles and pans to cook food and water bottles to get them through a fast march in scorching weather were essential to the health of his men and the functioning of his brigade, and retribution for a man caught without them was swift and merciless. Looking over at the light company of the 110th Paul watched the men for a while, unobserved.

  "Private Garrett," he called finally. "Where's your bottle?"

  The boy looked up, wide eyed. "Sir. I...it's here somewhere, sir, it must be. I had it earlier, I swear."

  Sergeant Hammond came forward. "Earlier is no use to me, lad. Not much I can do about it now, but I'm writing you up and when we're back in billets we'll find you a nice little job to remind you about taking care of your equipment. And the replacement comes out of your pay."

  "Good idea, Sergeant," Paul said walking forward. "But make it a short punishment, will you, he's only guilty of losing it for about eight minutes and he won't need to pay for it. Private Dobson, stop fiddling with yourself you're taking the longest piss in history over there, get your arse over here before I come after you myself."

  Dobson, a thin sharp featured Cheshire man who had been with the 110th since just after Talavera, turned. The expression of horror on his face was ludicrous. He pulled his clothing straight and jogged over, saluting smartly.

  "Give it back you thieving bastard," Paul said softly.

  "Sir?"

  "Are you seriously asking me to repeat myself?"

  Dobson dipped a hand into his pack and retrieved the bottle. He handed it to the startled Garrett. "I was going to give it back before inspection was over," he said, sounding faintly apologetic. "Lost mine on the march."

  Hammond reached out and cuffed the man hard around the head. "No you bloody didn't, Dobson, you lying toerag, you sold it to fund that plump little widow you were parading around with in Rueda. I've been wondering where your funds were coming from, you're not that rich and she didn't look cheap. Get over there, open your pack and let's see what else is missing and when we get to camp you are digging the shitholes single handed until they're nice and deep. Get moving."

  Paul laughed, watching the hapless Dobson spreading the contents of his pack for Hammond's ruthless eye. "Go and fill it, Garrett, and keep an eye on your kit in future. They might be your mates but they're still a bunch of thieving sods and you're new and young and they'll bleed you dry unless you watch them. If he does it again, punch him hard and he'll move on to somebody else. And if you need a lesson in how to do that properly I'll teach you."

  The boy looked up at him. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "You're very welcome." Paul raised his voice. "Sergeant-Major Carter, another fifteen minutes and I want them lined up and on the road. Let's get up to the town and into position and then if you're lucky you can all get a rest for a bit. Although the speed that battle was moving, it might not be as long as you'd think."

  The small town of Alba de Tormes was located on the eastern bank of the river on the far side of a medieval bridge. It was a prosperous looking town with the usual collection of white and ochre coloured houses with tiled roofs and wrought iron balconies, the windows protected from sun and rain by weathered or painted wooden shutters. There was a collection of impressive churches and the surrounding area was dotted with fields and vineyards. In these lands, occupied by the French for some years, agriculture had managed to continue, although Paul found himself wondering how profitable it had been, given the French troops practice of pillaging the locals without payment. Lord Wellington was ruthless in his condemnation of looting and theft and Paul knew that in part, that was due to his need to differentiate his army of liberation from the French invaders. It explained his fury at the depredations after the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo at the beginning of the year and the complete breakdown of discipline, law and order in Badajoz after the bloody storming in May.

  Alba de Tormes had been the scene of a disastrous defeat for the Spanish three years earlier and Paul could remember Wellington's anger at the news. The Anglo-Portuguese army was still recovering from the exhausting retreat after Talavera and Wellington had fumed at the apparent determination of the Spanish to give pitched battle when they had no possible hope of winning. The town did not seem to have suffered much from the aftermath of the combat; either that or it had made a good recovery.

  The third brigade marched into a shuttered and barricaded town which told Paul that the inhabitants were well aware of the battle raging a few miles away. Whichever army was victorious there was always the risk of a breakdown in discipline and Paul had not expected a cheering crowd to greet him in the warmth of early evening, although he had rather expected to encounter Spanish pickets. He supposed that knowing the direction a French retreat must come, the Spanish commander had set all sentries down at the bridge. Having just demonstrated effectively how easily a force from either side could use one of the lesser known fords to enter the town away from the bridge, Paul thought the Spanish had been fortunate they were not about to be hit from behind by a brigade of French infantry.

  Paul halted his brigade on the edge of the town and went to consult with his guide. His men waited at ease but not breaking ranks as he studied the sketch map and talked quietly in Spanish. Collado pointed out the main road down to the bridge, not visible from this point as it was hidden by the buildings of the town and a thick belt of trees further on.

  "Which is the road to Madrid?"

  "This way, Colonel. They will come up from the bridge and pass through the town, then up this way."

  Paul looked around him. "Is that why there's not a living soul in sight, Collado?"

  "They will know of the battle, Colonel. They can hear it."

  "Yes." Paul was aware of an approaching figure and looked around to find a stocky Spaniard in dark clothing and an impressive hat approaching, flanked by several other men.

  "English?" the man said. "You are English?"

  Paul's l
ips twitched slightly and he dismounted, handing the reins to Jenson, and came forward. "As you see, sir," he said, indicating the ranks of red coated infantrymen.

  The man looked relieved to hear his easy Spanish. "They are still fighting?"

  "I think so. Colonel Paul van Daan of the 110th, I command the third brigade of the light division. Lord Wellington has sent us up to guard against a French retreat through here."

  "You think they will retreat?"

  "Fairly sure of it, sir. Are you...?"

  "Forgive me. I am Luis Bamonte, Mayor of this town. All day we have waited. We fear for our town and our people."

  "I understand. Don't look so worried, Señor Bamonte, we don't require a big welcome. You're doing the right thing. Keep your people within doors for a while longer and I think they'll be safe. Certainly they're safe from us."

  "Thank you, Colonel."

  Paul mounted and lifted his hand to bring his brigade after him. Behind him, riding at the head of the 110th light company, Captain Leo Manson glanced over at his lieutenant.

  "Get the feeling we're being watched, Mr Denny?"

  "Yes, sir. A fair few twitching drapes. Not so many flowers or kisses here, mind."

  "No. They'll be waiting to see if we win."

  Denny laughed aloud. "Cynical, sir. The colonel seems confident."

  "Lord Wellington seemed confident. I trust their judgement. I'm not sure we'll see action at all out of this one. I think 2000 Spaniards at the bridge will hold them off long enough for Lord Wellington to catch up with them. We might pick up some stragglers. It will make a change to have a nice convincing victory."

  "We won at Ciudad Rodrigo, sir. And at Badajoz."

  "I suppose we did," Manson said. "I spent too much time digging bodies out of the breaches and trying to identify men I liked with their heads blown off to really appreciate it, I think. Earlier I was disappointed we'd been left in reserve, but you know what? I think I'm happy to sit this one out, we've done our share."

  "More than our bloody share."

  Manson watched his commander rein in at the end of the street. The bridge was still out of sight and the road led through an open square lined with shady trees. A fountain with a white statue stood in the centre although no water was playing, probably because the source was too dry in the summer heat. It looked peaceful and cool and so far removed from the bloody field they had recently left, that Manson felt a sense of unreality. Paul lifted his hand. The brigade stopped to a man before their officers even had time to pass back the order and Manson wanted to laugh aloud. He had occasionally suspected Paul of teaching his brigade these tricks simply to irritate other officers who did not have his level of discipline over their men but he knew he was probably being unjust. He saw his commander look back over his shoulder and beckon to Manson and Michael O'Reilly to join him.

  "We'll wait here and in a minute I'll go in search of the Spanish; there's not a bloody sign of the dopey bastards, it's a good thing we're not the French. There will be a garrison up at the castle, that's probably where their commanding officer is. Keep them alert and to arms in case they have to move quickly and make sure nobody wanders off to shoot their supper, but they can relax for a bit now, I think. No fires, it's warm, they've no need of them and I don't want them distracted by cooking or making tea, but if they've rations left they can eat. At ease – but cautiously."

  "Yes, sir."

  With his company settled under the watchful eyes of his junior officers and NCOs, Manson went up to join his commander's party who had seated themselves under a spreading oak tree. Michael had produced a bottle of brandy and was passing it around. Manson accepted a swig, impressed as always with the quality of the liquor that the Irishman managed to purloin from somewhere. As he had expected, Paul smiled and shook his head and the bottle was passed on.

  "Jesus, sir, you're a miserable bastard, so you are," Michael said. "One of these days you'll forget yourself and take a drink before a fight, it's a mouthful, no more, and you've said yourself we'll probably see no action, it's getting dark."

  "I do better without it, Michael."

  The Irishman laughed and waved his hand to where the men waited, sprawled over the square and into the lanes, relaxed and talking. Pipe smoke floated up from their ranks, hanging in the cooling evening air. "Don't tell me they don't have their flasks and the odd bottle out over there, sir."

  "You think so, Michael? Perhaps I'd better go and check – shall I start with your company?"

  Michael did not move. "Go right ahead, sir, they'll offer you a drink. None of them will be drunk."

  Paul gave a broad smile. "Good," he said. "I'm not that bad, Michael, I know I won't be leading any drunken men into a fight today – at least from the 110th or 112th. I just feel better myself if I don't. Offer it to me back in camp tomorrow and I'll finish it with you."

  "Lord love you, sir, there'll be nothing of it left by then the way this lot are going," the Irishman said, laughing. "I'd offer you a cigarillo but I know you don't."

  "I'm well enough as I am. In fact, I'm so relaxed I'm going to doze off if I don't do something. Johnny, take over here, I'm going in search of the Spanish up at the castle."

  "Would you call it a castle?" Carl said.

  "Tower, then. It was a castle once."

  "You won't see much over the buildings."

  "I will from the tower; I might even be able to see the battlefield. Certainly I'll be able to see if there's much movement this way. And I want to know, it'll be dark soon. No don't move, Leo, you look comfortable, I'll be back in ten minutes and you can come down to the bridge with me."

  Paul turned and ran his eye over his troops. Manson moved to join him. Among the lounging form of the redcoats he could see a few townspeople who had cautiously emerged from their houses. Some of them had brought food which they were offering to the soldiers. A lot of them were women and some were young and very pretty. Major Swanson came to join them.

  "Doesn't take them long, does it?"

  "No. And you can pretty much guarantee that the prettiest of them is likely to be found hanging around Sergeant Hammond," Paul said, watching.

  "I think our Jamie has a rival," Carl said. "Look at the girl with the fruit basket over with Captain Kuhn."

  "Well they deserve a break and a harmless flirtation. All the same, can you send the word around with the NCOs that nobody is to be disappearing off into the town with a pretty Spanish girl or I will personally find them and castrate them. This might feel like an afternoon off, but officially we're still halfway through a bloody battle."

  "You think they'll run this way?" Manson asked.

  "Some of them definitely will but I doubt we'll have much to do. They won't stand for long, they'll be a mess. We might need to take out the first few ranks but if they surrender, we accept. These boys will have had enough."

  He moved to where the horses were grazing and Manson settled back. Michael passed the bottle again.

  "Jesus, he's a fidgety bastard. The only time he ever relaxes is when his wife is with him."

  "I'm not sure it's relaxing he's doing then," Major Swanson said with a grin. He had spoken to Sergeant-Major Carter with Paul's orders and returned to the group. "But she does calm him down."

  "And there's a man who can talk," Michael said. "You've got almost as bad with that girl of yours, Major Swanson, do you know that half the new recruits think she's your wife?"

  "Good, if it means they behave themselves around her. I must say your manners have improved, Michael."

  "I've learned my lesson, sir, you're awful touchy when it comes to that lass, I'm becoming suspicious. Should I be asking you your intentions?"

  "You're not her bloody father, Michael, you should be minding your own business. Anyway, my love life is so predictable these days that you must be bored with it. Let us instead ask Captain Manson for more information about the lady who writes to him every fortnight and sends him boxes of very expensive wine for his birthday."


  Manson felt himself flush although he was laughing. "I bloody knew this was coming," he said.

  "You ought to have, lad. Surprised it's not happened before, can't believe the colonel has been this restrained about it. But he's buggered off now with itchy feet so we have you at our mercy. Tell us all about that very delicious girl who threw you an apple as we left Elvas a few months back."

  "As you said, it's nobody else's business, sir," Manson said, laughing.

  "It bloody is, if you ever want time off to see her again," Carl said with a grin. "I can't tell you the number of imaginative duties I can come up with in the course of a week. Early drill, late drill, skirmish training, messages to be taken..."

  They were laughing uproariously and Manson held up his hands. "I hate you all," he said. "All right. She is, as you are well aware, a very pretty prostitute who runs a tavern with half a dozen girls working out of it. She is very young and very lovely and not at all what one would expect. We're friends."

  "Friends, is it now?" Michael hooted loudly. "That's definitely a new word for it. Is she charging you for it, Manson? And does she offer special rates for your friends?"

  Manson felt himself flinch internally and weathered it as best he could. His relationship with Diana Periera was impossible, given what she did, and yet they had both agreed that it not only existed but that they wished it to continue to exist. Given that he had not the money to ask her to give up her means of support and that they did not know each other well enough for that anyway, he had made himself accept it, but hearing his friends laughing about it was as painful as he had thought it would be.

  "You're not her type, Michael," he said, forcing a laugh, and as he did so, Colonel Wheeler picked up an old acorn and threw it hard and accurately so that it hit the Irishman between the eyes. Michael swore.

  "That hurt."

  "Good, you asked for it. Stop being an arsehole, Michael, or I'll throw something bigger next time. What's her name, Leo, she's very pretty?"