An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  Manson met the steady grey eyes with gratitude. "Thank you, sir. Her name is Diana Periera, her father was English, mother Portuguese and she's twenty. She was left a fifteen year old orphan in Oporto when the French first invaded which is how she ended up doing what she does, by the way, Michael."

  Michael lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. "Shoot me now," he said. "I am sorry, lad. Sometimes my mouth opens and shit comes out without my brain getting in the way at all."

  "It's all right," Manson said, and then he laughed and shook his head, suddenly remembering that these were his friends. "No. It is so far from being all right, that I can't even begin to describe it. But this is the way it is, so it has to be all right. And I have to learn to put up with it."

  Michael sat up. "Not from me, you don't. Do I take it, given his restraint on the subject, that our colonel knows all about her?"

  "About as much as you do. He noticed the letters. It's nice, having somebody to write to."

  Michael gave a wry smile. "Aye, it would be," he said. "Well you're doing better than I am, laddie, so keep at it. If we go back to Elvas at some point perhaps you'll introduce us. I promise to behave."

  "I will. You'll get the shock of your life, Michael. I did. She's not what you'd expect."

  Wheeler laughed, reached over and removed the brandy from Michael's hand. "Well you're all doing better than I am, my love life is a shipwreck," he said. "So I intend to ignore my commander's good example and help you finish this. I doubt we'll need to worry about the French tonight."

  Paul could hear their distant laughter as he rode back up the street towards the castle and it made him smile. He was restless, wishing that he knew for sure what was going on out on the battlefield. It was less than ten miles away and he could no longer hear the crash of guns but he was not sure if that was because they were no longer firing or because the still evening air and the river between them was muffling the sound. The light was beginning to fade, and other than the few people supplying the soldiers, the streets were deserted.

  At the top of the hill Paul turned and looked back. He could see some of the river but the bridge was not visible. The River Tormes ran north from here into the wide plains of Leon over flat open farming land with the town nestled on this eastern bank. There was no good defensive position other than the river itself for miles around and any exhausted French stragglers who had survived the battle were likely to be easy prey for the men of the third brigade and Espana's two thousand Spanish troops.

  The castle at Alba de Tormes was towards the top of the small town which sloped down towards the river and was largely in ruins although it must once have been a spectacular building, dominating the surrounding area. Only one complete tower remained, along with a selection of ruined buildings and outer walls, reminders of its former glory. Paul knew nothing of the dukes who had once ruled the area, but his eye automatically assessed the defences as he approached. He imagined that in times of war the whole town would have taken refuge within these enormous walls, now broken and fallen down in places.

  There was an iron ring set into one of the outer walls and Paul dismounted, looping the reins around it. He patted Rufus' neck soothingly and went through a crumbling archway towards the tower. It rose ahead of him, formidable against the darkening sky. A huge oak door provided access and a series of broken walls around it showed were other buildings, once part of the castle, had crumbled away. Paul stopped and looked around him in some bewilderment. There was no sign of a sentry and Paul suddenly felt a frisson of alarm. He walked forward to the door, taking out his pistol and ensuring it was loaded and ready.

  The door was locked and Paul banged hard. There was no response and he could hear no sound from inside. He tried again, then studied the rusted metal fastening. Drawing his pistol he stood well back, considering. Before he could do more, however, there was a shout from above.

  Paul stood back and looked up. A man was looking down from one of the small windows part way up the thick stone wall. He was middle aged with wispy grey hair and a bony face. Paul lifted his hand.

  "I'm looking for the Spanish commander," he called, in Spanish. "Are they here, there are no sentries set? Colonel Paul van Daan, 110th light infantry, I..."

  "English?"

  "Yes. Who is in command here?"

  The man gave a wheezy laugh. "Me," he said. "Just me. Hold."

  Paul waited impatiently and eventually the huge door creaked open. The man stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of several candles within. There was no other sign of life.

  "Alberto de Gea, Colonel. Caretaker for the castle. I..."

  "The Spanish," Paul said, without preamble. "There were two thousand Spanish troops here to guard the retreat a few days ago; where the bloody hell are they, there's not a sentry in sight?"

  De Gea shrugged his skinny shoulders expressively. "Gone," he said. "Two, perhaps three days ago. They left, Colonel, before the French came."

  Paul froze. "The French are here?"

  "Gone, also," De Gea said, sounding uninterested. "Earlier today, they were called to fight. Now only the ones at the bridge."

  Paul felt his entire gut clench in horror. "The French are holding the bridge?" he said softly. "But where are the Spanish? Why did they leave? What...never mind. Can I see the bridge from up here?"

  De Gea nodded and Paul ran past him and took the crumbling spiral stairway at a run. High up at the top of the tower, he paused, trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding both with the effort and with fear for his men. He could not begin to imagine how Espana's men had marched out without a message being sent to Wellington but it was clear that they had gone and Paul was beginning to suspect that he had marched his brigade into potential disaster.

  Paul was pleased to see that the tower gave him the view he had hoped for down to the river and he put his glass to his eye. In the far distance he could see the battlefield, a residue of black smoke hanging over the fields and ridges although it was too far to be able to see any details. It looked as though part of the battlefield had caught fire, with swathes of flame moving across the dry grass and Paul thought back to Talavera and felt sick. He had been carried off the field earlier, wounded and close to death, but his men under Johnny Wheeler had been there, trying desperately to get as many wounded men off the field as they were able, before they burned to death and Johnny had once told him that for months he had awoken at night hearing the screams of men they had been unable to reach.

  The flames spilled a garish light over the darkening battlefield. The fighting was over; Paul was sure of it. There were no sounds of cannon fire, no large scale troop movements which would have been visible from here. Paul imagined that all that was left was the inevitable litter of bodies across the field. He had often thought how surprisingly untidy a battlefield always looked when the fighting was over. Bodies were strewn carelessly about, but there was other litter too, ammunition boxes, papers from pockets, discarded weapons and packs. Traditionally in the darkness the looting would begin, local villagers, camp followers and victorious soldiers going through the bodies of both sides for money and food and other loot, stripping the bodies of their possessions as the vultures stripped their flesh.

  Paul had long ago ceased to be shocked or upset by it. At least two of his officers were wearing boots taken from the bodies of Frenchmen because the uniform orders had not come through and the dead men would hardly care. Loot from a battle was taken and prize money for officers and men calculated and divided by the quartermaster general's officers but away from official eyes, Paul had more than once pocketed a purse and distributed it himself to his officers and men. He came from a wealthy family and had no need of prizes or loot, but he was always conscious that most of his young officers lived off their pay or little more and that his men were poorly paid, poorly clothed and lived in appalling conditions. They were mostly from the lowest levels of society; thieves and pickpockets and poachers, pimps and housebreakers, some of the
m fleeing starvation in Ireland and others fleeing charges of murder or assault.

  Few of them came into the army from a sense of patriotism or even from choice and many had abandoned families into poverty to be here. Paul was always faintly astonished given the lives they had been obliged to live, that they fought so well and behaved better, in many cases, than the French conscripts who were from all levels of society. Since his earliest days as a very young officer in India he had found himself more comfortable around a camp fire with his foul-mouthed enlisted men than in the mess with officers of his own class. It had informed all his decisions about how he ran his company, then his battalion and regiment and now his brigade.

  Scanning the darkening view, looking for signs of movement, Paul thought of Alten, and wondered if his other brigades had been engaged at all today and then of Anne, very probably on her way back to Salamanca. And then he froze suddenly as his wandering mind focused and he realised what he was seeing.

  "Oh Jesus bloody Christ."

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the Spanish caretaker appeared beside him. "What is it?"

  "The French. I think they're retreating this way."

  "Senor?"

  Paul pointed. "It's hard to see in this light, but though the trees there, on the far side of the river. I can see movement and those occasional shots aren't a full battle. If you're right, and the French already hold the bridge, they're barely a mile away from my men, who have no idea they're there."

  De Gea was looking at him blankly. Paul took a deep breath. "Who else is here? In the castle?"

  "To live. Nobody, señor. I live with my wife and daughter there."

  He pointed and Paul could see the small white cottage, built up against one of the surviving walls of the castle. He shook his head.

  "You can't stay there, it'll be in the line of fire. Get them out and into the town - with friends or into one of the churches, as far away from here as you can manage. Leave me the keys, I am officially taking over the castle. Move."

  De Gea removed the keys from his belt with hands that trembled slightly. Paul did not wait to see if his orders were obeyed. He took off down the stairs and out to Rufus. Galloping along the street he reined in quickly and found his officers and men already reaching for arms.

  "Sir, what the bloody hell is going on? It sounds like half the French army approaching."

  Paul met Johnny's eyes. "It is half the French army, Johnny, the Spanish have run. Or got it wrong. It doesn't matter which. Listen, we've little time."

  He outlined his plans quickly and as he finished they ran to horse, yelling orders to drummers and buglers and NCOs, calling their men into line. Paul wheeled his horse and trotted down the street a little then stopped. He could already hear them coming in the near darkness.

  Paul had no way of knowing what was happening on the battlefield. The French were clearly in full retreat but he wondered how easy it would be to pursue them through the trees on the far side of the Tormes in the gathering darkness. If the Anglo-Portuguese army were on their heels the defeated French army would flee through the town without stopping and his brigade would be safe. If Wellington had stopped pursuit for the night, they would be coming through in some disorder but with time, and perhaps inclination, to turn on an isolated brigade of the enemy who had so thoroughly defeated them.

  He had thought briefly of telling his men to seek shelter with the townspeople but there were too many of them and no time. Many of them would be surprised banging on doors and if the French caught them disorganised and in small groups, they would be slaughtered. Back at the bridge, Paul's men might have held but it was too late for that. The castle was his best option, with walls and ruined outbuildings which might provide enough cover for his experienced light troops. The fleeing French would probably attack, there was no way to hide his entire brigade, but the crumbling walls would provide some cover for a while, and if the men were pushed back, he could pull those still alive into the tower for a final stand.

  Paul felt, watching his men scrambling into position, a passionate gratitude to both officers and men. In the face of impending disaster there was no sign of panic and no loss of discipline. Even his raw troops in the 115th were in place, their young officers ready beside them. He had placed them in the middle, with the 110th to hold the first line with his Germans and the 112th to steady the back along with his Portuguese. Sandwiched between the two the 115th had support from both directions. His rifle company was despatched up into the tower to take aim from the small windows and the battlements at the top. It would soon be too dark to aim properly but once they had the range, Paul hoped they could do some damage, even firing blind.

  Paul dismounted as the first of the French came into view and handed Rufus to Jenson.

  "Get the lads with the officers' horses right up to the back of the castle, Corporal. Keep them out of sight and out of the firing line in case they're needed. If this goes badly wrong – if we don't get reinforced..."

  "You planning on making a dash for it, sir?"

  "No, Freddie, that's your job. Get back to my wife and tell her I love her."

  "You know what, sir, I think she already knows that. Don't get killed, I do not want to have to tell her that."

  "I'll try," Paul said. "Get going."

  He patted Rufus and watched Jenson limping away then turned back and moved to the front with the 110th. Looking across the line he saw Carl, steady at their head, and Manson close by, his golden eyes watchful through the remains of the light, his hand half raised to signal the sharpshooters of his light company. There was quiet now in the lines, waiting for the French to come.

  Chapter Seven

  The French came. Their officers, eager to make their escape, were yelling at them to come back, and it gave Paul some hope. This would be no coordinated attack, no planned assault. It came from tired and injured men, exhausted from battle, black with smoke and streaked with blood and sweat and tears. They had marched, like Wellington's men, for days in a complicated dance of retreat and advance and then their enemy had struck and swept them from the field in four short hours. They were bloodied and beaten and furious and the sight of English troops in a defensive position so far from the main force maddened them.

  He could sense the shock and confusion of their officers. They had expected a clear run once they had made it across the river and they were faced, instead, with a brigade in a place where nobody had expected them to be. Paul wished he could tell them to keep running. He no longer cared about stopping the retreat, he cared about his men, about to face a defeated and desperate army.

  The French were angry. Paul heard the roar as they sighted his men behind the castle walls, the yells of triumph as they perceived a battle they might be able to win. With thoughts of friends and comrades cut down beside them, blown apart by cannon and howitzer and musket fire, they broke ranks and charged, roaring, a pack of black faced demons, towards the broken walls where the men of the third brigade waited, rifles and muskets in sweating hands. Earlier they had complained about not being engaged in this battle. They were engaged now.

  Paul waited until they were close. His men were hugely outnumbered here and their defences were meagre, they needed to make every shot count. Behind them the French officers were still trying to call their men into line and he was hoping that a few sharp volleys and a lot of dead would put others off and persuade them to continue their retreat. He had no idea if the Allied army was in pursuit and if it was, if it was pursuing in the right direction. There were major fords up at Huerta and numerous smaller fords along the Tormes. Wellington had too many choices and Paul could not rely on help arriving. He waited and waited, sensing the tension of the men around him under the onrush of the French infantry. In his mind he could see his former commander, Black Bob Craufurd at Bussaco, holding his nerve until the last possible moment.

  "Fire!" he roared, and the order was called across the lines. The front ranks of the 110th fired a tremendous volley directly into th
e front rank of the French and it blew the first lines apart. Beyond them the second rank rocked back, shocked at the carnage, and his men took time to reload, steady and confident, sacrificing speed for accuracy as he had taught them. Some of them, the old hands, boasted about being able to fire four rounds a minute and they were very capable of doing so in practice with no distractions. But in battle it was important not to make a mistake and jam the gun so he had trained them ruthlessly to ignore the watch hands and get it right.

  "Fire!"

  The second rank of the French disintegrated. They were close now and Paul looked over at Carl and nodded, and the major took up the orders in a clear confident voice. The bugles called and the skirmish line dropped into position, moving from wall to wall in pairs, one kneeling while the other stood, taking it in turns to load and fire, picking off the hapless Frenchmen individually while they could still see to do so in the darkness and waiting for the bayonets to reach them.

  They struck after two more volleys and by this time the French were scrambling over their fallen comrades. One or two officers had joined them, perhaps hoping for some glory to take with them, on their retreat back towards Madrid. They gave the French lines some structure and discipline and within minutes they were in among the crumbling walls and buildings of the castle and the steady line of fire had given way to desperate hand to hand combat with bayonet and sword in the end of the evening light.

  The 110th fell back, giving ground slowly and reluctantly and leaving piles of French dead behind them. Paul moved with them, sword in hand, cutting down men already bloodied and injured with a painful sense that this battle should never have happened. He had no sense of losses or wounded and no sense of time although in the back of his mind was the agonised awareness that if the French launched another determined attack, his brigade might be slaughtered while scrambling into the tower.

  The light was fading further. His riflemen could no longer aim reliably from the top windows without risk of hitting their own, and the fight had become bloody and personal, and Paul looked into the smoke blackened faces of the men he killed. There was no longer a shape to the exhausted men of the 110th and looking across, Paul yelled an order and his men fell back fast and efficiently behind the fresh lines of the 112th and 115th.