An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  He heard Johnny's voice steady through the darkness, calling his men forward, and Paul drank from his canteen, summoned his resources and ran to join the assault. The French, who had thought the allied forces spent, were shocked by the sudden onslaught of the 112th and the Portuguese who cut through their first ranks ruthlessly. Paul was with them, shouting encouragement, and behind him he could hear Major Swanson's voice organising the 110th into a further defensive line and silently blessed his fellow officers for their ability to think for themselves in a crisis. To his considerable surprise the French were falling back, falling over the dead and wounded of both sides to avoid the fierce fighting of the 112th. He was astonished at how well they were doing. They must have been fighting for almost an hour, and they had still barely given ground, although he shuddered to think of the men cut down behind the walls, bleeding and perhaps dying in the darkness. He had helped lift bodies from the streets of Fuentes d'Onoro the previous year and the memory had stayed with him.

  Paul paused to wipe sweat from his eyes and surveyed his lines and then heard a yell from Colonel Wheeler.

  "They've guns! Take cover!"

  Paul dived, as the others did, for the shelter of the walls, and hit the ground hard, jarring his body as the first gun fired, ripping apart one section of the outer wall. He heard the screams of some of his men as the gun tore them apart, and he felt a burst of illogical fury that in the defeat of Salamanca somebody had allowed the French to escape with artillery.

  "Michael, to me!" he roared, scrambling to his feet. "Take that fucking gun out!"

  Paul was already running, counting in his head the time it would take for the gunners to reload. He had first learned how to time it, from his Irish sergeant at the battle of Assaye nine years earlier, and he knew he could reach the gun crew before they got off another shot. He also knew that he was much too far ahead of the 112th light company but he was too enraged to care. He reached the gun just as they were about to light it and dived into its crew, his curved Indian tulwar swinging savagely, and the gunners fell and then fled before his height and his skill and his sheer fury. One of them tried to make a fight of it and Paul killed him with a brutal slash across the body and pushed him away. He dropped to the ground scrabbling for the man's bayonet and came up, fumbling for the touch hole on the gun. He shoved the spike in and bent the bayonet to break it off.

  Behind him, Michael's light company hit the second gun crew before it got off a shot and the gunners died a bloody death at the points of their bayonets. Paul heard Michael shout an order to spike the gun and he could hear the French officers yelling at their men, and as sanity returned he knew that he had come too far out and that he needed to get back and fast.

  The French had seen him and recognised his rank, and they were onto him with the fury of men who had seen their army destroyed around them. Paul leaped over the bodies of the gunners and began to run back towards the castle, but they were too close. Several of them attempted a shot, but the muskets were inaccurate at the best of times and they missed in the darkness. But they were armed with bayonets and were closing fast. He had moments only and then he would be dead, and knowing it, he thought of Anne and his children and he took a deep breath and swung around, dropping his sword and holding up his hands in surrender.

  It was a risky gesture but it surprised them, which bought him time. They pulled up, a dozen of them, battle stained infantry with a bucolic NCO at their head armed with a wicked looking sword. For a moment Paul thought he had got away with it and that they would try to capture him, but he saw the NCO look at the closing gap as Michael's men charged to his rescue and then the man swung the blade. He was clumsy with it and in a one to one fight, Paul could have disarmed him in seconds, but by then the others would have charged in and he would be cut to pieces. Instead, Paul dropped like a stone to the ground and the man's weight carried him forward. Paul felt his hand close on the hilt of his sword and he rolled onto his back and stabbed up and the NCO died on a high pitched scream. It was impossible from this angle to withdraw the sword and Paul did not try. He rolled over and snatched up a discarded French bayonet, staggered to his feet and held it steady as they advanced on him slowly, lips curled back from bared teeth like a wolf pack closing in on a kill.

  In their midst a young French officer appeared, running in from the rear his sword drawn. It distracted the men and Paul thought that the man had probably just saved his life. He met Paul's eyes steadily.

  "Surrender or they will tear you apart," he said in English, but Paul, who by now could hear sounds close behind him shook his head.

  "Not today, lad," he said, and thrust forward with the bayonet. The French were on him in seconds and he felt pain in his arm and through his shoulder and a sharp graze down his side as he twisted away. The weapon fell from his hand and he was falling forwards to avoid another thrust and then hands grabbed him and swung him around and out of danger with such force that he fell hard and winded to the ground and he was conscious of a rush of men crashing into the French.

  There was a confusion of screams and cries in two languages in the darkness. Paul shifted cautiously and began to pull himself to his feet. He was in considerable pain and he could feel blood running down onto his hand but he was somewhat surprised to find himself both alive and mobile. Ahead of him a figure with a sword was ruthlessly cutting its way through the Frenchmen and he recognised Captain Manson of the 110th. Cautiously Paul moved forward and searched the ground for his sword. He found it, still buried in the body of the French NCO and withdrew it, conscious of pain searing through his right arm.

  "Sir, can you move?"

  "I can, Mr Witham. Let's get some cover, shall we, I feel a bit exposed out here."

  He heard Michael to his left, utter an explosive oath and then they were backing up, fighting and then running, going over the low wall in a scramble of arms and legs. As he hit the ground, Paul heard Carl Swanson's voice.

  "Fire!" he said and there was an explosion of sound so loud and so close that it made Paul's ears ring. He was lying at the feet of a solid row of men and as he looked up, the row dropped to its knees and behind them was a second row and the explosion came again. A hand grasped Paul's.

  "You all right, sir? Bloody hell, that was a bit mad, didn't think you were going to make it."

  "Fire!" Carl's voice called again and the third rank of men fired. Paul allowed Ensign Raby of the 115th to pull him up, and he stared into a wall of black smoke where the French had been. There was no sound or movement apart from a faint whimpering sound and he knew that the men who had pursued the skirmishers back to the wall were dead or wounded, cut down by the solid wall of fire which Carl had set up from two companies of the 110th and one of the 115th. He turned at looked over at his friend whose smoke blackened face he could barely see through the dense fog.

  "Thank you, Major, that was very neat."

  "Paul, you are a fucking lunatic!" Carl said furiously.

  Paul laughed aloud and hoisted his sword. "That's why I have you and Johnny to keep me alive, Major!" he called and the men around him cheered. He knew the sound would infuriate the Frenchmen still streaming up the road but he did not care. He rubbed smoke from his eyes and tested his arm to check he could still use it to wield the sword.

  "We need to retreat," he said to Johnny, as quietly as he could. "Up into the tower. The rifles will give us cover as far as they can. Johnny, take the back lines, we'll keep them busy."

  "Sir, they'll slaughter us."

  "They'll slaughter us anyway," Paul said, trying to sound calm. "We're running out of ammunition. Get as many as you can into that tower, I'll hold them here with the 110th. It's an order, Colonel."

  Johnny did not reply. Paul heard him moving away and blessed his second-in-command for his ability to take an order. He had no idea what was going to happen next. The French were filling the road up through the town and he could hear the creak of wagons and the rumble of wheels over the cobbled street. Officers shouted ord
ers and there was the occasional groan of a wounded man. This was a retreat not an attack and the French officers needed to get their men out of here without further loss. What Paul could not assess was whether they would call them off in time to save his brigade.

  Without being sure, Paul could sense there were fewer French coming forward. The men of the 110th had formed up around him behind what was left of the broken walls and Paul hoisted his sword. His arm felt leaden and the wounds in his shoulder and upper arm burned with an agonising pain.

  "Steady, lads," he called. "If you're shooting, make it count, now."

  It counted. Twice the French came on and twice a solid volley was called by Major Swanson and the French fell back. There was occasional fire back and one or two men fell, but the French were no longer organised enough for a volley and it was almost pitch black. The darkness gave the advantage to the defenders who remained in place. The French who tried to advance were stumbling, some of them falling over broken stones and rocks in the darkness. Paul leaned on the wall. He was beginning to feel dizzy and he supposed it was loss of blood.

  "Carl." Paul kept his voice low.

  "Sir?"

  "I'm not so good. If I go down, get them back into the tower fast. Hold for as long as you can."

  "Paul, get back inside," his friend said furiously. "One of the lads can help you. You need..."

  "No. I need to be here. If I go, they'll overrun us. They..."

  Paul broke off as a new sound filtered into his exhausted brain. Horsemen were riding up the road and Paul felt slightly sick. French cavalry could be the end of them. Only a madman would ride a horse into the broken stonework before the tower but in his experience, cavalry were often mad enough to do things that a sane man would not. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, and then he heard a voice, speaking French, clear and authoritative from the darkness.

  "Halt. Captain, withdraw your men. We need to leave the town before daybreak. Call them back; there will be no more battle tonight. Call them back."

  There were half a dozen men, officers on good horses, the saddlery jingling in the darkness. To Paul's astonishment the French officers began to shout orders without any hesitation and he realised suddenly that the voice came from no regimental officer but from a general. Straining his eyes, Paul peered through the darkness but he could see nothing but a figure on a horse and the dark shapes of the retreating French along the road.

  "I think that's Marshal Foy," Paul breathed softly.

  "I don't care if it's the queen of Sheba as long as it gets them out of here," Carl said. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes. I wish I could see him clearly."

  "Thank God you can't, if it was light enough he'd probably send in half a regiment to slaughter us. The darkness is keeping us safe."

  Paul knew it was true. He stood silent with the 110th around him, hardly daring to breathe as the French pulled back and joined the flood of men marching up the road out of the town.

  For the first time, Paul allowed himself to believe that they were going to make it. Through waves of pain he straightened and held his left hand over his right arm which was bleeding badly and felt as though it was on fire. He lifted his sword to sheath it and then stopped. As the troops streamed past him up the road, something had caught his eye gleaming in the darkness and he realised incredulously what he was seeing only ten feet away.

  "Carter, Hammond, cover me!" he yelled and began to run. Behind him he heard the sergeant of his light company utter an oath so revolting that he wanted to laugh.

  "Get back here, sir," he heard Carter bellow, but they were both following him without any understanding why. Then he was up with the retreating French, the pain of his wound forgotten as he slashed his way through a tightly packed group with his sword, hearing his two NCOs behind him, fighting with bayonets to protect his flanks and rear. He cut down two men, then a third, and then he was facing the man clutching onto the pole, a terrified boy of twenty or so, and as Paul bore down on him he released his burden and ran. Paul let him go and he disappeared into the melee of retreating men and Paul stooped and lifted his prize and beside him Hammond and Carter pulled up breathlessly as they saw what he held.

  "Oh bloody hell!" Carter breathed, and Paul looked up and saw the golden eagle above his head on the pole, shining above the battle, utterly indifferent to the bloody retreat of the French troops. None turned to look at him or stop him. They had had enough finally and Paul allowed Carter and Hammond to pull him back behind the walls where he stood, leaning slightly on the pole of the eagle, watching the shapes in the darkness run, catching his breath and letting himself finally admit how close he had come to death.

  "You all right, sir?" Carter said. Paul turned to look at him and took the battered pewter flask his sergeant-major was holding out to him.

  "I think so." Paul drank, feeling the rum burning down and warming his exhausted body. "Thanks Carter. You too, Hammond."

  "You're welcome, sir. Very pretty bird, that."

  "Isn't it?"

  Carter surveyed their prize admiringly. "It is, sir. Wonder if it's going to hurt much when your wife hears about this and shoves it right up your backside without benefit of laudanum?"

  Paul gave a choke of laughter. "Are you going to tell her, Carter?"

  "I won't need to, sir, the entire third brigade is going to be telling this story and I'm not sure there is any way we can dress this up to make you look like anything other than a suicidal lunatic. Oh look, I think Major Swanson wants a word."

  Paul turned to see his friend approaching. "You come to yell at me, Carl?"

  "Not out here. Get into the tower, the rest of the lads are in there."

  It was crowded inside the stone structure with men on every floor and many sitting or standing on the stone, spiral staircase. It was too dark to make out faces.

  Carter led Paul to one wall and several men made space for him to sit down, gazing in astonishment at the eagle. Hammond leaned it up against the wall and Paul leaned back with closed eyes.

  "Are you alive, Colonel?"

  "So far, Major Swanson."

  "Paul, I have seen you do some stupid things on a battlefield but not usually quite so many in one hour. I've literally no idea how you're still alive, that charge on the guns was bloody suicide. What in God's name were you thinking to get yourself cut off like that?"

  Paul smiled wearily. "Sorry, lad, did I worry you? I lost my temper a bit there, couldn't believe that all those lovely English divisions kicking their arses on that field couldn't stop them getting away with field guns. I did go a bit far out, though. Thank God for you and for my two light companies, that was a hell of a charge. Leo, are you all right, you're bleeding?"

  "I'm bleeding? Sir, I've got a nick on my head about half an inch long and you're standing there dripping blood like a demon from hell!" Captain Manson came closer and crouched down. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "No, he's bloody not, he is a madman and should be confined for his own safety!" Carl said furiously. "If you didn't already look half dead I would bloody punch you for that!"

  Colonel Wheeler joined them and Paul studied him. "What have you done, you're limping?"

  "It's nothing, bayonet caught me in the thigh but it's not bad. I think you're in a worse state, Colonel. Get tired of running the brigade, did you?"

  "I don't know what makes you all think I was trying to get myself killed," Paul said mildly.

  "Evidence of our own eyes," Manson said. "Sit still for a minute and let me tie that up, you're bleeding like a lamb with its throat cut."

  "An attractive analogy, Captain, I shall remember it. Ouch."

  "Serves you right," Manson said unsympathetically. He had removed his sash and was twisting it firmly about Paul's upper arm and shoulder. "From what I can see in the dark you've got about three bayonet wounds there and it's a mess. Ashford, give me your sash to make a sling, it's the only thing they're useful for."

  "I don't want a sling," Paul said.
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br />   "If you don't do as I say, I am letting Major Swanson hit you, sir, and he really wants to."

  "Don't waste your energy, Leo, he'll take it off within about three minutes," Carl said.

  Paul laughed weakly, conscious of a feeling of slight hysteria. "Thank you, Leo. For the medical treatment and for helping to save my life which I know you just did. I'm sorry, it was a bit mad. I lost my temper."

  "I know you did, sir, I watched you do it. It was terrifying."

  "Have we set sentries?" Paul asked, and Carl made a noise which sounded like an angry boar.

  "No. I thought I'd leave that to chance."

  "Sorry," Paul said. He could think of nothing else to say.

  Carl did not speak for a moment. Then he said:

  "So am I. I'm a bit jumpy."

  Paul reached out in the darkness and gripped his hand, unseen. "You're going to get back to her," he said positively.

  "I'd bloody better. I'm worried about the wounded out there but there's nothing we can do. Michael's lads are at the upper windows watching. As soon as it starts to get light and we're sure they're gone, we'll be out there. In the meantime, Colonel, you need to rest."

  ***

  It was full dark when Anne reached their former billets in Salamanca after a long and exhausting day of advance and retreat, with the battle raging out of sight but well within earshot. A message had come late in the day to tell them that the field was won and Lieutenant Pope, in charge of the Portuguese escort, had read it and looked at her hesitantly.

  "We could camp here, ma'am, and set off early tomorrow..."

  "No," Anne said firmly. "If the battle has gone our way, and I doubt Lord Wellington would have sent the message if he were not sure, they'll be sending the wounded back into Salamanca, Mr Pope. I want to be there."