by Lynn Bryant
"Yes, ma'am."
"Can we send a message ahead to make sure our billets are ready?"
"I'll send Mr Nani and Corporal Raven, ma'am. They'll get it sorted."
There was no news of Paul or the light division when Anne arrived. She was tempted to go in search of Oliver Daniels and the regimental hospital, but she knew it was unfair on her escort and her companions. Reluctantly, Anne settled down in the room she had last shared with Paul some weeks ago. There was plenty of space in the enormous college which the French had converted to barracks and officers quarters but both Keren and Teresa hesitated when Anne suggested they occupy their former rooms and Anne was relieved.
"Why don't we stay together tonight?" she said. "Teresa, bring little Ana, we'll get the men to drag a pallet into the room and Keren can share my bed. None of us wants to be alone."
None of them did. Food had not been arranged and Anne sent her groom in search of a scratch meal of bread, cheese and cold meat from a local tavern. Costa returned, grumbling about the price.
"In Portugal, we know not to cheat the army who fights for our country," he said.
Anne managed not to laugh, thinking of some of the arguments she had had with Portuguese merchants looking to make a huge profit out of the English army's desperate need for supplies. "Thank you, Isair. Take some and eat. Tomorrow I will go myself to arrange supplies for the hospital and I will see to food for us also."
"It is not work for a lady," Costa said stubbornly. "I will go."
"You shall come with me to be sure they do not cheat me," Anne said soothingly. "Good night."
She closed the door firmly and turned to Keren and Teresa. "I am not sure this is going to work," she said. "If he tells me one more time that everything I do is not fit for a lady, I will stab him eventually. Teresa, sit over here, she's fussing, you need to feed her. Keren and I will wait on you."
They set out the food on a shawl, spread like a picnic rug on the floorboards and passed food to Teresa while she settled on a straw mattress and fed her daughter. Ana, at just over three months old was beginning to show an interest in the world around her. She had a dazzling toothless smile which broke Anne's heart every time she saw it and a sociable nature which meant that she seemed to have no objection to being passed from one person to another; a useful attribute in an army baby.
Anne, who was her godmother, was completely devoted to her and trying hard not to show it to Paul, since she knew he felt immensely guilty that their son, William, had been sent back to England to be raised by his family with his older children. Anne did not regret her decision; more than half the children born in camp died of sickness and she had not been prepared to risk Will. She had not been prepared either, for her attachment to Teresa's daughter and she tried not to worry too much about Ana's health, since she could hardly demand that her former maid send her own child away to spare Anne anxiety.
Despite the underlying worry about their menfolk, there was an enjoyable sense of camaraderie between the three women. Anne could remember nights like this in girlhood, sharing a room with her sister and cousins, often crammed into the same bed while spending the night at some relative's home. With the food eaten and Ana asleep in Teresa's arms, Anne opened a bottle of wine from Paul's supply and settled in the big bed.
"Teresa, up here, you'll be cold on the floor and there's acres of space. Here."
They squashed in, close together for warmth and drank the Spanish red, which warmed Anne and made her feel very slightly tipsy after the long day and meagre meal.
"You two," she said seriously, "are my dearest friends."
There was a silence. Eventually, Keren said:
"I do not think you should be saying that."
"I am the wife of the commander of the third brigade of the light division. I can say anything I like."
Keren and Teresa dissolved into giggles. "You are supposed to be friends with the officers wives," Teresa choked.
"I am," Anne said indignantly. "Mrs Scovell is a very good friend."
"If Mrs Scovell were here, she would be in the other end of the bed warming her toes," Keren said, and all three were laughing.
"Mary Scovell is an excellent person," Anne said. "I am not sure some of the others would approve. Fortunately, none of them are mad enough to be here."
"One or two are," Teresa said. "There is Mrs Dalbiac. And Lady Waldegrave..."
Anne laughed. "And I love them both. Mrs Dalbiac on that mule, is without fear; I wouldn't ride the thing, it's vicious. And Lord Waldegrave's lady..."
"Who is not his lady at all, as they are not married," Keren interjected, giggling.
"Is a friend to us all, since her open congress with the major - sorry, the Earl - is so shocking, that it sets all of us in the shade."
Teresa was holding her daughter close, shielding her ears against their laughter. "Of you all, I am the most respectable," she said firmly. "I am married and have no scandal."
"You were a prostitute," Anne hooted, leaning against Keren, shaking with laughter.
"Nobody knows that," Teresa asserted. "Keren, do not shriek so much, you will wake Ana..."
They lay finally, curled up together, Ana snuffling happily between them. "Do you think they are all right?" Teresa said.
"Yes," Anne said definitely. "Tomorrow, early, I will go up to the hospital and I will find out where they are. Keren, Teresa - thank you. And I love you both."
***
Leo Manson sat beside his colonel through the night. There was constant movement as men went outside to relieve themselves or at the change of sentries. Paul was quiet but restless, in what Manson feared was more unconsciousness than sleep. When he stirred, Manson tried to give him water but Paul drank little. Manson was desperately afraid that his colonel had lost too much blood and even more worried about the danger of infection. Outside it was quiet now, with no more sign of the French.
As the first thin slivers of light began to streak across the inky darkness of the sky, Colonel Wheeler was up and issuing orders. The men made their way outside and began the painful process of sifting through the dead and wounded. Johnny had set sentries the night before and made some attempt to find those obviously injured and conscious, bringing them in to the relative warmth of the castle. Several times during the night there had been activity, as the sentries had chased off would-be looters from the local population.
As daylight brightened the sky, the men of the third brigade began cautiously making their way outside to assess their losses. Colonel Wheeler ordered the dead laid out and the wounded brought inside the castle. Manson had lost six of his eighty-five men with another twelve wounded. It was a heavy toll and he suspected it was reflected across the brigade.
Gradually doors were opened and the people of Alba de Tormes emerged. They came, to Manson's relief, with food and drink and blankets for the wounded men. Around him, the men were unusually subdued, and Manson knew why. Colonel van Daan lay still and quiet within the keep, stirring occasionally in restless discomfort, but not speaking or rousing, and his absence quelled any high spirits or joy at their survival.
The first English troops arrived early, cavalry in pursuit of the fleeing French army. Manson watched as Colonel Wheeler went out to speak to them. He returned to join Manson.
"Has he been awake?"
"Not, much. Very restless, I'm worried about fever."
"I've sent two messengers back to find the rest of the division, we need orders. But it seems clear that Salamanca is ours and the cavalry seem convinced that's where the medical staff will set up."
"What about the baggage?"
"He doesn't know. But if Mrs van Daan has news of a victory she'll be back here as soon as she can. Will you stay with him, Leo? We're dealing with dead and wounded and getting them fed. I'll send someone through with food..."
"I'll stay," Manson said instantly. "In case he wakes."
"Thank you, I want one of his friends with him. I wish Nan was here."
Manson ate, when food was brought, and remained beside his colonel as the dawn turned into morning. There were clear sounds of troop movements outside and Manson leaned back against the stone wall and listened, wondering what was going on.
"Leo?"
Manson turned, startled at the sound of his colonel's voice. "Sir? Thank God you're awake, I was starting to panic. Here, have some water."
Paul drank then lay back. In the golden light which filtered in through the narrow windows and open door, he looked white and drawn. Manson saw him turn his head to look around him at the supine bodies of the wounded men of his brigade.
"How many, Leo?"
"Not as bad as we first thought," Manson said. "I lost six and twelve wounded. Across the brigade we've lost sixty-eight dead and about a hundred wounded, but quite a few of those are walking, they should recover."
"Sixty-eight men." Paul lay quietly for a moment. Then he said:
"Officers?"
Manson hesitated, knowing that he was going to have to tell Paul and hating it. The blue eyes were steadily watching him and Manson knew that his colonel already guessed that he had lost a friend.
"Only two killed, about a dozen seriously wounded, sir. A fair few walking wounded."
"Who have I lost, Leo?"
"Marcus Vardy from the fourth, sir. And Captain Kent."
"No," Paul said. "Oh, Leo, no."
"I'm so sorry, sir."
Paul closed his eyes. Manson sat quietly, holding his hand. He had known and liked both of the dead officers and had considered Jack Kent a friend, but he knew that Kent had been with Paul for a long time. Paul had been present at his wedding to a very young Danish girl whom he had met in Copenhagen five years earlier and was godfather to their eldest child. The colonel was crying silently, tears streaking his blackened face. Manson could feel his own eyes wet. He had been trying not to think about their losses but with nothing else to do he gave himself some time to grieve.
There was a commotion outside, the sound of horses and orders shouted. Paul opened his eyes. "Find out what's going on, will you, Leo? We need to do something about getting our wounded out of here. I'm guessing the hospitals are set up in Salamanca. Has anybody heard from my wife? Is she all right?"
"I'm sure she is, sir, but I'll go and find out..."
Manson was on his feet when the door was pushed further open and a tall figure came in, removing his hat. Even in silhouette against the light, the man was unmistakeable and Manson came to attention and saluted.
"Captain Manson, I suspected I would find you in here. How is he?"
The voice was clipped and short, but Manson recognised anxiety rather than rudeness and said quickly:
"He's awake, sir. Over here."
Lord Wellington came forward and Manson moved to make space for him. The commander-in-chief knelt down.
"Colonel van Daan, the reports I had of you were not good. I see that they were exaggerated."
"Oh no, what did the fools tell you?" Paul said quickly. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll be all right. A bit weak, I bled rather a lot."
"You look terrible," Wellington snapped. "What in God's name are they about to leave you in here on the ground, you'll catch your death."
"In this heat? I don't think so. Stop snarling at people, sir, they've had no time to do anything and we're all just getting over the shock and counting our dead."
"It was a shock to me too," Wellington said. "What in God's name happened? Where were the Spanish?"
"Marched out a couple of days earlier apparently," Paul said. He was struggling to sit up and Manson came forward quickly.
"Stop it, you'll injure yourself," he said peremptorily. "Here, if you must, let me help you."
"Captain Manson, get some of your men to carry him outside; the air in here is foul," Wellington said. "And then send somebody to find a proper billet for him in town, I cannot think why it has not already been done."
"I don't need to be carried, I'm not dead," Paul said irritably. "Give me your arm, Captain Manson, I'll walk. I'm not having my brigade think I'm dying, they've been through enough."
"You are as obstinate as a two year old," Wellington snapped back. "If you injure yourself further, your wife will be furious."
***
Outside in the sunlight, propped up against a crumbling wall on a thin army blanket, Paul felt slightly better. Somebody had produced a wooden stool from a nearby house for Lord Wellington and they sat watching the activity in a rare moment of shared quiet. Troops were making their way across the bridge and out in pursuit of the retreating French army while the men of the third brigade tended their wounded and laid out their dead.
"What happened, Colonel?" Wellington said finally.
"We had no idea they were so close," Paul said. "We'd had a clear march, followed the line you'd suggested, the guide knew where he was going. It was all very routine. I wasn't concerned. We arrived in the town and I noticed there were no sentries set, but I thought they'd not bothered since the French wouldn't be coming in from that direction. Sloppy, but not disastrous. I left the men at ease and went up to the castle to speak to the Spanish command and realised that they weren't there. Believe it or not, the custodian told me that the French were actually in the castle until yesterday morning when they were called to the battlefield. They marched out, but left a battalion to hold the bridge, to protect their line of retreat. They were about a mile away from us and neither of us knew it. If I'd had more time I'd have attacked them on the bridge, got rid of the rearguard and tried to hold it, but it was too late, I could already see them coming. We'd nowhere to go."
"You could have been wiped out," Wellington said softly.
"We would have been," Paul said flatly. "My men fought so well, I've never been more proud of them, but we couldn't have held off their numbers, it felt as though most of the army retreated this way. We'd been fighting for about an hour, they were very disorganised and most of their officers were trying to get them to leave us alone and keep marching. Then one of the commanders came through with his staff and called a halt. I pulled them back into the castle and said a lot of prayers. I think it might have been Foy."
"Very probably. Most of the army did come this way and he organised it very well. I expected more of them to go for the fords at Huerta. Even so, if the Spanish had been here..."
"That's a lot of 'ifs', sir. You can't predict everything."
"I would never have sent you out here if I'd known," Wellington said bitterly.
Paul managed a smile. "I know," he said. "But what are you doing here, sir?"
"What I am supposed to be doing is chasing the French. And I shall have to leave soon, to catch up with the army. God knows what they will do if I'm not there. I had a message just after dawn, the cavalry who crossed the bridge early thought I should know. They told me you were dying. I left immediately."
Paul's throat felt unexpectedly tight. There were a number of things he would have liked to have said, but he knew it would not be fair; Wellington was always uncomfortable with any display of emotion. It was approximately eleven miles from Huerta to Alba de Tormes and his chief must have ridden flat out, with only Fitzroy Somerset for company, to arrive this quickly and at a moment when he desperately needed to be with his troops, organising the pursuit.
"I'm told it was a great victory, sir," Paul said finally. "Congratulations."
"It was. Once again, we've failed to stop them getting away, though. Colonel, I have to go. I've told them to find you a proper room..."
"No, sir, I want to get back to Salamanca with the rest of our wounded, Daniels and my wife can patch me up. I've got Captain Cartwright out there finding some transport, the ambulance wagons will be busy with the wounded from the battlefield. I'll be all right here."
"That was not a matter for discussion, Colonel. However long you need to remain here to recover, I will have you properly cared for. Do not oblige me to see to this matter myself, I have far too much to do and I need to get back before one o
f the fools does something unconscionably stupid." Wellington's blue grey eyes met his, and Paul recognised, with considerable surprise, something like a plea. "I have no time to worry about you," he said.
"I'll behave myself," Paul said. "At least until transport is arranged. I give you my word, sir. Where do you want the rest of the brigade? Johnny is mostly in one piece, he can..."
"Fitzroy Somerset has delivered my orders to Colonel Wheeler already," Wellington said, getting up. "For the time being I am leaving them as part of the Salamanca garrison; he'll march them up there when they are finished here. You look upset, Colonel. Did you lose somebody?"
"Yes," Paul said. "Two good officers. One of them has been with me for a while. Do you remember Jack Kent from Copenhagen?"
"Kent? Didn't he...?"
"He seduced the parson's daughter after an acquaintance of about three days," Paul said. "Harry Smith could have taken lessons from him. But they did better than I'd expected, they seemed very happy together, two children. I'll have to write to her."
"I'm sorry, Colonel, I know how hard it is. And on that subject, I have a confession to make. When I received the news of your injuries, I sent one of my ADCs back to Salamanca to apprise your wife of the situation. I thought she should know."
Paul felt a deep sense of foreboding. "What did you tell her, sir?"
"That she should try to get here as soon as possible."
"Oh shit," Paul said feelingly. "You might want to leave, sir, before she gets here."
"I was just thinking that, myself," Wellington said. "I have also sent orders for them to bring my carriage over here; you should not be thrown about in a farm cart. Write to me, I may not be absent more than a sennight but I expect regular reports of your progress. If I have to come back because I have not heard..."
Paul smiled faintly. "I'll write," he said. "Now get out of here before she turns up. And sir - thank you. I feel considerably better."