An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  Wellington regarded him with his head on one side. "You don't look it," he said. "Get well, I need you. Where's my damned hat?"

  "Jenson has it," Paul said soothingly. "Good luck, sir."

  Wellington regarded him with a gleam in his eyes. "When your wife arrives here and sees your condition, Colonel, it is not I who will need luck," he said, and turned away, calling for his horse.

  Chapter Eight

  Lord Wellington's letter reached Anne while she was assisting Dr Oliver Daniels with an amputation on the leg of a sergeant from the 73rd. The man was thankfully unconscious, and Daniels was quick and accurate. During the aftermath of a major battle, the regimental surgeon of the 110th had developed an excellent routine with Anne. Daniels was quicker at amputations, but Anne was very skilled at the delicate work of tying the blood vessels and sewing up wounds. Working together meant they could treat patients very quickly and lost fewer men.

  Daniels finished his work with a nod of satisfaction and turned to the next patient who was being lifted on to the table beside him, while Anne began to suture. Her hands were slippery with blood and she worked quickly, glancing frequently at the white face of the man on the table. He had been brought in from the field some hours ago and should have been seen sooner, but the usual shortage of surgeons and equipment meant that he had waited far too long and Anne suspected he had lost a lot of blood.

  "Ma'am. Mrs van Daan."

  Anne looked up at the voice of Gibson, one of the medical orderlies. "There you are," she said. "Have we a bunk ready for him, he needs to be kept warm, he's far too cold. I don't like..."

  "Ma'am, there's a letter from Lord Wellington. Mr Beaumaris brought it, he insisted I call you immediately."

  Anne froze, staring at him. She could think of no reason why Lord Wellington would have written to her other than that something had happened to Paul. Anne had always made a conscious choice not to dwell on the possibility of Paul's death. Early in the year, they had spent time with Paul's family, putting financial and practical arrangements in place, and having done so, Anne had tried not to think about it. Working with the wounded, meant that she had little time during battle to worry about Paul's safety. Suddenly she was faced with the reality and for a moment Anne thought she might faint.

  "Gibson, get her a chair," Daniels yelled. "Nan, sit down. Dr Guthrie, I need help here."

  Guthrie, who had just finished with a patient, turned. "What's going on?"

  Daniels was looking at Anne. "I've a horrible feeling it's bad news," he said.

  "Oh God, not the colonel?"

  "What else? Where the hell is Teresa? Or Keren? Or that useless bloody groom of hers. Look, take over from her, will you, Guthrie?"

  It was Daniels himself, eventually, who led Anne outside and seated her on a wooden bench by the convent door. Lieutenant Beaumaris was waiting anxiously. Anne held out her hand and took the letter. She opened it with shaking hands and read, then got up.

  "He's not dead, but it's serious. Lord Wellington thinks I should go immediately, which must mean that he thinks Paul could die."

  "Where is he?" Daniels said. He was still surveying the crowd of wounded men in sight of one of Anne's attendants.

  "Alba de Tormes. It's about thirteen miles south-east of here, I'm leaving now."

  Daniels turned to look at her. "Nan, you can't go alone."

  "I'm going, Oliver. Don't ask me where Isair is, he's vanished again, and I'm not waiting."

  Beaumaris saluted. "Ma'am, Lord Wellington had ordered me to place myself at your disposal for as long as you need me."

  Anne shot him a look of pure gratitude. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I need to get my horse saddled, will you wait here for me? Oliver, I'm sorry."

  "Go," Daniels said. "Take care of him. Bring him back alive."

  Anne met his eyes. "If it's possible, I will," she said softly.

  Anne had stabled Bella at a tavern opposite the convent. As she entered, a groom was rubbing down a big grey gelding. He turned, and seeing Anne, bowed slightly, then returned to his work. Anne looked around. Bella was at the far end, her saddle and tack hanging over the stall. Anne was very capable of saddling her own horse, but an experienced groom would be faster.

  "Excuse me," Anne said. "I'm wondering if you've time to help me saddle up, my husband has been wounded, I need to go to him and I've lost my groom somewhere."

  The man turned. "If it's that pretty Portuguese lad you're after, lass, I think you'll find he's having breakfast with the widow Perez," he said, and Anne stared in astonishment, recognising the Yorkshire accent of her childhood. "Happen he'll be here in time, but if you're looking for someone to go with you, I'm here."

  Anne realised that her mouth was hanging open in astonishment. She closed it. "Reynolds? That cannot be you."

  The man grinned and touched his hat. "Taken you a while to work it out, Miss Anne."

  "You're Simon's groom," Anne breathed. "I've seen you with him, but with the beard...I didn't recognise you. Oh Reynolds it's so good to see you again, and I'm in so much trouble. It's my husband - he's badly hurt. I can't bear it, I need to get to him."

  Reynolds set down his brush. "Well Mr Carlyon's up with General Pakenham," he said in matter of fact tones. "But I'm pretty sure I know what he'd want me to do."

  "He's safe then? I've been worrying about him, I heard how heavily engaged the third division was."

  "Aye, he's well. Get what you need and get back here, I'll saddle up for two of us."

  "I've an escort," Anne said. "One of Lord Wellington's aides, Lieutenant Beaumaris."

  "If he can keep up," Reynolds said placidly.

  They rode at a fast canter, slowing from time to time to prevent the horses from over-tiring themselves. Anne's stomach was churning with fear and she was passionately grateful to both her escorts. She could not believe that Joseph Reynolds was here, so many miles from where she had last seen him when she left her family home almost four years earlier. Reynolds had been head groom at Helton Ridge ever since she could remember.

  Looking over at him as they slowed again to a walk, Anne asked:

  "Why did you leave, Reynolds? How did you come to be working for the Carlyons?"

  Reynolds looked over at her. He was a tall, broad shouldered Yorkshireman in his late thirties with a pair of twinkling brown eyes and thick curly dark hair, just showing a sprinkling of grey. Four years ago he had been clean shaven and proud of his good looks but now he sported an impressive dark beard.

  "Got turned off, miss," he said finally, having clearly considered his reply. "Master called me in after you left, told me I'd not done my job properly. Said it was my job to keep an eye on you, make sure you weren't riding off unescorted, and Master said if you'd been able to do what you were supposed to have done with Mr Carlyon, it was down to me."

  "Oh, Reynolds, I'm so sorry," Anne said softly. "I'd no idea. If I'd known, I'd have murdered my father. How dare he?"

  The groom's face broke into a grin. "Don't suppose he would have dared if you'd still been there, lass, it didn't get past me that he waited 'til you'd gone," he said. "Not that he was wrong, mind, I knew bloody well you'd been up to something you weren't supposed to, it's just that I'd got the wrong man in mind."

  Despite her misery, Anne felt her face grow warm. "Oh," she said.

  "And then I got out here with Mr Carlyon and saw who you'd married and I thought maybe I didn't get it wrong after all. Wasn't he married back then?"

  "Yes," Anne said. "Rowena was my friend. She died in childbirth."

  "Friend, was it?"

  "I didn't know her then, Reynolds. Or I wouldn't have...anyway, it was a long time ago. How did you come to be working for the Carlyons?"

  "I approached them. Needed a job, thought I could play the sympathy vote, like. If I got dismissed because I couldn't stop their son seducing my young lady..."

  "All right, you unprincipled rogue," Anne said severely, aware of Mr Beaumaris riding close behind. "However you go
t here, I'm glad you did. And thank you for today. Whatever I find, it's good to have an old friend with me."

  "It's good to be here, miss. Can't be that much further."

  They cantered over the bridge into Alba de Tormes just after noon, with the sun blazing down on them. Sentries in red coats guarded the bridge and as Anne reined in, she saw, to her relief, Sergeant Grisham from the 112th coming towards her. She waited, her heart hammering in her breast, her eyes on the sergeant's florid face.

  "Ma'am, we've been expecting you. He's all right."

  Relief left Anne speechless for a moment. Reynolds moved closer and took hold of Bella's bridle. "You all right, ma'am?"

  "Yes. Sergeant Grisham, where is he?"

  "Captain Cartwright has found a billet up in town, I'll get Private Everton here to show you the way."

  Anne followed her guide up into the narrow winding streets of Alba de Tormes. She still had no idea what had happened to Paul; all accounts she had received of the battle had suggested that the light division were hardly engaged, but it was clear that there was a good deal she did not know.

  Everton led her to a respectable looking house on one of the main squares of the town, a tall white edifice with elegant wrought iron railings and balconies and a red tiled roof. The door was opened by a maid in a dark dress and white apron who bobbed a curtsey.

  "I think my husband is here?"

  "This way, señora."

  Anne turned to Reynolds. "Never fret, lass, I'll see to the horses and come back to wait for you."

  The girl led Anne upstairs and indicated a room to the right. Anne opened the door, unsure of what she would find within, and then paused, her hand still on the latch.

  He was asleep, his fair hair dirty against the pillow and his face still smeared with the smoke of battle. They had removed his clothing, but a grubby silver grey sash, stained with blood, was twisted around his shoulder and upper arm, and he had pushed the covers down to his waist. He looked, relaxed in slumber, not much older than his son, Francis, and Anne felt tears fill her eyes at the sheer relief of seeing the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  She stepped back very quietly out of the room and turned to the maid to give her instructions. The girl, a comely young woman of about her own age with thick red hair and a mass of freckles, went quickly to do her bidding and Anne went quietly downstairs to find Lieutenant Beaumaris.

  "He's here. Mr Beaumaris, will you find Major Swanson and tell him where I am. And then, I think, you should return to his lordship; he may have need of you and with the brigade here, I shall be well taken care of. Please thank Lord Wellington for his message and for lending you to me, I can never be grateful enough to both of you. Tell him I shall take care of the colonel and instruct him - and make sure he understands it is an order - that he is to take care of himself."

  Beaumaris kissed her hand. "I will, ma'am. Please give my best regards to the colonel when he is well enough."

  "Thank, you, Mr Beaumaris."

  Upstairs, Anne crossed the room and drew up a chair beside the bed. Paul was stirring restlessly, and as she sat down, he seemed to feel pain suddenly and opened his eyes, wincing. For a moment he lay very still and then he said:

  "Nan."

  Anne shifted onto the bed and bent to kiss him. "Keep still," she said. "I've sent for water and clean linen. What on earth were they about, to leave that filthy makeshift bandage on, somebody is going to hear about that. Is it very painful; you're so pale? Oh love - you frightened me half to death."

  Paul reached out with his good arm and took her hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't send that message, Wellington did. Some fool from the cavalry who came through early heard I was badly hurt but didn't stay for more information. Poor Wellington left the front and rode back himself expecting to find me dead or dying. He'd already sent to you before he found out."

  "Is he still here?"

  "No, he had to get back, they're chasing the French, he only stayed an hour. Did he send Beaumaris?"

  "Yes." Anne rose as the maid entered, balancing a big jug of steaming water which she set on the wash stand. "Let's get you clean and settled and you may tell me everything while I look at that wound."

  Anne found three wounds, still sluggishly bleeding but held surprisingly well by Manson's makeshift dressing. One was very deep, almost to the bone, and she could tell by Paul's rigid body how much it hurt as she carefully cleaned it. The other two were more superficial but ragged and it took a long time to stitch them. Anne had brought brandy with her medical kit and clean clothing for him. She had closed her mind as she packed, to the thought that she might be laying him out instead of treating him.

  Anne encouraged him to tell his story as she worked, as a distraction from the pain. Finally it was done and he lay back looking exhausted but happier, the blue eyes on her face.

  "Better?"

  "Much. Thank you, Nan. And for not yelling at me."

  "I'd never yell at you when you're this feeble, Paul, it's not a fair contest. And what's the point? I can see you're upset."

  Paul did not speak for a while. Anne poured more brandy and tidied the room while he sipped it, his eyes still watching her. Finally she came back to sit beside him and took his hand.

  "What is it, Paul?"

  "It was my fault," Paul said abruptly. "All of it. I think sixty-eight men died because I made mistakes that a junior lieutenant would be ashamed of. And then to make it worse I nearly got myself and Carter and Hammond killed over a bloody trophy. Nan, I think I did this."

  Anne had known it was coming. Her husband usually had a remarkable ability to recover from the vicissitudes of battle; it was one of the things that marked out most of the best commanders but something was clearly bothering him on this occasion and Anne knew he would not be helped by platitudes.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "When we reached the edge of town there were no sentries. Not a sight of a Spanish soldier anywhere. I should have realised right then that something was badly wrong. I should have kept them back, found cover out of sight of the road, put them on the alert and sent scouts to find out what was going on. If I'd done that, we wouldn't have had to fight at all."

  Anne suspected he was probably right. "Why didn't you?" she asked.

  "Because I got sloppy. I thought Wellington had sent me on a wild goose chase, I was pissed off that we'd been left sitting around in reserve. And because I made the assumption, like the rest of the British, that the Spanish were quite capable of not bothering to set sentries properly. What an arrogant piece of stupidity. I should have had skirmishers going through the town and instead I let them have a picnic while I went for a stroll."

  Anne said nothing; she could think of nothing to say. Paul was lying back with his eyes open, looking at the ceiling. Eventually, Anne raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.

  "Love, I'm so sorry, you must feel terrible."

  Paul turned his head to look at her and managed a slightly lopsided smile which broke her heart. "I feel like shit," he said. "And it's nothing to do with my shoulder, although that bloody hurts as well. Jack Kent...you never met Christa. She's Danish and she was very young when they married. Like Harry Smith, he'd taken her to bed about twenty four hours after they met. Her father was the local parson, a good man. He wanted them married, and it was a good thing, she gave birth almost nine months to the day. At the time I felt a bit sorry for Jack, I thought he'd been neatly trapped by a flighty girl who'd used him to escape from a boring life in a tiny village." Paul gave a little laugh. "I still think I was right about that part, Christa would have married any one of my officers who gave her the chance, she wanted out of there. But I grew to admire her over the years. She may have married for practical reasons, but once she'd done it, she entered into it wholeheartedly. She set out to be the best wife she could possibly be, and within a couple of years they were wholly devoted. They've two children, I'm godfather to the eldest. They named him after me. I need to write to her."
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  "You can do it when you've rested," Anne said gently. "I'm so sorry, Paul. What happened with Hammond and Carter?"

  Paul looked at her and then laughed again, properly. Suddenly he looked better, as though telling her had lightened the burden. "I'm scared to tell you," he said.

  "If you don't, I'll get it out of them."

  "I know. All right, just don't hit me, I'm very fragile."

  Anne listened in indignant silence. When he had finished, she said:

  "Paul, what possessed you? You don't even care about such things. You must have gone mad."

  "I think I did. God knows, Nan. I'd like to be able to tell you, but I can't. Bloody thing. The men are overjoyed, they see it as a triumph for the 110th. I see it as a piece of idiocy that is going to put me to the blush for a very long time. I am sorry, love."

  "So you should be. If they'd come back and told me you'd got yourself killed chasing an eagle, I'd never have forgiven you." Anne leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and then on the mouth. "Don't do it again," she said severely.

  "I promise."

  "What can I do to help, Paul?"

  Her husband laughed. "Bless you for not trying to offer me soothing platitudes, Nan. I want to talk to my officers - the senior ones anyway. They'll all know how badly I buggered this up although none of them will say it to me. I need to apologise."

  "Is that wise?"

  Paul smiled. "Well bloody Wellington wouldn't do it, that's for sure," he said. "Nan - it's the way I've always worked. I'm not going to sit down with the men and talk it through with them and I can't afford to speak to the junior officers. It'll frighten the life out of them to think their commander doesn't know what the hell he's doing. But I need to talk to the others. They'll understand."

  "Paul, I know you'll do what's right," Anne said gently. "And the right thing for you is to take responsibility for this. It's your job. But here, in this room, I'm going to tell you that it is a responsibility that should be shared. You do not run your brigade like an autocrat, every one of your senior officers knows that if they tell you you're wrong, you'll listen to them. I'm guessing nobody did."