by Lynn Bryant
"Give me ten minutes, sir."
Paul sat quietly beside Hooker, holding his hand. The man was silent now, although Paul could feel his pain in the tension of his hand. Within ten minutes there was a soft hail.
"Over here, sir. We've borrowed a handcart."
"Well done, Smithy. Private Wheeler, let's get him up."
With the wounded man removed, Paul went back to his companies. It was still full dark and he settled down, the pain still there, although somehow it was easier now. He rested, without sleeping, until dawn began to send silvery streaks across the inky black sky.
Dawn, and then full daylight, brought a new problem. The early sun lit up the astonishing spectacle of an audience. The citizens of Madrid, some of whom had probably not been to sleep from the previous night's celebrations, began to throng the streets close to the Retiro, ready to watch the attack on the interior lines. Others appeared on the roofs and balconies of nearby houses. Paul, trying to call his men into order to storm the breach in the wall, surveyed the area in complete astonishment.
"Jesus bloody Christ, we need the light division amateur theatrical group over here, it'd be the biggest audience they ever got. And probably the most appreciative. Where's Lord Wellington, has he seen this sideshow? Can we get them cleared out? If the French decide to make a fight of this, people are going to get hurt. Major Swanson, we need to send a message down."
It took thirty minutes for the reply to come, a brief and clearly exasperated message from Wellington. Paul read it and looked up at Carl.
"Apparently he's made representations to the town council, but people aren't willing to leave," he said. "I feel my patience diminishing, which is never good."
An enormous cheer greeted the manoeuvring of three companies of the seventh division into position. The British soldiers echoed the cheers with a response of their own, drowning Sergeant Carter's shouted orders to his men about their position. Carter took a deep breath and looked over at Paul.
"This is bloody chaos," he said. "They're dopey bastards in there, mind, I'd have opened fire by now."
"If they've got any sense they'll surrender and hope we can get them out of here alive," Paul said grimly. "They're not getting past our lads, but even if they did, these people will tear them to pieces. Why the hell did Joseph leave them here?"
"Making a point, sir," Captain Manson said. "He might have left his capital but he didn't leave it undefended."
"Two thousand men against the entire army isn't a defence, it's a present."
Another enormous cheer swelled the crowd and Paul swore fluently. "Carter, get them moving over to the right. Use hand signals if you need to. Any trouble with them, I'll kick their arses personally. I don't...ah look, we've company."
Lord Wellington was approaching, making his way with some difficulty through the crowded streets, two young ADCs trying hard to make a path for him with their horses. Paul waited several minutes to be very sure that Wellington had got the point about the difficulties of conducting operations with a crowd of civilian spectators. When he suspected that his chief was on the verge of laying about him with a riding whip, he called over to Sergeant Hammond.
"Sergeant, get over there and clear a path for his Lordship, will you?"
Hammond was wearing his most deadpan expression. He saluted. "Right away, sir."
Paul dropped his voice. "Don't make it look too easy, Sergeant."
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
Wellington's horse emerged finally from the throng which were being neatly held back by the 110th and Paul saluted his chief with a pleasant smile.
"Morning, sir, come to see the show? I think they can find you space over on that balcony, and I must say I like the look of the pretty dark haired lass on the end, see if you can squeeze in next to her."
"I will remember to mention to your wife how observant you are when she's not around," Wellington said smoothly, reining in and dismounting. "Do not think that I am unaware of how long it took you to intervene there. Have you had a good night?"
"No," Paul said briefly. His attention had been caught by a movement up at the fort, and he shielded his eyes from the brilliant early sun. "Is that...?"
"A white flag. I think so," Wellington said. "I wonder if we might be able to avoid bloodshed after all? Signal that we will meet with them, Colonel. Let's see if we can put an end to this."
The messenger was a young officer in a dusty uniform who looked as though he had slept as badly as Paul had. He spoke fairly good English, which was presumably why he had been chosen, but Wellington chose to conduct the negotiations in French. There were the usual civilities. Wellington introduced both his ADCs and Paul, and led Captain Girard to a small wooden table and chairs which Captain O'Reilly had managed to produce from a cafe opposite along with a jug of lemonade and cups. The captain accepted the hospitality formally and then drank at a pace which gave Paul a piece of information that he should not have had. Having drained his cup, Girard put it down, caught Paul's eye and realised his error. Paul smiled faintly.
"Captain Girard, have some more," he said, reaching to pour. "You seem thirsty. It's very good. Captain O'Reilly?"
"Sir?"
"Will you go to the lemonade shop and get a bottle of this for the captain to take back in to General Lafon-Blaniac, when he goes. After all, we've plenty more, no need to go thirsty."
"Yes, sir," O'Reilly said easily. Paul could sense Wellington's amusement but he said nothing. Instead he addressed the young officer.
"Have you been given terms, Captain Girard?"
"The governor has asked me to inform you, my Lord, that should your men attack, he will regrettably have no option but to open fire on the city, with great loss of life."
"We all wish to avoid such desperate measures," Wellington said gravely. "Naturally, your general must do as he sees fit, but I hope we can come to a better arrangement. Should your general slaughter the citizens of Madrid, we will have to evacuate as quickly as possible. Eventually you will run out of ammunition and then we will take the citadel. My concern is that we will be unable to restrain the people of Madrid from taking their revenge on your men."
"We have a good deal of ammunition, my Lord."
Paul was studying the young officer. Girard could not have been more than twenty-four or five and Paul thought that in the governor's place he would have sent an older man with more experience. Girard betrayed his thoughts too easily on his open countenance; he would never have made a card player.
"That's interesting," Paul said pleasantly. "How much powder do you have, Captain? And where is it stored?"
Girard flushed and Paul shook his head. "Nice try, lad," he said very gently. "You're a good soldier and I've got a feeling your general is too, which means he isn't going to fire a cannon which might blow up two thousand of his own men. Just now, my men are bringing up our own artillery. If I see you moving those guns into position, we'll fire first and you're going to go up like a November firework display. You've said your piece. Now drink some more, you've been on rationed water for a day or two, I'd say, and his Lordship will tell you our terms. After that, my men will escort you back and you can put them before the governor."
Paul stood beside Wellington, watching the young officer walk back to the fort. "Do you think they will accept, Colonel?" Wellington asked.
"You've offered surrender with the full honours of war, the officers can keep their swords, horses and baggage and the men their packs. He'll jump at it, he'd be mad not to, sir."
Wellington shot him a sideways glance. "You're a better negotiator than I had expected, Colonel," he said. "I shall remember that for the future."
"Always glad when you get the chance to add to my list of duties, sir," Paul said placidly. "That lemonade was good. I wonder if they do food, I've not had breakfast yet."
"I do not think that is likely to be a problem, Colonel," Wellington said. Paul looked and saw that some of the crowd were coming forward with baskets, offering food to
his men. Captain Manson looked over at Paul enquiringly and Paul nodded.
"You can stand them down for a while, Captain," he said. "It will take some time before we get an answer, I imagine. Put sentries on the gates, mind, I don't want them wandering out of the gardens and finding a tavern, just in case they're needed."
It took several hours and two more conversations with Captain Girard for the surrender to be agreed. Paul watched the garrison emerge. He had seen more than one garrison surrender. Some were relieved, others were desperate. Many of these men were angry. They had been instructed to leave their muskets and ammunition on the glacis outside the fort. Paul watched as they lined up and there was a sudden commotion as some of the men began to bang the weapons hard on the ground, trying to knock off the butt end to make them unusable. Paul saw Sergeant-Major Carter move forward swiftly, motioning to some of the 110th. The French troops resisted briefly, backing up the glacis and continuing their pointless attempt at sabotage. Carter ordered his men forward and the French were firmly but sympathetically disarmed.
Lord Wellington had ordered up a contingent of Spanish guerrillas to escort the French prisoners out of the city. Paul understood that it was intended as a compliment to the Spanish people and he understood the need to allow a nation whose pride had been trampled carelessly by Napoleon's troops to participate in their own liberation. At the same time, he felt a twist of discomfort, standing next to Wellington, watching the Spanish march the prisoners away. "Sir, General Lafon-Blaniac's request was fairly clear. He asked for English troops to escort his men to Bilbao, for the transports to England."
"I did not agree to that, Colonel. I require my troops here, in case they are needed. Besides, the Spanish have a right to be involved."
Paul glanced over at his chief. "I don't trust them," he said bluntly. Wellington gave him a sideways look.
"Would that have anything to do with Alba de Tormes, Colonel?" he enquired, genially.
"No, sir. That was a military blunder and I was as much to blame as anybody else," Paul said, keeping his voice even. "This is a matter of humanity. I don't trust them."
"I have given my orders to the Spanish guards, Colonel. I expect them to be obeyed."
Paul studied his commander. "I hope they are, sir," he said, neutrally. "Permission to stand the men down?"
"Permission granted, Colonel." Wellington studied Paul with thoughtful eyes. "May I suggest you take tomorrow off?"
"Thank you, sir. And for the warning. If I look that bad, I should probably try to avoid my wife for a bit."
Paul found Anne in their room. She appeared to be halfway through dressing for dinner but had abandoned the task and was curled up on the enormous four poster bed reading a depressing looking volume in French, wearing nothing but her shift and with her hair loose around her shoulders. Paul closed the door and stood watching her. After a moment she looked up, breaking into a smile.
"I didn't hear you. How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to appreciate the view," Paul said, coming forward to kiss her. "Are you supposed to be taking that garment on or off?"
He reached for the laces at the front of Anne's shift and his wife laughed and batted him away. "Not in the state you're in, Colonel, you look half dead. Come and sit down and I'll call Jenson to get some hot water. And a brandy might be an idea."
She moved towards the door and Paul scooped her back. "Not like that you don't, half the regiment is wandering the corridors trying to remember which room they're in; this place is enormous. I'll call him."
"Will you ask him if Keren is around, to help with my hair?" Anne asked as he went to the door.
"I will. She will probably be found tucked up with the commander of my first battalion, but I expect she'll oblige. You need a new maid, Nan."
"Oh, not again," Anne said, picking up the book.
"We will discuss it another time. Put that down or you'll get distracted again. What is it anyway?"
"It's a book I've been wanting for a long time, written by a French surgeon, specifically about battle wounds. It's fascinating. I asked my brother to get me a copy; it's taken him forever, but it arrived today. I think the post has been chasing us around, there's a mountain of it, including about eight letters in the same handwriting for Captain Manson. I took those to him myself, just to watch him blush."
"You're a wicked woman, Anne van Daan. Put something on before Jenson gets here, would you? It's not fair on the man."
Anne laughed and went to retrieve her robe which was thrown across an elegant chair before the fireplace. "You're getting very respectable, Colonel. Is it over?"
"Yes, they surrendered, thank God. They're on their way to Bilbao, to prison transports. I'm just a bit worried about them getting there alive with a Spanish escort." Paul opened the door and raised his voice "Jenson! Where the devil are you, have you got lost?"
He turned back into the room and Anne removed her hands from her ears. "Bilbao, you say?" she said pleasantly. "I imagine the citizens heard you as clearly as Jenson did."
***
Simon Carlyon presented himself at the Marina Palace promptly, feeling ridiculously nervous, and was conducted through what seemed like acres of corridors to a spacious dining room. He was trying not to look around him like a country bumpkin at the annual fair but it was impossible. Soaring painted ceilings and elegant plaster mouldings gazed down upon tall mirrors and enormous paintings in gilt frames. The furnishings looked in remarkably good condition. Simon had been billeted in a variety of palaces in India, but he was astonished to find this in a country so beset by war and poverty. It appeared that Bonaparte's supporters had done very well under his brother's rule and Simon was not surprised that they had fled the city.
He was greeted by his colonel's wife, beautiful in a simple yellow gown with dainty blue embroidery which looked as though it had cost a fortune. Anne held out her hand.
"Simon, it's so good to see you - welcome. Have you got a crick in your neck looking upwards yet? We're all doing it; Captain Manson and Mr Ashford walked into each other this morning."
Simon laughed aloud. "I have," he admitted. "This place is astonishing. It's huge."
"It is. We usually struggle for accommodation, but we are able to house all the brigade officers here, since the rest of the light division are billeted elsewhere. We've separated the regimental messes though, it's too much work to cater for that many people, and it makes it too formal. We have this central wing, the 112th are in the east wing and the 115th are in the west, along with the Portuguese and the German officers. It is very worldly of me, I know, but I do hope we are here for some weeks, it is a long time since I lived anywhere this comfortable."
Simon bowed over her hand. He appreciated her artless way of informing him that he was unlikely to accidentally run into Colonel Johnny Wheeler.
"I hope so too," he said. "It is good of you to invite me, ma'am. I have a comfortable billet myself in the city with a very nice family who run a bookshop, but it is nothing to this."
"Come as often as you wish," Anne said. "We do have another guest whom I think you will be pleased to see. Mr Witham, will you see that Mr Carlyon has a drink?"
She moved on to speak to somebody else and Simon saw Nicholas Witham holding out a glass of wine. He smiled and took it.
"I'm not sure if I'm supposed to salute you," Nicholas said. "Company commander, I hear?"
Simon laughed and touched his glass to Nicholas'. "It's only temporary," he said. "Hewson will be back in a month or two. Although I have been asked if I want to stay on as his lieutenant."
"I'd a horrible feeling you were going to say that," Nicholas said. "Are you going to?"
"I honestly don't know, Nick. It's a good chance, and I like the 94th, some good lads. But it's not the same as this." Simon looked around the room. "I miss it," he said, abruptly. "Didn't think I would, but I do. You get used to it very quickly."
"I know. I have."
"I've got some time
to think about it, General Pakenham is of the opinion that we'll be here for a month or so, at least. He's not all that well at the moment, some kind of recurring fever, apparently."
"I'm sorry to hear that; he did a fine job in the battle, by all accounts."
"He really did."
"You weren't injured?"
"No, but it was bloody on both sides. I'm glad to see you in one piece, Nicholas, I gather you had rather more excitement than expected?"
Nicholas pulled a face. "I think that's the closest I've come to dying," he said. "We were lucky that Marshal Foy arrived and ordered them back. They might have been beaten but there were more than enough to overrun our brigade. Come on, they're calling dinner and I'm starving."
Seated between Nicholas and Captain Manson, Simon found the officers of the 110th keen to hear his account of the battle. They bombarded him with intelligent questions and talked of their own action at Alba de Tormes. Manson, who had friends in several other regiments, described the French counter-attack on the fourth and sixth divisions which had come dangerously close to succeeding. Almost half the Allied losses had come from those two divisions.
"They held on though," Donald Elliott said. "Cole and Leith were both wounded. And wasn't Cotton on the injured list as well?"
"Yes," Manson said.
"Bloody shame about Le Marchant," Captain Zouch said. "Did you see him go down, Carlyon?"
"No, although I saw his first attack. It was like something out of a training exercise, the French didn't stand a chance, his men just cut through them. Half of them ran to us to surrender, we were busy taking prisoners. I didn't even realise that he was dead until afterwards."
"The French didn't do that well either," Manson said. "Marmont and Bonet wounded, Ferey killed."
"I heard the colonel was pretty bad," Simon said.
"He was," Manson said, and his tone told Simon more than his words. "I thought for a while...but he's recovered very well."