An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  Manson glanced at Colonel Wheeler, who appeared lost in thought. "Any idea what this is about, sir?" he asked.

  "Not really, although I'm wondering if we have orders, finally," Wheeler said. "All the colonel said in his note was that he'd been for a meeting with General Alten, and that he'd heard from both Wellington and Hill."

  "I wonder if the siege is going any better?" Manson said, and Wheeler pulled an expressive face.

  "The colonel isn't optimistic," he said, and grinned as Manson's expression. "And I know how much he complains about any kind of siege warfare, but I think it's more than that."

  Leaving their horses at the stables, Wheeler and Manson went up the steps and into the house. Corporal Jenson appeared and saluted.

  "They're in the library, Colonel. Morning, Captain."

  The company was already assembled as Manson and Wheeler walked in. Looking around him, Manson knew immediately that this was more than one of the colonel's routine meetings. The senior officers of every battalion in the brigade was present, including Lt-Colonel Frasco and Lt-Colonel Huber, who had recently been appointed to command the Portuguese and KGL battalions. Manson was by far the most junior officer present and he could see Huber looking over at him in some surprise. Jenson was pouring wine for them, and Paul indicated that Wheeler and Manson should sit. Manson accepted his glass wondering if Huber was about to say something, but before he could do so, the door opened and Anne came into the room. She bestowed a smile on the assembled officers and went to her desk, reaching for paper and her ink pot.

  "Good morning, gentlemen. You've probably guessed that we've both orders and news and I'm going to share both with you; I like my senior officers to know what's going on and why."

  Huber raised his hand slightly. "Your pardon, Colonel, but I do not think that Captain Manson is a senior officer."

  Manson closed his eyes but not soon enough to miss the freezing look that his colonel turned upon the unfortunate German. "Thank you, Colonel Huber, you're very perceptive, I would not have noticed. Captain Manson is here as my unofficial ADC since I can't be bothered to employ any actual ADCs. And also because I want him here. Before you take the trouble to point out that my wife is also present, I have asked her to make notes; since she'll be writing up the orders anyway."

  Manson looked over at Anne. Her shining dark head was bent industriously over her work and Manson looked away, knowing that she was hiding laughter. Colonel Huber did not look comfortable. Manson hardly knew the new KGL commander, he was probably not quite thirty, and along with Frasco, had been given a brevet rank from another division because Paul had wanted his KGL and Portuguese troops to be commanded by one of their own. He had also promoted Captains Withers and March to brevet-major as second-in-command to the two new men.

  Huber appeared to have fallen into a stunned silence. Paul ran his eyes over his assembled officers.

  "I've just come back from a meeting with General Alten. He's received orders from General Hill that the light division is to march out to join him at first light; it appears the French may be about to march on Madrid, so Hill wants all his troops. He's leaving the Spanish to garrison Madrid and is not moving out the baggage train. Ideally, we'll all be back here and settled in for winter quarters if things go well."

  Johnny Wheeler was studying his colonel from shrewd grey eyes. "Is it going to go well, sir?"

  "No," Paul said baldly. "Lord Wellington's siege is going badly wrong. I've been in regular correspondence, not only with him, but with several friends with his army. They've lost far too many men, they don't have enough guns and it has taken too long. General Hill is hoping to be able to defend the Tagus, but if the French have the numbers we think, he isn't going to be able to do it."

  "Do you think we're going to have to retreat, sir?" Major Swanson asked.

  Paul nodded. "Yes. Although I could be wrong, I often am. But given one or two previous experiences of retreat, I have decided not to take any chances. We'll march tomorrow but I'm leaving Major Breakspear with a small staff. Along with my wife, he is going to spend his time sourcing supplies and transport for a retreat. If they're not needed, I'll be very happy. If they are, we will be ahead of the undignified scramble in search of mules, food and anything else we'll need for the march. They'll organise a baggage train as if we are going. If we're not, we can all settle down again."

  "Have you had orders to do this, Colonel?" Huber enquired. Manson felt himself cringe internally. His colonel looked at the German and Manson saw Paul considering verbal annihilation and then deciding against it.

  "You'll all receive detailed written orders within a few hours. Any questions?"

  There was silence. Paul stood up. "Best get them moving, gentlemen," he said soberly.

  The following weeks reminded Manson of his first campaign in the army, chasing Marshal Massena out of Portugal. He remembered long exhausting marches, poor weather and the abiding sense that he had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it. The feeling had faded during skirmishes and battle, where he had discovered, to his surprise, a genuine talent for both fighting and leadership.

  Since then, he had occupied a privileged position as Paul van Daan's very unofficial ADC which meant that he was often included in conversations and given information not available to other junior officers. Nothing had changed in his relationship with the colonel; the problem was that the colonel knew as little as he did.

  There were a series of pointless marches; several days spent in the attractive city of Alcala, then a march to Arganda followed by a miserable night march back to Alcala. Colonel van Daan, who had never been ill in the entire time that Manson had known him, had developed a head cold, which left him in a foul temper. His men walked on tiptoe and his officers accepted his snappiness with affectionate resignation.

  Hill's army, falling back on Madrid and preparing for a general retreat, was joined by a force under Colonel Skerrett from Cadiz. Manson was in Colonel van Daan's tent one damp evening, drinking wine and listening to his commanding officer sneeze, when Corporal Jenson appeared at the tent flap.

  "Sir, someone to see you."

  "Do I look as though I wish to see anybody, Jenson?" Paul demanded thickly. "Tell them I have something fatal and send them away."

  "I can't do that, sir," Jenson said in soothing tones. "It's a Major Mallory of the 95th, just arrived from Cadiz. He has orders for you."

  Paul made a sound which was suspiciously like a growl. "If I'm being sent to Cadiz, I am selling out," he said with finality. "Send him in, Jenson."

  Major Mallory was probably in his late twenties with brown hair, dressed in an old-fashioned queue, and a pair of bright blue eyes. He saluted and handed Paul a letter. Paul opened it and Manson got up and quietly brought wine for the major, as well as filling his colonel's glass. He had thought that he was being inconspicuous but Paul turned his head and gave him a look.

  "Are you trying to make me pass out?" he demanded.

  "No, sir, I doubt if it would work. But I did hope it would help you sleep better."

  "I can't sleep if I can't breathe." Paul surveyed the letter and lifted surprised brows. "Major Mallory, it appears you are joining my brigade."

  "Yes, sir. Five companies of the 95th. I understand you already command two."

  "No, I have one. I had two, but we lost so many at Badajoz that I had to combine them. You're very welcome, Major. You clearly know who I am; let me introduce you. This is Colonel Wheeler of the 112th, Major Swanson of the 110th first battalion, Captain Manson of the 110th light company and Captain O'Reilly of the 112th light company. They're all here drinking with me because I have a cold and they feel sorry for me. Where are your lads now?"

  "They're bivouacked about two miles east, sir."

  "In the open?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Sorry about that, it's bloody cold. They'd best stay there now though and we'll send orders in the morning when we get them. It's an odd time to be joining us but you're very welco
me to the brigade. Now take a seat and tell me what's been going on in Cadiz, it'll take my mind off my headache."

  ***

  The Allied army bid farewell to Madrid on the last day of October, having blown up the remaining stores in the Retiro. Thanks to the frantic efforts of a number of British officers, including Major Breakspear of the 110th, at least some of the stores were removed and distributed to the poor of Madrid before the old buildings were destroyed. Hill's army, having fought several skirmishes with the approaching French, moved out in two sections, towards the mountains of the Guadarrama. The light division remained to cover the final troops leaving the city, and Simon Carlyon marched out with a sense of failure that he was not sure he would ever be able to forget. He could remember with unhappy clarity the joyous scenes of the army's entry into the city. On their retreat, the citizens stood silent and miserable, shouting the occasional insult. Some were in tears, entreating the British officers as they mounted their horses, not to leave them to the mercies of the returning French.

  Simon had not seen Valentina again, but she was in his mind as he rode away from the city. He was fairly sure that her husband had been as enthusiastic a collaborator with the French as he was with the English and he thought she would be safe from the invaders. Her safety from her husband was another matter and Simon awoke at night with her pleading eyes before him and wished he had never been to Madrid.

  Wellington had signalled a general retreat, hoping to join up with Hill in the vicinity of Salamanca once more. The retreat was orderly and well organised although the weather was beginning to deteriorate into the gloomy rains of autumn. Simon attended to his duties and played cards with Witham and several other officers in the lamplight during the evenings. He saw little of his brigade commander, who had been taken firmly in hand by his wife and was on restricted duties until his persistent cough had eased.

  General Hill led his depressed army north towards the mountains, with the cavalry covering his retreat. They bivouacked for two nights in the Escurial park, and a few of the officers rode out to look at the beautiful Renaissance buildings which included a monastery, a royal palace, a church, a college and a library, constructed around a huge quadrangle and surrounded by gardens, parkland and woodland. Some of the officers had ridden out to visit the Escurial during their time in Madrid. Simon had not and he wished now that he had made the time.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it? Although very plain. Somehow I thought it would be more elaborate."

  Simon turned to find Keren Trenlow bringing her horse to stand beside him. Despite his sense of depression, Simon could not help but smile. He had taken a great liking to Keren during their time in Madrid, although he had found it difficult at first to know how to behave towards her. Simon had had past dealings with members of the muslin company but the social situation had always been very clear. Here the lines were very blurred, and Anne van Daan treated Keren as a companion, completely ignoring her irregular relationship with Carl Swanson. Initially, Simon had found it awkward, but he had grown used to it and admitted to himself that he had developed something of a tendre for Major Swanson's pretty young mistress. He found her voice particularly attractive; it was deep, for a woman, with a rich west country accent.

  "I think I did as well," Simon responded. "Nothing like some of the palaces in Madrid. I suppose it's a religious building as well."

  "Oh, I doubt that made a difference, you'll have seen how gaudy some of the churches are. In truth, I wonder that they can concentrate on God at all in them; I'd be too busy admiring the stained glass or staring up at the ceiling to remember my prayers."

  Simon laughed aloud. "You're not an admirer of grand church architecture then, Miss Trenlow?"

  Keren shot him a smile. "I wasn't much in the way of seeing it as I grew up, although there's a fine church in Truro. But my Da was a Methodist, so we met in local cottages and only went to church when we had to. I do love all the statues and paintings, but my favourite kind of church is small and quiet and smells of incense and dust and old age. There should be memories in a church, not gold plate."

  Simon was taken aback and then ashamed of his surprise. There was no reason why a girl from a miner's cottage should be any less insightful than a woman raised in luxury and he wondered how many other women like Keren Trenlow existed in a world he knew little about.

  "Are you flirting with my girl, Mr Carlyon?"

  Major Swanson's tone was good-natured but Simon flushed slightly, knowing himself guilty as charged. "We were talking about the architecture of the buildings," he said.

  "Well that's an excuse I've not heard before. Are you getting cold, Keren? Apparently the monks are offering spiced wine before we ride back to camp, Nan has already taken the colonel over there. I hope he gets over this soon, it's not like him to be unwell."

  They arrived back in camp to the smell of food cooking. When the army first took possession of a camp ground, it habitually disturbed the local wildlife, and the third brigade had been delighted to discover that the park was full of hares. There had been a flurry of activity as the animals started up in alarm, to catch as many as possible, often using their hats as improvised nets. It had clearly been an excellent hunt. Simon dismounted at the edge of the 115th lines and handed his horse to Reynolds. Nicholas Witham was coming towards him; he had visited the Escurial with Manson and some of the others while in Madrid and had chosen to stay in camp.

  "That smells good," Simon said. "I hope there's enough for the officers."

  "The officers are dining on roast boar tonight," Nicholas said grandly. "We had a bit of a windfall, although it was almost a disaster."

  "Windfall?"

  "We had the usual crop of hares this morning, and then we heard the most awful racket from up in the lines of the 52nd; I thought the French had caught up with us. Either that or the hares had turned feral and were fighting back. Turns out that the park is full of wild boars as well as hares, and several of them came thundering through the lines. It was bloody chaos; some poor bugger from the 52nd ended up flying through the air and then getting trampled on, he's black and blue."

  "Jesus, he was luck it wasn't worse, they're nasty bastards when they're cornered, I've hunted them in India," Simon said. "So what happened, wasn't the 52nd quick enough?"

  "They were; they speared two of them with bayonets, but the other two got past them and went straight through the Rifles, they must all have dozed off. Fortunately our company hadn't put their muskets on stand properly, they were lying around in the grass, they were onto them in a minute and caught one, hence our supper. The other one made it as far as the lines of the 110th and no further."

  "Well thank God, I'm starving. Did you speak to the men?"

  "I've told them that roast boar is the only reason they're not up on a charge, the idle bastards, but next time I'm taking the kill and writing them up as well."

  Simon grinned. He had been slightly surprised at how well Nicholas Witham managed discipline. Initially he had wondered if Witham's reserved manner and quiet voice would make it hard for him, but Nicholas had a natural authority and did not seem to struggle at all.

  Simon was grateful for the excellent meal, as the army marched at dawn, up into the mountains. The ascent into the Guadarrama was a steep three hour climb, a distance of around four miles. It was slow going, although not as bad as it might have been, due to the excellence of the royal road, which was able to take not only men and horses, but the baggage wagons and cannon without any difficulties.

  The southern side of the mountain range was rocky and bare, with little vegetation, but scaling the top and coming over to the north side, the countryside was green. Rocky outcrops were surrounded by lush grass and thick belts of fir trees. It was misty at the top, and very cold. Simon stopped to pull on his heavy army greatcoat, looking back over the long column of Hill's army and remembered how differently he had felt on the march towards Madrid.

  "Are you all right, Mr Carlyon?"

  Simon jumpe
d visibly and then felt stupid. He turned to salute Colonel Wheeler, who had reined in beside him. "Yes, sir. Sorry, just a bit cold."

  "I'm not surprised, I gave in and put mine on as soon as we reached the top, I think I'm getting old. General Hill has ordered a halt in three miles, our scouts tell us there's a stream and good shelter under the trees. Will you take the order through your battalion, please?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There's an additional order from Colonel van Daan. He wants all horses and pack animals to be given the opportunity to graze as much as possible; nobody is to touch the feed we're transporting. Grazing is good up here, he wants to make the most of it and save the feed until it's really needed."

  "Yes, sir."

  Simon watched as Wheeler rode off. He was struck suddenly by the normality of the conversation. Several months ago he would have been both upset and angry after even such a casual exchange with Wheeler, but his anger had gone. Simon thought that it was made easier by the older man's quiet manner; Wheeler did not have the kind of personality that stood out. Simon was reminded a little of Nicholas Witham, and he wished suddenly that he could have got to know Wheeler without the shadow of Robert's death hanging over them both.

  As the long march continued, the first casualties began to appear beside the road. Several mules seemed to have collapsed, and their owners were struggling to unload baggage. Three women were stumbling along, unable to keep up with the baggage trains of the leading regiments. One had a small child clinging to her hand, a white faced, skinny boy of around eight or nine. As Simon watched, to his horror, the woman suddenly dropped to her knees and fell forward.