by Lynn Bryant
Simon slowed to a walk, silently pleading with the woman to get up, but she did not move. The boy was on his knees, sobbing, shaking her. He looked blue with cold in thin jacket and trousers.
"What the hell do we do?" Nicholas Witham asked, and Simon realised he was also watching the small drama. "We can't just leave them."
"You've no choice, Mr Witham. We can't march at the pace of the camp followers; she probably shouldn't be here anyway," Captain Lewis said shortly. "Keep your eyes ahead. I don't even think she's one of ours."
"She is ours, sir," Simon said. "I think she's from the third division."
"Then she's not ours, is she, Lieutenant? This is the light division. If they can't look after their own, it's not our job."
Simon glued his eyes miserably on the column ahead, trying to shut out the child's sobs. He noticed two infantrymen jogging back along the roadside from the lines of the 112th. One of them paused and saluted, the other ran onwards to the fallen woman and Simon felt a surge of relief.
"Do you have a ticket to fall out, Private?" Lewis demanded.
"Yes, sir, from Captain O'Reilly. We've permission to take them down to the baggage wagons, apparently there's space."
"Let me see that ticket," Lewis said.
The man handed him a piece of paper. Lewis surveyed it and then shrugged. "All right, get on with it then."
Simon watched with considerable anxiety as the two men turned the woman over, feeling for a pulse. "She's alive," one said. "Help me get her up, Fletch."
"Not sure she can walk. All right, lad, calm down, your Mam just needs a ride for a bit. What regiment?"
"Da's in the 60th. A Rifleman." There was a ring of pride in the child's voice. "He don't know she fell; she couldn't keep up. Lost a baby four days ago, she's not well. Normally she's as strong as an ox. He don't know..."
"Course he don't, lad, he's up there doing his duty. We'll take care of you until he can. We need to get her to the wagons now."
There was an abrupt movement beside Simon and Nicholas Witham rode out of the line and over to the little group. "Can you pass her up to me, it'll be quicker? I can take her and the boy for that short distance."
Private Fletcher looked up gratefully, saluting. "Be very grateful, sir, thank you. Stand back a bit, lad, let's get your Mam up to the officer."
Simon watched, proud of Witham. With the woman and child balanced carefully in front of him, Witham rode off. He returned in fifteen minutes and fell back into place, saluting.
"Mr Witham, did I give you permission to fall out?" Lewis said very quietly.
"No, sir. Sorry, sir."
"If you do anything like that again, you bloody will be sorry. You're lucky I don't write you up for deserting your post, you arrogant young bastard. When we stop for the night, you're on picket duty."
"It's my turn, sir," Simon said.
"You have the night off, Mr Carlyon. I..." Lewis broke off as a rider approached, coming back down the column. "Ensign Cropley, have you orders?"
"Yes, sir. Colonel van Daan's compliments, we're to pick up any stragglers who collapse and get them to the baggage wagons. Mrs van Daan, Mrs Carter and Miss Trenlow are there, organising space for them and getting them something to eat."
"Oh for Christ's sake, is this a charity hospital?" Lewis exploded. "I'm sure that woman means well, but she'll have every malingerer in the army pretending to fall over at this rate."
Simon glanced at Nicholas then back at Ensign Cropley, who was about twenty with fair curly hair, wide blue eyes and an expression of permanent amiability. Simon had never seen Cropley look even remotely put out and he was surprised by the ferocious glare he was giving Captain Lewis.
"When you say, 'that woman' would you be referring to Colonel van Daan's wife, sir?"
Lewis looked uncomfortable. "Don't be impertinent, Ensign, or I'll put you on a charge."
"Yes, sir."
"I wasn't trying to insult Mrs van Daan," Lewis said. "Lovely woman. But she's a female, they don't understand the need to keep discipline, especially among the camp followers."
"Is that the message you want me to take back to the colonel, sir?"
"No, of course it bloody isn't. Message received and understood. Mr Witham, you are in charge of any rescues that are required. I hope you catch something from one of them."
Witham's bland expression almost overset Simon. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Cropley. Will you let Mrs van Daan know that Mr Carlyon and I are at her disposal if she needs any extra help?"
Cropley gave a broad grin. "Certainly will, sir. She'll be delighted."
Chapter Thirteen
It took Hill's men two days to cross the Sierra de Guadarrama, and by the time they reached the final descent, even the officers on horseback were beginning to feel tired. Paul had refused Anne's suggestion that he ride part of the way in the carriage. His cold had left him with an irritating cough and he was far more tired than usual which made the offer tempting but he wanted his men to see him at their head, where he should be; morale was low after leaving Madrid. He rode, instead, up and down the column, stopping to talk to some of the men in each battalion, and then riding down to his brigade baggage wagons where his wife was organising relief for those men, women and children who had fallen by the wayside. Some of them had been impossible to save, and Paul's men had dug a hasty grave on the first night, for two women, three men and a child. All of them had already been ill before the march.
One of them had been the woman that Witham had carried to the wagons. She had slipped away silently and Paul found his wife comforting her distraught husband when he came in search of her.
"What am I going to do about my boy?" he was sobbing. "He can't march up with me, he's too young. Not even old enough for a drummer boy and I don't know if he even gets rations now. Bad enough that we lost the baby, but I never thought Agnes would die. I feel like I killed her."
Paul came forward and sat down on the wagon steps next to the man. "You didn't kill her, lad, this retreat did. Have you spoken to your officer yet?"
"He says when we get into winter quarters he'll try and get him on a transport home. But there's nowhere to go, I've no family. Into the poorhouse most likely, or apprenticed to some bastard who can mistreat him." The rifleman appeared to have finally noticed Paul's rank. "Sorry, sir. I didn't..."
"Don't be a prat, Rifleman, I don't need a salute from a man in your state. Let's worry about winter quarters when we get there, shall we? For now, he can stay with us, Mrs Carter will take care of him and he can help her with the baby. What's your name?"
"Rifleman Bannan, sir. My boy is Charlie. He's eight." Bannan had stopped crying and was regarding Paul from reddened eyes. "Can he? Stay here? I'm afeared of what might happen on the march if he gets left behind and the French..."
"He won't," Anne said definitely. "Go and talk to him now, and then you'd best get back to your company. You can come and see him at any time you've got leave. We'll look after him."
General Hill's army descended from the mountains the following day. Hill was setting a faster pace, having been informed that the French were beginning to pursue in earnest. It was slightly warmer down towards the valley but with steady rainfall, and Paul coughed miserably for most of the march, snapped at his officers and men and almost precipitated another quarrel with his wife when he refused again to make use of her carriage.
"The intention was for you to use it, but I can see that's not happening," he said irritably. "If something happens to this child because you're too stubborn to admit you shouldn't be riding..."
"Are you about to issue a threat or an ultimatum, Colonel?" Anne said in ominous tones.
Paul capitulated. "No. I don't feel well enough to have a fight with you, Nan."
"Which tells me just how ill you're feeling."
"It's just a cold, bonny lass. And don't change the subject, I'm worried about you."
Anne shook her head, laughing. "Don't be. I promise I'll be sensible, but I'm fin
e to ride at the moment. Honestly, Paul, I'm actually feeling quite well. Tired, but we all are. If I need to, I will evict some of our patients; they'll be strong enough to walk for a bit after a rest."
Paul smiled tiredly. "I might join you at that point. What the hell is that?"
The quiet of the afternoon was rent by a yell of pure fury, followed by a flurry of shots. Paul swore and wheeled his horse around, taking off in the direction of the sounds which came from further up the column. He could hear his wife cantering behind him and wished he had told her to stay where she was.
Paul reined in as he came upon the source of the disturbance. Captain Leo Manson was off his horse, the reins looped around his arm. He was holding a pistol in his right hand, very steadily, and it was pointed at a group of men who looked like Spanish irregular troops. Beyond them were bodies on the ground, wearing blue coats.
"Oh Christ," Paul said. He swung down from his horse and turned to find his wife and his orderly behind him. "Jenson, take the horses. Nan, stay back."
Paul approached Captain Manson. "Stand down, Captain," he said quietly. "Lower your weapon, I rather think these are our allies here."
"No, sir. These are a bunch of murdering bastards who have just shot ten French prisoners in cold blood right in front of a marching British army, and I am waiting for them to tell me why."
Paul could hear the taut fury in Manson's voice. He had always known that Manson had a temper, but generally he had it very well under control. He had clearly lost it now. Paul looked over at the bodies. The Frenchmen were thin and emaciated, looking as though they had not been fed for days. Paul remembered the prisoners who had been shot on their way to Bilbao and felt the same impotent fury.
"Leo, don't," he said softly. "Put that away and go and see if any of them are still alive. If you don't, my wife will, and I'd rather she stayed back. Give your horse to Jenson."
Paul had known that the reference to Anne would work. After a long moment, Manson lowered the pistol and went to check the Frenchmen. Paul turned to the Spaniards.
"This will be reported to Lord Wellington," he said, in Spanish. "You will furnish me with your names and the unit you are attached to, I will write personally to your commanding officer, recommending that you are shot for murder. Certainly you will never serve under any British commander again."
"For shooting mad dogs?" the Spaniard said. "They wanted to die. They begged us to shoot them."
"Because you'd beaten them and half starved them. No..." Paul held up a hand as the Spaniard began to speak again. "I've no wish to hear it. Captain?"
"They're all dead, sir." Manson's voice was flat.
"All right. Will you send somebody up to the baggage wagons and retrieve some spades, please? Commandant...what did you say your name was?"
"Suarez."
"Commandant Suarez, you will give your names and unit to my orderly who will write them down. You will then dig a grave for these men and bury them properly. And in case you forget to do so, Captain Manson and I will remain with you to ensure you remember. I hope you can dig fast. If I feel that we are in danger of getting left too far behind, I will simply shoot you in the leg and leave you for the French to find alive. That might be justice."
***
Through days of cold, damp misery, Hill's troops marched north-west towards Salamanca. Once past the mountains, there were supplies available in some of the towns and villages. During his sojourn in Madrid, Paul had sent a request to his bankers in London for funds. Cash was in short supply until the army received its pay chest and Paul had wanted to ensure that he had enough to cover any shortage until Wellington badgered London into paying his wage bill. He was thankful that he had done so; the commissariat did its best, but Paul was able to send out his quartermasters in search of supplies with cash in their purses. He had told them to ask for receipts and hoped to recoup the money in time, but if he did not, it was still worth it. His men, trusting that he would see them fed, held discipline and refrained from looting when others did not.
Paul's men did not encounter the French, although letters from Wellington suggested that his troops had been harried for much of their retreat, fighting a series of rearguard actions. A day's march from Salamanca, the third brigade had invaded a small village of twenty or so houses and a church plus a substantial farmhouse, with a number of outbuildings. The rest of the light division had marched on into a more substantial town, but Paul was conscious of the number of camp followers he had acquired and wanted the space. He was also keen to conceal, as far as possible, the number of women and children who were crammed into wagons along with his sick and wounded men. Army regulations were clear about the position of women and those who could not keep up were left behind. Paul thought it very unlikely that Alten would make a point of it, given that his brigade had held discipline throughout the depressing retreat, but he did not wish the Hanoverian to be placed in a difficult position.
The brigade quartermasters moved quickly through the village, politely but firmly allocating space in every house to Paul's officers. Most of the inhabitants were resigned; a few, when told that the occupation would last for one night only, were welcoming, providing what food and drink they could to the tired, cold men of the third brigade. Rations were distributed and pickets posted and the brigade settled down for the night in more comfort than they had known for days.
The village priest had raised the most objections to seeing his church taken over. Paul had put the 110th in there, with their officers to ensure his men did not break up the wooden pews for firewood, and had commandeered the priest's house for himself and his senior officers. He and Anne had a tiny room at the back, but it had a bed and although the fireplace smoked horribly, it was at least warm. They joined the men for supper in the church, eating a somewhat rubbery stew made from goat meat and turnips which George Kelly had bought from some of the villagers. Paul had barely eaten a mouthful when Jenson appeared.
"Colonel Barnard to see you, sir."
Paul grinned. "I'll just bet he is," he said. "Come in, Colonel Barnard. Take a seat. The floor or a pew, but I'm sure you're not fussy. Finished your supper, have you?"
Barnard bowed to Anne. "Not yet," he said genially. "I was just on my way back to town now, but I thought I'd call in..."
Paul raised his voice. "Corporal Dawson, get some food for Colonel Barnard, will you? His French cook has let him down. What's the matter with him, Andrew?"
"He has the ague," Barnard said ruefully, and Paul gave a shout of laughter.
"What did I tell you? They're too delicate by far, French cooks. Never mind, we can't have you starving. This is not one of Kelly's best, but he didn't have much to work with. Still, it's warm and it's filling and there's plenty of it. Do you want some more, Nan?"
Anne passed her mess tin to Dawson. "Thank you, Corporal, I'm starving," she said.
Dawson went to the cooking pot and returned with food for Barnard as well. "Eat up, ma'am," he said cheerfully. "You're going to need it."
Paul shot Dawson a sharp glance. He and Anne had not made a formal announcement of her pregnancy this time. The memory of her miscarriage earlier in the year was still raw and Paul thought that both of them were cautious in their joy, fearing that something would go wrong. Anne had calculated as well as she could that she must be around five months pregnant, but thanks to a clever dressmaker in Madrid, she was equipped with a number of loose fitting gowns, including a riding habit, which made the swelling of her body hard to detect. It was obvious that Dawson had worked it out, which probably meant that the rest of the 110th knew, or soon would. Paul saw Anne smile serenely at his corporal and decided that she did not care.
"Charlie, will you get some wine for Colonel Barnard," Anne said, and Paul hooted.
"Don't leave the bottle within his reach though, Dawson, or he won't be able to sit on his horse the right way."
Barnard accepted the cup with an air of injured dignity. "Thank you, Corporal Dawson. Best move the bottle a
way from Colonel van Daan as well, he sounds as though he's already had too much."
There was the sound of activity outside and Paul looked around. "What's going on, Sergeant Hammond?"
Hammond, who had placed himself on informal door duty, went to look outside. "Not sure, sir. It sounds like the priest making a fuss again. Might be some late stragglers coming in."
Paul got up. "Well if they've made it this far in the dark, I am not letting that miserable, skinny bastard chase them away," he said. "No, stay there, Carter, I'm just in the mood for him."
The rain had stopped outside although a cold wind whipped across the churchyard and cut through Paul's greatcoat. The sound of shouting was coming from the main street beyond the church gate and Paul made his way carefully down the rough path and through the gate.
"Off with you, before I take a horse whip to you. Bad enough that we must endure these Englishmen, taking our homes and desecrating our church, we have no room for beggars. Get out and die on the road where you belong."
There was a movement in the darkness, a small figure turning away from the church. Paul could make out little, although it seemed too slight to be a man. As he walked forward, he saw the priest stoop and pick something up. He threw it overarm and his aim must have been accurate because his victim gave a little cry of pain. The voice confirmed Paul's suspicion that it was a woman.
"That's enough," he yelled, furious. "Get yourself back into that house and don't let me see you again before we march out, or I'll forget myself, and it's probably a sin to belt a man of God. If that's what you are, you uncharitable bastard."
Paul had spoken in English and he had no idea how much of his tirade the priest had understood, but he clearly understood the threat behind it, because he turned and ran, lifting up his cassock and stumbling a little in the darkness. The woman had begun to run back up the street, but she stopped at the sound of Paul's voice and turned. Paul could see some kind of dark dress and a white face.