An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  "Are you English?" he called.

  "I am Spanish."

  Paul moved towards her. "Do you speak English?"

  "I do."

  "I'm guessing that means you were with the army and got left behind. It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you. We've got the women and children in the church barn. Let's get you over there and fed and we'll try to get you back with your man. Which regiment?"

  Paul had reached her by now and could see her better. She was shivering visibly, her teeth chattering, wearing only a thin shawl over the gown. A mass of wet curls framed a white, woebegone face and Paul studied her.

  "I know you, don't I? Didn't you work at the palace, in Madrid? What's your name again?"

  "Ariana," the girl whispered.

  "Ariana, what are you doing here? Did you take up with one of our lads?" Paul remembered her clearly now, the half-starved child that Michael O'Reilly had brought in, beaten bloody in an alley.

  The girl shook her head. "No man," she said. "I followed the army."

  Paul was startled. "On your own? Jesus, child, what possessed you?"

  "I had nowhere else to go. The French were coming. I was afraid."

  He could hear it in her voice, the desperate terror that a new army would use her as brutally as the old one had. "When did you last eat?"

  "Two - no, three days. Some biscuit, a German gave me."

  Paul did not ask what she had done to earn it, he did not want to know. "Come on," he said gently. "Food and warmth, we can provide, for tonight, at least. Up into the church."

  "The priest..."

  "If the priest shows his ugly face anywhere near me again tonight, I'm going to punch it," Paul said. He coughed, and found that he could not stop, pausing by the church gate, leaning on it with one hand while he fought to catch his breath.

  "You are ill," the girl said.

  Paul controlled his breathing with an effort. "Not serious," he croaked. "Just a cold. This way."

  It was blissfully warm inside the church. Paul looked down at the girl. She was staring around, wide-eyed, taking in the sight of the 110th finishing their meals, drinking their grog ration or settling themselves where there was space, to try to sleep. Anne had brought out all the church candles, much to the fury of the priest, and the room was well lit. The wives and camp followers had joined their men, and little family groups huddled together for warmth, their wet clothing beginning to steam as it dried.

  "This way," Paul said gently, and she followed him, stepping over and around men lying on the floor. Anne was talking to Barnard, but at the sight of Ariana she rose.

  "Ariana. What on earth are you doing here?"

  The child did not reply and Anne seemed to realise that the question was unimportant. "You need food," she said briskly. "Have you walked all the way from Madrid? Never mind. Dawson, get her something to eat, will you?"

  There was no sign of Ariana the following morning as Paul's brigade began to assemble in the freezing half-light before dawn, ready for the march. Paul wondered if, after all, she had gone in search of some man.

  He noticed her again at the end of the march, as Hill's tired men tramped across the bridge at Alba de Tormes. It felt strange to Paul, to revisit the scene of his desperate skirmish earlier in the year. The town looked very much the same in the dim light of early evening. Paul reined in to watch his brigade pass by and blinked in surprise at the sight of Captain Michael O'Reilly with his baggage mule in tow, and Ariana perched precariously on its back. Paul caught Michael's eye, and his friend's rueful expression reassured him.

  Paul caught up with Michael as the light division settled down in the woods on the far side of the river. Michael was standing beside a fire while one of his men filled a tin mug with tea. At the sight of Paul approaching, Michael saluted then passed him the mug and took another.

  "How are you, sir? Your wife is worried about that cough."

  "I'm worried about the cough," Paul said. "It's all right, Michael. I just need a couple of weeks in a warm, dry billet and it will go."

  "And how is the love of your life and the burden she carries? You kept that one quiet, I must say."

  Paul sipped the hot tea. "We weren't sure at the start," he said. "And then I suppose we weren't sure how it would go, given what happened last time. We think around January, when I'm praying we'll be in winter quarters. Stop trying to distract me, Michael. Where's that child?"

  "I've sent her off with Sally Stewart to find something dry to wear," Michael said. "I gather she turned up with you last night."

  "She did. We fed her and got her settled down, but she must have disappeared during the night."

  "She came to find me; I woke up and found her on the floor next to my baggage, she frightened the life out of me. Christ knows what I'm going to do with her, but she'll have to stay for now, I can't abandon her in the middle of a retreat; some bastard will get hold of her again, either French or English. Either that or she'll die of hunger or cold."

  "Why did she leave Madrid?"

  "Nowhere to go. When we marched out, they closed up the palace. The servants who'd worked for us went back to their homes. Some of them will probably go back to work for the family again, or the French, or whoever commandeers the place next. She might have got a job in the kitchen, but she's terrified, sir. Since she was thirteen, she's been starving and cold and desperate, and whichever army has come through has used her and thrown her aside."

  "Until you came along," Paul said. He was beginning to understand.

  "I've told her I'll get her to safety and find something for her. I wondered if one of the convents would take her."

  "Probably. In the meantime, do you want me to take her back to Nan?"

  "I don't think she'll stay, sir. She's terrified beyond reason. She's been marching at the back of the army all the way from Madrid, begging for scraps and selling herself for a space by the camp fire. And trying to find me. Poor brat couldn't even remember the name of the regiment, but eventually somebody recognised my name, which is how she turned up in the village last night. Don't worry about it. She can stay until we're in winter quarters, when she's recovered she can make herself useful."

  "It's up to you, lad. You know some people are going to think the worst?"

  "With that skinny child? If that's what they think of me, sir, why would I care? Get back to your wife and get some rest, you look like death."

  ***

  The light division marched into Salamanca to join up with Lord Wellington's forces from Burgos on 10th November, a little short of five months since they had made their first entry into the city. Anne was conscious of a very different atmosphere among both the troops and the townspeople. The French were very close, and the three armies of Soult, King Joseph and Souham were finally in a position to join up, which left Wellington's army facing vastly superior numbers.

  With the practicality of several years with the army, Anne was simply glad to be warm and dry, with plenty of food. The light division was billeted in the university colleges, with the third brigade taking over several buildings which had already been converted into barracks by the French. As Wellington exchanged letters with Hill, who was still in Alba de Tormes, and sent out scouts to ascertain the exact position of the forces closing in on Salamanca, George Kelly took over the enormous kitchens and sent his mess orderlies out in search of supplies and Anne organised some of the women to heat water and bullied her husband into a hot bath.

  Anne had found a huge wooden bathtub in the kitchens, far bigger than the washtub which they generally used. It took forever to fill, but the expression on Paul's face as he lay back in the hot water, made it worthwhile.

  After a long time, Paul said:

  "I think I am going to live."

  Anne laughed. "I do hope so, Colonel, you've had me worried in places. Here, drink this, Keren made it. It looks rather like a witches' brew, although I think it involves lemons and honey and possibly brandy. It's supposed to be good for a cough."

>   Paul sipped the steaming cup. He was silent again for a while, then said drowsily:

  "Do you think there is any way we could induce Carl to marry this girl? I seriously don't want to lose her."

  Anne looked at him in considerable surprise. She had no idea if he was serious or not, although it was a thought that had more than once occurred to her.

  "I take it it's good then?" she said.

  "It's nectar. I can feel it soothing away the soreness. We are paying Miss Trenlow to concoct this every day while we're here. Which probably won't be long. I don't care, though. Just now, at this moment, I feel better."

  There was a knock at the door. Paul's eyes opened. "Shoot them," he said simply. "I don't care who it is."

  "Even if it's Lord Wellington?"

  "Especially if it's Lord Wellington. He got me into this in the first place."

  Anne went to the door and took the letter from Jenson. She came back into the room studying it. "It's from Lord Wellington," she said.

  "Tell him to fuck off," her husband said, and then opened his eyes and looked at her. "Sorry. My language."

  "I shall forgive you. This is the happiest I've seen you look in two weeks. Do you want me to open this?

  "Would you?"

  Anne opened the letter and scanned it. "Lord Wellington wants you to attend him at headquarters immediately," she said.

  Paul did not speak. Anne looked over at him and saw, with a rush of compassion, that his expression had changed. There was a slight splashing sound as he shifted in the water.

  "I knew it was too good to be true. Will you hand me that towel, girl of my heart?"

  Anne stood looking at him for a long moment. She felt, not for the first time on this campaign, pure, uncomplicated fury at the commander-in-chief. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head.

  "No," she said.

  Paul turned his head to stare at her and she saw the spark of amusement in his blue eyes. Anne thought, somewhat sentimentally, that she had never met anybody else with eyes of quite that shade of deep blue. They had melted her heart in a shepherd's hut in a Yorkshire snowstorm four years earlier and she had never entirely got over the way it made her feel when he looked at her and she saw the smile creep into them. He was looking at her that way now, and Anne, who had lived with him now for two years, knew that behind the look of genuine adoration, he was considering how best to turn her up sweet.

  "I can get it myself, bonny lass," he said.

  Anne held up the letter. "Don't bother, Colonel. I am going downstairs to answer this myself. I'll send Jenson in to ensure that you get yourself into bed."

  "Nan..."

  "He can wait," Anne said, and she knew that she sounded furious and made no attempt to hide it. "He has a dozen ADCs, General Sir Edward Paget as his second-in-command, eight divisional commanders, twenty-four other brigade commanders and a chaplain in case he needs divine intervention. He can survive another twenty-four hours without you. I know you'd die for him, and on a battlefield I accept that. But you're not dying of inflammation of the lung because he needs you to hold his hand because he's too difficult and too arrogant and too bloody terrified to let anybody else get close enough. He can wait."

  Anne turned and left the room, careful not to slam the door. Outside, she stood for a long time, her eyes closed, holding her breath, listening for the sound of him getting out of the bath. It did not come. Anne opened her eyes. Incredulously, she realised she had won.

  "Well done, ma'am."

  Anne jumped. She had not seen Corporal Jenson. He was watching her, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

  "Freddie, you frightened the life out of me."

  "I don't believe you, Mrs van Daan," Jenson said, and there was respect in his voice. "I don't think there's anything can frighten you. Go and write that note, I'll get him settled."

  Wellington's army spent five days in and around Salamanca, as the French converged upon the city. Skirmishes and cannonades were constant, as the remainder of Hill's divisions tried desperately to hang on to Alba de Tormes, and then made plans to defend or blow up the bridge when they needed to retreat. Both armies engaged in a frustrating series of manoeuvres and counter-manoeuvres, jostling for position as their commanders tried to decide if another battle across the fields of the Arapiles was worth the risk. The rain fell constantly and those troops within the city made the most of dry billets and enough food while those at the outposts waited for the commissariat wagons and cursed the weather, the French and the Almighty for putting them in this position.

  Paul slept almost constantly for two and a half days, waking only to drink and eat a little. Anne was always beside him when he awoke, and he realised that she must have abandoned all other duties to take care of him. He awoke on the third day into a dim afternoon light and lay still for a while, realising that his breathing felt clear, his headache had gone and the persistent raw throat appeared to have eased.

  "Good afternoon, Colonel. Ready for some tea?"

  Paul sat up to see his wife bringing a steaming cup. He drank gratefully. "I feel a lot better," he said. "But Christ, I've slept like the dead. How long...?"

  "It's the third day. Don't panic, the army hasn't marched out without you. Are you ready for a visitor?"

  Paul studied her. "Am I allowed to see him now?" he enquired. Anne laughed, a little pink-cheeked.

  "I think so. He has been very patient, but I am beginning to feel a little sorry for him. Poor General Alava seems to have been getting the worst of it. I think you're well enough; you've not coughed for over twenty-four hours."

  "I could do with a wash and a shave, I'm not seeing him like this."

  "I'll send Jenson in. It's almost the dinner hour, but I thought you and Lord Wellington could dine privately in the small parlour, I'll arrange it. He looks as though he needs the food."

  "Don't tell me you've not been bullying him too, bonny lass."

  "I have when I can get hold of him. There's a lot going on, Paul, but I'll leave him to tell you." Anne took his empty cup and leaned over to kiss him. Paul caught her and held her close, kissing her for a long time.

  "Thank you," he said, releasing her finally. "I am such an arsehole at times, Nan, I've no idea why you bear with me. Have you been worried?"

  "Yes," Anne said. "But I'm not now. You have the constitution of an ox, Paul, another man would have been laid out for a month with that. I love you."

  "I love you too, bonny lass."

  Paul found Lord Wellington in a small parlour, lit brightly from several large candelabras and two side lamps. Paul saluted as Wellington got up. He looked tired and depressed and in need of a good meal.

  "I am sorry, sir."

  "Don't be. You hardly chose to be so ill. I am only relieved that your wife was sensible enough to take charge. Are you sure you are well enough..."

  "Yes, sir, I promise you." Paul was not sure that he had ever heard his chief sound so subdued and he wondered what Anne had actually said to him. "As a matter of fact, I'm starving, I think I've been subsisting on broth, gruel and Keren Trenlow's magic potions. I think she's a witch, you need to try them."

  Wellington managed a more natural smile. "Every time I become irritated with the appalling number of wives, camp followers and hangers-on drifting behind your regiment like the tail of a monstrous serpent, you remind me that they are occasionally useful."

  Paul, who had been pouring wine, almost spilled it. "Are you referring to my wife, sir?"

  "Don't be an imbecile, Colonel, I would never refer to your wife in those terms; she terrifies me. Is this dinner? I believe I may be hungry."

  "I believe that without supervision you may have forgotten to eat for a day or two." Paul lifted one of the covers which had been set down on the table and grinned. "Roast mutton, sir. My wife knows you far better than I'm comfortable with. Come and sit down. Are you happy if we serve ourselves, it's easier to talk."

  "Yes," Wellington said, moving to the table. "Colonel - it is very good
to have you back. You are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exasperating, insubordinate, infuriating officer in my entire army, but I have realised that I do not function as well without you to shout at. The next time I am obliged to divide my army, your brigade will be with me. Unless you would seriously consider accepting a post on my staff? You can invent your own post and I will force it past Horse Guards. After inflicting Willoughby Gordon onto me, I have no further trust in their judgement."

  Paul studied his chief and realised in some surprise that he was serious. "Sir, I'm genuinely honoured," he said. "And I'm almost tempted. But my place isn't at headquarters and you and I both know it. It works because I'm on the outside, I'd be useless at the politics and we'd drive each other mad. I'm better at what I do."

  "I know. And I expected your refusal. I just wanted to make the offer. Thank you, this looks very good. Is your wife not joining us?"

  "Not this time, sir. She wanted to give us some time. What's going on?"

  Wellington took a deep breath and began to speak. Paul ate, drank, listened and recognised, in his undemonstrative chief, a real sense of relief. When they had finished eating, Paul rang for Jenson to clear and bring more wine and more candles, as those in the room were burning low. Paul said little, other than to ask an occasional question. Some of it, he already knew from Wellington's letters and reports to General Alten, but Wellington's need to unburden himself was so obvious that Paul sat back and allowed him to talk.

  Wellington had known from the start that he needed to keep the armies of King Joseph and Marshal Soult from combining. He had counted on the autumn rains keeping the River Tagus high, providing a barrier to stop Soult and Joseph from threatening from the south. He had also relied on the Spanish to delay a French move towards Madrid and had hoped that the capture of Burgos would prevent a French drive from the north.