An Untrustworthy Army

by Lynn Bryant

  "Clausel rallied that army faster than I thought possible," Wellington said. "And I know they always do. It's a weakness of mine. I look at what I could do and I base my calculations on that. I was wrong. This time, it was disastrous. But I thought I could take Burgos quickly. That's why I left Hill to defend Madrid."

  "I know, sir."

  "We invested the castle halfway through September; there were about two thousand defenders. I lacked guns; we had three eighteen pounders, and eight twenty-four pounders, plus a few lighter captured guns. Ammunition was short as well. We didn't have enough engineers, as always. I miss Fletcher."

  "So do I," Paul said. "Both as an engineer and a very good friend. But he's recovering well, sir, he'll be back soon. And Fletcher isn't a magician."

  "No. It wasn't the fault of the engineers. I made decisions...I wrote to you about Popham at Santander, didn't I?"

  "Yes, sir. He's done well."

  "Very well," Wellington said with a grudging smile. "Although I wish he would stop writing me complaining letters; he cannot think I wish to hear of his squabbles with the Spanish commanders at this time. He offered to land more heavy guns and get them down to Burgos. He could probably have done it too; he's clever at logistics. But I didn't want another Badajoz. I should have said yes. I sent for them afterwards but it was too late by then, they didn't arrive in time. Anyway, we took the hornwork on the nineteenth, about 420 dead and wounded. Started digging in batteries. Major Cocks did very well on that assault. I mentioned him in despatches. You heard about him, I'm assuming?"

  "Yes, sir," Paul said, sympathetically. "One of his officers wrote to Major Swanson and Captain Manson."

  "Yes. I'd forgotten that they were friends. I should have written to them."

  "You can't write to everybody about everything, sir, although I'm well aware that you do try."

  Wellington snorted. It was the first time he had done so and it made Paul feel better. "Whereas with you, Colonel, we feel honoured if you find the time to send a note mentioning that you have marched your entire brigade elsewhere because you felt like it."

  "I have never done that, sir."

  "Perhaps not. Although you cannot say the same of your battalion. And when you commanded the light company..."

  "When I commanded the light company, you sat on me so hard, I could scarcely breathe."

  "It was necessary."

  "It was excessive. What happened to Cocks, can you tell me?"

  It was a French sortie. We were surprised, but the major rallied the men and led a counter-attack. We lost two hundred, dead and wounded. I shall miss Cocks, he reminded me a good deal of you, when you were younger."

  Paul could not refrain from smiling. "He was only five or six years younger than me, sir."

  "You know what I mean. I liked him."

  "I did too. Manson was very cut up about it."

  "I imagine so. How is Captain Manson? I should like to see him at some point."

  "He's well, sir."

  "Good. Good. Anyway, it dragged on. One step forward and two back. We were losing more and more men, running out of supplies and ammunition. The weather was growing worse and worse so that the trenches flooded. And all the time, news was coming in that the French were rallying. Soult from Cadiz, Joseph towards Madrid, Souham in the north..."

  "What about the Spanish?" Paul asked. He saw his chief's lips tighten.

  "General Ballesteros failed to obey orders," Wellington said. "He made no attempt to move to block Soult."

  "You mean he got the orders and just ignored them?" Paul was genuinely shocked. "That's mutiny."

  "And he'll be tried for it," Wellington said flatly. "I shall deal with General Ballesteros when we are out of this safely. I have also been deeply disappointed by the failure of General Maitland to move from Alicante."

  "Any idea why?"

  "No, but I shall find out. My scouts reported that the Tagus was unusually low for the time of year and would be impossible to defend and Souham outnumbered me. I had no choice but to raise the siege and retreat." Wellington took a long drink. "Honestly, Colonel, I feel fortunate that he did not attack me immediately. He could have destroyed me."

  Paul did not speak immediately. He knew that Wellington usually valued his opinions, but he could think of nothing to say, faced with his chief's obvious unhappiness. Eventually he said:

  "What was the retreat like?"

  "Unpleasant," Wellington said briefly, reaching for the wine bottle. It was empty and Paul got up and went to collect another from the sideboard. Neither he or Wellington generally drank heavily, but he had a sense that his commander needed the relief this evening. "We got a full day's start on them; they did not realise we were gone, but after that they were on our heels the entire time. Skirmishes and small actions day after day. It reminded me of chasing Massena out of Portugal, only the other way around. I have some sympathy for that old fox, it is not pleasant to be in danger of being overrun on a daily basis. I suppose Talavera was difficult, but they were not so close then. And I was not at Corunna."

  "Nor was I, thank God."

  "My army fell apart," Wellington said suddenly, and Paul suspected he had reached the root of Wellington's depression. "Looting and drunkenness at every town and village. They marched as and when they felt like it and the officers seemed to have no control over them and no ability to keep them in line. We have lost hundreds of prisoners, simply because the divisions could not keep together."

  "Sir, I'm sorry."

  "So am I. It began so well. I should have marched sooner after Badajoz, but the troops were in poor condition. And then the Spanish seemed incapable of properly garrisoning and supplying Badajoz and Ciudad Rodrigo; I couldn't march until I was sure of my line of retreat."

  "I know, sir."

  Wellington looked at him over his glass. The distinctive blue eyes looked heavy and tired. "Why can I not work with the Spanish, Colonel?" he asked. "I have managed to get the Portuguese on my side. I have worked with Danes, Indians, Germans...what is it that I do wrong with the Spanish?"

  Paul felt a huge rush of sympathy. He had seldom seen Wellington so depressed or heard him so close to despair. "You can, sir. You work very well with D'Espana, Morillo, Sanchez...it's not the Spanish leaders, it's the system. Bonaparte has destroyed their infrastructure and broken their leadership; they're all over the place. Nobody could work with that. The Spanish can't work with each other."

  Wellington set down the glass. "I should not drink this, it is making me maudlin," he said.

  "It's making me tired, and I'm sick of sleeping," Paul said. "What now? Can we fight them or do we run?"

  "We may have to run," Wellington said bitterly. "My army wants to fight. Back here, on the Salamanca battlefield, they feel invincible. I understand that. But we are heavily outnumbered, with the possibility of more French troops on the way. I am not risking this army." Wellington studied Paul for a moment. "Will you be well enough to march?"

  "Oh Jesus, yes, I'm much better. It was just a cold, sir, that got worse because of the weather. And Nan thinks the injury had weakened me, made me more susceptible. I don't even know if that's possible, but I'm not arguing with her, she's so often right. But I made it back from Talavera with a hole in my chest, you can't think I'm going to take to my bed and wait for the French?"

  Wellington got up. "Unlikely," he agreed. "I am going to my bed. Thank you, Colonel. Expect orders tomorrow or the following day."

  "Yes, sir."

  They were met at the door by Anne, lighting the dark hallway with a candle. "Jenson has brought your horse round, sir, I'll walk you to the door."

  Paul watched them go. At the front door, his commander bowed and spoke a few words. Paul saw Anne laugh and reply. Wellington's countenance lightened considerably. He took Anne's hand and kissed it and in response, Anne stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Paul remained where he was until the door closed behind Wellington. Whatever had passed between his wife and his comman
der, he suspected that Wellington had needed to mend bridges and he could sense that Anne was happier too as he put his arm around her.

  "Time for bed," he said. "I've an odd feeling this might be the last night we're sleeping in one for a while, I want to make the most of it."

  Anne shot him a sideways look from under long lashes. "My goodness, you are feeling better, Colonel," she teased.

  "I am. So I really hope you're well rested too, bonny lass. I was hoping to stay awake rather later tonight."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The army began its retreat from Salamanca on the afternoon of 15th November. Earlier in the day, Wellington had realised that the French were moving troops to cut off his route back to Ciudad Rodrigo. Outnumbered, and potentially outflanked, he had made his decision and by two in the afternoon, he had put his army into three marching columns and was heading out to cross the Zurguen River before camping for the night.

  The heavy rain continued throughout the day and into the night, and the army found what shelter it could in woods close to the river, huddling in cloaks and blankets and eating the rations they had carried with them. Paul had allowed his men to take whatever they could carry from the stores, but kept a very careful guard on his baggage wagons and mules, instructing the quartermasters to be strict about handing out further rations. After discussion with Breakspear and Anne, Paul had elected not to rely entirely on the commissariat keeping up with the army, and to carry a quantity of basic rations and fodder for the animals. Paul was hoping it would not be needed; it was a four or five day march back to Ciudad Rodrigo and safety, but his previous experience of retreats was that it could be difficult to keep the army together and having a basic supply of food within reach might make the difference between a disciplined march and an army running out of control.

  Anne had elected to travel in the carriage, at least at the start of the march, along with Teresa Carter and her small daughter, Keren Trenlow and young Charlie Bannan. Anne had bought the child new clothing during their time in Salamanca, and he was warmly dressed in a woollen suit with a thick jacket and sturdy boots. Paul reflected, as he saw the boy clambering into the carriage, that Charlie was probably better dressed than he had ever been in his life. Charlie had fallen desperately in love with Anne's oversized, hairy dog, who was also in the carriage, and settled himself in a corner with his feet on Craufurd's thick fur.

  The women, children and sick men who had travelled for some of the retreat in Paul's baggage wagons had been sent back to their proper places, fed and tended and rested, although looking at the weather, Paul was fairly sure that others would take their place.

  The exception was Ariana, who had nowhere to go and who refused the offer of a place in the carriage in favour of leading Captain O'Reilly's baggage mule. Like Charlie, she had acquired new clothing in Salamanca, and Paul observed that she was dressed as a boy again, similarly attired to young Bannan, with a woollen hat covering her unruly auburn curls and a second-hand greatcoat which was too big for her, keeping her warm. Paul watched her managing Michael's recalcitrant mule with surprising efficiency and thought that she looked just like any of the other officers' servants. He wondered if it had been her idea or Michael's to go dressed as a boy, but he thought it a good one, which might well keep her both warmer and safer.

  Weeks of heavy rain had turned the roads and tracks into swamps, quickly churned up by boots, hooves and wagon wheels so that walking became difficult. Horses picked their way carefully through the mud. It clung to their hooves and to the boots, shoes and clothing of the men and women trudging through it, making the march heavy work.

  Walking was made harder by little streams which criss-crossed the roads and which had swelled in the heavy rains, so that at times the men were wading up to their ankles. Paul felt even more sorry for the women who were weighed down by their soaked skirts. Many of them had tried to kilt up the garments, exposing more than was strictly decent of their ankles and legs, in order to stop them getting heavier with water and mud.

  The commissariat wagons failed to arrive on the first night, as the light division bivouacked near Cillero in the freezing rain. Paul thanked God that Anne had bought the carriage. There was no possibility of putting up tents with the French so close and he could not have borne the thought of her sleeping on the soaking ground. His men ate some of the rations they carried and Breakspear distributed fodder for the animals under heavy guard. Without food, beasts were going to start dying, and although Paul felt desperately sorry for the officers and men of the other brigades, he was not going to sacrifice his own.

  He was talking to Anne in the carriage when a horseman reined in and Colonel Andrew Barnard dismounted. Paul went to meet him, beckoning him under the trees where the rain was less.

  "How are your lads?"

  "Cold, wet and hungry. And pretty pissed off," Barnard said. "They didn't get to fight, which is what they wanted, and they've had no rations. Yours?"

  "All of that apart from hungry; they've carried some."

  "I guessed. Look, Paul..."

  "I'll get you something from the carriage."

  "It's not for me; I'm not that fucking selfish," Barnard said sharply, and Paul turned, startled.

  "Andrew, I know you're not. What is it?"

  "My orderly. He got ill on the march from Madrid and he's not getting better. He fell off my spare horse earlier. He's burning up. I know you'll think I'm mad, Colonel..."

  "Andrew, have you met me? Where is he?"

  "We're bivouacked about half a mile to the west."

  "Can you get a couple of your lads to bring him over here? I'm not putting him in the carriage with Nan just in case it's contagious, although it's probably just a bad cold gone wrong. But we can put him in one of the baggage wagons, we've more space than you have, and we'll keep him warm and fed."

  Barnard's expression lightened. "I knew you would. I should have realised how bad he was, I feel like an arsehole."

  "You are an arsehole, Colonel, but you're one who cares. Get him over here, I'll get Jenson to find him space and a meal. How are you for fodder?"

  "Good at the moment, I loaded up a few mules. Where is the fucking commissariat, though?"

  "God knows," Paul said soberly. "We're going to start losing them if it doesn't catch up tomorrow. But I suspect this is the final nail in the coffin of Willoughby Gordon."

  "Good, he's a useless bastard and we need Murray back," Colonel Barnard said, heartlessly, and left in search of his orderly.

  Wellington's three columns were each allocated their own route to Ciudad Rodrigo, in a similar manner, Paul supposed, to Massena's retreat from Portugal, when he had split his army to confuse the pursuing enemy. The first column, consisting of the second, third and fourth divisions, took the Matilla road under General Rowland Hill while the centre column, comprising the first, fifth, sixth, seventh and light divisions under General Sir Edward Paget, took the road towards San Munoz. The Spanish army, which formed the third column, took the main road to Ciudad Rodrigo.

  In terms of road condition, the Spanish had the best of it, although Paul suspected that they would be harder pressed by the French, who might well choose the easiest route to attack, especially with cavalry. Paul's own route was not easy, consisting of swampy tracks, with the rain falling so heavily that when men stopped to rest they had no option but to sit or lie in two inches of water. He had a suspicion at times that their Spanish guide was lost, taking them a complicated and circuitous route. The column created its own roads, dragging wagons and gun carriages across stony ground or ploughed fields, lifting them sometimes by sheer strength and bloody-mindedness, out of small valleys which had turned into bogs.

  Men lost boots and shoes in the mud and could not retrieve them. On the second day, Anne left the carriage and went on foot to rest the horses. Paul walked beside her, ignoring the protocol of marching order and leading Rufus and Bella to preserve their strength on very limited rations. Following his example, his officers did the
same, only Jenson, with his wooden leg, continuing to ride. There was still no sign of the commissariat wagons. Beside them walked Teresa and Keren, taking turns to carry little Ana who was wailing with misery, swaddled in blankets to try to keep her warm. Charlie Bannan led Craufurd on his leash, appearing so happy to be with the dog that the cold, rain and exhaustion barely touched him. Paul thanked God for the child, whose irrepressible good spirits seemed to lift Anne.

  "I'm not going to want him to go back to his father, Paul, he's such a joy."

  "Well it's up to Bannan, bonny lass, but if the lad can make himself useful, perhaps it's a solution. Maybe Jenson could take him on, train him up. He seems a bright child and it might be better than some charity school or poor house in England."

  The rain eased a little that evening, and Paul's brigade tore down trees in search of wood to make fires. They had little success with the damp wood but managed to set fire, eventually, to some of the larger trees which gave out a good heat. Officers, men, women and children huddled together close to the blaze, with scant regard to rank or position, happy to share lice along with warmth in the desperation of their situation.

  Some of the men from the other divisions had collected acorns from the woods and were experimenting with roasting them over the fires. A few more had discovered some vegetables growing half wild in the gardens of a deserted village, and as the rumour went through the lines, Sergeant George Kelly marshalled his assistants and went in search of additional rations. They returned within the hour laden down with cabbages and turnips along with half a dozen hares, and cooking pots were suspended over the fires to cook a weak stew. There was scarcely enough for a few spoonfuls for each man, but it was hot and had some flavour and the third brigade devoured it gratefully.

  As they settled to another miserable night, a horseman appeared through the mist, and Paul recognised Captain Richard Graham, one of Lord Wellington's ADCs. Paul went to greet him, wrapped in his greatcoat.

  "Orders, Captain?"

  "No, sir. A delivery from Lord Wellington. It's for your wife."