by Lynn Bryant
"He's dead, Paul," Clevedon said, and Paul understood now, the ragged grief in Clevedon's voice. He and Corrigan had been close friends. "He didn't make it out of the woods. Cavalry sabre. Young Witham went back in to look for him. I called him back, I was pretty sure Pat was dead, but Witham was having none of it. He came out in tears. Poor bastard, what with that, and losing Carlyon. I hope he and Johnny made it. I hope they're prisoners. Or that they took another route and will show up by morning."
Behind Paul, somebody moved, getting up and walking away into the darkness. Paul knew who it was. He looked over and saw Keren Trenlow hand the sleeping baby back to Teresa and get up to follow Carl. Of all of them, Carl had been closest to Major Patrick Corrigan. Paul let her go. He had faith in Keren's ability to comfort Carl and he needed to stay with Clevedon, who was crying quietly now.
Paul put his arm about his friend and sat in silence. He had a sudden clear memory of the jovial, round faced Irishman emerging into a freezing dawn on a parade ground in Dublin six years earlier.
"Morning, Lieutenant Corrigan. Jenson, get Mr Corrigan some coffee."
"You have to be all about in your heads. You don't even have a senior officer with you, and you're out here freezing your arses off. And you're crazier than the rest of them, sir. Don't you have a rather pretty wife tucked up in bed?" Corrigan had regarded the four companies of the 110th moving across the parade ground. "Mary mother of God, I'm not putting my lot out here at the same time as these, even I'd be embarrassed. You've practiced this, haven't you, sir?"
It had set the tone for Paul's relationship with Patrick Corrigan for the next six years. He had found the Irishman immensely likeable, and a good soldier in the field, but infuriatingly lazy in barracks. It had not stopped him asking for Corrigan to be transferred to the 112th when Paul had been desperately short of officers, and he had enjoyed a good relationship with Corrigan, interspersed with occasional moments of frustration at Corrigan's carefree attitude to his duties. Paul wanted to say something, but was finding it difficult to speak, as though he had been punched hard in the gut. Anne moved closer and put her arms around him and he leaned his head against her. He could feel by the quiver of her body that she was crying, and he wondered why he was not. He was too shocked for tears.
Through the night, waiting for orders, Paul sat quietly, thinking about Johnny Wheeler. Memories crowded in on him, the taciturn young lieutenant teaching him about drills and tactics for long hours aboard their first ship to India. Johnny laughing outside the walls of Ahmednagger and then lying injured almost to death after the battle of Assaye. Johnny dancing with Anne in Lisbon. Johnny thanking him with muted joy after his first promotion to captain and then major. Johnny, helping to save all of them on the day that Anne had almost been murdered by her deranged first husband. It was impossible to imagine life without his steady, competent presence. Silently, Paul prayed for his friend. Captivity would probably last the rest of the war; the French did not often exchange prisoners. But unless he had been badly wounded, Johnny would probably survive it and come home eventually. Paul was trying to focus on that possibility; he could not bear to contemplate that Johnny might be dead, or even worse, dying out in the forest, knowing that nobody could come for him.
Men continued to straggle in through the night, starving and exhausted, telling tales of wandering lost in the forest for hours. Paul thanked God that he had insisted on salvaging the supply wagons and that his quartermaster had found a source of grazing. By the time the wagons were hitched and the men stood to arms before daylight, both men and horses had been fed; not enough, but at least something, and considerably more than some of the other divisions. Marching out into the darkness, Paul wondered how the other two columns of Wellington's army had fared.
***
Simon Carlyon regained consciousness slowly. Coming back to the world was an assault on all of his senses. He was wet through and shivering with cold; although the rain seemed finally to have stopped, water still dripped from the trees. There was a heavy scent of rotting vegetation which made him feel slightly sick, and shifting his head, Simon realised that his face was half buried in the forest floor. He could almost taste the decay in his mouth, along with the metallic flavour of blood. Around him was darkness, with no sign of movement and no sounds apart from the rustling noises of forest creatures and a slight wind through the trees.
It was that which forced him to move. He had no idea what lived in woodland in this part of Spain, but he was fairly sure that whatever it was, would be willing to feed off a dead body, and he had no desire to slip into unconsciousness again and wake up to find a rat gnawing at his arm. It had happened to somebody he had known in India once, after a drunken spree and a bad fall, and the man had seemed more shocked by the rat than the broken arm he had suffered.
With an effort, Simon pushed himself into a sitting position. Cautiously he took stock of his injuries, and discovered that they were not that serious. The blood seemed to have come from a cut over his right eye. It was deep and painful and was probably the reason for his banging headache, but once he had managed to scrub away the dried blood which gummed up his eye, he could see perfectly well and he was completely mobile.
Carefully, Simon got to his feet. He could see nothing in the darkness at first, but very gradually his eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he was able to make out his sword, lying a foot away from him. Simon picked it up, sheathed it, and checked his pockets. Nothing was missing although everything was soaked through, which suggested that the French had either been driven off or had withdrawn of their own accord. Even his water bottle was still hanging from its strap and Simon drank gratefully then used a little to wash some of the blood away. He did not expect to be short of water in his present situation.
Memory came back to him slowly. He had been making his way through the trees, conducting a running retreat after the French attack had killed Major Corrigan. Simon remembered seeing two of his men go down under the cavalry sabres, and then one of the horses had stumbled on the uneven forest floor. It was poor terrain for a cavalry attack, and the hussar had fallen heavily, almost at Simon's feet. Before he had had time to rise, the terrified horse had come down on top of both of them, and Simon could remember no more.
Simon looked around. Knowing what he was looking for, he found the body of the hussar only a few feet away. The man's head was a bloody pulp, smashed by the hooves of his panicking mount, and Simon felt slightly sick at what might so easily have happened to him. He felt the head wound again gently, and then made himself kneel and go through the hussar's pockets. He found little that was useful; the French were probably as short of food as the Allies by now, but he removed a wicked looking knife in a leather sheath and put it into his inner coat pocket.
Simon guessed that by now, Wellington's army would be across the river. He had no idea how many of his own battalion had made it through the difficult fight in the forest area, but he knew that they could not come back for him. There was no sign of the French here, but he knew they would be nearby, probably still guarding the main fords, possibly planning to launch an attack across them when daylight came. If Simon wanted to find a way across the river and back to the army, he was on his own.
Warmth and some shelter were his immediate needs. Simon remembered that the skirmishers of the 112th had run back with the news that there was another way across the river, via a difficult climb down a steep gorge. Simon had a vague sense of the direction and he wanted to keep moving. It would be slow going through the woods in darkness, but it was very cold and he was concerned that if he lay down to rest, he would freeze to death. Feeling his way from tree to tree was tedious, and progress was agonisingly slow, but at least he was moving.
It was a relief when Simon became aware of an almost imperceptible lightening of the sky. He could see the shapes of trees properly now, and there were fewer stubbed toes and grazed shins. He could see other things as well, as dawn stretched lazily across the sky, with a surprising
hint of sunlight. Here and there on the forest floor were the corpses of dead men, both French and British.
When the sun was fully up, Simon stopped for the first time. He filled his water bottle from a small stream, and ate his last two hard biscuits from his pocket. There was also a shrivelled apple, which Anne had given him, and after a moment's debate, he ate that too. He might well need his strength for the day's march.
When he started again, he came across two more corpses, both skirmishers from the 112th. The bodies looked untouched as yet, apart from some damage to the faces, probably by rodents. Simon gritted his teeth and set aside his revulsion. One of the men was wearing an army greatcoat and both had muskets and packs. Clearly the French had not stopped to loot in the dark and had not been back this way since, which gave him hope. Methodically, Simon went through both packs, sorting out anything that might be useful for a long march. He discarded unnecessary heavy objects, but he equipped himself with a musket and ammunition and took the coat. Despite the bright morning sunlight, it was still very cold.
He came upon the gorge more quickly than he had expected. Coming out of the edge of the woods, he found his way blocked by a mossy fallen tree trunk. Simon had heard no sign of troops of either side but he felt slightly exposed beyond the trees. Simon put his foot on to the trunk and stepped up, his whole body tense, scanning the surrounding area quickly. His momentum almost carried him forward but at the last minute he realised what was happening and threw himself backwards, landing hard behind the tree, his heart pounding in fright. He lay there for a moment, recovering from the shock of what he had almost done, then he got to his feet and climbed very cautiously over the tree. There was a short stretch of long grass and then nothing.
Simon stepped forward and looked down into the gorge. It was difficult to estimate how deep it was, but he could hear the rush of the river below, running fast after the last days of rain, and he could not see it, could see nothing but thick shrubs and bushes and a few warped trees clinging to the steep sides. Another step would have taken him over the edge and although he might have been lucky enough to be caught on a bush, he might equally have tumbled to his death at the bottom.
Thoughtfully Simon surveyed the climb ahead of him. The opposite side of the ravine looked much shallower, and he could see more woods on the far side. If he made it across, he should be able to follow the river round and find his way back to the fords where the rest of the army had crossed. If he was lucky, the French would have withdrawn, he could find some food, and make his way on towards Ciudad Rodrigo, possibly catching up with the main force, since he should be able to travel faster. If he was unlucky, he might be picked up by the French, killed or captured, or he might die of cold or hunger.
Simon was a natural optimist and refused to dwell on the possibility of failure. Settling his looted pack and musket more comfortably, he studied the edge of the ravine again and very slowly and cautiously began his climb, using rocks, bushes and trees as hand and footholds, testing every one to make sure they were solid.
After climbing for a few minutes, he stopped and twisted his head to look down. To his surprise he could see the river already. The steep sides had been deceptive at the top, the gorge was not particularly deep and already the slopes were becoming shallower, running down to the river which was fast flowing looked fordable. There were huge boulders lining the banks and the vegetation was sparser down there.
Simon shifted his position and continued to climb. He was cold but not unbearably so, although he suspected that during the night it would be worse. At some point he might be obliged to try to find shelter, but away from the river and the threat of the French, there might be a village or a lone farm which would give him space by the fire for the night, and possibly even some food.
He was probably only a few feet from the bottom when he heard a new sound, unconnected to the rush of the water and the rustle of the breeze through the trees. Simon froze, listening carefully. It came from below him, down by the river, and at first Simon thought it was an animal or a bird. As it moved closer he listened intently and realised that it was neither. It was the sound of breathing, a man moving slowly and with difficulty along the bank of the river.
Simon remained very still. Impossible to tell anything about the man, but his effort to keep quiet suggested he was trying to avoid detection, which probably meant that he was more likely to be British than French. Simon did not move and after a few minutes the sounds stopped as if the other man too was listening.
Simon began to climb again, very cautiously. Below him, the movement stilled, the breath held, and Simon imagined a man holding himself immobile, flinching at every sound. He did not dare to call out. He thought it was probably an ally but it might possibly be a Frenchman with a loaded musket. At the bottom, Simon made his way slowly towards the place where he had last heard the movement.
He could see the man immediately, sitting with his back against a large rock, trying to keep as still as possible. This close, he could see the blood soaking the man's left leg, the grey regulation trousers stained red. It looked like a bad wound and Simon wondered if the man had stopped because he wanted to or because he had to. The sight reassured him though; the uniform was undoubtedly British. Simon wondered if he was armed and he stopped, not wanted to get himself shot by a man looking for French infantry.
"Don't fear, I'm English. Lieutenant Carlyon, 115th. Did you come over in the dark last night?" he called.
There was a brief pause and then the other man stirred. "I did," he said. "Somewhat faster than that very careful descent I just heard you make, I must say, but then I rather think I fell half of it. Good morning, Mr Carlyon."
Simon felt a frisson of shock at the voice which he knew very well. He thought, confusedly, that of all the men he wanted to be in this position with, Colonel John Wheeler was probably the last, but it could not be helped. He slid down the last short distance and joined Wheeler behind the rocks.
"Sir," he said, saluting. "I didn't know it was you. I got knocked out during the skirmish, woke up on my own and made my way here, hoping to find my way across. How are you?"
Wheeler attempted a smile. "Not that good," he said. "Hit in the thigh, it's bleeding still. Hard to walk."
Simon knelt down beside him and looked an enquiry. Wheeler nodded. Simon bent to examine the wound and probed very carefully. He felt the other man flinch under his hands. The wound was deep and ragged and was bleeding profusely.
"I don't know much about surgery," Simon said awkwardly. "But it doesn't look as though it's gone through; the gash goes right down your leg. It's a very deep wound though."
"I think you're right," the colonel said. Simon glanced at him and saw that his eyes were closed and there were beads of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. "Look, lad, you need to get yourself out of here. Sooner or later the French are going to find me, I'll be all right."
Simon looked at him and recognised the lie. "The French have gone, sir. So have the British. Any poor bugger lying wounded in those woods is going to die that way if they can't get themselves moving, and I think you know it. Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"I'm covered in bruises from my somewhat rapid descent down that cliff, but otherwise, no."
"That's good," Simon said. "The scouts said there's a place you can get across down here."
"There is, just up there. It's deep, but it's fordable. For you, at least."
Simon looked at him. He felt a deep and abiding misery that he was going to have to take responsibility for this man, when he had thought he could catch up with the army in a day, and he also wished that it had not been this particular men with whom he felt so uncomfortable. Wheeler had closed his eyes against the pain.
"I can help you," Simon said.
Wheeler opened his eyes and studied him with the grey eyes which lent distinction to his otherwise pleasant face. "Get going," he said quietly. "It's an order, Mr Carlyon. Once you're across, you can follow the line of the river until yo
u reach the other fords. From there it shouldn't be hard to follow the tracks of the army. You might even catch up with them before they reach Ciudad Rodrigo. If you don't, you'll find them there. Tell Colonel van Daan I was taken prisoner."
"You mean tell him you might be, sir. Or you might be dead. Or lying here dying of cold and hunger."
"If you don't get moving, we might both die of cold and hunger."
Simon looked at the older man for a long time. Finally he shook his head, pushing unworthy thoughts to one side. "I need to bind up that wound," he said. "Crossing the river and getting you up the other side is going to be the hardest part. After that, we'll just take it slowly and rest often. We'll get there, sir."
The grey eyes hardened slightly. "It's an order, Lieutenant. Get moving."
"I'm not going to obey it, sir. I'm going to get you out of here."
Unexpectedly, Wheeler smiled, and it transformed his face. "Lad, thank you. But I'm not going to make it."
"Maybe not. Maybe you'll die on the way. In which case I'll bury you and I'll take your message back to the colonel. But I'm not leaving you out here to die alone. I wouldn't do that to any man."
Simon realised, even as he said it, how it had sounded, but he could do nothing to retrieve it. He saw Wheeler's expression and then the colonel said:
"Even the man who killed your brother?"
Simon took a deep steadying breath. "Especially him," he said. "Because if I let you die, even if it was by your order, I'd always wonder. I mean..."
"You'd always wonder if you'd have tried harder to save another man," Wheeler finished for him. "You don't need to wonder that, Mr Carlyon. I can already tell you that you're not that person. Come on then, let's get this blasted leg tied up and we'll see if you can get me across that river."