by Lynn Bryant
Simon was staring into the fire. He looked up. "Thank you," he said. "I think that's the most honest conversation I've ever had about it."
"You're welcome. To tell you the truth, I'm comfortable here and I've no wish to move, it's going to hurt like hell. But we need to. Come on, let's get going."
***
French cavalry dogged the steps of most of Wellington's army for the whole of the day, although Paul's men, and the men of Barnard's brigade saw nothing of them, a fact which Paul attributed to the scouting abilities of Captain Fenwick and Antonio. Wellington had departed to deal with his insubordinate generals and General Alten, having listened intelligently to Fenwick's report on the best route, and on the movements of the French, made his decision.
"We will follow this road, I think," he said, studying the sketch map that Fenwick had drawn on the back of a letter. "It seems that the French are following the main part of the column. General Vandeleur has already crossed the stream, and will join up with us here, if he remains on that path, but I have seen it and it is ridiculous to take a road that narrow and muddy with no need. Can you guide us, Captain?"
"Yes, sir. Antonio is going to keep an eye on the French for me, in case they decide to change direction."
"You say they have only cavalry?"
"Yes, sir. Around two hundred at a guess, hussars and Polish lancers."
"Those bastards," Paul put in. "I'd rather they didn't catch up with us."
"I doubt they will, sir. They're picking up stragglers, taking prisoners. But they're slowing down. Their commander isn't going to want to wander behind our lines by accident."
"I believe Captain Fenwick is correct," Alten said. "We will follow his route."
Paul met his general's eyes. "It's not the route Lord Wellington is expecting us to take, sir," he said. "Are you sure...?"
Alten looked around him, his mild blue eyes scanning the surrounding forest. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Then to Paul's amusement, he gazed up into the trees, before returning his eyes to Paul and Barnard.
"I do not see Lord Wellington anywhere, do you, Colonel? Unless he is now invisible. And even then, given how enraged he must be by now, I think we would hear him."
"I should think you'd hear him two miles away, sir," Paul admitted.
"Then we will have plenty of warning of his approach. The guide, the one Colonel Vandeleur is following - what was his name? I have forgotten it."
"Luis, sir."
"Ja, Luis. If one followed Luis, which Lord Wellington gave orders that we should do, one could end up anywhere. Possibly even upon this road. And who is to say how we came to be here, after all? Give the orders, if you please."
Paul looked at him with something like awe. "Do you know, sir, I think you're worse than Craufurd. It's just you're so polite about it, nobody notices."
The road, although not easy, was considerably better than any that they had recently travelled on. There was no sign of the French cavalry and no sign of the litter of dead men and animals and abandoned wagons which Paul had grown accustomed to seeing, which made him suspect that Fenwick's route had not been used by either army.
"I wonder if this is the route that Luis was suppose to bring us?" Carl Swanson said, as he and Paul walked beside each other, leading their horses to rest them for a while.
"Very probably. I feel sorry for John's brigade, but at least we're taking care of their baggage."
"I'm told Dalhousie lost all of his to the French," Carl said, not without malice. "They must have been very happy, there was a lot of it."
"He's an Earl, Major," Paul said gravely. "He requires a great deal of baggage. Were you there in Salamanca when he asked my wife where the rest of her baggage was, along with a little jest about ladies needing their fripperies and fineries?"
"No," Carl said in tones of awe. "What did she say?"
"She smiled very sweetly and told him that her medical bag was in the carriage and the rest was before him," Keren said. "You could see him counting the bags, and observing how small they were. Teresa and I had to pretend to have urgent business somewhere else, we couldn't hide that we were laughing. I hope the Earl didn't lose anything too valuable, poor man."
Carl was studying her. "You're limping," he said. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"Not really," Keren said. "I think I may have a blister, I've been trying to walk as much as possible to save poor Lily, she's exhausted."
Carl paused. "Let me see."
Keren hesitated, then put her hand on his arm to steady herself and took off her shoe. Glancing at it, Paul could already see the problem; the shoe had been worn through on the march. He heard Carl catch his breath and moved closer to look at the sole of Keren's foot.
"Oh lass, you can't carry on walking on that," he said quickly. "Is it just that one?"
"The other one isn't as bad."
"Into the carriage," Paul said firmly, observing the expression on Carl's face. Since the news of Pat Corrigan's death and Johnny's probable capture, his friend had been very quiet. Paul had watched him through the long day's march. He was upset himself, but Carl had taken it very badly. Paul suspected that he was worrying about the possibility that Johnny was not a prisoner, but was dead or dying back in the woods. Carl was generally an optimistic soul, but he looked exhausted and depressed and Paul was suddenly worried about him. He had many friends in the army, but other than Anne, Carl, Johnny and Leo Manson were his family, and with Johnny gone, Paul suddenly felt irrationally protective about Major Swanson's tired misery. Carl's slightly panicked reaction to Keren's relatively minor injury probably had more to do with Pat and Johnny than the girl herself, but Paul understood.
"Major, go with her. We've less than two miles to our bivouac, the horses can take it. Get some rest."
"I'm all right, sir."
"No, you're not." Paul put his hand on Carl's shoulder. "I'm not either, Carl. I won't settle until we know about Johnny for sure."
"What if we don't know?" Carl said, turning unhappy green eyes towards him. "I've no idea how long it will take to find out."
"Nor have I. I believe the French authorities will send lists to the transport board who will then notify the men's regiments and their families. But I'm not waiting for that, the minute I can, I'm going to get Wellington to write to them."
"I know you will, sir. But it's haunting me, I can't help it. I can stand the thought of him being a prisoner, although I hate it. And even if he's dead - I can't imagine life without Johnny, he's been there from the day we joined. But if he's dead, like Pat, I can cry and I'll get over it. But we'll never know if he died quickly or if he's lying out there, dying slowly. Perhaps he's even still alive now..."
"Don't," Paul said sharply, and then caught himself and moderated his tone. "Please don't, Carl. I'm spending all my time trying not to think about that, because there's not a damned thing I can do about it right now."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Get yourself into that carriage with your lass, Major. Your battalion can walk a mile or so without you."
"Yes, sir."
The light division came to a weary halt for the night close to the village of Sancti Spiritus. Despite the freezing weather, there was a different atmosphere among the men. All were aware that they were very close to Ciudad Rodrigo and Paul gave orders for any remaining provisions to be distributed. There was very little, but the simple act of abandoning the need for rationing lifted the mood, making his brigade feel that their ordeal was almost over.
The army marched early the following morning, along good roads, still boggy and churned up by the heavy traffic, but completely passable. For the first time in several days, Paul rode up and down the column speaking to his officers and NCOs, giving orders to keep the men in proper marching order. He had relaxed discipline in favour of common sense during the long retreat, caring only that his men stayed together, helped the sick and wounded and refrained from looting the local population. As they approached the city, however,
Paul was aware of the desperation of some of the regiments. Supplies would be readily available, but Paul wanted them distributed in an orderly manner.
An hour from the city, Colonel Barnard rode back to join him, running his eyes over the neat lines of his men. "You too?"
"It makes sense," Paul said. "Look, it sounds mad, Andrew, but this lot have been amazing. We've had half the army running wild, discipline breaking down, looting and getting drunk. This lot? We had the worst fight on the Huebra, we've lost a battalion commander and several officers, and Johnny Wheeler and Simon Carlyon are either dead or prisoners. I hope. But as far as I'm aware, we've not had a single serious incident. They've been dumped all over the place, but they've held. I'm not naive, it's not because they're a choir of angels, it's because my officers and NCOs haven't slacked off once. And from what I've seen, neither have yours and John's."
"They haven't." Barnard gave a crooked smile. "Mostly. You're right, Paul, they've been bloody amazing. What is it about the light division?"
"Possibly its commanding officer?" Paul asked.
Barnard gave him a sideways look. "Yes," he said. "Both John and I agree. I'm glad you think so too; we thought you might struggle, you were so close to Craufurd."
"We were friends. And he was a bloody good commanding officer. But honestly, Andrew, I think Alten's better. And that's one of the reasons I want my men marching in like soldiers, not straggling in like starving beggars. Charles Alten deserves it. I don't know how all the divisions did, we've been too widely separated. But out of those in this column, the light division is the one that held."
Paul felt suddenly slightly embarrassed, feeling that he had allowed himself to show a sentimentality that he usually reserved for Anne and for close friends. He liked Barnard enormously, but their friendship was relatively new. He said nothing more. After a short silence, Barnard cleared his throat.
"Aye," he said, sounding more Irish than usual. "Let's get them in then, Colonel."
Paul glanced at him and saw that he had got it right after all. Barnard was looking directly ahead, but there was a suspicious sheen to his eyes.
"Trust the bloody Irish to get maudlin," he said.
Barnard looked around at him, and his smile was warm and unaffected. "You are such a bastard, Van Daan, I don't know why I bear with you."
"Because I feed you regularly and share my wine cellar. And lend you money when your pockets are to let."
"I'm glad you've mentioned that," Barnard said seriously, and Paul laughed aloud.
"You're never going to starve while my wife is around, Andrew. She loves your accent."
"Your wife is a queen among women, Colonel."
"My wife is a lot more than that." Paul scanned the horizon and pointed. "And if I'm not mistaken, those are supply wagons coming out from the city. Best get back to your brigade before they run riot and spoil our pretty display."
"On my way, Colonel," Barnard said, and set his horse to a canter.
***
For three agonising hours, Johnny Wheeler dragged himself along the river bank. He had no sense of the distance covered although he knew it was not enough. The banks were a tangle of weeds and bushes, dotted with huge boulders. Even on a flat path with no obstacles it would have been difficult for him to walk, but on uneven ground with the wound on his leg burning with pain and his whole body wracked with chills, he moved at a snail's pace.
Simon trod patiently beside him, helping him as far as possible. He had bound the leg wound before they set off with makeshift bandages torn from a spare shirt and stockings from his looted pack. It was already soaked through and stained red. Johnny wondered if the blood was all fresh or if it was just the rain making it look worse than it was. He could put very little weight on it and he felt nauseous and light-headed. They made their way painfully through the tangled undergrowth and more than once Simon caught Johnny as he stumbled, made clumsy by pain and weakness.
The weather varied; rain fell and was followed by bright cold sunlight. Towards evening it was misty, with a miserable chill in the air. As darkness fell, Johnny stopped finally, resting on a rock, too exhausted to move any further. His companion was looking around. The rain had eased finally but the night air was cold and Johnny closed his eyes and wondered, in sudden despair, if he was going to survive this.
"Wait there, sir. Don't try to move, you'll fall over. I'll be back."
Johnny nodded. He wanted to tell Simon that there was no point in this. Already he was so weak that he doubted that he would be able to walk at all the following day and he was determined that Simon should not die in his attempt to save him.
Johnny thought about Caroline Longford. It had been fifteen months since he had last seen her, riding away from him back to her husband. At his age, it was foolish, he supposed, to take the view that he would not fall in love again, but he was not sure that he wanted to. He wondered how Caroline was, and if she still thought of him. She had been determined to work at her marriage to her worthless husband and to raise the child, which might well be Johnny's, in a loving family. Johnny had doubted that it was possible with Vincent Longford, but he could offer her nothing but disgrace, and had encouraged her to leave, hoping that against all odds she might be happy. He wondered if she would be told of his death and knew that Anne would write to her. He wished, with sudden bitter sadness, that he might have spoken to her just once more, to tell her how much he still loved and missed her.
"Sir. Sir, wake up."
There was panic in Simon's voice and Johnny opened his eyes. "It's all right, Lieutenant, I've not died."
"You look as though you might," Simon said. "I've found shelter. It's not much, a ruined building. But it's dry and out of this wind. And more to the point, it's at the edge of a very good road. I think that's the road we need to take tomorrow. If I can get you up there, we can light a fire and you'll be warm. Let me help you."
Johnny winced as the younger man almost lifted him to his feet. He shuffled forward, feeling pain shooting through his thigh and into his hip with every step. Looking up the steep slope which led away from the river made him want to cry, but there was something about Simon Carlyon's dogged determination, that made it impossible to give in. Gritting his teeth once again, he began to drag himself up the slope, with Simon shoving him from behind.
The building was musty and smelled faintly of the animals which must have made their homes in it from time to time, but it was, as Simon had said, definitely dry and the open door faced away from the biting wind. Simon helped Johnny to sit down with his back against the wall and then began to move around, feeling his way. Eventually there was a shuffling noise and then the sound of flint being struck. Patiently Simon wielded his tinder box until a small flame burned. He set fire to a pile of dry leaves that he had scooped together and for a short time the ruin was lit with a flickering glow. It illuminated grey and white streaked walls. The floor was littered with debris blown in, over the years, leaves and twigs. Simon scuttled around collecting what he could before the feeble fire went out. When it burned more steadily, he disappeared outside and came back with armfuls of wood. Some of it was dry, and burned well. Some was green and smoked horribly, but the warmth was so welcome that neither man cared.
When the fire was burning brightly, with a pile of wood beside it, to feed it, Simon finally sat down, stretching out his legs and holding his cold hands to the blaze.
"I'm sorry we've no food, sir. In the morning, I'll see what I can find. How are you doing?"
"I'm well enough, thanks to you. If I get out of this alive, Mr Carlyon, I owe you a debt I can't repay. Thank you."
"Just doing my duty, sir." The boy sounded suddenly awkward. "Do you think you could get some sleep? I'll keep watch."
"I'm not sure there's much to watch, other than this fire," Johnny said. "I don't think I'll sleep much, why don't you try, I'll yell if there's need."
Simon shook his head. "I doubt I'll sleep either," he admitted. "Perhaps in a while."
Simon hesitated then seemed to see the sense of it and moved to sit beside Johnny, his shoulder against him. He was rigid and uncomfortable and Johnny sought for something to say to ease it. The thought that came into his head was so unsuitable that he almost laughed aloud.
"Sir?"
"Sorry, not really the time for a laugh."
"It might be," Simon said, and Johnny looked at him and grinned.
"All right. I was thinking that this is bloody typical of my luck. My esteemed commander met his wife when they both got stuck in a shepherd's hut in a snowstorm years ago. I, on the other hand, end up snuggling close with a man who hates my guts."
Simon gave a surprised splutter of laughter. "Bloody hell, sir, I hope you're not comparing me to Mrs van Daan?"
"Don't panic, Lieutenant, I do not find you that attractive."
It hurt to laugh but it was also a relief, and they laughed more than the silly joke really merited. Afterwards, Johnny reached inside his damp coat and took out his flask.
"Brandy," he said. "It's about half full, but it might help warm us up."
"You should keep it, sir, you might need it."
Johnny shook his head. "No point in thinking that way, lad. We'll either get help soon or I'm not going to make it, I'm not stupid. In fact, I don't know what tonight will bring; I'm feeling like hell, and if this wound gets infected or I get a fever, you're going to have to leave me."
Simon accepted the flask and took a pull, handing it back for Johnny to do the same. "I'm not leaving you, sir."
"You might have to. If I'm dying, I'm not taking you with me. Your parents have suffered enough. And besides, I need you to get back and tell the colonel what happened, it will kill him not to know. I want your word, lad."