by Lynn Bryant
Paul put his hand gently on Johnny's shoulder and refilled his glass. "Johnny, calm down. I thought I was bad when I first read it, but this isn't like you. Don't take it personally, he isn't talking to you or me or any one of our officers and when I read this to them, because I'll have to, I'm going to make it very clear that they all understand that. He knows what we did. He wrote this in a temper without thinking it through and it's been sent to all of us because that's how it works. It's not aimed at you or me."
"It's still addressed to us though, isn't it?" Johnny said.
Paul nodded. "At some point, when he's calmed down, I'm going to point that out," he said. "He'll never back down or apologise, but he should at least be told the effect it's going to have on morale, the stiff-rumped, bad-tempered, long-nosed Irish bastard."
The tone of his commander's voice inexplicably calmed Johnny's fury. He drank more brandy and studied Paul. "Over it?" he queried and Paul laughed aloud.
"Getting over it," he said. "Gradually. Nan forbade me to go over there until I could read it from start to finish without one single expletive. Clearly I'm not quite there yet. Want to hear the rest or shall we leave it there?"
"You might as well finish it," Johnny said and Paul picked up the letter again and struck an oratorial pose.
"I am far from questioning the zeal, still less the gallantry and spirit of the Officers of the army, and I am quite certain that if their minds can be convinced of the necessity of minute and constant attention to understand, recollect, and carry into execution the orders which have been issued for the performance of their duty, and that the strict performance of this duty is necessary to enable the army to serve the country as it ought to be served, they will in future give their attention to these points.
"Unfortunately the inexperience of the Officers of the army has induced many to consider that the period during which an army is on service is one of relaxation from all rule, instead of being, as it is, the period during which of all others every rule for the regulation and control of the conduct of the soldier, for the inspection and care of his arms, ammunition, accoutrements, necessaries and field equipments, and his horse and horse appointments, for the receipt and issue and care of his provisions' and the regulation of all that belongs to his food and forage for his horse, must be most strictly attended to by the officers of his company or troop, if it is intended that an army, a British army in particular, shall be brought into the field of battle in a state of efficiency to meet the enemy on the day of trial.
"These are the points then to which I most earnestly entreat you to turn your attention and the attention of the officers of the regiments under your command, Portuguese as well as English, during the period which it may be in my power to leave the troops in their cantonments. The commanding officers of regiments must enforce the orders of the army regarding the constant inspection and superintendence of the officers over the conduct of the men of their companies in their cantonments; and they must endeavour to inspire the non-commissioned officers with a sense of their situation and authority; and the non-commissioned officers must be forced to do their duty by being constantly under the view and superintendence of the officers."
"Where is Carter just now, by the way?" Johnny interrupted. Suddenly he was beginning to be amused.
"No idea. Taking a holiday with his wife, according to Lord Wellington," Paul said. "We're going to need to draw lots to decide who is going to undertake the duty of constantly superintending Sergeant-Major Carter, by the way, because I am telling you now, it's not going to be me. Maybe Manson could do it, he likes a challenge."
"Get Michael to do it," Johnny said. "He used to be an NCO, he'll know all the tricks."
"He taught Carter all the tricks," Paul said. "But there's more."
"Jesus, what is this, a memorandum or a three volume autobiography? I'll be drunk by the end of it."
"You'll certainly wish you were," Paul said. "By these means the frequent and discreditable recourse to the authority of the provost and to punishment by the sentence of courts martial, will be prevented and the soldiers will not dare to commit the offences and outrages of which there are too many complaints when they well know the their officers and non-commissioned officers have their eyes and attention turned towards them."
Suddenly Johnny was laughing. "Well that definitely wasn't aimed at us," he said. "The last court martial for any member of the 110th that I can remember attending was yours."
"Shut up, or I'll damage your other leg," Paul said cheerfully. "The commanding officers of regiments must likewise enforce the orders of the army regarding the constant, real inspection of the soldiers' arms, ammunition, accoutrements and necessaries, in order to prevent at all times the shameful waste of ammunition and the sale of that article and of the soldiers' necessaries. With this view both should be inspected daily.
"In regard to the food of the soldier, I have frequently observed and lamented in the late campaign, the facility and celerity with which the French soldiers cooked in comparison with those of our army." Paul had begun to laugh as well, now. "Mind, they use far too much garlic in it, you can smell them for miles when they're trying to skirmish unobtrusively."
Johnny was leaning back in his chair, tears of laughter running down his face. "George Kelly," he croaked. "Can I be there when you tell him he can't light a fire and get a meal cooked fast enough?"
"Once again, that duty is not mine. I'm delegating all of this to my officers and as my second-in-command, you get Kelly all to yourself. Stop it, you're going to choke yourself."
"I can't help it," Johnny said. "Is there much more?"
"Of course there is. Given Hookey's attention to detail, you cannot think that he doesn't go on to explain exactly what the men are supposed to do to improve the speed of their cooking; he's an expert, you see him out there all the time with a mess kettle and a pound of beef in his hands. Do I need to read that part? He also explains how we should run field exercises and march ten to twelve miles a week to keep them fit."
"Is that all?" Johnny wheezed. "It's a holiday he's offering them."
"I'll skip to the end; I'm worried about your health, here," Paul said. "But I repeat that the great object of the attention of the General and Field Officers must be to get the Captains and Subalterns of the regiments to understand and perform the duties required from them as the only mode by which the discipline and efficiency of the army can be restored and maintained during the next campaign."
Paul put the letter down, picked up his brandy glass and raised it. "I give you the Commander-in-Chief, Colonel Wheeler, in all his wisdom."
Johnny drank the toast. "Thank God that's over," he said. "But seriously, Paul, this is going to send morale into the dust."
"Morale is already in the dust after Burgos. This is just going to trample on it a bit. But they'll get over it." Paul set his glass down. "And of course, he's right."
Johnny studied him, thinking about it for a long time. "Yes, he is," he said. "Just not in your brigade."
"Our brigade, Johnny. Which is why we train all the way through winter quarters, keep them fit and healthy and teach the new recruits to throw up a camp, light a fire and cook a meal in half an hour. And since Alten took over, the rest of the light division is fast catching up, he's an obsessive German perfectionist and he rides the lines as often as I do, which I love about him. Hill is very good. But a lot of the others don't do it and because they don't, it filters down. Wellington has been a complete arse about this, he should never have done it this way, especially after what they've just been through, but he is right about some of it."
"This wasn't the way to get them to listen," Johnny said.
"No. And I think by now he knows it, he'll have calmed down. He won't retract a word of it but he'll probably find some other poor bastard to do the pretty with them and jolly them along and try to get the officers to understand what he's really trying to say in the middle of all that scathing invective."
There w
as another silence. "So when has he asked to see you about that, then, Colonel?" Johnny said.
"Thursday," Paul said in hollow tones. "He has written with orders for me to speak at a general meeting of divisional and brigade commanders to explain how we do what we do and what they should do to achieve the same. The letter came earlier."
"Oh bloody hell," Johnny said. He was trying not to laugh. "You are about to be the least popular officer from here to South America. He's going to stand you up there, wave that letter and point and by the end of it they'll be thinking he wrote that with your enthusiastic support and encouragement."
Paul picked up his glass. "And once again they will be referring to me as Wellington's Mastiff, and dreaming up ways to get the French to shoot me," he said. "Pass the brandy again, will you, Colonel?"
***
Captain O'Reilly saw her immediately as he dismounted outside the substantial stables at the back of the quinta. She was huddled in the shelter of the stable door, out of sight of the grooms going about their work but close enough to keep at least some of the rain off her. Even so, the auburn curls were plastered to her head and the shirt and jacket clung wetly to the skinny body. Michael could see her shivering, even at a distance and he swore fluently and strode across the yard, handing the reins to a groom.
"Up," he said shortly.
She rose, lifting those arresting turquoise eyes to his face. "Captain. I am sorry."
Her English was getting better. Michael took her by one soggy shoulder and steered her across the muddy yard and into the main house. There was nobody about as he guided her up the stairs and into his room. Most of the junior officers shared quarters but Michael had been allocated a small room to himself overlooking the dried out fountain on the terrace at the back. He closed the door and shoved the girl onto the single wooden chair. She was shivering violently, soaked to the skin.
"What happened to the gown that Mrs van Daan gave you?" Michael demanded, going to find a towel. He could only find one and he rubbed it quickly over his own hair, stripped off his wet coat and then handed her the towel. "Get yourself dry."
The child looked at the towel uncertainly and then began to wipe it over herself. Michael went to his chest. There was a pile of neatly folded clothing on top which told him that Mrs Bennett had been in. He smiled a little, conscious as always of the sheer pleasure of winter quarters and having clean, dry clothing for most of the time. Billets were not always as comfortable as this one but he always enjoyed the sense of remaining in one place even for a week or two. He picked up one of the shirts and carried it to her.
"Dry off and put this on then wrap the blanket around you, I want to talk to you."
He turned his back and sat on the edge of his bed to pull off his boots, then changed his own shirt, still not looking at her. Finally, when he was sure she had had enough time, he turned. She sat on the wooden chair, the thin grey army blanket around her legs and the shirt enormous on her.
Michael sat down on the bed again and studied the girl. He had last seen her in Ciudad Rodrigo at the convent, dressed in a dark woollen gown that Anne had bought for her. She had resisted any notion of taking the veil and Anne had not pushed the idea. Instead, she had paid the nuns to provide board and lodging for the child until she could find work. Michael could not believe she was here again.
"You can't keep doing this, brat," he said as kindly as he could. "I left you with the nuns, they were going to take care of you."
"I followed you from the city," the girl said.
"Brat, that's a walk of twenty miles, what were you thinking?"
"I have walked much further."
"I thought you were going to look for work in the town?" Michael said.
"There is no work," the girl said simply. "Only selling myself to the soldiers. I could not bear it again so I put these clothes on and followed you."
"The nuns would have..."
"The nuns cannot protect me," the child said. "They cannot protect themselves. I did not feel safe there. I feel safe here, with you."
Michael's heart turned over. "Oh, brat," he said softly. "What the devil am I going to do with you?"
"You should have a servant."
"I can't afford a servant. And if I could, it would have to be a boy, not a girl."
"I can be a boy. I look like a boy. I can work hard. I can wash your clothes and clean your boots and brush your horse. I like horses; my father had a horse and two donkeys before the French stole them and killed him."
Michael regarded her. "Who was your father?"
"He was Juan Ibanez. A good farmer with a house and fields and cattle. He could read and write; he learned with the priests and he taught me."
"Had you brothers or sisters?"
She shook her head. "My mother died with my baby brother and then there was just we two until they came."
Michael did not want to know more. He looked at the skinny little frame. "I've no money to pay a servant," he said again, but he heard the wavering in his own voice and she was on to it instantly.
"I need no money. Just food. I can sleep in the kitchen or by the camp fire. I will be a boy. Nobody will know." The huge eyes fixed on his face. "I feel safe with you."
The words pierced Michael's heart. "You are the most stubborn brat I have ever encountered," he said.
"I was a good servant," Ariana said. "On the march. When the French attacked, I stayed with your mule and your horse, I did not run away."
Michael got up. As he passed her, he reached out and ruffled the auburn curls. "I know you did," he said. "I was frantic, I thought you were going to get yourself killed."
"I got them across the river."
Michael poured two cups of wine and brought one to her. "You did," he admitted. "And I'm bloody grateful, I'm very attached to Sligo, I'd have hated to lose him. And yes, you were a very good servant. When we got here, I was thinking how much I missed you taking care of my kit and my horses. Surprising how quickly I got used to you."
"You would not have to pay the women for laundry and mending," Ariana said. She was negotiating, Michael could hear it in her voice, and she was making a very good case. "I can do all that. I will not trouble you, I can sleep in the stables."
"You bloody can't," Michael said firmly. "God knows who might find you alone in there and for all your insistence, you're still a lass and a very young one. You can sleep in the kitchen for now, I'll get Jenson to find you some bedding and I'll speak to Mrs van Daan about finding you something a bit better. But brat, this is temporary, you understand. Just through winter quarters, you can't come on campaign with me. I'm hoping by the time we march out again, I'll have found something a lot more suitable for you. And if you follow me after that, I'm sending you back."
She ducked her head in something like a bow and Michael reached for his shoes. "I'm going to speak to Jenson and to Mrs van Daan," he said. "Wait here. God only knows what the rest of the battalion are going to think about me yelling Ariana every time I want my boots cleaned, they're going to think the worst of me."
"You do not have to call me Ariana," the child said, with unexpected dignity. "I like it when you call me Brat."
***
Paul was almost asleep when Anne slid in beside him and he reached for her, feeling how cold she was. "Everything all right, love?"
"Yes. Poor Michael, he has no idea what to do about that child. I cannot believe she followed him again, I thought we had her settled with the nuns."
"She's determined," Paul said, enjoying the feel of her snuggling close into him. "Well, she's here now, I'm sure she can make herself useful, we're always short of help. I'll get George to find her a job."
"It appears she already has a job," Anne said. "She's going to continue as a boy and work for Michael."
Paul started to laugh. "I ought to put a stop to that," he said. "Given his reputation, nobody is going to believe she's just his orderly."
"Let's leave it for now, Paul. I've spoken to Michael. I know it's n
ot ideal, but that girl is completely desperate. She's beyond reason, with everything she's been through. But for some reason, the only person she trusts is Michael."
Paul lay quietly, thinking about it. "I think I understand," he said slowly. "He was the person who stepped in and broke the pattern. Until Michael, everything that happened to her ended the same way. He changed it."
"I suppose so. It's odd, but I don't think there's any harm in this."
"No. I'm going to leave it up to Michael for the time being. "Let's give her a chance to feel safe."
There was a wail from the crib in the corner of the room, and Anne sighed and moved away from him to collect her daughter. Georgiana, for all her delicate appearance, was a voracious eater and Paul was beginning to feel concerned for his exhausted wife.
When the baby was finally settled back to sleep, Anne lay back with her eyes closed. Paul studied her. She was unusually pale, for Anne, with dark circles under her eyes which made his heart turn over.
"Oh, Nan, you look so tired. Are you sure you don't want Teresa to try to find a wet nurse, this is going to exhaust you."
Anne opened her eyes and smiled at him. "Don't fuss, Colonel, this is my job, not yours. I think I'll be all right now we're safe and warm and there's enough food. You know how quickly I recover. I'll keep an eye on her and if she's not gaining weight or if I'm not feeling well, we'll look for somebody."
"Is that a promise?" Paul asked, leaning over to kiss her.
"It is; I'm not stupid, Paul. But I've done this before, and the milk is coming through very well. I'll only have a few months with her, I'd like to make the most of it."
Paul hesitated. He had not intended to raise this with her until they had been settled for a few weeks, but she seemed to sense his intention.