True Soldier Gentlemen

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I now have what I came for. I suggest you forget Maria. There are plenty more whores in Lisbon, if none quite so special. Still, such things will no longer be your concern. I regret that we never had time for formal introductions.’ He pulled back the hammers to cock both barrels of his pistol. The three soldiers did the same with their muskets and Williams wondered whether any sound had ever been so loud. He tried to prepare himself for one last spring, knowing that he would die before he could reach even the nearest of the soldiers. Fear fed his anger.

  Then the sergeant came in through the door set into the main entrance. He raised a finger to his lips. Voices came from outside. The sergeant whispered something to Denilov and the count smiled.

  ‘Even better,’ he said. He kept his pistol firmly aimed at them as he walked backwards. The soldiers did the same. Only at the last minute did they turn and run through the side door. Williams dashed after them, but the door was slammed and bolted before he reached it and he simply hurt his shoulder when he barged into it. Truscott had gone to the main door. He looked out and saw green-coated cavalrymen in the gateway to the churchyard. One saw him and shouted.

  He jerked his head back in and flung his weight against the door, feeling for the bolt.

  ‘French cavalry!’ he called.

  Hanley came to help him. ‘So are we really going to be prisoners of the French this time?’

  I’m damned if I am,’ shouted Williams, and the other two did not even notice that he had sworn. The volunteer was looking for something he could use as a weapon.

  A flurry of gunshots came from outside. There were shouts, and then more shots. Hanley was about to suggest lifting Truscott up so that he could peer out of one of the high windows when a musket ball shattered the glass.

  The shouting died down and then there was silence. Pringle moaned and woke up.

  ‘Did I miss anything?’ he said weakly. They ignored the question. Someone tried to force the main door and then a voice shouted.

  ‘They’re Portuguese,’ Hanley said with relief. ‘English, English,’ he shouted as loudly as he could and then unbolted the door and opened it. Two muskets were immediately levelled at them. The Englishmen stepped back to let their allies in. Hanley tried his Spanish, but with the same lack of result as before.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Hanley, is it not,’ said a familiar voice. Lieutenant Mata smiled from behind his two soldiers. It was a fortunate chance which made explanations easier. That was just as well, as in a few moments the Portuguese troops had searched the church and discovered the body of the tortured priest. They were used to such sights by now but that did nothing to diminish their anger. Hanley had intended to tell only of the French cavalry, but he had liked Mata when they met and found himself recounting the whole story.

  ‘You take risks, my friend,’ was the only comment the lieutenant made at the end of the tale. Hanley was not sure that the Portuguese officer was convinced that a group of Russian soldiers were responsible for the murder. The French had done as much and worse so often that his instinct was to blame them.

  One of their borrowed horses had been wounded in the skirmish. The Portuguese had finished the animal off and, short of fresh meat, were already butchering the carcass. They had taken two horses from the French patrol, however, and Mata loaned the British officers one of these mounts. The Portuguese had also found the redcoats’ weapons, dropped just outside the church, and returned them.

  It seemed a long ride back to camp. Billy Pringle began by asking a lot of questions, but lapsed into silence when no one answered him. Failure and defeat gnawed at all of them. They were young, and even Hanley was now willing to think of himself as a soldier. This was their first war, and they expected to win. Exuberance, restlessness and boredom had made each relish the adventure of aiding a damsel in distress. Maria had proved herself no innocent, had lied to them and manipulated them. There was still a vague sense that they had let a woman down, and that hurt their sense of honour. Far, far worse was the wider sense of defeat. Soldiers were supposed to fight and to win. They had done neither, and the humiliation ran deep.

  Finally, when they were nearly back at camp, Truscott relented and told him what had happened. He had wanted to blame his friend for entangling them in this futile misadventure, but could not. It did not matter how they had become involved. They had been tested and found wanting. It was very hard to bear.

  The British and a small force of Portuguese continued to advance, pursuing the French as they retreated back towards Lisbon. Most of Junot’s army was still scattered and distant, and only a single strong brigade faced the allies. On 15th August Pringle was able to include in his diary that the first shots had been fired. At least the first shots of the official war involving the British army. He had begun religiously writing up a journalshots of y since the landing, something he had never managed in his life before. He did not write about Maria or their adventure at the church, but that did not stop him thinking about her. Failure tasted bitter.

  Neither Pringle nor any of the 106th saw anything of the fighting. There were shots from ahead of the column for a good half-hour. In spite of their continuing advance the firing seemed to get more distant. Later, as darkness was falling, there was a new burst of firing, and the heavier sound of ordered volleys as well.

  There had been activity ahead, but while General Hill’s brigade was hurried forward, the 3rd Brigade and the 106th were not required. Moss was obviously frustrated, and eventually managed to get some information from one of General Spencer’s aides as the young man passed. The Rifles had driven the French back. Later it became clear that the green-jackets had become excited and chased too eagerly after the withdrawing enemy. They had outstripped the supporting companies and then run into a formed French battalion. Recoiling, the riflemen had formed a loose rally square on a hilltop and spent a nervous night waiting for a major attack which never came.

  The French had withdrawn again and the next morning the British Army followed them. Williams was surprised to find Dobson becoming more cheerful with every day that passed. The closeness of the enemy seemed to excite him. The colonel was also in an ebullient mood, joking with officers and men alike.

  ‘Pitiful,’ was his comment when they saw a rifleman with a bandage on his bare head leading three French prisoners back down the column. The men had been stripped of their cross-belts and packs so that their long loose dustcoats flapped in the breeze. Their wide-topped shakos were covered in drab cloth and they wore baggy brown trousers made locally. Only the headgear marked them out as soldiers. All three were young and looked sheepish. ‘Absolutely pitiful,’ said Moss again. ‘Just scruffy children from the slums. How the hell these creatures have terrified Europe is beyond me.’

  ‘Just conscripts,’ suggested Toye. ‘Boney has sent lots of his youngest troops to Spain and Portugal. And I suppose the least willing soldiers are always the most likely to surrender.’

  MacAndrews was riding just behind them and wondered whether this was a slur aimed at him, but decided that Toye was simply being thoughtless. He remembered the confusion and fear of capture. ‘Junot does have a lot of third battalions in his army. Quite newly formed most of them.’ The French Emperor had recently expanded his army and most of the new units contained few experienced men.

  Moss grunted, slightly resenting his elderly major’s detailed knowledge. ‘Still, it does help to explain the news from Spain. If the French army there was composed of children like that then no wonder the Dons beat them.’ Reports had arrived of a French army forced to surrender by the Spanish. There had been many tales of Spanish triumphs in the past – the Galicians had boasted to Wellesley about them while turning down his direct assistance – but all had turned out to be inventions. This one seemed to be true, and was encouraging. A defeat in Spain would make it far less likely that the French could reinforce Junot in Portugal.

  ‘Battle in a day or two,’ said the colonel. ‘I can smell it. And if the dagoes can
beat the Frogs then we should go through them like a hot knife through butter.’

  Neither of the majors chose to mention Buenos Aires, where the ‘dagoes’ had beaten a British expedition and forced its capitulation. Still, Wellesley was no Whitelocke.

  Allthree officers raised their cocked hats respectfully as they passed a more melancholy scene. A group of riflemen were piling up earth on a new grave. That night Pringle could record in his journal the death of Derryck’s cheerful cousin, poor Bunbury of the 95th. The news had very briefly cast a gloom over the 106th’s mess, but soon the talk became louder as the wine was passed around and songs were sung. Orders had arrived for the army to advance the following day. The baggage would be left behind and the brigades would go straight into an attack on the French, who seemed at last to have halted. Hanley thought the laughter and talk of that evening to be a little strained, sometimes almost hysterical, but then wondered whether that was his own nervousness. Williams withdrew fairly early and read his Bible by candlelight under the stars. Pringle stayed in the mess and tried to ignore the noise as he made a short entry in his journal.

  ‘I earnestly hope that this will not be the final entry in the diary of William Pringle, Lieut. 106th Foot,’ he wrote at the end. Please God, let that be true, he thought. The war already seemed a lot more dangerous and confusing than he had expected.

  24

  The young ADC had made a mistake, but there was no time to do anything about it now. An hour before dawn, when he had passed on the orders to the brigade major, he had told him to form left in front. The formation should have been by the right as normal. By the left meant that all dispositions were reversed. The 106th formed ahead of the 82nd and both battalions had the Light Company at the front of their column and the grenadiers at the rear. For Hanley and Trent with the colour party it made little difference. They were still in the centre of the battalion, but were now looking at the backs of a different company. Pringle and Redman were in place behind the flanks of the Grenadier Company and so were at the very rear of the 106th. Pringle raised a quizzical eyebrow at the adjutant riding beside him.

  ‘These are the orders,’ said Thomas in response. ‘Something must have changed.’ He had seen the general’s orders issued the night before, which specified that the brigades would march right in front. That allowed a rapid deployment into the normal fighting line either to the front or to face the right flank. Marching left in front made it easier to turn instead to the left. ‘I had better check, though.’ Thomas could dimly see a cluster of horsemen and hear raised voices. He spurred his horse over to join them, but before he could reach them the group broke up. Moss came towards him, surging ahead of the two majors.

  ‘We go as we are,’ he called to the adjutant. ‘It’s wrong, but puts us closer to the enemy, so I shan’t complain.’ He did not stop, but rode quickly back to the head of the column. Toye looked nervous as he passed. MacAndrews just shrugged. Before Thomas had reached his station he heard Sergeant Major Fletcher’s voice booming across the open plain.

  ‘’Talion will advance.’ A pause and then ‘Forward march!’ The drums started and the band began to play ‘The British Grenadiers’ as the 106th moved off.

  ‘They’re not bothered about surprise, then,’ whispered Williams to Dobson, who marched in front of him.

  ‘They’ll know we are coming. Make them nervous to listen to us for a while. No one wants to think on a day like this. Chin up, Pug. We’ll show ’em.’

  ‘Silence in the ranks,’ yelled Sergeant Darrowfield, who chose to ignore Murphy’s louder of ‘Miserable sod’.

  Sir Arthur Wellesley wanted the French General Delaborde to notice his army’s main central column. Altogether he had some nine thousand men, with the bulk of the cavalry and a dozen of his precious guns. They marched straight at the French position on the hills in front of the little village of Roliça. He could just see the whitewashed houses clustered around the church through his telescope. The sun was not yet fully up, and he would need another look when they got closer. He spotted a hillock in the plain which ought to offer a good viewing point. At the moment he could see darker smears on the hillside, which might be French troops. He glanced to the left, but could not yet see very much. Delaborde had a single brigade – no more than four or five thousand men including a regiment of cavalry. Yet another French brigade under General Loison was only a dozen miles away, and if he came to reinforce Delaborde he would come from those hills.

  The French wanted to delay the British until Junot could concentrate enough troops to smash them. Wellesley guessed that Delaborde was also keen to inflict a bloody nose on the advancing British. There was a desire both to add to his high reputation and to encourage his soldiers by showing them they were better than the enemy. Sir Arthur counted on this to keep the French brigade in place long enough to trap it. So he wanted Delaborde to be mesmerised by his central column, to see them and only them. In the meantime Major General Ferguson would take two brigades on a march round to the left. A smaller Portuguese column led by Colonel Trant – an English soldier of fortune who seemed reliable in spite of the fact that he was rarely sober – went to the right. If the French commander was stupid or sufficiently overconfident, then it might work.

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Henri-François Delaborde as he rubbed his hands together. It was an hour and half later, and he and his staff had watched the British columns process across the rolling plain towards them. There was an air of a field day about it, especially now, as the enemy brigades deployed immaculately from their columns into line. One of his younger ADCs applauded. The general silenced the man with a look. His spirits were rising – if only it were not for this damned rheumatism in his joints.

  ‘At least we are fighting a proper army again,’ commented his chief of staff. Junot had disbanded Portugal’s regiments soon after his arrival. When the Portuguese rose against the French, they consisted of hastily organised forces, often little more than mobs. It had been brutal, inglorious work suppressing them. The French had done it, resolving always to be far more brutal than the enemy, but such tasks would win no man promotion or praise from the Emperor. It did not help that the Emperor was still in France, for he was never as lavish with decorations in campaigns where he did not lead in person.

  ‘They march and form well,’ grunted Delaborde in agreement. ‘And they look handsome,’ he muttered as he clicked his glass open. Through the telescope the nearest battalions became more than a red strip. He could see black shakos and white cross-belts. ‘At least eight battalions. Maybe a few more. Call it two or three brigades.’

  ‘We are outnumbered, then.’ His chief of staff ’s comment was neutral.

  ‘We are French,’ Delaborde said automatically. There were a few companies of Swiss infantry with his brigade, the remainder of a battalion left behind in garrison, but they were almost as reliable as his countrymen. ‘How many did the Chasseurs spot over on the right, Jean?’

  A fresh-faced staff officer consulted a note. ‘At leaslmost rigade, General. Rosbifs again. A couple of guns and a handful of cavalry.’

  ‘How close?’ The British flanking column was covered by the olive groves and the rolling hills. Delaborde had spotted a little dust and the occasional glint of metal, but had not been able to make out anything more definite from his position. A patrol of his green-uniformed cavalry had already located the enemy, however, and soon sent him a detailed report. They did not spot Trant’s smaller column, made up of Portuguese, and coming by a longer route.

  ‘An hour, maybe an hour and a half.’

  Delaborde guessed that it would be nearer an hour and a half. The British manoeuvred well, but their marching did seem slow. Still, it would take careful judgement. He wanted the British centre to stay deployed. In lines the enemy infantry would move even more slowly, for the ground was broken and rolling, and every dry-stone wall, grove and rocky outcrop would force them to halt and re-dress their ranks. Time was what mattered. Delay and tire the enemy.
He had no intention of fighting from this position, but wanted the English general to believe that he was locked into place.

  ‘Jean, ride to the battalions and tell them to send forward their voltigeurs.’ One out of the nine companies in each French battalion was trained to skirmish. They were the equivalent of a British light company, with yellow and green plumes, yellow collars and epaulettes to mark their elite status. French skirmishers were considered the best in the world. ‘Tell them to move fast when they hear the order to pull back. Just tease the British for a while.’

  Delaborde watched the four voltigeur companies come up from behind the ridge and walk over the crest and down the other side. After a while they disappeared from his view. He wondered about riding forward to check that they did not go too far, but stopped himself. He could trust his captains. Then the sparkle of a tiny reflection caught his eye. There was a group of enemy officers on top of the highest hillock below him. He smiled. That was where he would have gone himself. He guessed that the British officers were scanning his light infantry with their glasses.

  Delaborde walked his horse over to an eight-pounder cannon set up on the crest, one of the six guns with his brigade. There should have been two more, but there were not enough horses to pull them so they had been left in garrison. An artillery lieutenant saluted and his men stiffened to attention.

  Delaborde nodded to the man. ‘Worth a shot?’

  The lieutenant was only twenty-one and was flattered that the general sought his opinion. He was nervous for a moment, then the pride of being a gunner took over. There were mysteries of military science which he understood better than any general save the Emperor himself. He shook his head. ‘Be a waste, General. Might give them a headache, but no more.’