Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Yet Turney was a fine dancer, as vigorous as he was agile, and soon the floor cleared as the couple drew admiring gazes. The general held her firmly, and very close, leading with a bold step.

  ‘That fine lady, your mother, is from the Americas, I would think?’ His voice was clipped and precise.

  ‘Yes, my lord, from Charleston originally.’

  ‘A loyalist family, I presume, although she is clearly not old enough to recollect the Rebellion. But then I can scarcely believe that she has the years to be mother to a daughter who must be at least eighteen.’

  Unsure whether or not that was a compliment reflecting badly on her, Jane did not reply for a moment. ‘I am twenty, my lord, and my mother is still young.’ She could not think of anything better to say, for this questioning surely concealed a deeper purpose.

  ‘Of course, though in your case you combine the freshness of a spring bloom with a sophistication far beyond your years.’

  The general seemed satisfied and said no more than a few formal pleasantries for the remainder of the dance. His hold became tighter still, pressing her to him in a manner so intimate that it surely deserved the disapproving stares of some of the watching locals. It was done with skill, and Jane found no way to loosen the grip. The general was dangerous, and also very gallant. At the end of the piece he bowed, thanked her, pressing her hand firmly, and then vanished back into the crowd.

  She saw no more of him and soon they ventured back into the gardens. It was getting late and Jane suggested that they leave. Her shoes had begun to press during the dancing and she longed to bathe her feet. As they threaded their way between the pavilions they passed more women dressed in breeches and men’s coats and men in dresses. It seemed odd for folk given to such habits to be offended by a waltz, but then these were the fringes of a great ball and granted far more licence than elsewhere. Several times Jane saw ladies startled by something and felt that licence might be too slight a term.

  ‘Lieutenant Williams, as I live and breathe. Oh, and the very lovely Miss MacAndrews.’ The voice was heavily slurred with drink, and belonged to a slim fellow with a badly scarred face. There was something familiar about him apart from his manner, but Jane realised who he was only when Williams replied.

  ‘Hatch,’ he said. ‘I did not know that you were still in Cadiz.’

  ‘Oh, still here, Williams, waiting for the call to duty and glory. Though it is Lieutenant Hatch now, if you please.’

  ‘My apologies. I have not yet had a chance to offer congratulations. You have transferred to a foreign corps, I recollect.’

  Hatch was a small man, wounded badly in the head at Talavera. Jane remembered him as a vulgar fellow, who never seemed to be altogether sober. He wore a blue jacket with green cuffs and collar, and wings on the shoulders. Those were the mark of a flank company, which suggested it was the uniform of his new regiment and not simply one of the fashionable undress coats, like the one Williams had borrowed.

  ‘Yes, I am with the light bobs – the rifle company of the Chasseurs.’ Hatch bowed, looked nauseous, and slowly straightened up. As he did so he leered very obviously at the front of Jane’s dress. She did not remember seeing him quite as drunk as this. Not long ago her mother had hinted that the transfer to the foreign regiment had not been voluntary, but imposed by Colonel FitzWilliam as a punishment. Apparently there were unpaid gambling debts and other misdemeanours, and so it was felt better to have the fellow away from the regiment, at least for a while. By the sound of things her father had acted on the colonel’s behalf and helped to arrange the matter.

  ‘Well, congratulations indeed.’ She could feel Williams’ utter distaste for the man as he held her arm. ‘But we must bid you goodnight.’

  Hatch ignored the hint and fell into step beside them. Jane managed to avoid a loose attempt made to take her free arm.

  ‘Good to be with friends,’ Hatch said. Williams glared, but said no more. The press of the crowd was thicker down one of the aisles and they had to work their way through, jostled on all sides. Some of the touches felt more deliberate than accidental. Then Jane was pinched – undoubtedly pinched – through the silk of her dress. She jerked up straight, and Williams must have felt the motion for he looked down at her, face concerned. Jane shook her head to signify that it was nothing. Used to gentlemen whose hands were inclined to wander too freely during a dance, she had not before encountered anything so gross. The sight of other ladies being startled suggested that she was not singled out.

  ‘I need friends, you see,’ Hatch explained, ignoring the silence of the other two. Jane wondered whether the officer was responsible, but his hands were clasped together in front of him. It seemed better to avoid a scene.

  ‘There are enemies out there,’ the scarred officer continued. ‘A father and his ruffians out for my blood. That is if they can find me.’ Hatch touched his nose, inviting them to join his little conspiracy. ‘I have taken precautions to evade pursuit.’

  ‘Really,’ Williams said without the slightest trace of interest. Jane felt another touch, this time different, more like the pressure of something being pushed against her. She tried to peer back over her shoulder, but having her hair down made it more difficult. Williams leaned back and his face filled with anger.

  ‘Oh yes, from the beginning I threw them off the scent by telling them that my name was Williams.’ Hatch chuckled, and did not seem quite so drunk.

  Williams’ arm slipped free from Jane and he squared up to the other officer.

  ‘You did what, sir!’ His voice was loud and made several people turn. Jane took the opportunity to twist and saw that someone had stuck a sweet pastry on to her dress in the middle of her bottom. She reddened in a mixture of outrage and shame.

  ‘Well, Williams is a good name for a rogue,’ Hatch said in a level voice. He was slouching, his whole manner avoiding any challenge.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Williams began, and then Jane interrupted him with a yelp. A man in a gold-laced white coat and plumed tricorne hat had walked past her, and as he did his arm flicked over, brushing against her chest and dropping something sticky down the front of her dress.

  The civilian grinned, and Williams swung into a punch that knocked the man off his feet and sent him crashing back to overturn a table. Jane was wriggling, trying to pluck whatever it was back out, but her fingers were clumsy in her gloves. There was cream on them and she guessed it must be another pastry.

  Another civilian shouted something at Williams, and the Welshman punched him as well, sending him staggering backwards. Hatch had gone.

  ‘We should leave,’ Jane said, trying to copy something of her mother’s usual firmness. Williams looked belligerent, ready to slam his fist into the world at large, and several men appeared willing to confront him. ‘Take me home, sir,’ she said, and the appeal to duty and her protection did the trick.

  Neither spoke, but they hurried on their way as fast as Jane’s tight shoes would allow. They were near the corner of the last street before their lodgings when two men in long cloaks and wide hats blocked their path.

  ‘Señor Williams?’ one said, struggling to pronounce the name.

  ‘Yes, damn it, what do you want?’ her companion said gruffly, then realising that he had sworn. ‘My apologies, Miss MacAndrews.’

  Steel glinted as the men produced slim knives from beneath their cloaks.

  Jane screamed, felt foolish immediately, but did not stop. Williams pushed her back, stepping forward to place himself between the girl and their assailants. He jabbed a punch, but the men stepped back easily. They moved a little apart so that they could threaten him from two sides at once.

  Shouts came from behind them and the sound of running feet. The two cloaked men exchanged glances and then fled.

  ‘Are you all right, Jane?’ Williams said, so concerned that he used her Christian name. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I am fine,’ she said, but there was no time for more because the Guards captain and his frie
nds appeared – it was they who had given chase and frightened off their assailants.

  Thanks were offered, solicitous enquiries made about her health, and she had four escorts to take her the last short distance to her door. She was too tired to speak beyond the necessary courtesies. It had been a long and unnerving night.

  Fatigue had not produced sleep, even once she was bathed and could feel clean again – she feared it would not be so easy to clean her gown and other clothes. So much had happened, so quickly that Jane could not find rest.

  The assailants were probably seeking that drunken fool Hatch. That seemed most likely, and their interest had been in Williams and not her. People spoke of stabbings in the streets almost as a commonplace now that Cadiz was crowded with so many ambitious, jealous and greedy men. She hoped that her friend’s life would not be endangered again so soon, although from a few things Pringle had said the Welshman had once more been flinging himself into danger in the last few weeks. Jane resolved to ask Dobson about what had happened when the sergeant next called to see his grandson. She feared a recklessness about Williams, and wondered about his odd reserve. Her feelings towards him had grown stronger in the last year, far stronger, even though they still fell just short of certainty. It would be hard indeed to lose him now – or was that better than to commit at last only to lose him in a few months’ time when his boldness exhausted his store of luck?

  Yet it was her mother who concerned her most, and then suddenly, as the clocks struck four in cruel reminder of how much sleep she was losing, Jane understood. The thought was clear and somehow she knew it must be true. Her parents had married in 1783, not long before Britain and the new United States of America concluded a peace treaty. Her father had been a prisoner of war, a young lieutenant, and he had escaped his captors alongside another officer. That man had brought with him her mother, then a little shy of her eighteenth birthday, and daughter of a wealthy family, nearly all of whom were patriots fervent for the cause of independence. With the militia on their trail, the other officer had fled, and after several narrow escapes, her parents had managed to reach the British lines outside New York. By that time they were in love and had married as soon as a parson could be secured.

  That was the bones of the story, as it had been told to her. In the last few years she had begun to question some of the details. Mrs MacAndrews had given birth to a son before the year was out, suspiciously soon after they had married. Her parents were always vague as to why she had chosen to leave with two escaping prisoners of war, talking airily of her taste for adventure. Eventually her mother admitted that she had fallen in love with the other British officer, but not to say anything about it to the major. Her father knew everything, and they had long ago ceased to worry about such things. Jane kept her promise and found that the changed story did not alter her attitude towards her parents, whose happiness was so obvious. Yet she wondered whether that first baby had been a half-brother.

  Lord Turney must be the other officer, her mother’s lover and perhaps the father of the child. Jane felt that it must be true, and it explained so much. The title was clearly an Irish one, and no doubt inherited since then, so that she would not have recognised the name. Memories of dancing with the man rushed up and were disturbing. Not only was the man old enough to be her father, if things had been different he might have been her father. The closeness of his touch as he had pulled her hips towards him in the waltz now seemed uncomfortable indeed. She almost wished for another bath.

  Jane must have fallen asleep in the end, for she woke to a bright strip of sunlight running across the ceiling.

  ‘You look quite unwell, Jane,’ her mother said as they took breakfast. ‘I fear some of the food last night was not of the best. However, I have news. I have decided not to follow your father to Gibraltar. It is likely the regiment will move, so we might only reach there to find him gone, and this is a more comfortable place to stay than the Rock. Here you should not be frightened by apes,’ she added with a smile. ‘Do you remember that when you were a little girl?’

  ‘Yes, Mama. Of course, if you think it best, then we must stay,’ Jane said – and avoid further encounters with Lord Turney, let alone the prospect of being cooped up in a ship with him on the journey down.

  Jane was sure that she had got to the heart of the mystery.

  10

  This time it all went smoothly. With Edward Pringle back on board, the Sparrowhawk took them again through the Straits of Gibraltar and landed them at night along the coast from Malaga. The winds were ideal, and when they went ashore no French cavalry stumbled across their path. Hanley, Williams, Dobson and Murphy were the only British soldiers. Pringle was not with them, having been sent to Gibraltar. By now he would be back with the battalion, at the head of the Grenadier Company, and no doubt drinking too much of the Gibraltar black-strap, wine infamous for being both cheap and very strong. Hanley knew Williams would have liked to be with him – not for the drink, of course, but to be back with the battalion – and that puzzled him a little since he knew that Mrs and Miss MacAndrews were still in Cadiz. Probably his friend’s sense of honour was screwing him up inside and making him feel noble for being away from the woman he loved. Hanley pitied Williams for the constant battle the man fought to match his own ideals, and rather envied him because he had fallen so deeply in love with one woman. Such closeness was not something he had ever felt.

  With the British came a Spanish lieutenant, two soldiers, fifty muskets – this time Spanish models begged from the army at Cadiz – two thousand cartridges to go with them, thirty short swords, and six barrels of powder. Lieutenant Vega was from the area, and had arranged everything. Mules and guides were waiting, and they moved inland swiftly. El Blanco’s band was one of the first they visited, giving him half of their supplies.

  ‘Better,’ the chieftain said, smiling this time when he looked at one of the muskets. ‘Much better.’

  Their welcome was warm from the start, probably because they did not have Sinclair with them, and the next morning they all rode to a high peak and looked down towards the coast.

  ‘The French hold their forts,’ Don Antonio Velasco told them. About a mile away they saw a group of high-walled buildings on top of a lower crest. ‘That was the Convent of Santa Clara. Now it holds one hundred soldiers – Germans who serve the French.’

  Don Antonio’s wife rode beside him, dressed all in black – boots, trousers, shirt, cloak and even her broad-brimmed hat. Hanley had told Williams about the women who rode in the band, but the Welshman had still made the same mistake as he and Pringle, at first taking them for boys.

  ‘You were right not to let Lupe come,’ the leader said to his wife, who made no reply. ‘She used to live there, like many girls when they come of age, waiting for marriage.’

  ‘An unhappy memory?’ Hanley asked.

  ‘There was a French column going along the valley,’ El Blanco said. ‘This would be back in January. Shots were fired, who knows from where, and so the French stormed Santa Clara.’

  ‘Poor child,’ Williams said in his slow Spanish. ‘Was she hurt?’

  ‘She was violated.’ It was Paula Velasco who spoke, and her voice was surprisingly deep. ‘Again and again. So were the nuns, and many were killed. And so she is seventeen and no longer a child. She says little and only hates and kills.’

  Hanley had heard many such stories in the past years, so much so that the mind became hardened, but the young woman’s tone was so brutal that he felt again the terrible sorrow of this war. When he thought of such things it sickened him to remember how he had once admired Napoleon as a bringer of enlightenment. Yet French officers seemed so affable when he met them, brave and chivalrous. Were there others, some different breed he had not met, capable of such appalling savagery?

  ‘We all hate.’ El Blanco’s voice was harsh. ‘We have good reason to hate. I would slit the throat of all one hundred men up there as soon as I would clean dirt off a boot, and with less feeling. But
…’ He waved his hand at the distant convent and his voice trailed off.

  ‘But,’ he continued after a while, ‘we cannot get at them in their forts. If I led my men to attack Santa Clara then they would be shot down. If I raised a thousand crusaders from the mountains and took them with me then most of them would die in the attack and still we would achieve nothing. Without cannon we cannot pierce their walls and so they are safe. I cannot starve them out because in time a column will come and no matter how many we are we cannot stand against a French regiment in open country. We can harry them in the passes, hold them for a while, but they will get through and then we must run or die.

  ‘I cannot stop them from going wherever they will and I cannot take their forts. Not even if I led all the guerrilleros for a hundred miles and all the peasants could I do these things.’ He sounded bleak now. ‘I can hurt them a little, kill a few and make the rest nervous in the night, but I cannot beat them. For that we need an army, a proper Spanish army, with guns and cavalry.’

  ‘If a force comes, will you help it?’ Lieutenant Vega asked.

  ‘Of course. We will do everything we can. The people will rise if they have a chance.’

  ‘And do you think the other bands of guerrilleros will do the same?’ Hanley said.

  ‘All the ones worth having will come. We have not seen Spanish soldiers for a long time.’ Don Antonio gave a wry smile. ‘Even a few of you heathen English would be welcome.’

  ‘Good, then for the moment you must show us more of the country and tell us all you know about the enemy’s dispositions.’

  They rode on, and saw more French outposts, a mixture of converted buildings such as churches and monasteries, and freshly dug earth and timber structures, usually with a high central tower surrounded by a rectangle of wooden walls. None of the garrisons was very big.