Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  They had headed towards the road, but before they got there Lupe’s horse was terrified when lightning struck a tree and the animal bolted, carrying her sister off into the darkness. Paula’s own little gelding stirred, ears twitching in its eagerness to follow, but she calmed it and walked it forward, waiting for Lupe to come back. She did not, and though it was hard to judge time in the hammering rain, she began to fear that something had happened. It could just be the foul weather, enough to confuse them both even after many nights spent out in the open, but still she worried, and began to press on faster, looking as best she could for any sign.

  As they came along a bank her horse stumbled, its shoulder dropping and the animal crying out as it struggled for balance, until a great roll of thunder made it rear and Paula fell, boots free of the stirrups, hitting the ground hard and rolling down a steep bank.

  She must have lost consciousness and did not know for how long, because her next memory was of lying awkwardly on her side, covered in mud and with a shallow stream flowing around her. Her head was sore, her hat and cloak both gone, and when she tried to push herself up a terrible pain stabbed at her right shoulder. She could move her arm, but only slightly, and the price was an agony which made her sob in misery. Her left arm was fine, and shifting her weight and using this she managed to sit up, and finally to stand. The rain had stopped and pale light bathed the slopes of the ravine above her. It looked too steep to climb, and so she followed the water as it flowed down. It was tempting to call out, but she was no longer so sure where she was, and perhaps there were enemies near by. Paula’s slim sword must have come loose in the fall, because the scabbard was bent and empty. There was a pistol in her sash, and she uttered a silent prayer for a miracle that would have kept the powder dry.

  The sky grew dark again and rain started to fall, washing some of the mud off her face. Her clothes were already soaked through, the shirt clinging and cold, the leather breeches uncomfortable. Her riding boots keep slipping on the grass, and she had to walk slowly to stop from falling.

  ‘Lupe!’ she called once, but doubted her voice carried far in the wind and rain. There was no real point calling for her sister, and prudence returned, telling her that silence was better. If only the pain were not so bad and she knew where she was. Paula Velasco walked on for what seemed like hours, wandering through a maze of rolling hills and little ravines. After a ferocious downpour during which she had to close her eyes and trust that she would not fall, the rain eased and she realised that she was on the main track. On the far side was a cottage, its whitewashed walls a dull gleam in the darkness, and a sliver of red light coming from a crack in a door or shutter. It was shelter if nothing else, and Paula went towards it.

  She was not alone. A year spent with her husband’s band had honed instincts which she had not known that she possessed, and even exhausted and in pain she knew that there was someone out there. Paula reached down, awkward with her left hand, and slid the pistol from her sash. Her fingers were cold and clumsy, but she managed to pull the hammer back.

  ‘Español?’ she said in challenge to the black night. ‘Inglés?’

  A cruel laugh came from the darkness. Paula raised the pistol, searching the night for the threat. Someone ran at her, coming from the side, and she swung, wincing with pain as her shoulder throbbed in protest.

  A man shouted in a language she did not know and then she pulled the trigger, the muzzle pointing squarely at his chest, and the flint sparked, but the rain had turned the powder into a useless sludge and nothing happened.

  Arms grabbed her from behind, agony searing through her shoulder, and she screamed in fear and pain.

  16

  Ten minutes before and the rain would have drowned the sound. Instead Williams heard a high-pitched scream, an awful scream of torment, and he ran towards the noise. He was on his way back to the beach from the outposts carrying the report that the French did not seem to be up to anything – something he suspected was true given the weather, but doubted that the chasseur pickets had taken any real trouble to find out.

  Another cry turned into a great sob and then there was silence. He was sure it was a woman and so he drove himself on, running down the muddy track. Pushing back his cloak, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword as he ran and slid the blade free.

  The track turned past a rise crowned with bushes which waved in the wind and went down into a little dip. Williams saw a patch of light, bright light in the open door of a cottage, and then the door was slammed shut. He pelted along the path, muddy water splashing up on to his already filthy boots and cloak, and then was on the grass. Outside the door he stopped, took a breath and then launched himself at the door, kicking so hard that his foot snapped one of the planks as it slammed back. He blinked at the light of fire and candle which seemed dazzling after hours wandering the dark night.

  There were men in the small single room of the cottage, all of them in the dark blue of the chasseurs, and two were crouching over something, while another cowered in the corner of the room. The fourth man came at him, the long sword bayonet of a rifle in his hand, lunging at the officer.

  Williams parried the blow, flicking the blade aside and then jabbing to force the soldier back.

  ‘Drop it!’ he shouted. The man hesitated, but when no one came in after the officer, he suddenly lunged again. Shouts echoed around the room, and behind him the two soldiers sprang up, one grabbing a rifle.

  Williams parried the blow and then swayed back as the chasseur swung his left fist in a punch which flicked his ruined shoulder wing.

  ‘Damn it, you rogue, I’m an officer!’ he called out, feeling foolish as he spoke, but the soldier hacked at his head this time. Williams was faster, whipping his curved blade down to cut through the man’s elbow. The chasseur howled, arm almost severed, and the sword bayonet dropped from his lifeless hand. Behind him the man with the rifle was raising it, pulling back the hammer, so the officer barged the wounded man on to his comrade, knocking the barrel high as he fell. It went off, the noise appalling in the small room, and the flame singeing Williams’ face and speckling it with powder. He stamped with his front foot and thrust the sword forward. A moment’s resistance on his collar and the tip speared into the chasseur’s neck. More blood gushed from the dying man’s throat as he dropped on top of the soldier bleeding from the great gash in his arm.

  The man curled up in the corner whimpered. The other had a corporal’s stripes on his sleeve, but let his knife fall to the floor and held his hands up. His trousers were unbuttoned and hanging open.

  ‘I surrender,’ he said, and Williams saw that it was Brandt, the marksman so praised by Lieutenant Hatch.

  A moaning came from behind and the officer aimed the sword at the chasseur corporal and gestured for him to go back. On a heap of straw behind the man a woman lay, and moaned through the red gag tied around her mouth, the skin around one of her eyes swelling into a bruise. Her right arm lay in an odd posture beside her, the fingers curled unnaturally. Her left was bound by a musket sling looped into an iron ring set into the wall – probably something the peasants used to tether an animal. Many a poor family would keep a goat or two in with them for safety.

  The woman was almost naked. Her shirt had gone and her bare skin was pale in the light of the candle and little fire. Black rags lay in the straw, mingled with silver buttons from where they had sliced through the seam of one trouser leg and torn it away. Williams must have interrupted Brandt as he worked on the other one, for it was half cut and pulled back and when that was done the young woman would have been naked apart from her riding boots.

  Williams brought his blade back up so that it no longer pointed at the corporal and saw the fear slip from Brandt’s eyes. The officer stepped forward and put all his weight into the blow as he slammed the hilt into the man’s face, flinging him back against the wall. Brandt slid down, blood gushing from his split lip, and Williams kicked him hard in the chest, knocking the breath out of him, so that he sl
umped to the ground.

  That done, he went over to the wall, pulled the sling so that the hitch knot came free and unclipped his cloak, handing it down to the girl. It took a moment, but then the memory came back and he recognised the short-haired wife of the partisan leader El Blanco. She looked to be in great pain and still stunned by all that had happened, but it seemed that he had arrived in time to save her from the very worst.

  Brandt was still lying on the floor, hands pressed against his chest, and Williams felt a strong urge to step over and thrust down, finishing the scoundrel off and saving the cost of the rope.

  ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘You’ll hang.’ He was about to untie the scarf gagging the young woman when someone came through the door, bayonet fitted to the rifle he held ready to cover the room. He was dressed in the blue jacket and trousers of the chasseurs, had a dark sash and sergeant’s chevrons, and Williams felt a wave of relief when he saw that it was Mueller.

  ‘What the devil is going on?’ The voice was English, as slurred although not quite so disdainful as usual, and Lieutenant Hatch appeared behind the sergeant. ‘Williams?’ he said in surprise. ‘What the bloody hell are you up to? We heard shouting and a shot and …’

  The lieutenant noticed the young woman and his eyes widened as he realised that she was nearly naked. Paula tried to pull the cloak to cover herself, but her left arm was stiff from being tied up. Williams helped her, brushing her soft skin as he brought the wet cloak up over her breasts. Then he took off the scarf. Paula licked blood from her lips, but did not speak.

  ‘You old rogue,’ Hatch said.

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool.’ Williams’ anger took the lieutenant aback. ‘This is the wife of Don Antonio Velasco, the leader of the partisans. Your corporal and these men dragged her in here and attempted to ravish her. When I tried to stop them they attacked me.’

  Mueller was staring at the corporal with utter contempt, and Williams was confident that the man was a serious soldier and no friend of Brandt. He used his boot to prod the man wounded in the throat.

  ‘Dead.’

  Hatch showed no regret at the death of one of his men. ‘Well, looks like you’ve paid one of them out already, and made a start on the others.’ His breath smelt strongly of alcohol.

  ‘They’ll hang, both of them,’ Williams said. ‘I do not think the other fellow helped them – but then he did not help her. The court martial can decide.’

  ‘Yes, quite. Well, Brandt, I told you that you were born for the gallows and now you have proved me right. Sergeant, have two men drag the corpse outside, and get someone to bandage that swine. Place him and the other two under arrest. You and another two men will escort them back to the beach.’ Williams could not remember Hatch behaving so correctly and wondered whether for once the man was sober in spite of the smell. Surely he could have had little chance to drink very heavily in the last hours.

  ‘Mr Williams,’ the scarred lieutenant asked, ‘might it not be a good idea if you went with the sergeant and the prisoners? Make sure the charges are laid. Be too easy for things not to be done properly, as I dare say tomorrow will be even busier than today.’

  He did not care for Hatch, did not care for him at all, but the fellow was a British officer and late of his own regiment, and in this case he was right. ‘Yes, that is for the best. Will you take care of the señora?’

  ‘My dear fellow, do you really need to ask that?’ The lieutenant seemed genuinely offended. ‘I do not think we are needed, but if we are called away I’ll be sure to leave good reliable men to stand guard outside this hovel.’

  ‘Of course, my apologies – it has been a trying night. I will try to find Hanley, who is most likely to know how to reach her husband and friends. We may also need someone to witness as she tells her story.’

  When they left with the prisoners, Paula Velasco was drinking brandy from a flask, held to her lips by one of the chasseurs so that her own arm was free to keep the cloak tight around her. As far as Williams could see the other chasseurs were shocked by the attack, and behaving with great tenderness and consideration to the lady. Hatch was kind, efficient and not troubling her with gallantry. It had been a ghastly business, but could easily have been so much worse.

  Williams led them through a steady drizzle, with one of the chasseurs following, then the prisoners and then Mueller and the other guard, both with sword bayonets fixed. The wounded man was dazed, and they kept at a pace he could match, if only with a great effort. Corporal Brandt said nothing at all, but the other man complained in a steady whine that he had done nothing. After a while Mueller hit him with the butt of the musket.

  ‘He says he did nothing,’ he explained to Williams. ‘I say that is why I hit him.’

  The officer was not listening. He held his hand up to stop them. ‘Quiet,’ he hissed. Williams dropped to one knee, looking at the low ridge a hundred yards or so to their left. He was sure something was moving, and then he made out a darker shape between the ground and the sky.

  ‘Wait here,’ he whispered. ‘Not a sound.’ Mueller grunted an acknowledgement.

  Williams was convinced men were moving parallel with the road, he reckoned lots of men, and he did not know why any of their own brigade would be there. He went at an angle to cut ahead of them, hurrying to get off the road and then going more carefully, bent to keep low. The drizzle faded away and a break in the clouds gave a thin gleam of pale starlight. He stopped in the shelter of a boulder and looked. He was sure they were there, and as he waited he caught the muffled sound of men moving, their weapons and equipment rattling gently.

  He went forward, crawling in the open and crouching as low as he could in any hollow. There was no sign of any flank guards, but that did not mean they were not there. The sky was clearing, the light growing a little brighter, and then he saw silhouettes on the crest a short way ahead. They were soldiers definitely, carrying muskets with their long bayonets fitted, and wearing long coats and flat-topped shakos. The hats were too wide to be either the 89th or the chasseurs. It could be the Toledo Regiment, but if so then what were they doing? There were several dozen at least out there, perhaps fifty or more, formed up in a little column starting to file down into a ravine. Someone gave an order, but he could not catch the words. He did not think they were Spanish.

  A cry came from behind him, a loud cry, followed by an angry shout and the noise of a scuffle. The shapes of the men in the column quivered. He ducked back, and saw two figures running through the night from where he had left Mueller and the others. An order came from the direction of the column, a much louder shout this time. The noise of movement increased, and peering past the cover he saw that the column was hurrying away.

  The two fugitives ran, another man some way behind them, and Williams took a snap decision and dived into the one on the right, taking him by the waist and knocking him down. It was the chasseur who had kept complaining. The other man was past him now, yelling out something, waving his hands as he fled towards the column.

  Mueller came up, too late to catch him, and knelt down beside the officer. ‘Bastard Brandt,’ he said. ‘Bastard Pole runs to more Poles.’

  There was some loud talk, but to his relief the column did not stop and bring their bayonets looking to see who was watching them. Instead they went on at a run, vanishing over the crest. Fighting an unknown number of enemies in the darkness was evidently not part of their plan.

  ‘Go to the fort, I think,’ Mueller said. ‘Bastard Poles are good soldiers.’

  It seemed the likeliest thing. These were surely the men from Mijas or one of the other small garrisons, bravely trying to slip in to join the garrison in Sohail Castle.

  ‘How is your powder?’ Williams asked the sergeant, who was happily sitting on the chasseur they had caught.

  ‘No good. No shot.’ That was no surprise. A shot or two might have alerted sentries in enough time to come looking for the Poles, especially if they could provoke the column into shooting back at them, but aft
er all the rain there was no chance of that. Four of them could not hope to stop fifty men, and shouts did not carry so far or convey the same sense of urgency.

  ‘Then I had better follow them to make sure where they are going,’ Williams whispered to the German sergeant. ‘Take this one and the other prisoner as fast as you can to the beach and report to the most senior officer you can find. The general should know about this. I’ll take one of your chasseurs and use him as a runner if I have news.’

  Sergeant Mueller shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Better I follow. If I go to officer he not believe me. You are officer and you are English. He believe you, so you go.’

  Williams knew he was right. There was a chance, a slim chance to be sure, but still a chance that if he reached a senior officer, even a company commander, quickly, then they might still be able to catch the Poles. The sergeant was a foreigner with a strong accent, and there was bound to be a delay before someone acted on his news. He might even be dismissed.

  ‘You are sure?’

  The sergeant looked at him, and Williams suspected that the German felt the officer was wondering whether to trust him.

  ‘I follow,’ he said. ‘And one day I kill bastard Brandt.’

  Williams patted him on the back. ‘Who do you want to go with you?’

  Lieutenant Hatch made sure the woman had plenty of brandy, and insisted she take some of the bread and salted beef one of his men produced from a haversack. A little colour had returned to her pale cheeks, and when given more brandy she was able to fall asleep, still wrapped tightly in Williams’ heavy cloak. The Welshman was quite the Sir Galahad, saving a damsel in distress.