There was another letter to write, one explaining his remarkable escape in case Hanley was already back by the time his messages got through. Experience said that ridiculous and unflattering details were one of the best ways to sell a lie. He had used being shot in the bottom before, and wondered whether this time he might claim to have sneaked out hidden in a dung cart.
As he rode south, Chef de Battalion James Sinclair was happy man, his mind alive with possibilities.
January was wet all along the Andalusian coast, and much of the time it was cold. Near the end of the month Major MacAndrews led one wing of the 106th and a few dozen Spanish cavalrymen to raid a convent held by the French. The intention was to distract the enemy and let a much larger Spanish raid take the town of Medina Sidonia, which in turn was meant to draw their attention and permit the Spanish to throw a bridge of boats across the river separating the peninsula of Cadiz and the Isla with the mainland.
‘Let us hope the French are as confused by all this as we are,’ MacAndrews told his officers when he explained the plan, and Hatch had laughed along with the rest. The remnants of the Chasseurs had been disbanded, with many of the men going to the allegedly Royalist French Chasseurs Britanniques, but he had remained in command of a half-company of riflemen attached to the 106th.
Hatch did not care much for Tarifa, and cared even less for a week spent sleeping in the open with only a boat cloak to keep out the rain. Yet in every other way he could not remember a time when he had felt happier – if he was honest, even when his best friend Redman had been alive. Revenge was far sweeter than he had ever guessed, and the knowledge that he had won so complete a victory over his enemy without anyone realising. Sometimes, sitting in the mess of the 106th, he had burst out laughing at the mere thought, especially if Pringle or Truscott or any of the others from the old days was there. No one paid him much notice, for they all knew he was a sot and a queer sort of fellow, and no doubt spending time with foreign soldiers would only make him worse. There was amusement at his odd ways, and that only made it all the more hilarious.
The woman had been an impulse. Hatch was not a bold man and knew it. He had served well enough in half a dozen actions and had played his part, but no more than others in the regiment. Not a coward, then, and yet he did not have the reckless courage of men like Williams or the quiet confidence of the likes of Pringle. Taking the woman had changed that. It had all happened so quickly and then it was done and no one shouted at him or called him to account. Hatch realised that the world was there to be seized by anyone spirited enough to do it.
During the chaos of the next day he had known that he could not be touched and that he could do anything. When his men were sniping at the castle he had picked up a rifle dropped by one of the wounded and begun to fire. He was sure that he had hit at least one of the defenders. As the chasseurs fled around him and the Poles surged up to the battery, Hatch went through it all without ever fearing for his own safety. The brigade was in rout, but he was safe and had waited, resting his back against some boulders as men fled to the beach. He saw Williams, running away from the crowd and up on to a little rise, and another impulse came so naturally that the rifle was at his shoulder before he knew it.
Hatch aimed carefully, feeling a thrill of power, let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger so that the rifle slammed back into his shoulder. Smoke blotted out the view and he ran to the side and saw Williams – terrible, invulnerable Williams – with blood on his side and then the Welshman’s head jerked back as he was shot again. The French had completed the job for him, his enemy had gone, and he felt free. Hatch was sure that he would enjoy the rest of the war, at least once they left this miserable hole of a place.
His men were compliant enough, and had a talent for making themselves comfortable in the field through energetic and well-organised theft, whether from local civilians or the rest of the army. With his new-found boldness Hatch encouraged them, as long as he was given an appropriate share, including plenty of bottles of spirits they were lifting from the mess stocks of the 106th. Once he found three of his soldiers with an officer’s valise and let them keep the contents after taking half of the thirty guineas they found inside. Part of him still missed Brandt’s roguish spirit, but on the whole it was more comfortable without the murderous Pole. The only real shadow in his bright existence was Sergeant Mueller, who watched him with evident disapproval and tried to rein the men in. Hatch longed for some pretext to break the man to the ranks, but the German was the consummate soldier, always efficient, never crossing the lines imposed by discipline. The lieutenant found it easier to ignore the dull fellow as far as was possible. His lately acquired funds allowed him to frequent the gaming table, and in two nights he gambled and lost all fifteen guineas.
The raid gave everyone a lot of marching and discomfort to little purpose. MacAndrews took them to the convent, but it was too strong to assault without heavy loss and his orders were only to threaten it, so Hatch deployed his men alongside the Light Company to harass the place. He carried a rifle all the time these days, and cheerfully popped away at the slits in the fortifications.
This was all very amusing, until news arrived of the advance of a battalion or more of the enemy which meant that the detachment would soon be heavily outnumbered by the French. MacAndrews withdrew his men, looking for a good spot to defend where his smaller numbers would not place him at a disadvantage. The Scotsman had lately developed the irritating habit of humming or singing softly to himself, always the same song.
‘We’ll ne’er see our foes but we’ll wish them to stay …’
‘It sounds as if the major is longing to join the Navy,’ Hatch said to Ensign Derryck.
‘Last night I thought we had!’ Every night without fail the heavens had opened, and at the last bivouac they had been flooded out by an overflowing stream.
An elegant Spanish officer on a spirited Andalusian came through the French lines to bring a report to the major.
‘The Spanish have not moved,’ MacAndrews told his assembled officers, ‘but I am assured they will move today. If the fellow who brought the message is anything to go by, then they certainly do not lack courage and want only organisation, so I expect that they will advance.’ The staff officer had ridden back to carry his assurances to his superiors, and it took a cool hand to ride in full uniform past the French garrisons.
Hatch took a party of chasseurs out on patrol while his sergeant led out another group. The lieutenant let the men disperse when they came to a farm so that the buildings could be searched thoroughly. There was little to find, for no doubt the French had been here often enough before, but then he heard a woman screaming. A couple of his men had found a peasant girl and cornered her in a pigsty. No doubt the girl was dirty enough in the first place, but after being thrown down in the mud she was filthy. Hatch doubted that she was very pretty, but there was something about her fear and helplessness that thrilled him. His new-found boldness was about to surface when a shot split the air. Sergeant Mueller appeared – goddamned Sergeant bloody Mueller – with his patrol to restore order and announced that a larger French detachment was approaching. They left the girl – perhaps the French found the bitch – and went back to MacAndrews’ force. Just once the sergeant’s impassive veil dropped, and Hatch saw his expression of contempt. Well, damn the man, he would break him or, failing that, shoot the bugger just as he had shot Williams.
At noon the next day the French battalion retired, which suggested that the Spanish had indeed moved, and so MacAndrews led his men back to the convent. Forty-eight hours had failed to make it any more susceptible to attack, so the skirmishers resumed their old occupation of shooting at the high walls and hoping luck would carry a ball through one of the narrow firing slits.
‘We shall weary them with the noise, if nothing else,’ MacAndrews declared, leaving Hatch’s men and a detachment of redcoats to keep up the fire while he took the remainder along the Medina road. They surprised a foraging party o
f dragoons and infantry and quickly put them to flight, capturing twenty men. A little later a column of black smoke curled up into the air as the French burnt a storehouse filled with forage rather than let the British capture it. At the end of the day MacAndrews was back, retreating as the French battalion advanced against them once again. This time the Spanish main force was ready, and they pushed into Medina against little opposition, only to abandon it as the enemy battalion returned and more troops came to reinforce them. The same staff officer once again crossed the lines to inform MacAndrews that bad weather had prevented the attack from Cadiz and so there was no point holding on against superior numbers.
‘Well, it has all been a pleasant winter ramble,’ the major told them as he marched his force back to Tarifa.
Hatch was glad to be back under a roof and by a warm fire even if it was in the drab surroundings of Tarifa. That night the mess was even more convivial than usual, and soon stirred by two pieces of news. The first was that Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam was recovered and would soon arrive from England to take back command of the battalion. Hatch had never met the colonel, but heard that he was a decent, gentlemanly fellow. There was a fair chance that the remaining chasseurs would be posted elsewhere, and he was not sure whether to ask to return to the battalion or seek a posting elsewhere, perhaps with the Portuguese. Much depended on whether he would keep his lieutenancy if he went back to the 106th, and on FitzWilliam’s attitude towards him. Hatch had no desire to be an ensign again, and part of him wondered whether his new-found confidence would find better opportunities elsewhere.
At that point, MacAndrews requested and was granted an invitation to enter the mess.
‘Gentlemen, I have some remarkable and very pleasing news, which I am sure many of you will be delighted to hear.’ The Scotsman cleared his throat, drawing out the moment before he continued. He had their attention, and Hatch suspected nothing.
‘I am glad to be able to tell you that our errant boy has been found. Mr Williams is alive, apparently well, and with the irregulars in the hills.’
There were murmurs and then cheers led by Pringle and the Welshman’s other friends, and MacAndrews let them die down. ‘Captain Hanley writes to say that he has seen him, although he is at a loss to explain why our comrade has gone all gypsy on us. No doubt we shall find out when he returns.’
Pringle pushed back his chair to stand and then raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the gypsy, and to the One Hundred and Sixth.’ He paused, looking around the room. ‘And commiserations to all those junior to Williams on the list!’
A roar of laughter filled the room, the major chuckling with them. When an officer was killed the men junior to him received a step in seniority, edging them just a little closer to promotion. If Williams had died then the most senior ensign would have been raised to lieutenant.
‘Just my luck!’ Derryck said, grinning from ear to ear.
Hatch tried to laugh, eager to be a good fellow even when it was well known that he and Williams were not friends. It would not come, and he had to trust that his grimace would be taken for a smile.
He could not believe it, for he had seen the man fall and known in his heart that he was dead. The bullish confidence of the last months crumbled away as fear seized him. Williams had been looking the other way when he fired. He could not have seen who it was, even if he realised that the bullet had come from his own side, and then the other ball had struck and that must have been fired by an enemy. Williams could not know – could not even suspect.
What about the girl? The question forced itself unbidden into his mind. He remembered standing above her after it was over, the knife again in his hand, and wondering whether one swift thrust would ensure her silence. The woman had passed out, and no eyes stared up at him, but he was appalled that he had even thought such a thing. He felt fear then, not of the consequences, but of what he had become. Hatch had never wanted to be a saint, only a brusque and dangerous English gentleman. That he could even consider murdering a woman had sickened him, and he threw the knife away into the corner with bitter disgust. He was almost tender when he covered her with Williams’ cloak, and only after he left did the elation come.
Even fear did not make Hatch regret the decision. He was not that sort of swine, but nor did he fancy the prospect of court martial and disgrace – if not worse. Surely they would not take the word of some foreign slut over an officer with a proven record? That was a thin hope, and at the least his name would be damaged.
Williams might well know what he had done. After all, the man was with the partisans and they were not folk to forget a wrong. What would the Welshman do? Hatch could still picture Redman’s body, the wound over his heart, lying pale and naked after the attentions of the looters. He must get away.
The next morning he requested permission to see MacAndrews and submitted a letter applying for transfer to the Portuguese service.
‘I will forward it, of course,’ the Scotsman said, for he was acting governor of Tarifa and thus Hatch’s superior even though he no longer served with the 106th. ‘However, I cannot say how quickly anything will happen.’ Hatch tried to read the major’s expression and failed.
‘Good luck to you, Hatch.’ MacAndrews offered his hand. ‘I am sure the colonel will support your application as strongly as I would.’
FitzWilliam arrived that evening, and the next day the Scotsman left for Gibraltar, leading away the Grenadier and the Light Companies. They were to go to Cadiz to be combined with the flank companies of two other corps to form a temporary flank battalion and the major was given this command. Opinion in the mess saw it as a well-deserved reward for the skill with which he had handled the 106th during the colonel’s absence.
Hatch spent less time in the mess and instead drank on his own – at least his chasseurs continued to supply him with plenty to drink so his empty purse was not called upon to pay for this relief. FitzWilliam promised to expedite his application, had even made a half-hearted if polite attempt to persuade him to reconsider and remain with the 106th, but the days turned into weeks and nothing happened. Williams began to stalk his nightmares on those rare occasions he managed to sleep.
At Cadiz the admiral and the generals waited on the weather. January ended with storms and February was no better. For the first time in his life Hanley felt the stirrings of seasickness when he attended another meeting on board the Milford, the big ship riding at anchor. Its motion was oddly unpredictable, which meant that the big lurches of the deck kept taking him by surprise. The outer harbour offered only a little shelter from the wind, which caused a deep swell and sent rain hammering against the stern windows. Everywhere on the ship was damp, the wood slick underfoot and he had slipped and fallen after coming aboard.
‘We are ready, apart from the weather,’ Sir Richard told Hanley and Wharton. ‘And the Spanish assure us that they are ready, but it will have to get a good deal better before they are able to put to sea – a very good deal better. I have been a sailor all my life, and even on the calmest day I should not care to be in some of the barges they have to carry their troops.
‘La Peña is to command. General Graham is convinced that was the only way to get the Spanish to take part, and he is probably right, much though I regret the necessity. The Spanish have some fine regiments here, very fine, and several of their brigades are led by stout fellows, but La Peña is a nervous fool. Most of his own officers call him the “Dowager”.’
‘There is no choice, Sir Richard,’ the chaplain reminded the admiral. ‘Without them there are not the numbers. Graham can muster little more than five thousand men, but La Peña will bring at least twice as many. Sinclair reports that Victor has somewhat over eight thousand soldiers in or near the siege lines, excluding some of the gunners manning batteries. That is correct, is it not, Hanley?’
‘Other sources suggest similar figures, some a little higher and some a little lower. If he is playing us false it does not seem to be in this respect, at least not by any
great margin.’
‘Have your doubts about him grown stronger?’ Wharton’s avuncular manner slipped to reveal the keen-sighted and calculating master of spies.
Hanley considered his answer. ‘Yes, though not for any very clear reason. The more I think about it the more I believe him to be a French agent. I do not know why, and I may be in error, it is just that I feel him to be false.’
‘If so, then what is his purpose?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Soult has taken a strong force away, and so there must be fewer men here along the coast, and fewer to besiege Cadiz. Does he inflate their numbers to deter an attack?’
‘Or hide them to encourage one?’ Wharton suggested.
‘Either way the attack will happen, for the generals are decided on it, the politicians support it, and whatever the risks it seems to me the best thing to do. With Soult gone north there is all the more reason to make trouble here in the south and so relieve the pressure on Lord Wellington.’
The plan was straightforward, the admiral punctuating his explanation with fingers jabbed at the map of the coastline from Cadiz to Gibraltar. Escorted by the navy, transport ships and barges would carry all of Graham’s men and most of La Peña’s to Algeciras near Gibraltar. From there they would march overland back towards Cadiz. When Victor pulled his men out of the siege lines, the remaining Spanish regiments would attack from the Isla. At the least they would overthrow some of the enemy’s works, but the principal aim was to force Marshal Victor to battle.
‘Break his army, and thus break the siege,’ Sir Richard concluded, slamming the palm of his hand down on to the table.
‘Perhaps we can use Sinclair, and at the same time test him,’ Wharton said.
‘I am all ears,’ the admiral replied, spreading his hands.
‘Let him know of the expedition, say that he is to muster irregulars, but let him believe that our numbers are fewer. If he tells the French then they will be more willing to fight and that is all to the good.’
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