“I brought you some tea, Will. Can you brew us a cup?”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be happy for something to do that won’t be sending me to the surgeon’s tent!”
“Here, give me your jacket and I’ll have a go at it.”
Val was just tying off the thread when Lucas Stanton and George Trowbridge walked by. “I see you can’t keep away from common soldiers, Aston. Have you turned seamstress now?”
“I am handy with many things, Stanton,” Val replied calmly. “Needle and thread, blacksmith’s hammer…sword, pistol.”
It looked almost as if Stanton was going to stop and answer Val’s implied challenge, but Trowbridge pulled him on.
“Who was that bleeding idiot, sir?”
“Lord Stanton. I met him years ago at school and would have counted myself very lucky never to have met up with him again.”
“Here’s your tea, sir. With a little sugar, as you like it.”
“Where did you get the sugar, Will?”
“Mags has been hoarding her supplies.”
“So, she is good for a little sweetness, eh?”
“ ‘Tis not that I don’t like a little sugar in my life, sir. ‘Tis just I don’t like the feeling of being hemmed in, if you know what I mean. And what’s the point of a soldier getting married anyways? Why any woman would want to be widowed four times, I’d like to know!”
“Four times! You mean there really was a Mr. Casey?”
“A private in the Connaught Rangers. The second died at Corunna. And before that a recruiting sergeant that died of the ague in Sussex.”
“So Mrs. Casey has been following the drum for quite a few years, eh, Will?”
“Aye, she’d likely make a better general than Erskine by now,” said Will with a smile.
“Anyone would make a better general than that drunken ass, damn his soul.” They both nodded in comfortable agreement and sipped their tea, having dismissed one of Wellington’s officers to a place where their commander-in-chief would have been equally happy to send him.
“I hear that you are the hero of the Gordon family, sir.”
“ ‘Twas as much luck and her quick thinking, Will.”
“She’s a good lass, Miss Gordon, from what I know. Neither she nor her mother think themselves too good to talk to the enlisted men or their wives. And they are here to stay, not just visiting, like some officers’ wives.” Will took another sip of tea and then said quietly, “The men miss you, sir. And so do I,” he added with a quick smile.
“Thank you, Will. I miss them too. Sometimes I wonder if I should ever have accepted the damned commission.”
“Of course you should have. I knew you were officer material the first time I laid eyes on you, sir.”
“The first time you laid eyes on me, Will, I was a raw recruit who knew two things: how to read and how to swing a hammer, neither of which was much good to me in the ranks!”
“Ah, but strength and book-learning aren’t a bad combination after all.”
“I suppose not,” Val admitted with a grin. “I never could have survived Sergeant Hawkins’s drilling if I hadn’t worked for a similar brute for years. And I’d not be an exploring officer if I couldn’t read!”
“And you picked up French and Spanish marvelous fast, sir. Almost as good as Captain Grant.”
“I’ll never speak French well, Will. Not like Captain Grant. But I only need to read it. My Spanish and Portuguese are far better, thank God. But enough of me, Will. How do you like being in charge, now that you are a sergeant?”
“I like it fine most days. I waited long enough.”
“So, if nothing else good came of my commission, at least it allowed you to move up.”
“God bless the Earl of Faringdon,” joked Will, lifting his cup in a mock toast.
“Rather God bless Viscount Holme, Will.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Will was silent for a moment. “Some days I don’t like being a sergeant. I had to have a man flogged yesterday.”
“What had he done, Will?” Val asked, his tone sympathetic.
“Nicked a chicken from a local farm.”
“He was damned lucky not to be hanged, then. You know how Old Hooky feels about that.”
“I told him. Said I wouldn’t report him higher this time, and that two hundred lashes should keep him from stealing again. I’ve always hated watching floggings, but when it’s because of your own orders….” Will sighed.
“I know, Will. I remember the first time I had someone flogged. I could almost feel the lash myself. But you and I survived two hundred, Will, and this lad will live, at least until the next battle.”
“Aye, sir, I guess you are right.”
“There,” said Val, who had finished his tea and taken up the needle and thread again. “There’s your buttons on all right and tight. You owe me, Will,” he added with a teasing grin, “for I’ve saved you from Mags Casey for a few days anyway.”
“And I thank you for it! Come back again soon, sir.”
“I shall, Will, if only to see if you are still single!”
* * * *
As Val walked down the row of tents, he thought he could feel the scars on his back itching, although of course that was impossible. He felt sorry for that young soldier, though as he’d told Will, the man was lucky only to get a flogging.
He had only been in the army six months when he’d been flogged. The Eleventh Foot had been stationed in Kent. It was summer, one of the hottest summers the county had experienced in years. And all they did was drill, line to square, square to line, under the meanest sergeant Val had ever known, before or since. Sergeant Hawkins made George Burton look like a Quaker. He’d give a man fifty lashes just for a loose stock or a missing button.
“And why does he have us in these damned dog collars anyway, Will?” Val had complained after watching the third flogging that week. They were lying in their cots, unable to sleep because of the heat and Val’s chafed neck was itching unbearably.
“Aye, he’s a mean bastard.”
“He enjoys it. He bloody enjoys seeing us ready to faint from the heat, marching us around like we were toy soldiers, damn it.”
“Ah, but the marching does have a purpose, Val. The quicker the men can change formation, the most likely they are to survive.”
“We’re never going to get out of Kent anyway,” grumbled Val. “I joined the army to go places. ‘Over the hill and far away.’ Not bloody likely!”
“I been wondering why a lad like you joined up,” Will commented.
Val was silent for a moment. He had never told anyone his story, though it was clear from his bearing and speech that he was a cut above the usual recruit. Indeed, most of the men kept away from him, not so much in deliberate unfriendliness but out of their sense that he was different. Will Tallman was the only one who had not been put off by Val’s obvious breeding. But then, Will Tallman was one of the friendliest men Val had ever met. He smiled and joked with everyone, even some of the officers. He was ten years older than Val and had taken him under his wing. Val supposed he owed Will the truth. And the fact was, he guessed he wanted to tell someone his story.
“I spent six years of my life as a blacksmith’s apprentice, Will, so I am not really much different from any of you. Except for my father,” he added bitterly.
“And what is your dad, then, Val? A marquess or a dook?” teased Will.
“Charles Valentine Faringdon, Earl of Faringdon,” Val announced flatly.
Will whistled. “I were only joking, lad. Is that the truth?”
“I’m only his bastard, Will. He never married my mother. My half-brother discovered me and brought me to school with him last year. I learned a lot, not the least of which was that a public school can be as hard as the army. So I ran away.”
“Wouldn’t blacksmithing have been better than here?”
“I most likely would have had to reapprentice myself, Will. And the recruiting sergeant made it sound like such an adve
nture….”
“You’ll have your adventures, lad.”
Indeed he did, and sooner than he’d thought. The next day, when Private Gillingham, a consumptive-looking new recruit, fainted while standing at attention in the noon sun after hours of drilling, Val was about to break ranks and go to him when Will held him back.
“Steady, lad, steady. There’s nothing we can do.”
But when Sergeant Hawkins started kicking the man and screaming at him to “get up, you lazy bastard,” Val couldn’t contain himself. He ran forward and, kneeling beside Gillingham, started loosening his stock.
“What the bleedin’ hell do you think you’re doing, Aston?” screamed the sergeant.
“He can’t breathe.”
“He can’t breathe, sir.
“Yes, sir,” Val muttered.
“Get up, Aston.”
“I’ve almost got his stock opened. Sir.”
“Get the hell up. Corporal Baker, take Private Aston and give him two hundred lashes.”
Val could barely hold himself back from strangling the sergeant when he heard Will’s cheery voice. “Might I go with the lad, sir? For company-like.” Usually Will’s open face and cheerful voice got him what he wanted.
“Of course, Private Tallman. And for speaking out without being spoke to, you can take two hundred lashes yourself. For company-like,” he added, mocking Will’s Devonshire speech.
* * * *
After it was over (although it felt like it would never be over or that he would die before it was over), Val and Will stumbled back to the barracks, where they were met by Corporal Gillen.
“Come out back, lads,” said the Irishman. “I’ve got a little something to help you get through the night.”
He sloshed a few buckets of water over their backs and then a half-pint of rum. Val had to bite down on his own hand to keep from screaming as the alcohol hit the open wounds.
“That should keep you from infection, lads. And here’s the other half to put ye to sleep.”
“God bless you, Gillen,” Will whispered. “You’re a good man even if you are a Paddy.”
* * * *
He’d only been flogged that once, thank God. He couldn’t imagine how anyone survived the lash twice. He’d learned to ignore the sergeant’s brutality and when Private Gillingham died a month later, he’d felt relief more than sorrow, for the man clearly would never have made it to the winter.
He’d been in Kent less than a year when the regiment was sent to Belgium and then to the Caribbean and he’d happily left England behind. It was in the Caribbean he’d met the young Colquhoun Grant and learned that not all officers were sadistic brutes like Hawkins. Some of them took their responsibilities seriously and cared deeply about the men’s safety. That sort of officer could lead you into hell and you’d follow gladly, for you could trust him to lead you in if you knew you could trust him to get you out.
* * * *
As he looked back on his last twelve years, Val marveled. It was as though some fate had determined that he join the Eleventh Foot, that he would serve in Martinique, where he would learn French, that he would spend eighteen months in Madeira, where he would pick up Portuguese and Spanish. And that he would catch the eye of Colquhoun Grant, who, learning of his linguistic abilities, took every opportunity to speak with him. Of course, his own were nothing compared to Grant’s, who was more than fluent and had several dialects down perfectly.
When Val finally accepted his commission, it was not long before he was offered his present assignment, which meant in a month’s time he would see Charlie again. Val was not a religious man, but perhaps there was a kind Deity who had brought his brother into his life again.
On the other hand, he wasn’t quite sure but that it was a cruel fate that had introduced him to Elspeth Gordon. She had embarrassed him earlier today and made him speak of what he usually kept hidden. At the same time, she’d done it out of a combination of forthrightness and kindness. She had been right to do so, he had to admit, for the awkwardness between them would only have gotten worse had they left things unspoken.
But maybe it was better to have had that barrier, Val considered, as he felt that phantom itching on his back again. For how could someone like himself, a man who had risen from the ranks and bore the indelible mark of illegitimacy, form a friendship with the granddaughter of an earl and the daughter of an officer on Wellington’s staff? He would accept the occasional invitation to dinner, just to be polite, but luckily he would be out on reconnaissance enough to keep out of her way.
Chapter 6
Val was out of camp for most of the following week, for Colquhoun Grant as well as his men were constantly observing the French camp at Santarem. Massena and his men had been settled in for a month now and it did not seem likely that the French had any plans for attack. Like a fox, Wellington had gone to earth behind the lines of Torres Vedras, an earth he’d had his engineers create and reshape out of the harsh Portuguese landscape. The general was determined to hold Portugal despite the Whig opinion that it would be impossible. So there the two armies sat, the British behind the lines and Massena’s army thirty miles away.
The question, thought Val as he lay on his stomach on a rock outcropping overlooking the French camp, was how long the French could hold out, given their numbers and the lack of food. The Portuguese were old hands at destroying everything behind them when they had fled the Spanish down the centuries, and Wellington’s orders to lay waste the terrain had been followed out around Torres Vedras. Here at Santarem, the land offered a little more to the French, but they would not long be able to live off the countryside. Yet Massena showed no signs of moving.
His reports to Colquhoun had been repetitive and mundane these past weeks and he felt he was doing very little. On his last report he had apologized. “I am sorry, sir, but things are the same.”
“I am not sure why you are sorry, Lieutenant,” Grant had replied, with one of his quick, warm smiles. “I do not expect you to drive the French out, only observe them.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Grant sighed as he read Val’s succinct but careful report. “I am afraid Massena’s dug himself in. I suppose that is better than an all-out attack. But I fear he knows more about the state of things in England than we would like him to know. Or than he should know.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“The government has been supporting Lord Wellington in his determination to hold Portugal. But the king’s illness…if Percival has to go for a Regency, the Whigs would be in power. They’d recall Wellington and Massena would march us right to the sea.” Grant, who had been sitting back in his chair, suddenly leaned forward. “I am convinced that someone in the War Office has been leaking information of the political situation back home to someone here, who in turn is leaking it to the French.”
“You mean a traitor, sir?”
“They do exist, Lieutenant,” Grant said with dry humor. “I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. And although I know that one of the reasons you joined me was to get away from the officers’ mess, I need you to socialize with your brother officers. I hear the Gordons have invited you to dine.”
“Er, yes, sir.”
“Consider it to be a part of your duty, Aston. It shouldn’t be onerous, since it gives you the opportunity to further your acquaintance with Miss Gordon,” Grant added, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, sir.”
“But before you can enjoy Mrs. Gordon’s good cooking, I am going to have to send you out again,” Grant told him apologetically.
“Back to Santarem?”
“No, I want you to make the acquaintance of Julian Sanchez, Lieutenant. Not only do I believe that we can hold Portugal, but I am convinced we will be in Spain within a year. I need you to help maintain contact with the guerrilleros. You’ll leave tomorrow. But when you return, dinner with the Go
rdons. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
* * * *
It took Val two days of hard riding before he reached the guerrilleros’ stronghold. Sanchez, who had started with only a handful of men, now commanded over three hundred. They were as disciplined as any British regiment, Val had been told, although he had to admit their appearance was rather irregular, with their mix of tunics from one regiment and trousers from another, and bright sashes and wide-brimmed peasant hats.
He had been led into the camp by two sentries and once he had identified himself to their satisfaction, he was taken to Sanchez’s tent.
“Buenos dias, Lieutenant.”
“Buenos dias, Senor Sanchez.”
“Sientase, Lieutenant.”
“Gracias.”
Val sat there while Sanchez rifled through the papers on his field table. Then, at the same time that he heard someone enter the tent behind him, he saw a smile light up the old guerrillero’s face.
“Ah, Juan, you are back. Have you anything new for me?”
“Si, Julian. Pero, quien es este?” The man was now standing next to Val’s chair, looking down at him suspiciously.
“May I present Lieutenant Aston, Jack? Colquhoun’s new exploring officer,” Sanchez replied.
The newcomer’s face lightened and he held out his hand to Val. “Delighted to meet you, then, Lieutenant.”
Val’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. The man, who was tall, slim, and dark-skinned and was dressed in the motley dress of a guerrillero, spoke perfect English.
“Lieutenant Aston, this is Captain Jack Belden,” announced Sanchez.
Val rose quickly, almost knocking his chair over to stand at attention.
“Oh, put yourself at ease, man,” said Belden, a twinkle in his brown eyes. “I am glad you’ve come, for I have a few dispatches to send back to Captain Grant,” he announced, pulling papers out of his jacket and tossing them on the table. Sanchez opened all three and read them quickly.
“Are they of any use, Julian?”
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