by Carla Kelly
Still, marriage was a serious venture. There was not one thing Brandon had to offer that he could not get from a lady of higher degree, except her own dear self. Lying there next to her, he contemplated his career in ruins, his peers mocking him in barracks and wardrooms around the globe, his sister shocked and his father dismayed. Or not. We live in uncertain times, Brandon, dear, he thought, and I do not mean the war.
He rose quietly and dressed, gratified that Brandon did not wake up, and joined his enemies. The Dragoons were tending to their mounts, but Sergeant Cadotte stood by the glow of last night’s fire, contemplating the coals as he sipped from his tin cup. He poured Hugh a tin cupful of liquid from the pot and held it out.
Ever hopeful, Hugh looked into the cup. It contained nothing more than boiled water, with what appeared to be a thin smear of wheat from last night’s poor banquet. He took a taste. Obviously the French had better imaginations than he did. No stretch of his imagination was going to turn it into coffee or tea. Still, the cup was warm in his hands, and the air had a decided chill.
‘Colonel, I am sorry we cannot give you and your wife more privacy.’
Oh, Lord. You must have heard us last night, Hugh thought, and felt his face grow warm. At a loss, he took a sip. ‘We tried to be quiet,’ he said finally.
‘Ah, but I am in command here,’ Cadotte replied, with that hint of a twitch around his lips. ‘As you well know, Colonel, that means I sleep lighter than any trooper.’
‘I understand, Sergeant,’ Hugh said, and smiled. The Sergeant was the enemy, but he was also a man.
It was time for a massive change of subject, and Hugh had less trouble with that. The Sergeant was younger than he by many years, but every bit as experienced in the ways of war. Hugh knew he could not offer advice, but he also knew how heavy command could feel, especially when there was no one to talk to.
‘Sergeant, we are being followed.’
‘I know.’ Cadotte gave one of those Gallic shrugs that Hugh knew he could never manage, not after all the family’s years in Scotland. ‘I think we have been followed since São Jobim.’
‘I would agree.’ Here was the dilemma. Should he say more? Hugh took another sip, deciding that he liked hot water well enough. ‘Sergeant, how close are we to the Spanish border?’
He could tell his question had surprised the Sergeant of Dragoons, perhaps even knocked him off balance a little, never a bad thing with the enemy. You are wondering why I am not asking you to just let Brandon and me go? Hugh asked himself.
Hugh had to give the Sergeant points for shrewdness, though.
‘Colonel, we are close to the border, which will work in my favour, not yours,’ Cadotte replied, regaining his poise. ‘When I join up with my Lieutenant and our larger force—hopefully today, if not tomorrow—the guerilleros who seem to be content to track us will fade into the background. I think they are not now strong enough to attack us.’
Hugh could think of another reason, and wondered why the Sergeant had not. There was no sense in alerting the man. He went back to the original point. ‘Sergeant, why does moving into Spain work in your favour?’
Cadotte almost smiled then. ‘Colonel, Colonel! You know as well as I do that northern Spain is still well populated with French troops. Any hope you have of liberation by your allied troops are getting smaller the farther north we ride.’ He replaced the threatening smile with something perilously close to scorn. ‘We may have experienced a setback at Salamanca, but—excuse my plain speaking—Wellington is an idiot to besiege Burgos.’
Is that so? Hugh thought. Good thing Cadotte had not been sitting at the conference table in Lisbon last month, hearing of Admiral Sir Home Popham’s successful raid on Santander, on the Bay of Biscay. It could be that even as they stood sparring with each other before a fire in a battered Portuguese farmyard, the balance had changed. Or not, he had to admit to himself again. There wasn’t much about war that was predictable. He thought briefly of the happy times when he knew exactly where he was going in life, and tucked them away as the idiocy they represented.
‘I, for one, would not mind if you just left me and Polly here to fend for ourselves.’ Surely it didn’t hurt to ask.
The Sergeant was silent, so Hugh finished his hot water and handed back the cup. Cadotte shook his head slowly, and Hugh sensed his regret. ‘Colonel, I would do as you ask, except for one reason.’ The Sergeant looked at his men, who by now had bridled and saddled their mounts. ‘Them.’
Hugh understood perfectly, even as his heart sank. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, keeping his tone light. ‘How would it look if the leader released his prisoners?’
‘What would you do in my position?’
You have me, Hugh thought. ‘Precisely the same thing, Sergeant. Excuse me now. I will wake up my wife.’
Still, Hugh had to reflect over the next two days that Sergeant Cadotte was not as confident as he seemed. The Sergeant did not go back on his word to keep them unfettered, which was a relief. They were travelling out of the mountains now, skirting along the foothills, heading for northern Spain. The Sergeant seemed to know precisely where he was going, but he seemed in no hurry to get there, despite the hunger that rode along with them.
‘It’s odd, my love, but I think our Sergeant is almost daring our invisible guerrilleros to attack us,’ he whispered in Brandon’s ear as they followed the Corporal through the protecting underbrush.
He had told her yesterday of his suspicion they were being tracked, and she had surprised him. ‘I thought so,’ she had said, in that practical way of hers.
‘Brandon, sometimes you amaze me,’ he had told her.
‘That’s good,’ she said complacently.
He had let out a crack of laughter at that, which caused the Corporal to turn around in the saddle and glare at them. Sergeant Cadotte even stepped his horse out of line and watched them for a moment, frowning.
‘Perhaps he doesn’t want us to have too much fun,’ Brandon said. After the Sergeant resumed his place in line again, she turned her face into his tunic, lowering her voice. ‘What I don’t understand is why they have not attacked us.’
‘Sergeant Cadotte seemed to think they are a much smaller party than we are,’ Hugh whispered back. ‘I don’t think that’s the reason.’
‘You think they are larger?’ she asked, after a long consideration.
‘Much, much larger, my dear,’ he had replied. ‘I think they are waiting to attack until Cadotte takes them to his Lieutenant and his force.’
‘Goodness,’ Brandon had said, and nothing more.
Her pointed reminder to him not to underestimate her led him to the only reason for her silence—she knew, or at least suspected, how much more dangerous their situation had become. He could only hug her tighter, aware that she really couldn’t know how terrifying a pitched battle would be, when the guerrilleros finally decided to attack with overwhelming numbers. Their own chances of surviving such a mêlée were not much better than a snowflake in a furnace, but she didn’t need to know that.
The wheat lasted to noon on the second day. By nightfall, Sergeant Cadotte had led his little troop back to his regiment as accurately as a homing pigeon. Before he took them in, he bound their hands again, but not as tight as before.
‘The devil we know, dearest,’ Hugh whispered in her ear as he settled his bound hands around her again. ‘What this will amount to, I have no idea, but we have a new set of captors.’
What it amounted to was a look of amazement on the face of Sergeant Cadotte’s Lieutenant, a young man probably in his first command who stared at them, then turned on Cadotte, who had dismounted, along with his troop. After another furious look in their direction, the Lieutenant of Dragoons kneed his horse directly into the Sergeant, practically bowling him over.
‘He’s an ugly one,’ Hugh said into her ear. ‘He’s never learned what I learned in my first year as a Lieutenant: it’s your NCOs who keep you alive.’
Rubbing his arm, Cadotte kept
his face impassive as he took the brunt of the Lieutenant’s sharp tongue. ‘I can’t follow what he is saying,’ Polly told Hugh. ‘It’s too fast for me.’
She felt Hugh’s sigh. ‘It’s what you probably think it is, dearest. He’s asking our Sergeant why in God’s name he did not kill us at São Jobim.’
Here it is, she thought, surprisingly calm. After weeks it has come to this. Hugh and I will not live to see the sun go down. I only hope to heaven they are quick.
‘Will we die now?’ she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head. ‘We might. Polly Junot, you’ve been the best wife a man could hope for.’
His eyes still on the Sergeant, the Lieutenant shouted an order to Cadotte’s Corporal, who walked towards them and held out his arms for her. They had done this for weeks now. Hugh lifted his arms up and Polly swung her leg across the pommel and allowed herself to drop into the Corporal’s arms.
The Dragoon settled her on her feet, bending close to her this time to whisper, ‘Speak only English, Madame Junnit.’
She knew better than to look at him, especially since the Lieutenant was staring at her, his eyes angry, his hand patting his sabre. She stood still, eyes down, as the Corporal helped Hugh from the saddle. When he stood beside her, she whispered. ‘The Corporal told me to speak only English.’
‘Then trust him,’ Hugh replied. ‘I have only one feeble card to play. Tally-ho, Brandon.’
Putting himself between them, the Corporal took them by the arms and walked them towards the Lieutenant. He stopped, but the Lieutenant beckoned them closer. When they were standing close to his horse, he suddenly took his foot from the stirrup and shoved Hugh to the ground.
Polly wrenched herself from the Corporal’s grasp and threw herself down beside Hugh, who was shaking his head, as if to clear it. Grasping his arm with her bound hands, she tugged Hugh into a sitting position, as the Lieutenant danced his horse around them, almost stepping on her. She glanced at Sergeant Cadotte, noting the dismay on his face, and the two red spots that bloomed on his cheeks.
‘I don’t think that was called for, Lieutenant,’ Polly said, after taking a deep breath. She put her bound arms around Hugh and hugged him to her.
‘Parlez-vous francais?’ the officer asked, putting his foot back in the stirrup.
She shook her head. ‘Through an unfortunate confluence of events, we found ourselves prisoners.’
‘I speak French, Lieutenant,’ Hugh said. ‘My name is Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junnit, of the Second Division, Royal Marines. This is my wife, Polly Junnit.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you are more familiar with the French pronunciation—Junot.’
Whatever his failings as a Lieutenant, the young officer seemed to have heard of the name, Polly realised, as she watched the man’s face. In fact, he grabbed at his reins and stared at Hugh on the ground before him, then dismounted.
‘What did you say?’
Hugh repeated himself.
The Lieutenant shook his head in disbelief. ‘Junot?’
Hugh nodded. Polly held her breath as the Lieutenant, hands on his hips, glared at Hugh, who smiled back. ‘Where is my dear uncle Jean-Andoche?’
‘Sergeant Cadotte!’ the Lieutenant yelled. ‘Front and centre!’
Looking almost as amazed as the Lieutenant, Cadotte came quickly to attention, the red spots in his cheeks even more pronounced now. ‘Sir!’
The Lieutenant tapped Cadotte’s shoulder with the crop. ‘Why did you not tell me his name was Junot?’
‘Sir, I…’ Cadotte began, his voice mystified.
‘Help me up,’ Hugh told Polly. She did as he asked. He staggered and shook his head again. ‘Lieutenant…’
‘Soileau.’
‘Lieutenant Soileau, it is not your Sergeant’s fault. I introduced myself to him as Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Junnit, which is how we pronounce the name in Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’ Soileau repeated. ‘Junnit? Good God. Are you a spy?’
‘Sir, I am a Royal Marine in his Majesty’s service,’ Hugh said, drawing himself up and managing to look so masterfully offended that Polly stared, too. ‘It happens there is a branch of the family in Scotland, and it is a long story. But tell me, how is my dear uncle? Is he with Clausel or Massena? Does he have his marshal’s baton yet?’
Good God, he is amazing, Polly thought. She looked at the Lieutenant, who had the stunned look of an ox banged on the head and ready for slaughter. She watched as he took a moment to collect himself.
‘How can I be sure you are who you say you are?’
‘Ask my wife.’
The Lieutenant barely glanced at her. ‘Bah! She speaks no French, and from the way she is looking at you, she would probably tell me you were the second cousin of Our Lord Himself, if you wanted her to.’
‘She is a dear thing, isn’t she?’ Hugh said agreeably in English. ‘Polly, dear, perhaps the kind Lieutenant will untie your hands so you can reach up and unsnap my gorget.’ He continued in French, ‘My name is engraved on the other side. It’s also tattooed on the inside of my left leg.’
The Lieutenant’s mouth dropped open. ‘The Royal Marines require that?’
‘Lieutenant, were you never drunk, nineteen, and in a foreign port?’
Lieutenant Soileau shook his head, then gestured to Cadotte to untie Polly’s hands. He seemed unaware that the Sergeant’s troopers had gathered around, their tired faces lively with interest.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said in English, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of Hugh’s tunic. He bent down obligingly as she pulled out the gorget he had tucked inside his shirt and unsnapped it from the chain. She held it out to the Lieutenant, who did not take it from her, but read the inscription.
He read it again, aloud this time, and stood another moment in thought. ‘As we speak, your uncle is with our glorious Emperor and the Grand Armée in Russia,’ he said finally, his voice subdued, as though he did not believe his own ears.
‘What a shame for me!’ Hugh exclaimed. ‘I would like to have seen him and exchanged pleasantries. Since the war, family reunions have been impossible.’
Don’t press your luck, you scoundrel, Polly thought, as she put the gorget back around his neck and tucked it inside his shirt.
Hugh’s lips were close to her ear. ‘I’m out of ideas,’ he whispered. ‘Brandon, this would be a good time to faint.’
With a sigh, she did exactly what he asked. A man couldn’t hope for a better wife.
Chapter Seventeen
She must have been convincing. After a suitable amount of time, she moaned and opened her eyes to find herself lying on a camp cot in a tent blessedly warm.
She had known Hugh would catch her on the way down, especially since he had engineered the faint, so never having lost consciousness, it was no surprise to see him kneeling beside the cot, his eyes full of concern, and something else that made her heart leap a little. She touched his face.
She hadn’t meant to unman him, but her touch filled his eyes with tears. ‘Lieutenant, can you send someone for a little water? Just a sip would be so kind,’ Hugh said. He took her hand in his, kissed her palm, and tucked it close to his chest. ‘You’re better than Siddons,’ he said in English. ‘Although I suppose after weeks in captivity, it ain’t hard to look wan.’
‘It’s easier than I would have thought,’ she murmured to him, putting her hand over his. ‘What is this supposed to get us?’
‘Some sympathy?’ he whispered back. ‘Heaven knows, I feel sorry for us.’
Lieutenant Soileau snapped out an order and in a moment Hugh was helping her into a sitting position for that sip of water. She took one sip, and with what she hoped was a die-away look on her face, begged her husband to let her rest again.
He did, with a perfectly straight face, and Lieutenant Soileau himself tucked a light blanket about her. He motioned to Hugh and the men withdrew for a brief conference. With a sigh, she resolved to let her husband worry about the p
ickle they were in, and resigned herself to sleep. At least they were still alive.
When she woke later, Hugh sat in a folding camp chair by her cot, head back, eyes closed. She knew he needed sleep, but she wanted information more, so she put her hand on his thigh and squeezed it. His eyes opened in an instant. He looked wildly around the tent first, as though wondering where he was, then smiled down at her.
‘Do we live to fight another day?’
‘We do, Polly, dear,’ he told her. ‘I fear, though, that our good Sergeant Cadotte had to endure a blistering scold for not killing us at São Jobim. I couldn’t hear the whole thing, but Cadotte may have even been busted down to Corporal.’
‘I am sorry for that,’ Polly said. ‘I should sit up, but for the life of me, I don’t want to.’
‘Then don’t. Lieutenant Soileau graciously consented to your remaining in his tent tonight. He even promised some food, but don’t expect much.’ He grew serious immediately. ‘I think Lieutenant Soileau is taking us along with his force to General Clausel, who had withdrawn to Burgos, where our own dear Wellington is laying him siege. Who knows what will happen then, except that I am so glad Cousin—or Uncle—Junot is somewhere in Russia.’
‘You don’t even know if he is a relative, do you?’ she asked.
‘Haven’t the slightest,’ Hugh replied cheerfully.
‘What will Clausel do with us?’
‘Probably pass us off to someone else, as Lieutenant Soileau is eager to do.’ He hesitated then. Polly knew him well enough to know something else was percolating in his fertile brain. ‘I can’t gild this, my darling, but I rather think the guerilleros who have been dogging our steps will make their move tomorrow. Clausel might be the least of our worries.’
She mulled over that bad news during dinner, which was tough beef in a wine sauce, bread pudding made of hardtack, but soaked in rum sauce with raisins, and excellent port. By the time the meal was over—Lieutenant Soileau had shared it with them—all she wanted to do was sleep.