True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Hanley and Williams made appropriate noises as they shook hands.

  In a stage whisper Pringle added, ‘Williams is our moral conscience, a man of virtue and faith. He is a Quaker or Hindoo or Druid or something.n

  ‘I am a sinner saved by Grace,’ said Williams with a fair degree of militancy. Hanley could not think of anything in particular to say to that, so endeavoured to keep his expression neutral. Religious fervour always made him uncomfortable. If feigned, then he despised the hypocrisy, and if genuine it seemed unlikely to produce stimulating or imaginative company. He was six foot tall, but Williams must have had an inch or so on him, and somehow seemed too big for the low attic room. He was also much broader, something emphasised by the thick stripes of lace running in horizontal pairs up the front of his jacket and the tall wings, ending in a woollen fringe on his shoulders. Pringle was a little shorter, and a good deal plumper, but had a ready smile, and a brightness to the eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. In fact he had a throbbing headache from the previous night’s heavy drinking, and it took a conscious effort to appear as affable as a gentleman should on such occasions.

  ‘Are you also a lieutenant, Mr Williams?’ asked Hanley, assuming that the extra decoration implied superior rank.

  Hamish blushed. ‘No, Mr Hanley, I am a volunteer with the regiment. I do not yet have a commission.’

  ‘That means he is waiting around for one of us to die so that he can step into the vacancy,’ Pringle explained. He followed with another stage whisper. ‘If I were you, I should think twice if Bills here ever offers you some soup!’

  ‘Bills?’

  ‘He is called Williams so we assume there must be more than one of him.’

  ‘It also means the intellects of our grenadiers are not overtaxed in remembering more than one name,’ put in Truscott. ‘By the way, what did the vicar call you after you were sprinkled?’

  ‘William, actually,’ replied Hanley.

  Truscott and the others laughed. ‘Damme another one. Will you take a drink with us, Hanley?’ The lieutenant gestured at the remaining claret. ‘There should be enough. Williams barely touches the stuff, and anyway he and Pringle will be leaving us before too long to stretch their legs. Can’t have them marching in less than a fully sober condition.’

  Pringle had wanted a drink, and guessed that his friend realised this and was determined to make this difficult. He was not sure whether to curse him or grin, so instead spoke to Hanley. ‘Captain MacAndrews is leading the Grenadier Company on a ten-mile march. Have you reported to him yet?’ Hanley nodded. ‘Well, he must have thought you needed to rest or he would no doubt have requested that you join us.’

  ‘May I?’ asked Hanley, rather surprising himself. Anyway, it seemed a better alternative than making conversation here. Pringle seemed companionable enough, and even if Williams did not then at least he could remember his name. Hanley was stiff after the journey and had always enjoyed walking. More than that he wanted to be tired. When there was time to think he was plagued by memories of Madrid, and gnawed by self-pity at his own fate. It was hard to sleep unless he was so exhausted that thought ceased.

  ‘Really. Well, up to you, old boy. Still, we can’t have you going like that. They won’t have allocated a soldier servant to you yet. Bills, will you give Hanley here some assistance – for a start sort that damned sash out. I’ll get Jenkins to take a look at those boots.’

  Hanley was puzzled. ‘Is there much point? I dare say I will get dirty again pretty soon.’

  The plump lieutenant raised an eyeow. ‘You did not see MacAndrews for long, did you?’

  2

  The Grenadier Company paraded at five o’clock on the green opposite the duck pond and overlooked by the spire of St Mary’s church. A few villagers watched them, one group of small boys doing so with great seriousness, mimicking the parade movements with shuddering intensity. There were also a number of young ladies from the area – since the half-battalion of the 106th had arrived in the village their visits had become more frequent in their coincidence. Matching that coincidence was the presence of several officers from the other companies, who were thus able to bid these charming acquaintances good afternoon, and express their pleasure at this happy chance. Inevitably, conversation soon turned with eager anticipation to the ball that was to be held in two days’ time.

  Captain Alastair MacAndrews was above concern for such trivialities, and ignored the hubbub as he carried out a quick inspection. He gave the slightest of winces at an especially loud burst of giggling, which could have only one source. At forty-seven he was comfortably old enough to be the father of most of the officers in the regiment, let alone the local pink-bonnets. Still, he would be happier once the company set out and lost its audience, but it was important not to rush the preliminaries. Sergeant Darrowfield’s barked command brought the company into open order.

  ‘Pre-sent . . . arms!’ Even after thirty years in the army the sheer power of most NCOs’ voices still amazed MacAndrews. It was a mystery how such confident, capable men kept on emerging from the handless raw recruits who took the King’s shilling.

  The elderly Scottish captain was content with the drill of his men, and they went through the three movements neatly. MacAndrews only just restrained a nod of approval, helped by the fact that there was some frenzied clapping from one of the observers and a cry of ‘Oh, Jane, you are such an enthusiast!’ in soprano, followed by bass and baritone voices laughing and calling bravo. For a moment there was a pang, for his daughter’s name was Jane, and MacAndrews had not seen her or his wife for two years. It was the briefest of thoughts, and he was already beginning his inspection as he felt the thrill of knowing that they would soon be with him.

  He hoped that he was not smiling, although in fact duty was by now so much a part of him – had always been – that none of the company would have guessed that his attention had strayed even a fraction beyond the details of their turnout. The cost of that duty had been terrible, the little graves dotted in garrison cemeteries around the world, and he wondered whether he would have chosen as he had chosen if he had known the price. Yet it was hard to imagine ever having been anything other than a soldier.

  MacAndrews missed nothing as he passed steadily along the front rank. Things were as they should be, for the sergeants had done their job well. Yes, he was content. When he was young he might have been tempted to imagine some minor flaw and reprimand the man just to show the company that they could not take his approval for granted. He had learned sense quickly, for the Highlanders he had led in America readily smoked out a fraud and as readily showed their opinion of an officer, stopping just short of punishable insubordination.

  A man never forgot his first company – the faces, names, some of the jokes which had been repeated so often at the time. Since then there had been other men, other companies, and the faces changed even if the basic worf leading them did not. These were nearly all new men, and quite a few were shorter than was ideal for grenadiers. Normal practice tucked such men away in the centre of the second rank, so that from the front the impression was of a line of big men. MacAndrews knew that some of the recruits were barely over five foot six and in normal times would not have been accepted. Perhaps they would grow, given regular meals in the army. At the moment the shoulder wings on their jacket made these youngsters look small and squat.

  MacAndrews reached the end of the front rank and passed the reassuringly battered face of Dobson, one of the few old hands and every inch a grenadier. When the 106th had been posted to the West Indies the Grenadier Company had listed three sergeants, two corporals and eighty-three privates on its books. That had been 1804. When they came back from Jamaica three years later MacAndrews had led just nine men off the ship. The regiment had never once seen an enemy during the entire posting, had not suffered from fire or shipwreck. The men had simply died, and the battalion been consumed as so many other British regiments had been consumed in postings to the Fever Islands. Even without bat
tles the army lost more than twenty thousand men every year.

  On the return to England it had been almost like raising a regiment from scratch, and it was impressive how much had been accomplished in the year or so since then. MacAndrews was pleased with his sergeants, satisfied with his men, and so far judged his officers to be adequate. It was too early to decide about Hanley. His willingness to join the company on a march when he did not have to was in his favour, but might simply be sycophancy or, even worse, a desire to be popular. He was clearly not yet up to a parade, so MacAndrews had sent him with a message to the acting adjutant so that he could join them as they marched through the village.

  The Scotsman was content – with this parade and with the company in general. He was not yet proud of them, but that should come in time and if they got the opportunity. Rumours continued to circulate that their new colonel was using his influence to have the regiment sent abroad. MacAndrews hoped they were true, but had heard too many rumours in the last thirty years to rely on them now. What mattered was being ready, and so he would drive his company hard, for he was proud of his prowess as a soldier. Fortune and the lack of money and interest had denied him a glittering career, not want of effort or skill. No one could ever say that his company was not the best he could possibly make it. So now he would take them on a march when the rest of the half-battalion was resting. Major Hawker had not minded, and indeed was content to give his captains considerable licence when it came to training. Still, it was hard to tell his mood these days and good to be away, if only for a few hours.

  The Grenadier Company would have preferred an easier night, but as they marched to the beat of the drum through the village they did so with great pride, especially whenever they passed strollers from the other companies. The choice was not theirs. The captain had decided. That did not mean there was not a pleasing sense of superiority, even a little joy in demonstrating that they were tougher men and better soldiers than their comrades. The biggest men in the battalion, they straightened up and threw their chests out even more, standing even taller and prouder. Williams had seen it before – did not know that he was doing the same – but it still puzzled him, how much the mood changed the appearance of men.

  Ensign William Hanley walked along the main street of the village in search of the acting adjutant. Brotherton had seemed a pleasant enough fellow when they met earlier, but was now proving elusive. Lieuten Anstey had sent him to the Red Lion, assuring him that the adjutant should be in the side room used as a temporary headquarters. There had been a few officers outside the inn however, who had sent him back to the Senior Common Room. This time Anstey had explained that this was only a welcoming jape at the expense of a raw ensign like himself, and that Brotherton really was there. The fellows playing cards had all thought this was hilarious.

  Hanley had been pleasantly surprised by his first glimpse of the regiment’s officers, for his view of soldiers in general was not high. Now, his worst expectations of them as a set of childish boors seemed to be confirmed. He wondered for the hundredth time whether he had made a mistake, although he could not think of any alternative. His skills were few, his pocket almost empty, and there was no real alternative to a soldier’s life. The logic was impeccable, which did nothing to make it any more comfortable.

  By the time he returned to the Red Lion the officers who had been sitting outside were gone. As he was about to go in, Hanley caught his own reflection in the windows, and had to admit that he cut quite a figure in uniform, and the artist in him was pleased with the image. His red jacket with its brass buttons and gold lace fitted snugly, and the two long tails were edged with white from where the material was turned back. The other fellows had helped him tidy up his breeches and boots before he left, but the stroll through the village had undone most of their efforts. Even so, with his cocked hat and its tall white plume on his head, his sword – something he had never worn or thought to wear before in his life – trailing behind him in its scabbard, he admitted that he looked heroic.

  He struck a pose, one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other pressed to his chest, and tried to adopt an expression of valour and fortitude. In spite of himself he was impressed, and smiled to think how appearances could be so deceptive. Then he frowned because it set him to wondering who he really was. His hand moved from his chest to finger the gorget at his throat. The horseshoe-shaped piece of metal was purely decorative, but apparently an essential part of the uniform. His outfitters had told him that it was a reminder of the time when officers had worn armour like medieval knights. He wondered about that, and at least it interrupted the bleaker thoughts and questions he could not answer. Better to keep busy and deliver the papers to the adjutant.

  As Hanley turned he noticed that he had been watched. A young woman – indeed, scarcely more than a girl if it were not for the knowing gleam in her eye – stood a few yards away. She wore a simple white blouse and a dark blue skirt, the hem of which was dirty. Her hair was dark brown, the thick curls falling on to her shoulders. There was amusement in her expression as she stared directly at him for a moment.

  ‘Most handsome,’ she said with a half-smile, and then walked away at a slow pace, swaying her hips with the motion.

  ‘Who is this Johnny Newcombe?’ said a high-pitched masculine voice from the inn doorway.

  ‘Damn him, I say. Who’s the dollymop?’ The second voice was even more affected. Hanley saw two of the officers who had mis-directed him earlier. The first was very fat and red faced and the second much taller and thinner with a long hooked nose. The pair seemed to have stepped straight out of a cartoon, and Hanley could almost see their words printed in bubbles beside them.

  ‘Oh, just some slut from one of the soldier’s families. A grenadier, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, her upper regions are well developed.’ The taller officer lastionsd uproariously at his own wit.

  ‘Tow row row,’ said his companion. ‘Scrub her up and I’d join the grenadiers myself.’ They both found this hysterical. The girl must have overheard their comments, but only walked more slowly and sinuously. Hanley found it all revolting, and gave them only a curt nod as he walked past them and went to find Brotherton. His spirits sank further as he thought of living with such oafs as his companions.

  At least Brotherton was jovial.

  ‘Less than an hour with the regiment and already carrying important dispatches. This augurs a great future for our newest officer.’ The acting adjutant was no older than twenty-five, but already had little creases round the edges of his eyes and mouth. He had also lost his hair very early in life, and wore a luxurious but ill-fitting wig. Papers were strewn across the table in front of him, but he immediately laid down his pen, winced as he left a blot on the page he had been writing, and reached up to snatch the message. ‘I am most favourably impressed. Perhaps the fate of this regiment and our nation depends upon this small piece of paper. Are these orders to depart for war and glory?’

  Brotherton unfolded MacAndrews’ note and read it intently, then whistled softly through his teeth. Hanley was not sure what he was supposed to do, so simply waited, standing loosely, with his arms hanging down at his sides. The urge to look heroic had vanished. There were two clerks in the inn’s side room, which was serving as the office. The redcoats scribbled away and paid him no attention. A cracked voice broke into song from behind the side door of the room. Hanley looked puzzled, but the others ignored it. They were used to Major Hawker’s ways, and anyway had seen the steady procession of bottles being taken in to him by one of the maids.

  ‘I was right! It is war!’ yelled Brotherton. The clerks, used to their officer’s moods, barely paused for a moment in their work.

  ‘War?’ Hanley asked automatically. The singing had become louder, but still the others appeared not to hear it.

  ‘Yes, you know, lots of bangs and crashes and shouting. It is what soldiers are for. Occasionally it makes the newspapers.’

  ‘Haven’t we been at war with France
for some time?’

  ‘It has become traditional, it is true. Never felt right to me back in ’03 when we had the peace. Seemed especially ironic as I had only just joined the army. Still, old Boney soon got over that fright and started the ball rolling once again. Decent of him, really. At least as decent as a monster can be.’

  Hanley confessed that he had never thought of Napoleon’s proclaiming himself as emperor in quite these terms.

  ‘Well now you know. “Truth will out”, as the headmaster of my school used to say before he flogged us. Now it is our task to flog the Corsican Ogre and his lackeys until they see sense and start behaving like Englishmen. Well, as far as is possible for so many garlic-eating Frogs.’

  ‘I rather like garlic,’ said Hanley, enjoying Brotherton’s nonsense.

  ‘The mood will pass.’

  ‘So, are we to go and fight the French in Spain?’

  ‘Bloodthirsty sort of fellow, aren’t you? Make a note of that, Fuller.’

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly, sir,’ answered Private Fuller without looking up or interrupting his work. ‘It is noted for ever, sir.’

  ‘Splendidsense.

  ‘I thought we might help the Spanish against the French.’

  ‘Can’t think why. The Dons have rarely been any friends of ours. Used to be very chummy with Napoleon, though. Invited him to visit, and now look at the mess they’re in.’

  ‘The French have taken over the country, deposed the king and killed anyone who opposed them.’

  ‘Yes, they do that sort of thing,’ commented Brotherton mildly. ‘Damned silly to have them as guests in the first place. Should at least have asked them to leave their cannon in the hatstand and wipe their feet before messing the carpet up. Wasn’t too friendly of the Dons to let Boney’s legions stroll through Spain on their way to Portugal. Spain shouldn’t have lifted her skirts up in the first place,’ concluded Brotherton. ‘Who but a fool would trust Boney to be a gentleman?’