True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The 106th camped after six miles, laying out tent lines in a field on an estate owned by one of Lieutenant Colonel Moss’s acquaintances. A letter had arrived that morning from the colonel, informing them that at the end of the week they were to meet up with the left wing and that the whole battalion would then train together for a few more days before marching to Portsmouth. When MacAndrews informed the officers of this they all felt that it confirmed the rumours of a posting overseas. The question was where, and speculation about this filled the next few hours as they rested and had lunch. Somehow – the mechanism of such things was never clear, but was no less real for that – the word had already spread among the redcoats. Williams heard Tout adamantly maintaining that they were off to South Africa or perhaps Egypt, which he seemed to believe was near by. ‘Elephants and blackamoors, I tell ye.’

  Opinion among the officers varied. Pringle and Truscott both thought Sweden the most likely, although they argued over whether they would be fighting alongside the Swedes against the Russians, or with the Russians against the Swedes. They were confident, though. Williams remained quiet, but from what he had read in the papers there seemed a similar confusion on the part of His Majesty’s government. Ministers had decided that an expedition to the Baltic offered distinct advantages, and were sure that given time they would be able to think of something for the expedition to do.

  ‘Moore has been sent with an army. No doubt we are reinforcements,’ asserted Truscott.

  ‘He’s a good man. One of our best,’ agreed Pringle. Sir John Moore was one of the most respected young generals in the army.

  ‘My cousin Bunbury speaks most highly of him,’ said Derryck. ‘He is in the Ninety-fifth and trained at Shorncliffe.’ The new style of training introduced by Moore when he commanded at Shorncliffe caas the subject of much speculation. All agreed that the brigade he had trained was among the finest in the British Army. It consisted of two light infantry battalions and the new Rifle Regiment.

  ‘The sweeps, what do they know?’ said Redman, using the nickname of the 95th Rifles, earned by their dark green, almost black uniforms.

  ‘No, it must be Spain.’ This was from Mosley, who was trying with scant success to light a cigar. ‘We’ll go and help the dons throw out the French.’

  Hanley pricked up his ears at this. The dreams had come again during his brief sleep; no doubt the thoughts of Mapi were brought on by the dance, for this time the dead girl who haunted his slumbers had had red hair. ‘I should like that. What the French have done to the Spanish deserves punishment.’ Perhaps to fight in Spain would drive away the memory and the nagging sense of guilt.

  ‘Just being French deserves punishment,’ said Anstey cheerfully. ‘It is our solemn duty to cut them to ribbons. Still, you are all wrong, the wise money is on South America.’

  That surprised most of them. The previous year a British expedition had attempted to acquire some of Spain’s territories on that continent. It had started well, but ended in utter humiliation when the army surrendered at Buenos Aires.

  ‘That is where we are going. To avenge Whitelocke,’ Anstey maintained.

  ‘They should have shot that coward,’ said Redman.

  ‘You can borrow my musket if you like,’ offered Williams. Even Redman joined in the smiles. General Whitelocke was a coward and an incompetent who had been condemned by court martial, but simply cashiered. It was not all that long ago that the Navy had shot poor Admiral Byng for much lesser crimes.

  Hanley scarcely listened. Since Madrid his hatred of the French Emperor had grown less passionate, but remained strong. He wanted to fight against France, and could think of no better place to do this than in Spain. It beggared belief that his colleagues could talk so lightly of aiding the Spanish at one moment, and then invading Spanish colonies the next. None of it seemed to matter to them. They seemed perfectly willing to slaughter whichever foreigners their government chose, utterly unconcerned about the reason.

  After their rest, the regiment trained hard for the remainder of the afternoon. There were close-order drills by company, and much physical exercise. Hanley found it all so frustratingly dull. As they went once again through the same exercises the prospect of going to war faded back into the distance. Soldiering seemed to consist only of dull and pointless routine. He failed to see how an obsession for neatness and polishing metal and leather till it shone would help to fight the French or any other enemy. The uniformity and the mechanical drills were an attack on all that made men individuals.

  Later on, Pringle took the Grenadier Company off to practise skirmishing. This was something MacAndrews had introduced with great enthusiasm. Technically the Light Company were the battalion’s skirmishers, the men who would fight in open order ahead of the main line. Yet in America the lights had often been detached from their regiments. So had the grenadiers, and all troops including the centre companies had been called upon to skirmish. MacAndrews was determined that his men should be trained to do this, for untrained men fought badly in open order.

  Pringle kept half the company formed in two ranks as a reserve. The rest spread out in pairs, a few yards apart. Williams kneeled, with loaded musket – h had mimed the action – as Dobson ran to the side and forward, keeping out of his line of fire. Then Dobson was kneeling, loading, and once he brought his musket up to the shoulder he yelled ‘Go!’ and Williams pulled the trigger. It was soft, with no resistance, because he had no intention of wearing out the spring by firing the action for no reason and so had not cocked it. He mouthed the word ‘Bang!’ and sprang to his feet, and this time made it to a low stone wall. That was their objective, and Williams stood behind it while he once again mimed the loading process. He rested his piece between two of the upright stones on the wall when he was finished and shouted for Dobson to join him.

  The attack came from the left with one discharge of Lieutenant Truscott’s pistol and a chorus of shouts from his men. These were the sharpshooters, six men picked from each of the other companies as the best shots. The men grinned as they bobbed up from behind the side wall and ambushed the grenadiers.

  MacAndrews had not warned Pringle that he had arranged this little surprise. He and Brotherton also appeared to observe the results, and the acting adjutant ran through the open gate and began tapping some of the grenadiers on the shoulder to mark them as casualties.

  ‘That’s it, you bite the ground, old boy,’ he said cheerfully to Hanley.

  ‘What?’ replied the puzzled ensign as Brotherton kept on running.

  ‘Lie down, you’re supposed to be bloody dead!’ called the adjutant over his shoulder.

  Altogether five more men of the company were declared casualties. Dobson and Williams were at the end of the line, but the ambush had come from behind and they escaped, but were left exposed.

  ‘Come on, back we go, Pug!’ Dobson set off at a surprisingly fast run for an old man. Williams hesitated for a moment before following him back towards the new line that Pringle was forming facing the sharpshooters. Brotherton came towards him waving his hand of death. Williams swerved, stumbled, but managed to recover and swung sharp left as he kept running. Brotherton was laughing as he pursued, caught up and at the last minute changed his aim to knock off Williams’ shako.

  ‘Bills, you rogue, you have cheated death! The pox will just have to take you!’ he yelled as Williams kept running. Truscott fired again, and half his men mimed firing a shot. Brotherton decided to be vindictive and declared Redman to be a victim.

  ‘Right between the eyes. Don’t worry, in your case that won’t hurt!’

  Redman complained as he sat down in the grass, prompting another shout. ‘Lie down, sir. Trust a grenadier not to know when he’s dead!’ The acting adjutant was clearly relishing his role.

  Pringle had committed half of his supports to join the skirmish line. ‘Mr Williams,’ he called, ‘help Sergeant Darrowfield control the skirmishers. You take the left.’

  Williams was surprised, but responded im
mediately. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Get on with it, then!’ shouted Pringle. ‘Oh, and Mr Williams.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘You’re out of uniform!’ Williams looked up at where the peak of his shako should have been. Pringle smiled.

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ He jogged to the left of the line, looked at Darrowfield and saw him nod.

  ‘Line will advance. Number One!’ The front rank man of each pair jogged forward fie paces, kneeled and mimed firing. ‘Number Two!’ The rear rank men advanced in their turn.

  It did not take long. The sharpshooters were heavily outnumbered and Truscott ordered the withdrawal before the grenadiers had time to work around the flanks of their shorter line. Brotherton allocated them just a single casualty. Williams was standing near the prostrate Hanley when it was declared over. The ensign was lying on his back, staring up at the blue sky and idly chewing a straw.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ Williams asked.

  ‘I am quite comfortable. I may decide to stay dead for a few days.’ The two men exchanged grins. Pringle appeared, and lightly kicked Hanley with his boot, declaring that the dead do not feel anything. ‘Ah, resurrection,’ he added, as Hanley sprang up.

  ‘Perhaps you mistake me for the gardener,’ he said, rubbing his side. Williams stiffened, his smile instantly gone, but made no comment. Hanley regretted the joke, but had not meant any harm. He almost wished the Welshman would have been more angry, but then there was no time to think as MacAndrews called them all over to him. There was praise for their conduct, interwoven with detailed criticism of mistakes and ending with encouragement. This was typical of the Scotsman’s approach during the next few days. The training was hard, but it was also imaginative, and simple drills turned into mock battles. On some of the days they marched long distances. For these it was invariably either blazingly hot or pouring with rain. Tout’s conviction that the Regimental Sergeant Major could control the weather grew stronger.

  Most of the officers took to gathering in the evenings in a large tent set aside for the purpose. It was known that Lieutenant Colonel Moss had decided that the 106th should form a communal mess, of the type now common in many regiments. The officers and the two volunteers would contribute for their food and other provisions and regularly dine together. It was sociable, but Hanley for one was worried that this would devour almost all of his pay before any other expenses. Williams was even more nervous.

  MacAndrews enjoyed the week and the command. Another letter arrived from Lieutenant Colonel Moss, and one from General Lepper, and both stated clearly that they hoped to confirm him as major. It was encouraging, yet long service and countless disappointments made him reluctant to take anything for granted. His wife showed no such reticence.

  Mrs MacAndrews and her daughter arrived on the afternoon of the sixth day, riding into camp along with Mrs Mosley and Mrs Kidwell. Williams was standing guard when they arrived and felt Miss MacAndrews looked especially fetching in a russet riding habit. Her mother was spectacular in red, and the pair easily outshone the other ladies, and especially the poor quartermaster’s wife, who did not ride well. Williams presented arms, and directed them to Captain MacAndrews’ tent on the main road of the camp.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Williams.’ The captain’s wife dazzled him with her warm smile. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again. Please give my compliments to the other gentlemen.’ Jane nodded to him, before she tapped her mare with the long whip to catch up with her mother, who had gone straight into a canter.

  *

  ‘I am getting old,’ said Alastair MacAndrews.

  ‘You were born old,’ replied his wife with scant sympathy. The last half-hour had not supported his statement, but she had never been one for unnecessary flattery with anyone who mattered.

  It was latin the evening, and they were lying on the floor of his small tent. MacAndrews had a travelling cot, but it was too narrow for the two of them, so he had done the best he could by spreading some straw-filled sacks on the ground. From outside came the sound of someone singing. Jane had been given a tent near by and a crowd of the 106th’s officers had gathered to serenade her. The voice was a pleasing tenor, which suggested young Derryck.

  The proximity of so many of his officers had meant that their lovemaking had had to be unnaturally silent.

  ‘Reminds me of another time,’ said Esther, fondly stroking her husband’s cheek.

  He knew what she meant. They had met a long time ago, when he was a prisoner of the American rebels. His battalion of the 71st Highlanders had been led to disaster by that damn fool Banastre Tarleton at Cowpens in January ’81. The Americans knew him as ‘Bloody Ban’, but that was nothing to what MacAndrews or anyone else from the 71st called him.

  The captivity was comfortable enough, billeted as they were for much of the time in a small town whose inhabitants were friendly. A fair few had Scottish connections, which did no harm, but it was wearisome. MacAndrews was a fifteen-year-old ensign when he had landed with General Howe on Long Island in ’76. Battle followed battle, and by the time of Cowpens he was a lieutenant and acting company commander. Tarleton’s recklessness left him a wounded and penniless prisoner – the poverty had always been there, but at least when fighting there was a chance of distinction and advancement. He chafed at captivity for eighteen long months.

  Then came the escape. He and another officer planned carefully, but then this fellow changed everything by bringing along his American mistress, a girl eloping with him from a good family. They moved more slowly and ate more of their scanty rations. In the end they had to take chances, going to smaller settlements and hoping to find Tory aid. Betrayed, they were hunted by the militia and the other officer had cut and run, leaving MacAndrews with the girl.

  Esther had been just seventeen then, and had only just realised that she was pregnant. The revelation may well have encouraged her lover’s flight. Somehow MacAndrews and the girl had evaded capture and finally reached the British Army at New York. They had also fallen in love, and were married the day after they reached safety. The first time they had lain together had been in a dense thicket, militiamen hunting for them not more than twenty yards away.

  Outside their tent a new voice began singing in a language neither of them knew. It was Williams, singing a love song in Welsh – indeed, the only words he knew in that language. He had a deep melodic voice, but like so much Celtic music it sounded like a dirge.

  ‘Our Jane has plenty of admirers,’ said Esther with a mother’s satisfaction.

  ‘At least they will get in each other’s way,’ said her husband gruffly.

  ‘Yes, she will be safe.’

  ‘Yes, but will they?’ MacAndrews ran his fingers along his wife’s arm as if to confirm that she was really there. ‘She has grown so much.’

  ‘Charleston agreed with her. For a while at least. Then she became bored. I was the same at her age.’ He refrained from pointing out that before she had reached her daughter’s present age, Esther had conducted a torrid affair, followed two prisoners of war in a desperate flight, taken and married a second lover before giving birth to the child of the first. MacAndrews hoped that Jane was taking things rather more gentl Not that it had ever bothered him that he had not been Esther’s first choice. Although he had admired her looks, he had come to love her only as they travelled secretly together in the last stages of their escape. That love had only grown stronger with the passing years. It still amazed him that such a spectacular woman should choose to be with such an ordinary man. He had tried to tell her this so many times, but had always been brushed aside, and had long since given up saying it. Instead he returned to the subject of Jane.

  ‘Was she tempted to stay?’ he asked. Esther had gone home because her father had died and her mother had written wanting to make peace. There had been offers of a good position for her husband and herself if he settled in Carolina, talk of finding a wealthy match for Jane.

  ‘No more than I
was. It is a petty, small society, however rich. And the climate. I had forgotten just how oppressive the heat can be. It turns men to drink and women to religion.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway,’ Esther continued. ‘She is a soldier’s daughter and she’ll be a soldier’s wife one day. It’s in her soul.’

  ‘I had hoped she might have better,’ said MacAndrews wistfully.

  ‘We have been happy,’ she said firmly.

  ‘In spite of everything?’

  ‘Because of everything.’ Esther shook her head. ‘I still think you don’t believe me. Alastair, together we have lived, and our companionship has been closer than anything experienced by most people. If there has been pain and sorrow there has been so much joy. You know there has been sorrow. Three great sorrows. I carried those babies which we had to bury, and not a day goes past when I do not see their tiny faces or hear their voices.’ The first had been a boy, the child of her fugitive lover and with the same soulful brown eyes that had won her heart. He had been five when a fever took him.

  ‘That was the hardest. All three times.’ MacAndrews emphasised the number.

  ‘I know, all three. You did care for them all and that is one reason why I love you. So we have known sorrow. Few have not. But we have a daughter to be proud of and I have revelled in the love of the finest man alive. Happiness is much rarer than you think and we have known our full share.’