Only after they had landed did it wholly sink in that boats had been swamped and men drowned as the army was landing. Williams found the thought more than a little frightening and was disturbed by this reaction. He had always assumed that he would be brave, but now he was worried by the thought of drowning at the moment of landing, in spite of the fact that he had not. He felt horror – there was no other word for it – at the realisation that he could have died before battle had brought the chance of distinction and promotion. He was confident that he would succeed if the opportunity came, and that he would continue to rise in rank. Eventually he would be senior and wealthy enough to aid his family, and to ask Major MacAndrews for his daughter’s hand. It all seemed clear and straightforward, even inevitable, and then came the sight of random and pointless death.
Hanley and Redman had come in the second boat carrying the grenadiers. Their trip was smoother and more steady, but they too were accompanied for some way by the dead rifleman. Redman tried to smile lightly, but was unable to think of a joke to demonstrate his calm. Hanley wondered who the man was, but felt that at least he looked more peaceful than the hacked and mutilated corpses in Madrid all those weeks ago. He regretted the fact that they were not in Spain, and yet was also eager to see Portugal, and especially Lisbon. He had read that there was a Roman theatre there which had been uncovered in an earthquake and was eager to see it. Yet he was not sure whether the French were between the army and the city, and suddenly he could not help laughing at the thought that he was planning to visit antiquities in the middle of a war. It seemed to make as much sense as the war itself.
Pringle came in the final boat with the engineer officers. Billy was glad to be off the ghastly prison of the never stable ship. He was sure that he must have lost weight, and yet in the mirror that morning his face had looked as round as ever. Given that he had eaten so little and spewed up so much, this seemed unfair. The third boat was also escorted by the rifleman, who always managed to stay out of reach. Pringle agreed when one engineer muttered that some poor fellows have such dreadful bad luck.
The company formed on shore and was almost immediately approached by Brigadier General Fane with orders. Fane commanded the Light Brigade, with the 2nd Battalion of the 95th Rifles and the 5th Battalion of the 60th –he grenally the Royal Americans, but now recruited more often than not from Germans and other foreigners. Both battalions carried the Baker rifle, which was far more accurate, although slower to load, than the line infantry’s musket. For the moment the 106th was attached to Fane’s brigade, as were two other battalions that had joined the expedition just before it left Cork. Everyone knew the arrangement was temporary, but for the moment it had got them ashore early on in the landings and that was a blessing. Fane’s brigade major walked them – there were no horses ashore that early in the day – to the position reinforcing the outposts of the riflemen.
That had been many hours ago, and the rest of the day had been spent mainly in waiting. They moved position twice as the outpost line was expanded. Williams had never known a sun so powerful or felt so very hot. Hanley was used to it, although it did remind him of how delicious a siesta was on such a day. It seemed pointless standing in formation away from the shade. At one point they were put in an orange grove, but, this being the army, they were almost instantly moved one hundred yards and out of the shade back into the sun. Williams’ face was almost as red as his jacket by the end of the day.
It was close to midnight when a single longboat ground ashore on another Portuguese beach. Two men had already sprung over the side and waded through the surf, holding their muskets high above their heads. They went forward, bare feet sinking into the gritty sand, until they reached a low mound of pebbles thrown up by the tide. Then they kneeled down and levelled their muskets, scanning the darkness for any threat. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars were bright, and over to the east was the dull glow of the lights of Lisbon itself.
The two men watched for more than a minute and then the one on the left raised his arm and gave a whispering call to those in the boat. One man jumped nimbly into the shallow water and strode ashore. Three more followed him, burdened down with backpacks, including those of the two scouts. They walked on to the beach and then piled the packs neatly and laid their muskets down on top of them. Then the three turned back and used their shoulders to push the boat out once more. The coxswain gave a few brief orders in a voice almost lost in the rolling of the surf. Expertly, the sailors brought the boat off a few yards and turned it, before rowing back to their ship, one of the Russian squadron anchored in the River Tagus.
The coxswain was glad to go. Normally, any time away from the hulking two-decked ship of the line, with its seventy-four guns and eight hundred crew, was a pleasant interval, but this had been different. There was something about the first lieutenant’s orders that had been uncanny. Rumour said that the captain was ill, and no one had seen him for days, but he was still sure that no instructions had come from the flagship for this special mission. Twenty years in the service had taught him never to question an order and so he had done as he was told. Even those years had not quite cured him of thinking at all.
It was hard not to speculate about his passengers even if he tried to avoid it. Their leader was a dangerous man. His uniform was that of a major in the Tsar’s own guard, one of the jaegers or huntsmen. That was enough to show that Count Denilov had grand connections even for an aristocrat. Yet the nobleman had the look of a killer.
The coxswain had fought in his share of battles, had hacked his way across decks crammed with sword-wielding Turks, and had battered many a man senseless in the fights in inns, alleys and on board ship that punctuated a sailor’s life. He was not easily impressed, but even he had to admit the count made him nervous. What the hell was an army officer doing on board anyway, and with five of his soldiers instead of the marines serving with the ship? Well, for the moment, that was not his concern – at least until they had to return at the same hour in six nights’ time and then on each of the next three nights. Three fires, spaced ten yards apart, would be the signal to come in and pick up the soldiers.
When one of the rowers missed a stroke, the coxswain decided they were far enough out from the shore to bellow a curse at the man. They were all nervous, he knew, but that was no excuse for poor seamanship. He tried to look on the bright side. There was supposed to be a war raging in Portugal, and maybe the count and his men would manage to get themselves killed. Sadly he doubted it. The soldiers looked more like killers than victims. The sort of men you could not just knock down, but had to finish off permanently, or one day they would be back at your throat. Cut-throats led by an aristocrat who would as soon flog a man to death as look at him was the coxswain’s judgement, and Portugal was welcome to them.
On shore the five soldiers put on their boots and then adjusted their packs, checking each other to make sure that their equipment rattled as little as possible. None of them spoke. The one-eyed sergeant tapped one man on the shoulder telling him to lead off. The sergeant followed, then the officer, and then the remaining three soldiers. All kept their muskets held loosely and ready to be brought up to the shoulder. The officer had thrust his double-barrelled pistol back into his belt and kept a grip on his sword to prevent the scabbard catching on anything. Almost silently, the six men slid into the night, intent on a theft that would restore the count’s fortunes. No one who mattered would ever know how Denilov would achieve this miracle. Deaths were also necessary, but that was not something that had ever bothered him.
19
By the fourth day Hanley had become bored and sensed that the feeling was common throughout the 106th, and quite probably the army as a whole. Most of the ten thousand or so soldiers who had sailed from Cork had by now come ashore, but work continued with the much harder task of unloading the cannon and the horses of the artillery and Light Dragoons. It was nearly done, but the convoy from Gibraltar bringing the remaining four thousand men was expected to ar
rive the next day, and so the whole process must begin again.
The excitement of landing on an enemy-held shore had gradually faded as the days passed. There was no sign of the French and the army remained around the beach. The 106th performed piquet duty and provided work parties to help with the unloading and, on several occasions, to carry large quantities of stores half a mile or so for no obvious reason. The great adventure became bogged down in routine. Worse still, they spent hours drilling, just as they had done in Britain. They drilled as a battalion, as individual companies, and the adjutant also insisted on parading and training the more recent recruits and officers for extra drill. There was talk of brigade manoeuvres, but as yet these had not occurred.
There was no danger, no excitement, no fear even, and Hanley expressed his frustration. ‘Aren’t you sick of just sitting here doing nothing?’
‘I am so sorry, is the war not to Sir’s liking?’ said Pringle. ‘Shall I get the cook to bake a new one, with an extra helping of angry Frenchmen?’
With disappointment at the lack of adventure, a new sport began in the Light Company and soon sprea the rest of the 106th. Discovering that their French counterparts were known as voltiguers or ‘leapers’, the light bobs took to leaping any ditch or gap they could find. Even the officers joined in, pretending they were simply saving time by jumping rather than walking around an obstacle. Truscott was especially good at this. A day later someone began to walk along the top of a stone wall instead of beside it, and this became a new enthusiasm. Williams succumbed, producing hysterics in Pringle and Hanley when he slipped and fell down hard with one leg on either side of a wall. Experienced officers like MacAndrews saw no harm in these games; he remembered how in his first campaign he had seemed to have far more energy than he could possibly know what to do with. Moss felt it was undignified and issued an order banning the men from jumping. It was ignored unless there was one of the senior officers close by.
All in all Hanley and the other young officers felt as if they had never left England, but had still lost its comforts. The 106th now had its mess tent, where the officers could dine and drink, but the boat carrying the colonel’s personal supplies had overturned on the way to shore and everything had been lost. Local wine had been procured, but as yet they had only a very poor port, and even the younger subalterns almost noticed the difference between this and Moss’s finer vintages. The food was also now mainly reliant on the army’s rations, for the few delicacies available locally had rapidly risen in price following the army’s arrival.
Hanley did not mind more basic food and drink. Nor did he object to sleeping under the stars. Billy Pringle’s tent had been stowed badly on the voyage and the attentions of rats and other vermin had left it in a pitifully holed state. Apart from that, there seemed no prospect of purchasing a donkey to carry it as soon as they moved inland. The nights were clement and there was a certain romance to sleeping on the sandy dunes rolled up in a blanket. Even some of those officers with tents were choosing to do this.
It was the waiting which he hated. Since they had landed – perhaps since he had watched that corpse floating lazily near the boat – William Hanley had felt the fear grow within him. Memories of the massacre at Madrid became more frequent. If he closed his eyes he could see the French sabres rising and falling, hear the grunts of effort from the troopers and the screams of their victims, and that appalling mewing from the Frenchman whose face was destroyed. It all seemed so real once again. England had seemed like another, quite separate world, distant in every way from such carnage, and even from the man he had been during the years in Spain.
Most of all he remembered his own terror, the scrambling panic as he had dodged the horsemen and then fled down the dark alleyways, running until he could run no more, his breath coming in gasps and his heart pounding within his chest. Would he run again? The thoughts of revenge, of somehow winning absolution for deserting Maria Pilar, had all gone.
Instead the worry that he would cave into fear and run tormented him more and more. He did not care about reputation, still less about the honour his fellow officers claimed shaped their lives. If he still had pride, then it was because he felt himself above such human vanity. An artist – and he was still one in his soul even if his ability fell short – should see the truth of things and not waste time with illusions. The only thing that truly mattered was the ability to create objects of wonder and beauty.
Hanley smiled at that, recognising his own pomposity, but still feeling that it contained some truth. He had been surprised to find himself reasonably content, at times even happy, with the regiment. Yet he nd mot care that much about the 106th, and in spite of the furious loyalty of his comrades, as far as he could see it was no different from all the other regiments in the army – probably in any army. He did care about his friends, about Pringle and Truscott, about Williams, who took life so very seriously, and some of the others. What he feared most was the thought that he might panic and abandon them. Compared to that, death seemed better.
That thought had grown and he found himself embracing it. A quick moment – the neat musket ball in the forehead and everything would be over. No more dreams, no more disappointments, no more search for purpose, just Catullus’s ‘never ending night of sleep’. It had the attraction of simplicity. Then he remembered the screams and the mutilation, and cold fear of agony and horror gripped him more tightly. The waiting gave too much time for thought and for fear to fester within him.
He started as someone patted him on the shoulder.
‘Not drawing?’ asked Pringle, sitting down beside him on the low bank overlooking the bay. Hanley shook his head. He had tried yesterday, but his pencil had frozen after only a few strokes. The image of the dead girl in Madrid haunted and fascinated him to the exclusion of everything else.
‘Well, have something to eat.’ Pringle held out a loaf of brown bread. ‘Bills is bringing the salt beef, but we have this to wash it down with.’ In his other hand was a green bottle. The cork was only lightly pushed back in and Pringle pulled it out with his teeth. ‘I think you will remember this.’
Hanley took the proffered bottle and raised it to his lips. The other man watched him with a broad smile on his face. Hanley freely confessed to knowing little about wine, but the taste was certainly familiar. Recognition dawned.
‘This is the colonel’s favourite brandy.’ Pringle nodded. ‘This should cheer him up. Did you get this in the mess?’
‘Not exactly. I bought it off an Irish lad from the ninety-fifth.’
‘And how did he . . . ?’
‘I understand that some of our riflemen are very good swimmers.’
‘You mean this is the colonel’s brandy.’
‘No longer. Doesn’t taste bad for its dunking either.’ Hanley laughed, although he could not quite match his friend’s delight. Williams joined them, carrying a bundle. They carved some of the salty beef and ate, the volunteer drinking from his wooden canteen. It was the regulation issue, painted light blue and with a stencil of the regiment’s CVI numeral.
After a while Billy Pringle began patting his pockets. ‘Oh yes, I have forgotten my solemn duty as your superior. Where is the damn thing? Never mind, it will not overtax even my mind to remember it. The general sent you both a personal message. Anyway, the big news is that we are to form line in two ranks.’
Hanley thought for a moment. ‘But we always do.’
‘Us and the rest of the army, but as you and Bills should know if you had studied the drill manual properly, that is not what the august Sir David Dundas tells us.’
‘A line is supposed to be three deep, unless casualties have rendered a unit so weak that it cannot maintain its frontage,’ said Williams.
‘I am impressed. Is that a quote?’ Pringle seemed even more ebullient than usual.
‘My own invention.’
‘Then am very impressed, young Bills. One day you should write a very dull book on the most obscure subject imaginable. I suspect yo
u have a natural talent.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Hanley was genuinely puzzled. ‘Why tell us to do what we are already doing?’
‘You are not expecting the army to make sense, are you?’ Pringle paused to take another swig from the bottle. ‘That way lies the path to madness. Or possibly glory.’
‘A three-deep line is more solid. The French and most other armies form that way.’ Williams was extremely confident in his assertion. ‘But the men in the third rank can’t see much and have trouble firing effectively.’ After a moment another thought occurred. ‘It can be dangerous.’
‘I thought war was supposed to be dangerous.’ Hanley smiled.
‘Really, no one told me. I may have to offer my resignation,’ said Pringle with his mouth full of bread so that crumbs sprayed over the other two. Laughing at his own joke produced a fit of coughing. ‘Sorry,’ he added.
Williams ignored him, aflame with the urge to pass on hard-earned knowledge. ‘I mean dangerous to the men in the second and front ranks. Sometimes the third rank shoots them.’
‘What?’ Hanley was incredulous. ‘You are making this up, surely.’
‘Certainly not.’ Pringle came to Williams’ support. ‘You hear about it quite often. It was apparently common in the old days and still is for the French. Well, what’s a couple more dead Frenchmen between friends. I fear once again you are expecting armies to act logically.’
‘But to accept that you will regularly kill your own men? Why?’
‘Pride, tradition, or because they have always done so in the past. It doesn’t seem to stop the French from winning battles.’
‘A deeper line is more solid,’ repeated Williams.
‘Anyway, the rest is about the formation to be adopted by the brigades of the army. We are on the far left, next to the Highland Brigade. On the march we will always be in the lead. Well, the two battalions of Rifles will be and we will support them. A couple of guns are attached to the brigade, so be prepared for some big bangs. Now have you got all that?’ They nodded. ‘Well, don’t let it get too fixed as by the sound of things it will all be changed in a day or two once the new brigades have landed. That’s the formation we would fight or march in at the moment, but since we aren’t going anywhere and the French are nowhere near us it is largely academic.’
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Page 20