All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘The fighting was hard,’ he began slowly, ‘but somehow I doubt that is your chief interest. Miss MacAndrews, I am aware that a good deal has been said about me. I had hoped that you were the one person who did not need my assurance that there is no truth in any of it.’

  She stared at him, her eyes large and vivid, and it was a while before she spoke. ‘Well, I would not have minded if there was just a little truth in the stories. Not much, you understand, but just a very small amount.’

  ‘You still hanker for a Jones, I fancy, a hero imperfect in just the right ways.’

  Jane’s lips parted in a grin. ‘Well, there is something to be said for a Welsh name.’

  ‘For that sentiment I am grateful, and though it may not be in all the right ways, I can boast of many imperfections.’ The mood was now so much easier, almost as if they had not been apart for so long, but there was one difficult subject he had to broach. ‘Your mother spoke of Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam being likely to pay his compliments.’

  ‘Now it is your turn to doubt,’ said Jane sharply, ‘but then I suppose I cannot with justice resent that. The colonel is a fine and kind man. I believe that he likes me and has displayed signs of that partiality. There is no more to it than that, as yet.’

  It was not quite full reassurance, but was at least encouraging. ‘He seems a good man,’ said Williams, who always tried to be fair. Silence returned for a good five minutes as they walked to the end of the path and turned around to return.

  ‘Where do we stand, Mr Williams?’ It was Jane who broke the silence at last, and the suddenness of the question shocked him. ‘And if you tell me that we stand on the riverbank, then I shall do my best to fling you into it, small though I am!’

  ‘Where we stand is that I asked you to marry me and you refused.’

  ‘A precise, if somewhat blunt answer.’

  There seemed to be no more. Jane’s eyes were dancing with amusement. ‘My feelings are unchanged,’ he went on. ‘I love you, and that is all there is to it.’

  ‘Blunt now becomes positively brutal. This must be how the French feel when facing you!’

  Williams struggled for balance, a sense so familiar from encounters with Miss MacAndrews. ‘How would you like things to stand?’ he asked, and saw from her face that this was the right response.

  ‘Perhaps as if we were meeting for the first time, so that we may begin afresh. Please, let things not be rushed, but let us see how we both feel. Such fervent admiration as yours is a little uncomfortable for a lady to receive. It is bound to make her wonder whether you truly love her, or merely the idea she represents. Now, I do not wish to offend or doubt for a moment your sincerity, which I know to be genuine. It is simply that there is plenty of time and I am still young. It is hard to know my own mind, but the one thing of which I am sure is that I do not wish to be rushed into anything. But I am fond of you, Hamish, very fond indeed.’

  His heart leapt. If these were not the words he wanted to hear, it was still the warmest she had ever been, and that combined with the sweetness of her voice meant that he did not mind the use of his unfortunate Christian name.

  Williams took her hand and pressed it gently. ‘As you wish,’ he said.

  ‘I am glad,’ she said, ‘but it is getting late and we must hurry.’

  They walked on in silence, comfortable this time, and when Miss MacAndrews slipped her arm through his he felt that he might burst with sheer excitement. Yet there was one more thing to say, and he feared that it would spoil this new-found harmony.

  ‘It seems that fate conspires to give plenty of time,’ he said as lightly as he could.

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Jane, and Williams felt her arm stiffen.

  ‘Your father leaves for Spain soon, and I am to go with him.’ Their arms now seemed more entangled than gloriously inter-twined.

  ‘Those who go are volunteers, as I understand it.’ Miss MacAndrews’ eyes were angry.

  ‘Pringle was most strongly urged by the colonel, and since his only offence was committed on behalf of my family, I could not in all honour permit him to go on his own.’

  ‘Honour,’ she said harshly. ‘He is a grown man and scarcely alone. You speak of honour and yet choose to leave.’

  Williams reeled, and almost before he knew it found himself quoting. ‘ “I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more.” ’ Jane was fond of verse, and in the past had delighted in exchanges of quotes, but as he spoke he suspected Lovelace had been an unwise choice.

  Her arm slid free and she took a pace away from him. Her face was red, and she was breathing deeply, chest rising and falling in a manner that made his throat dry.

  ‘Then take your honour, sir, and may it be a comfort to you!’ She recovered herself a little, and then spoke more levelly. ‘Good day to you, Mr Williams. Thank you for your company, but I must hurry away.’ She turned and strode off.

  Williams wondered what to do. They were on a path running through the meadow by the river and two hundred yards from the street leading into town. He could scarcely follow her without feeling absurd, and it would doubtless be uncomfortable – as well as ill mannered – to walk beside her, and rude to pass her. Then inspiration came to him, and he hurried to catch up.

  ‘Miss MacAndrews,’ he called politely. ‘Please forgive me, but there is one more thing.’

  To her credit Jane turned, her anger barely concealed. ‘I am late, Mr Williams, and have no time.’ She stopped and he reached her.

  ‘It is just this.’ He smiled, but failed to thaw her mood. ‘Back in the winter when I did not know if I would live or whether your ship had perished in the storm, I made myself a solemn promise.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, her face doubtful.

  ‘Indeed,’ Williams replied. His right hand shot around the girl’s waist and his left took her shoulder, pulling her towards him, lifting her face to his. Jane gasped. Then Williams kissed her.

  Jane staggered when he let her go. She was shocked and confused – and that was something he had rarely seen before – and in her agitation she panted for breath. Williams fought the urge to take her in his arms again.

  ‘How dare you!’ Miss MacAndrews said at last, because she could think of no better retort. As suddenly as he had lunged, her right hand flicked up and slapped him hard on the cheek. She turned and pattered away as fast as she could, not looking back.

  Williams went in the other direction, even though that meant taking the long way back. He kept smiling to himself, feeling that this was the first time he had ever come away from one of their arguments feeling that he had the advantage. It was a small triumph, and he fervently hoped that it would not cost him too dearly.

  Nine days later, Williams stood with Pringle, looking back at the shore as their ship worked its way out into the channel. He had not seen Miss MacAndrews again, and did not know whether the fondness she had admitted was now for ever spent. Her father leaned on the rail a little further along, and his manner was no different towards him, but that might mean anything or nothing.

  They were leaving Britain again, and to Williams it seemed barely the blink of an eye since they had returned. It had all started so well, as he posted home, arriving on a Sunday to be told his mother was in church, and he had marched down in his best uniform and simply sat beside her without saying anything, joining in the hymn even though it was the last verse. He remembered vividly her surprise, and the look of pride and relief she had given him, and then, when they had returned to the house, she had embraced him. Mrs Williams was not given to displays of affection, and he could not remember her ever acting like this before. By the next day she was back to her usual distant self.

  The only emotion she had shown after that was anger at Kitty’s folly, only a little mollified by the news of her marriage. Williams and Pringle had stayed a night with his family on their way to Plymouth, and his mother’s manner towards the new Mrs Garland remained frigid. Williams had quietly given his mother
a good deal of his funds, feeling that his other two prudent sisters ought not to be less rewarded than Kitty. That sparked a thought.

  ‘You and Anne enjoyed a good deal of conversation,’ he said to Pringle.

  ‘Your eldest sister is a very fine woman.’

  Williams nodded. ‘Yes, she is, and it is only a shame that others do not share her sense.’ He took a deep breath and spoke quietly, for he did not want anyone else to hear. ‘I am sorry, Billy, so sorry, that my family have caused all this.’

  Pringle waved his hand airily. ‘No matter.’ He looked at his friend and grinned. ‘To be honest I was finding the predictability of life more than a little dull. In many ways I shall be glad to be active again.’

  The ship came out into the channel and was immediately hit by the swell, the deck lurching under them. ‘Oh, dear God,’ moaned Pringle. His face had lost all colour save for a faint hint of green. Williams was a poor sailor, but it still amazed him that Pringle, who came from a naval family, succumbed to seasickness so instantly.

  Williams watched his friend stagger across the deck, heading for the companionway and the thin solace of his cot.

  ‘I really am very sorry, Billy,’ he whispered to himself.

  6

  They did not see Fort La Concepción until they were almost on top of it. All of them were weary, having marched a long way through the winter’s cold. The snow had stopped, but their breath steamed as they walked across the thin blanket of white that covered the rolling fields. They had crossed from Portugal into Spain several miles further back without noticing any great change. Those who had served here before knew that, while the land looked the same on both sides of the border, the people were startlingly different in speech and customs for so small a distance. Yet on this bleak day the two nationalities had something in common, for neither Portuguese nor Spanish villagers were fool enough to be abroad. The night before they had heard howling, and more than once today had seen the tracks of wolves in the snow.

  The snow also made it harder to see the square fort, but only a little harder, for the engineer who first laid it down half a century ago had been a master of his trade. It lay on the top of the highest ground, but was so artfully blended into the landscape that it was almost invisible from any distance.

  ‘In its way, quite beautiful,’ said MacAndrews admiringly, and leaned down to pat the neck of his horse.

  Pringle shaded his eyes as he stared at the low ramparts and then pointed. ‘Looks like smoke, Colonel.’

  The Scotsman followed his gaze. ‘I do believe you are right. Well, a fire and hot food will be most welcome.’ He thought for a moment and then grinned happily. ‘You know, I am still not used to being called that,’ he said. MacAndrews held the local rank of lieutenant colonel as commander of the mission to the Spanish army. Local rank was temporary, tied to a place and lasting only as long as the specific duties that warranted it. It meant no change to his actual rank or seniority within the battalion, and so he had not bothered to alter the insignia on his epaulettes. Still, it was nice to have both the title and the pay, even if it was just for a short while. ‘Well, let us take a look at our new home,’ he said. ‘Will you bring up the rear, Billy?’

  ‘Sir.’ Pringle turned his mule and walked the beast back along the column. A few of the other officers rode mounts of one sort or another. Most walked alongside the men, although all save Williams had most of their baggage stowed on the donkeys that followed, urged along by a pair of Portuguese boys hired in Lisbon. The former volunteer still carried a pack as full or heavier than those of the ordinary soldiers.

  Altogether there were eight officers, thirty-seven non-commissioned officers and two drummers in MacAndrews’ little force. They were a long way from Wellington’s main army or any large Spanish force, but as far as anyone knew the nearest French outposts were a good forty miles away and not likely to come closer any time soon.

  Pringle came to the end of the little column and nodded to Williams.

  ‘Christmas at Fort Conception,’ he said, pronouncing it the English way. It was 24 December, and just a year ago they had been much further into Spain under Sir John Moore.

  ‘Well, they do say home is where a man hangs his hat!’ Williams stamped his feet for warmth, letting the rear rank go on and the boys pass him with the donkeys. ‘Soon be warm, Raynor,’ he said, as the man went by, riding on Williams’ own mule. The new recruit was skilled with pen and account books, and had only lost his job through drunkenness. Williams had encouraged MacAndrews to take him along as they would need someone to act as clerk, and that meant that within months of joining, Raynor was an acting corporal, able to send more money home each month to help his mother care for his son. His wife was dead, and from what Dobson had said it had been that loss more than anything else that turned Raynor to drink. The veteran had promised to do his best to keep the man in line. Dobson and Murphy – both now made up to sergeant – were with the party, and as Williams glanced at them, hunched against the cold, their greatcoats stained with mud, he could not help thinking back to their immaculate turnout when serving in the recruiting party. Their wives were in England with the regiment, for no followers were permitted to accompany the detachment.

  ‘I suppose conception is an apt enough name for the season,’ mused Pringle, but when he saw that his friend was baffled he explained. ‘I presume it comes from the immaculate conception.’

  Williams shook his head. ‘I cannot quite get used to the Iberian tendency to give martial things such sacred names. Wouldn’t something like Fort Defiance be rather more inspiring?’

  ‘Today, I believe I would settle for Fort Plum Pudding!’

  ‘Ah yes, the gallant defence of Plum Pudding. It’ll go down in the annals of history without a doubt.’

  ‘Thank God we kept the holly flying,’ said Pringle happily.

  The column came to the big square blockhouse, where a Spanish sentry shivering in the shadow of the gate directed them towards the fort itself. The sunken road took them through the fortified stables.

  Closer to the fort, Williams tried to imagine attacking the place. In the old days castles had had high walls, so that the defenders could throw, drop or pour things down on the attackers. High walls were usually thin and certainly easy to see, and once cannon were perfected they were desperately vulnerable. It was an easy thing to knock them down, their own rubble tumbling down to provide attackers with a ramp leading into the place.

  Modern walls were made to be very thick, but their main defence was that they were low. As the column trudged along the approach road, Williams could see that there was a smooth earth bank – a glacis – ahead of the main walls, so that only the very top of the rampart itself was visible. That made it hard for gunners to hit the wall, for most shot would bury itself in the glacis or be deflected up to fly harmlessly over the rampart. The deceptively gentle slope had another advantage, and even though he was expecting it, Williams was amazed at how deep the ditch was when they crossed the little bridge spanning it. One of the great bastions shaped like a spearhead jutted towards them as they reached the ramparts themselves. Gunners loved to fire at a long straight wall, for the balls would smash it quickly, and so engineers planned forts so that everything was at an angle and it was hard to strike directly at the stonework.

  MacAndrews and his men turned to the right, going along the covered way – a road sheltered by the glacis so that the defenders could move around the outer perimeter and be safe from enemy fire. No good engineer permitted a straight approach to the main gate, and so they had to pass another footbridge and go through a demilune – a smaller outwork shaped like a bastion, but standing free of the main wall. Finally they came on to the main arched bridge leading to the big gate, the Spanish coat of arms carved on the low tower above it. Everything was made from the same well-cut blocks of pale grey granite.

  ‘A bitch of a place to attack,’ said Captain Reynolds of the 51st Foot, looking up at the rampart and then along the wi
de ditch. ‘Although at least it’s not flooded.’ Reynolds was one of the officers posted to MacAndrews from other units. Williams judged him to be a vulgar fellow, but in this case could not challenge his verdict. In the chaos of an attack it would be hard for men to find their way through this maze of ditches and false walls before they could place ladders up against the main ramparts. Those ladders would have to be long, and so awkward to carry, otherwise they would not be high enough to reach from the bottom of the ditch to the top of the wall. All the time the defenders would be firing at them, for the bastions and ramparts were angled so that the fields of fire from the cannon mounted on them interlocked. There were no safe places for the attackers. The glacis and covered way offered protection from the outside, but no shelter at all from the defenders’ fire. The square fort with its corner bastions, demilunes and angled ditches and banks looked in plan like a purely technical exercise in geometry, but all the science served a grim and very practical purpose. Fort La Concepción was designed to kill.

  Williams shuddered for a moment, and hoped that everyone would assume it was simply the cold. He pictured in his mind’s eye the confused attackers being mown down by storms of canister and musket shot. It had never before fully registered that all the terminology of this calculating and coldly logical form of warfare was in French. It rather suggested that the enemy were very good at it.

  MacAndrews was greeted warmly by the bespectacled Captain Morillo of the Princesa Regiment, his Spanish counterpart. After the briefest of welcomes, he led them into the esplanade, the sunken square inside the fort itself. It was surrounded by rooms set into the backs of the ramparts, and on the north-west side the grand governor’s quarters where they would live and work. Morillo ushered them inside, where warm stew was waiting. He had two lieutenants to assist him, half a dozen experienced sergeants from his own regiment, and fifteen more men to act as sentries and perform other fatigues.

  Before he went in, Williams walked up one of the ramps leading on to the main walls. These were wide enough to mount heavy guns, the granite backed by tightly packed earth faced with more stone. They were also empty. There were no cannon in the fort, and the bastion on the north corner was a tumbled ruin. Fort La Concepción, the perfect and beautiful example of the engineer’s trade, was broken.