‘Will your Lord Wellington fight for Ciudad Rodrigo?’ The question was abrupt.
‘I am only a lieutenant.’
‘You’re a man, aren’t you? Then tell me what your gut tells you.’
‘Perhaps, at least if the circumstances are right,’ Hanley said after a while, and then grinned. ‘He won’t want to lose anyone for no good reason.’
Don Julián Sánchez García was silent for a while. ‘He has sense, that one,’ he said finally, ‘but I wonder if he is a killer.’
Late that night they rode into Ciudad Rodrigo, and the next morning Hanley found that the town’s governor wanted to know the answer to much the same question.
Lieutenant General Don Andrés Pérez de Herrasti was short, like El Charro, but unlike the guerrilla leader in almost every other way. He was twice Don Julián’s age and had the mild expression of a schoolteacher or village priest. His white hair was worn long and neatly tied back in the fashion of the last century, and his manners were those of an impeccable Castilian gentleman. This was merely one meeting of many held since he took command, but that did not prevent him from donning his full uniform, the deep blue coat heavy with gold decoration on the high collar, cuffs and turnbacks, and his heavily plumed hat carefully brushed.
‘It must always look as if I have not the slightest doubt of holding this city until the end of the world,’ he said to Hanley. ‘And so I put on a show and hope that the people believe me, just like we must put on a show for the French. This place is old, just like me, and if the fire is still in the blood neither of us can claim the same strength in our flesh and bones as once we had. We must pretend, and do our best, and hope in the end for help.
‘Your general writes to tell me that he shall do everything in his power to support us.’ Herrasti did not ask the question, but merely watched Hanley closely. The British officer could not tell whether or not he was satisfied, but after a few moments he moved on and listened as they went through what they had learned.
‘So the French are coming. When?’
El Charro spread his hands. ‘By the summer. It is hard to see why they should wait any longer.’
‘Any news of their siege train?’ asked the general.
‘Nothing new,’ said Hanley. ‘The order to gather some fifty heavy cannon and mortars at Burgos was issued earlier in the year, so we must assume that they are being prepared.’
‘Hmm, they probably don’t need all fifty for this old place,’ said Herrasti, ‘although it is nice to be respected. Now my problem is not guns so much as gunners. Out of my five thousand men barely a quarter are regular soldiers. The volunteers are keen, but it takes time to teach them simply how to march and load a musket. Artillerymen need much fuller instruction. I have the cadets of the Artillery School, but apart from a few of their instructors, they are just boys and none have ever fired at the enemy. It will be very hard to smash the French batteries before they can shatter our walls. I have sent to La Romana and Del Parque for more gunners, but so far …’ The general trailed off, resigned to the unwillingness of the nearest Spanish commanders to reinforce him. For a moment he looked even older than his years.
‘No matter. So when the battering train is ready, they will come. Will anything else delay them?’
‘Astorga?’ suggested Don Julián in a flat tone.
‘If it lasts the month we shall be lucky,’ said Herrasti dismissively.
‘It keeps Junot away.’
‘Ney has almost twenty thousand veterans,’ the governor said firmly. ‘He does not need Junot.’
Hanley was sure that the 6th Corps was smaller than that, but thought it better not to argue the point. ‘Wellington could concentrate more men than that and be here in less than a week. You are not on your own, sir. Ney cannot risk attacking on his own and being overwhelmed. He barely stayed a few days before you chased him away back in February.’
‘So for the moment the British frighten the French enough to keep them at bay. At least until they gather more soldiers.’
‘Lord Wellington may be able to bring other divisions up from the south,’ said Hanley, but in the end he knew that the French should be able to muster so many men that the British could not hope to face them in the rolling plains around Ciudad Rodrigo. They wanted the Spanish town to delay the French, so that the defences of Portugal had time to become stronger.
The governor was understandably disinclined to see his garrison as merely a difficult stepping stone on the French path to Lisbon. ‘He must come, I tell you, he must.’
As Hanley rode out of the gate and over the Roman bridge spanning the Agueda he could understand the Spanish reluctance to place their faith in the British. The road to Almeida took him close to Fort La Concepción and he was sorely tempted to ride over and visit his friends, but he resisted the urge and pressed on over the border to the big Portuguese fortress with its high cathedral. That evening he met with the governor, Colonel Cox, in a room overlooking the ramparts. Several of his Portuguese staff were present, as was Brigadier General Craufurd and his ADC, Shaw Kennedy. There was little sign of great enthusiasm or trust for their Spanish allies, and especially General Herrasti.
‘The man is a fool and a rogue.’ Cox’s already ruddy cheeks seemed to glow with passion. ‘Damned fellow isn’t fit to command a corporal’s guard, let alone a fortress. Wellington has tried to get him replaced, but as usual the dons do nothing. We’re the only ones bothering to keep an eye on the French, eh, Hanley? Doubt he had a clue what they were up to until you told him.’
‘Will he fight?’ asked Brigadier General Craufurd. He was quite short and slimly built, and when he had removed his hat and dripping cloak after coming into the room, Hanley saw that his hair was grey. He was forty-six, older than Wellington and most of the other senior officers, and this was the biggest command he had ever received in a career marked by disappointment. Baynes had explained that Wellington had asked for him, and given him this plum of a prime brigade in close contact with the enemy because Craufurd was a scientific soldier, a man who had thought about and studied outpost duties for many years. The brigadier’s expression was certainly highly focused and spoke of a great force of character, but Hanley could not quite make up his mind whether it also hinted at real intelligence. Craufurd dominated a room of bigger men, and not simply by his rank. His hair must once have been as black as a raven, and even now repeated shaving left his chin heavily shadowed. It helped to create a sense of brooding presence, of immense strength and temper just waiting to explode.
Hanley could not tell the brigadier’s attitude to Herrasti, but felt that it was worth supporting the Spaniards. ‘He stood against Ney back in February.’
‘No more than a feint.’ Cox was dismissive, and unwilling to be contradicted by a lieutenant. ‘When the French come properly he’ll fold at first sight. They’re all the same. It won’t be the Spaniards who save Spain, because they haven’t the stomach for it. Look at that affair at Barba del Puerco last month. The only Spaniards near by ran off into the night, and then turned up when it was all over to go looting.’ Cox’s Portuguese staff grinned at this uncharitable assessment of their neighbours.
There seemed little point in arguing, and so Hanley said nothing until he was asked to give his report.
‘Well, they are not hurrying,’ was Craufurd’s assessment after asking several more detailed questions. ‘This may give us a splendid opportunity to strike first and give Ney a drubbing.’ Hanley was amazed that anyone should talk of the British attacking, but the brigadier said no more and instead summarised the reports gained from his own pickets and patrols. ‘The French are pushing a little more boldly, but as yet nothing serious.
‘The Agueda is lower than it was, and so we have pulled back the infantry so that there is time to react. On 6 April they probed as far as San Felices el Chico, so the KGL and the Ninety-fifth turned out to meet them. The French were foraging, and after stripping the place they pulled back.
‘It confirms all our reports that t
hey are struggling to feed themselves. I also suspect that their boldness is intended to conceal their vulnerability. However, as it is, we can still communicate freely with Ciudad Rodrigo, and there should be no difficulty sending them another powder convoy.’
‘Hope it is not throwing good money after bad,’ muttered Cox, ‘but at least the blackguard will have no excuse not to fight when the time comes.’
‘We must keep the road to Ciudad Rodrigo open as long as possible. It will let us send aid, and perhaps do more. On top of that, it helps to make life difficult for the French and that is a worthy end in itself. Are the guerrillas active, Hanley?’
‘Yes, as much as they can be. Don Julián Sánchez has something like two hundred men. His is the biggest band and the best organised.’
‘Fine. Thank you for your efforts, Hanley. I want you to go with a patrol from the KGL hussars tomorrow and see what people are saying to the north.’
‘Sir.’ Hanley had hoped for a rest, but had not been optimistic.
‘Now, Colonel, perhaps you could treat us all to that fine dinner you promised!’ The brigadier spoke lightly, but although he struggled to be jovial he did not quite manage it and it came across as brusque. If Cox was offended he did not show it, perhaps used by now to Craufurd’s manner. Hanley was pleased to be included in the invitation and spent a pleasant few hours chatting to Shaw Kennedy, a serious and capable young man who appeared devoted to his chief.
‘He had to surrender his brigade at Buenos Aires,’ he whispered after the wine had flowed. ‘That’s a dreadful thing for anyone, and especially for a proud man who knew how the thing should be done.’ A harsh expression came into his face. ‘White-locke ought to have been shot.’ Hanley had heard such comments before. General Whitelocke had botched the whole expedition to South America. He had been court-martialled, and although condemned he suffered no more punishment than the ruin of his career.
After Cox and the brigadier had retired, the ADC proposed one last toast. ‘Here’s to grey hairs, and damnation to white locks!’ The Portuguese staff officers looked baffled, and Hanley wondered how much of General Craufurd’s simmering anger came from the shame and frustration of this earlier defeat. He hoped that it would not prejudice him against the Spanish, or make him too eager to clear his name, but there was little he could do in either case.
A little later, Hanley sat in the small room allocated to him and wrote a ciphered letter to Baynes to be enclosed with the reports and captured documents. It gave his own impressions of the mood of allies and enemies alike.
The French are waiting. As yet there is no sign of our old acquaintance or other royal agents. This seems unlikely to change until the main invasion is imminent.
12
Temporary Lieutenant Colonel MacAndrews was still angry, prompting another savage assault with his riding crop against the top of the parapet. Already punished, this time the shaft of the whip snapped, and several inches at the tip flicked around loosely for a moment before hanging limply down. The Scotsman stared sadly at the ruined whip, his anger deflating.
‘There is nothing I can do,’ explained Captain Morillo.
The Scotsman knew that was true, and over the last weeks he had come to like and respect his Spanish colleague. ‘Damn it, but they were starting to learn their trade properly.’
‘They were also better outfitted than half the soldiers in the army.’
By the end of March, the Scotsman had managed to beg and borrow boots, grey uniform jackets and trousers, and some old shakos and belts to equip the recruits sent by the Army of Estremadura. Properly accoutred and given weeks of drill, the raw country lads had started to look a little like soldiers. Then a Spanish colonel had arrived late one night, praised their work and dined cheerfully with MacAndrews, Morillo and the senior officers. The next morning the man was just as jovial when he marched the recruits away to serve with General La Carrera’s division, who were stationed on the flank of Craufurd’s British. A few days later another hundred new conscripts appeared, without a musket, jacket or belt to their name. Soon other small parties arrived, some of them men from the guerrilla bands.
‘They really do think that I am their damned quartermaster, don’t they?’ MacAndrews snapped angrily at his colleague. He gently flicked his whip, watching the tip spin wildly for a moment, and then sighed. ‘I was actually beginning to feel proud of them,’ he said wistfully, and without any open signal the two officers resumed their walk around the ramparts of the fort.
‘I cannot be too hard on men who panic at night,’ MacAndrews added after a dozen paces, thinking back to the flight of Pringle’s detachment at Barba del Puerco. ‘Especially when they are raw and are not set a good example.’
Morillo had already apologised for the conduct of Lieutenant Dolosa. ‘He was once a very brave man,’ he said, ‘but I fear he has seen too many defeats and too many friends killed as they stood alongside him.’
MacAndrews grunted, and but for his temper would have been more sympathetic, for he had seen men lose their nerve before. Sometimes they recovered, but others seemed broken for life. No one could really be sure how long his own store of courage would last.
‘There, but for the Grace of God …’ the Scotsman muttered, and could not help wondering about a couple of the redcoated officers sent to him. From the ramparts they could see the different parties training in the courtyard or outside the fort. Captain Reynolds looked positively bored as he watched a dozen of the Spanish NCOs practising skirmishing. Beside him a young lieutenant fidgeted, barely able to keep still, and then visibly jumped when the first man fired off a blank charge. It was always the way with detached services. Commanding officers usually sent either their best men, eager for advancement and to learn new things, or the ones they did not care to have serving with their battalion. Yet all in all he felt his team were good, and as the weeks passed they had begun to make real progress. The Spanish NCOs were shaping up very nicely, and although it had not been the purpose of his mission to train raw recruits, the Scotsman was doing it to the best of his ability.
In the courtyard below them, a Spanish corporal barked at his men to hurry as they filed into the armoury to collect their muskets. In the last week MacAndrews and Morillo had changed the routine of the fort, so that the recruits were issued with muskets only when they drilled and had to turn them in again at the end of the day. It was impossible to do the same with uniforms, and even with firelocks and bayonets the system was not infallible. Most of the guerrillas slipped away at the first opportunity, taking with them a new musket, cartridges and clothes. Some recruits, their heads filled with tales of heroic ambushes, full bellies and pockets, and no discipline, went with them.
‘Two more of the rogues vanished last night,’ said MacAndrews wearily.
‘Viva Fernando y vamos robando!’ Morillo repeated the old joke, and when MacAndrews looked puzzled the Spaniard offered an explanation. ‘ “Long live Ferdinand VII and let’s go robbing!” They have all heard the stories of the brave guerrilleros – and heard about the armies slaughtered by the French dragoons. Which would you choose?’
‘We could increase the guard,’ said the Scotsman doubtfully.
Morillo looked at him, but said nothing, for they had had this conversation before and the conclusion was bound to be the same.
‘I know, I know,’ MacAndrews said apologetically, ‘the men are working hard enough as it is and there is no sense in wearing them out. The recruits must do duty as sentries and we cannot afford reliable men to watch them at all times.’ He shook his head, for neither man could think of a better way of doing things. ‘Nor is it good for young soldiers to know that they are not trusted.’
They came to the ramp leading down into the fort, and MacAndrews paused for a moment and turned to face his colleague. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether we serve any useful purpose.’ There was only so much that he and Morillo could do, and it fell far short of the original idea for this mission. ‘No doubt that devil of a co
lonel will return as soon as we have knocked this new company into some sort of shape.’
‘At least we are not doing any harm,’ the Spaniard said with a wry smile. There was sadness in his eyes, and MacAndrews tried to imagine the sorrow of a proud man whose country was occupied by a stronger, perhaps overwhelming, enemy. For an instant he wondered whether to make a joke about the English holding Scotland, but doubted his colleague was in the mood for so frivolous a comparison.
‘Aye,’ he said, drawing the little word out as only a Highlander could.
The sound of shouted orders came from beyond the walls, followed by a spattering of shots as Reynolds’ men went through their exercises. ‘The non-commissioned officers are coming on with their open-order drill,’ said Morillo with genuine satisfaction. So far the Army of the Right appeared to have forgotten the batch of NCOs, or perhaps someone somewhere was content to let them undergo more thorough training.
‘They are all good men,’ conceded MacAndrews, ‘eager, and quick to learn, but there are so few of them.’ He set off abruptly, for once catching Morillo by surprise, and the Spanish officer had to jog for a few paces to catch up.
They passed a young sentry, face rigid with concentration, and the boy presented arms with quivering intensity and a reasonable approximation of the correct movements. MacAndrews raised his broken crop in acknowledgement.
‘They are all learning,’ he said when they were out of earshot. ‘At least we can draw some satisfaction from that.’
Morillo smiled. ‘Yes, although I fear we cannot assume too much of the credit. They are far more eager not to look bad in front of the Portuguese that to impress us,’ he said. In the last month Colonel Cox had sent a detachment of his infantry to stand guard at the old fort. ‘Probably done more than we have to make the fellows want to learn and do well.’
Hoof beats echoed from the tunnel behind the main gate as two officers rode in, resplendent in their tall Tarleton helmets and heavily braided blue coats.
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Page 12