‘Do you really think Wellington will let his army be destroyed outside these walls?’ El Charro looked up at him, his head leaning slightly to the left. ‘What would that achieve?’
‘If the French give him a chance, he will take it.’
‘If. Well, they sometimes do make mistakes, but not too often. They’re good, and there are a lot more of them than there are redcoats.’
‘There are now the Portuguese as well.’
As a Spaniard El Charro instinctively winced, but as a skilled leader and a practical man who had lived on the borders, he let himself consider the point. ‘Still not enough of them to even the odds.’
‘So the war is lost.’ Pringle thought of Reynolds drunkenly holding forth. He had heard plenty of other British officers express similar thoughts, but had not expected them from so feared a guerrilla.
‘It is not over.’ El Charro’s voice rasped the words and he grabbed Pringle firmly by each arm. ‘As God is my witness it is not over. The fight must go on because there are Frenchmen in Spain and it will not stop until they are dead or gone.’ He let go, and forced a smile, but the steel in his expression remained. Pringle did not doubt he meant every word he said.
‘We fight the little war. Ciudad Rodrigo is not Spain. What is one more town fallen as long as men survive to kill more Frenchmen? The little war continues, and if the French keep winning that does not matter if we do not lose. We live and we keep killing – one by one or two by two. It is better than nothing. The little war is not about fighting, it is about killing without being killed. We can wait.
‘I think your Lord Wellington understands this, and that is why I like him and why I know he will not come to save Ciudad Rodrigo. You should know that I understand because I do not think the governor or the others will let themselves admit the truth. If I were Lord Wellington then I would not come to this place. He will watch and wait, and let the French waste time and blood and food outside this town.’
‘And what will he do with that time?’
‘Just the same as me. He will still be alive at the end and so will his army and that means he can kill Frenchmen.’
‘You do not plan to stay here?’
‘For what purpose? In the little war there is no shame in running, only good sense. I will stay while I can be of use, but I do not intend to die or be captured here. As I say, there are Frenchmen to kill, and until the last of those whoresons has been buried or fled Spain it would be a terrible waste to die.’ He patted Pringle on the arms, gently this time. ‘Besides, a symbol should not be killed.
‘And speaking of whores, when I come back from this raid you must come and dine. My betrothed has foolishly come to stay with a relative here and is now trapped. Their hospitality will be generous.’
Pringle wondered whether this was how the French felt when facing the guerrillas, always surprised and wrong-footed by opponents who struck unexpectedly when you felt safe. ‘I should be delighted,’ he managed, ‘at least when my duties permit.’
‘Excellent. Well then, I suppose I had better pay my respects to her before I leave. Not that she cares. In the autumn she ran off with a commissary in your army. Some pale-faced German, if you would believe! Then it was a captain in the dragoons, so I suppose you can say she likes your army!’
‘You do not seem upset?’ Pringle felt no menace, and wondered whether he was being deliberately disillusioned rather than threatened.
El Charro spread his arms wide. ‘Why should I? There are French to kill, and that is more important. Let her father worry. All I care about is that he supports me, helps to pay and feed my men, and through him many villagers are as friendly. If he wants the promise of a stronger alliance then that is fine.
‘Go with God, Captain Pringle. I promised Hanley that I would look after you, and I shall do my best.’
‘Obliged to you,’ said Pringle as manners automatically took over, and then he made himself turn and walk away as naturally as could be. Billy Pringle’s mind was swimming, but most of all he pitied the French officers tasked with hunting El Charro.
16
Jenny Dobson smiled, and only someone who knew her well would have caught traces of nervousness.
At their last encounter Hanley had been half drunk and heavily drugged, and his swimming senses had not realised who it was until afterwards. That was well over a year ago, and this time he could see how much the girl had changed into a young woman. Jenny was more than eighteen now, somewhat taller, and carried herself far straighter. She looked even older, but then growing up with the regiment tended to age the young quickly, and since she had fled from that life, who knew what she had been through. From the reports and information she gathered, it was clear that she now spoke French and Spanish well. While she was with the army Hanley had not even known that she could read and write in English.
Yet the biggest difference was the nervousness.
‘You’re a damned fool, Mr Hanley. Do you want both our necks stretched?’
That was the old Jenny, never hesitating to speak her mind.
‘My apologies, but I needed to meet with “Molly”, and find out if it was you.’
She let the hood of her cape fall back completely, and now Hanley could see more than just her face. That too was the old Jenny, aware that men would look and wanting to make it worth their while. He remembered her two years ago, always ready to pose, her expression – and often her words and actions – at once flirting and challenging. Now her hair was piled high and tied with ribbon like a fashionable lady’s. It was so blonde that it was almost white. Jenny’s skin was fair and she carried the look well enough in a country where fair hair was uncommon and desirable, but Hanley felt her own rich brown suited her better.
‘You finished gawping?’
‘Once again, I apologise, but it is remarkable to see you. You look well, and seem to be thriving.’ Hanley could see the edge of her dress and it was silk, as were the white gloves she wore.
‘And you look better in red.’
Hanley had on a dark priest’s robe and hat. The French blamed monks and priests for leading the bitterest opposition to them and often this would not be a good disguise. Salamanca was different. With several seminaries still managing to operate, there were plenty of young men in orders – too many for one more to be noticed, especially now that the city was crowded with troops from the French headquarters of the entire army as well as the staff and supporting units of 6th Corps.
‘I doubt my regimental jacket would make me too popular here.’
‘Nor me for being with you, so you had better get on with it. Where’s the money?’
‘Here,’ he said, patting under his robe. ‘There is twice as much as you asked for.’
‘Bloody right, too,’ Jenny replied, and there was a part of her still very much the daughter of the regiment. ‘I’m sure these shoes are ruined.’ They were in an alley far from the main streets or plazas. Until a week ago the French had used the pens at the end of the alley to house cattle, which had since been slaughtered and their meat salted to feed the army. There were plenty of signs on the old paving stones of animals’ recent presence.
‘Once again, I am sorry.’
‘You say that a lot, and still you don’t get on with it. Maybe you’re one of those men more excited before than during?’
Hanley laughed. ‘Would that there were time to prove you wrong!’ He pulled out a small purse. ‘The letters?’
Jenny had a wicker basket on her arm, and fished among pieces of material and some fruit to produce a heavy sealed envelope.
‘The Spaniard you mentioned,’ he asked. ‘This man Espinosa who usually dresses as a civilian, but is close to the marshal, have you seen him again?’
‘There’s a mention in there. He visits Emile sometimes. Likes the food and the wine and drools over me when he thinks Emile isn’t looking.’
‘I need to know everything you can tell me about him.’ From the description Hanley was sure that it was V
elarde. It no doubt pleased his humour to adopt the name of the man he had betrayed. ‘Be careful, though, he is very dangerous.’
‘Doesn’t look it,’ said Jenny, but Hanley thought she understood. ‘Not like that one.’ She nodded at the shadowy figure watching them from across the street. It was Langer, the escort provided by Baynes, and Hanley fully agreed with the girl’s judgement.
‘Don’t mind him,’ he said, and wished that he had got used to the man’s almost continuous lurking presence. Langer was a deserter from one of Napoleon’s Swiss regiments, but from what Hanley could gather he had served in half the armies – and probably half the jails – of Europe. ‘Now, is there anything else to tell me which is not in the papers?’
Jenny thought for a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all there. Lists mostly this time. Convoys of mules, powder and guns leaving Salamanca.’ Then for a moment the little girl appeared again, and she bit her lip softly before speaking. ‘Have you seen my da lately?’
‘He’s well. In fact, he’s inside Ciudad Rodrigo with Pringle and Williams.’
‘Didn’t know the regiment was there.’
Hanley felt a moment of absurd surprise. It was so easy to forget that his well-informed sources knew only what they saw and often had no idea at all of the wider world. ‘It isn’t. In fact it’s still back in England, although there is talk of going abroad again. No, a few of them are there to help train the Spanish. He’s married again. Did you know?’
‘Not surprised. Doesn’t like being on his own.’
‘It’s the former Mrs Rawson.’
Jenny made a face. ‘Bit sour, but kind in her way. Might do the old sod a lot of good.’
‘Your son is well and in England, looked after by Mrs MacAndrews.’ Hanley felt he ought to say something, even though there was no sign of the mother asking.
‘Good. He’ll probably never know me and have no cause to love me if he does, but I am glad he is being looked after.’
Hanley had never really met his own mother, and he knew that part of him still yearned for her approval, and so he wondered whether her son would grow to be as indifferent to his mother as Jenny expected. He changed the subject, for they really had been together too long. ‘Is Major Bertrand here?’ The girl shook her head at the mention of her lover. ‘At Ciudad Rodrigo?’
She nodded. ‘There’s more detail in that lot. He went there with Masséna, but is due back in a few days. Misses his comforts.’ Jenny had always been inclined to speak of men far older than her as if they were no more than infants.
‘I bet he does.’ Bertrand had been given one floor of a grand house as a billet, and had installed a groom and two cooks as well as his mistress.
‘He takes his servants with him to camp, but I said no. I’ve done enough sleeping in tents – or without ’em, for that matter.’
‘What have you told him about yourself?’ Hanley asked. It was partly curiosity, but he also wondered how far Jenny might be useful now and in the future.
‘That I was a companion to an English lady who was travelling in Spain for her health before the war started. Only she died and left me stranded without the money to get home.’
‘And he believes it?’
‘He met me in a whorehouse. Don’t think he’s got too many illusions, but it’s what he tells his friends. He likes the idea of keeping an Englishwoman. Makes him feel like a victor. They’re very confident. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Then it will be all the more of a surprise when they find out that they are wrong.’
Jenny brushed her free hand through her hair. ‘You really believe that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Hanley said, and he knew that he genuinely did, although he could still see no good reason why the French should not win by the end of the year.
‘Good, I want to be sure I’m on the right side.’
‘Any message for your father?’
‘Don’t think he will want to hear from me,’ Jenny said doubtfully. ‘But you can tell him I wish him good luck.’
‘I will.’
‘Then I’m leaving. Don’t try to follow me.’ She turned and walked away, trying to thread a path between the filth spread over the stones, her nose now wrinkled up at the smell which had been there all the time.
‘Already know where you live,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’ Jenny turned and gave an impish grin. ‘Been peeking, have you?’
Hanley smiled back. ‘Reckon it’s worth it.’
‘I’ll have to charge you for that as well, then, won’t I!’
Late in the afternoon, Hanley had a second meeting, this time with Ramón, La Doña Margarita’s groom – and as Hanley knew, also her real father. They met in a quiet cloister near the cathedral, where there would be no mystery about a servant giving something to a priest.
Ramón was never a man for much speech. He was small, with the slightly bowed legs of a cavalryman, and the faraway gaze of a man who had spent years in Mexico, fighting Indians and the desert itself.
‘She says you are a fool to be here,’ he said. ‘Do not come anywhere near the house because the French have started watching.’
‘When?’
‘A week ago. Just before the man Velarde who now calls himself “Espinosa” arrived.’
‘Are you in danger?’
‘Her name will protect her. And if not, I will.’ Hanley had seen Ramón kill and knew this was no idle boast, but one man could only do so much.
‘Be careful,’ he said.
Ramón spat to express his opinion of that advice.
‘You are sure that you were not followed here?’ Hanley asked, although he was confident since Langer had waited outside the entrance to watch for any signs.
‘Sure.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve fought the Comanches and I’m still alive.’
From the tone, Hanley guessed this was a clinching argument.
‘I am most grateful for the reports.’
‘There will be more by the usual means. Do not come to the house. Don’t stay in Salamanca, either. You are too much of a risk to us all.’ Such a flow of speech was unusual.
The information he brought tied in neatly with that from Jenny and the other sources, helped by the ease with which La Doña Margarita heard gossip from the staff and families of the marshals and generals. The real siege was about to begin, and men and material were setting out every day to reinforce the troops already outside Ciudad Rodrigo. General Junot’s 8th Corps was on the march to screen Marshal Ney’s 6th Corps as it prepared to assault the town. Ney was worried, feeling that he was vulnerable to a sudden attack by Wellington, and was unwilling to prosecute the siege until Junot’s men were in place. Within a day or two they would be protecting him, and the heavy guns were already beginning their laborious progress so that they would reach Ciudad Rodrigo by the time emplacements had been built for them. Letters spoke of the frustrations of the officers in charge dealing with terrible roads and weak horses and bullocks, so that teams had to be double or even treble the normal size.
Things were moving, and Hanley suspected that Ramón was right and he should leave Salamanca soon. Yet a rumour that Marshal Masséna had just received detailed instructions from the Emperor made him wonder whether it was worth delaying. La Doña Margarita seemed confident that she might be able to obtain some idea of what was in them, although she did not say how this might be possible.
Tomorrow night, he decided. They would go tomorrow night and allow one more day to gather reports.
It took an hour for Hanley to get back to his own room. He walked on his own, with Langer shadowing him in the hope of spotting any undue interest. If the Swiss hurried past then it was a sign that Hanley was to stop where he was and pretend to pay attention to something or someone. That meant the deserter was not sure, and needed time to loop around and see whether the officer really was being followed. Hanley was to give him ten minutes and then proceed, trusting that the p
roblem had gone. Then it was simply a matter of trust, relying on Langer to have reassured himself that there was no problem, to have dealt with it in some way, or to warn him. The Swiss had never explained just what the warning would be.
‘You’ll know, if things have gone wrong,’ was all that the man offered, and Hanley was left to trust him. He did, at least up to a point, for the man was good at what he did. On the few occasions he glanced behind him he would never be able to spot Langer, and yet somehow he felt he was there. Baynes had chosen well, as usual, although since Hanley could only guess at his guide’s full instructions, that might not be entirely comforting.
The plazas were better, because as the evening approached people were coming out again and mingling with the hordes of foreign soldiers. Hanley loved Spanish cities in the evenings, with their colour and life, so very different from drab English towns – even London, which he loved in a different way.
He walked comfortably, for he had lived so long in Spain that he never felt a stranger. His skin was darker than that of many locals, and if he was tall, there were other big men in the crowds and not all of them in army uniform. He exchanged greetings with a rangy, fair-haired fellow of at least six foot three and suspected the young priest was Irish, for there was a college dedicated to training such men in Salamanca.
Langer passed him. Hanley did not see his face, but the hunched posture of the man with his lank and rather greasy hair was unmistakable.
Hanley stopped at a market stall and bought a couple of pastries. French soldiers began to shout, and for a moment he was worried until he realised that they were simply clearing a path through the crowd for a party of horsemen. Half a dozen chasseurs in green, but with the fur caps and red epaulettes of the elite company, preceded twice that number of generals in blue coats and ADCs wearing every colour in the rainbow, before the rest of the chasseur company followed. Hanley looked at the faces, curiosity piqued at the thought of seeing Marshal Masséna himself, but he recognised none of the riders.
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Page 17