All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The French fired as neat a volley as Pringle had ever seen, and for a moment the square vanished behind a dense cloud of powder smoke. Men and horses fell, some tumbling down only a few feet from the kneeling French front rank, and the squadrons veered, going around the square instead of into it, and so the wave parted and the castle remained.

  ‘Bugger,’ Pringle said, with more than a hint of admiration for the coolness of the French.

  ‘Kennedy, go after them and tell them to chase down those dragoons.’ The general barked out the order. ‘The rest of you with me.’ He turned his horse on a sixpence and was off, haring back over the little ridge. As Pringle came over the crest he saw the leading squadron of the 14th Light Dragoons trotting in a column of fours along the track. Another squadron was half a mile in the rear.

  ‘Colonel Talbot,’ the general said as he reined in beside them. ‘There are two hundred French infantry in a square a long musket shot beyond that rise. Ride the fellows down for me, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Sir.’ The commander of the 14th had a leopard-skin band around his Tarleton helmet and now he had an eager smile on his face. Like his men he had bright orange facings to his navy-blue jacket.

  ‘Shall I ride to the infantry?’ Pringle asked.

  For a moment the general’s glance was angry, but it quickly softened. ‘No need. And no time.’ He turned back to the 14th. ‘Good hunting, Talbot! Off you go, while they are still shaken.’

  Pringle wondered about the urgency and had grave doubts that the French were in any way shaken. Seeing off a cavalry charge usually gave infantrymen a great boost. Garland was in his place behind the second rank as the squadron deployed into line. The young man was flushed, but he flashed a great smile at Pringle.

  ‘A friend?’ asked the general, as they rode back up to watch the attack.

  ‘Yes,’ Pringle replied, thinking that the truth was far too complicated.

  This was how a cavalry charge should be launched. Talbot was in the lead, mounted on a dark bay, and he effortlessly kept his men on as tight a rein as the gelding. The square had vanished again, the men crouching down in the high maize, but the debris of dead and wounded men and horses from the first charge lay around it and marked out the position.

  Talbot walked his men over the crest, the two lines of light dragoons neatly spaced, a horse’s length between the ranks so that the fall of one in the lead need not bring down the man behind.

  ‘Trot!’ The trumpeter on his grey rode beside the colonel and repeated the order.

  Pringle heard only the trumpet calls and could not make out the shouted command that sent the squadron into a canter and then a gallop, and finally, no more than fifty yards from the square, into the all-out charge.

  The French stood, their fawn coats blending with the standing corn, but their black shakos stark. Billy Pringle was holding his breath and again he felt the French commander was waiting too long, and then he flinched when flames and smoke engulfed the little square. The noise came a moment later, louder this time, and he suspected that the kneeling front rank had added their fire to the volley.

  It may have made the difference. Some light dragoons kept going, flowing around the sides of the square, and more muskets fired, emptying even more saddles. Pringle guessed at least a dozen men had dropped to the first volley and as many or more horses were on the ground or collapsed to their knees. The charge was stopped in its tracks. Through the thinning smoke Pringle glimpsed a few light dragoons up against the square itself, chopping down with their heavy sabres, but bayonets had a longer reach, and one of the light dragoons was already wheeling away, his sword-arm by his side and the sabre hanging uselessly by its wrist strap. A single pistol fired, and another of the riders was tumbled from his mount. Colonel Talbot’s bay ran back up the slope towards them, blood thick on its empty saddle.

  The general rode back to the supporting squadron of the 14th Light Dragoons, who had halted a quarter of a mile behind the low crest. Pringle wondered for a moment whether these men would also be hurled at the little square. It was hard to imagine that they would make any better impression, for the Frenchmen and their commander were admirably cool.

  Major Tilney was at the head of this squadron and was peering through his glass off to the right. A cloud of dust was visible just under a mile away, the dark shape of cavalry beneath it.

  ‘French, sir!’ the major reported.

  ‘Damn.’ The brigadier general used his own glass to study the approaching column. Pringle did the same, but could not make out any detail.

  Shaw Kennedy rode up, his horse skidding to a halt.

  ‘The French dragoons are all killed or taken,’ he said. ‘But the infantry have run.’

  ‘Run?’

  ‘Turned and fled back to the ford beyond the next rise.’

  ‘Is the squadron of hussars there to cut them off?’ the general demanded.

  Shaw Kennedy shook his head. ‘No sign, sir.’

  ‘God damn them all to bloody German hell!’ yelled Black Bob. He turned to Pringle. ‘Ride to the Ninety-fifth. Tell them French cavalry are advancing around our flank. They are to hold their position and be ready to cover our withdrawal.’

  Pringle galloped off. By the time he returned from his round trip all sense of urgency had vanished.

  ‘The “enemy” proved to be our own German hussars,’ Shaw Kennedy said ruefully. All in all the Light Division had sent more than two thousand men marching through the night to launch this raid. The result was thirty or so French dragoons taken, and two hundred enemy infantry escaped. British losses matched the French and far more of them were dead or badly wounded.

  Billy Pringle rode forward to look at the wreck of battle left around the square. As he arrived, a weeping German hussar killed a wounded horse with his pistol. Colonel Talbot was dead, shot seven or eight times and probably killed instantly. He and several privates had fallen within yards of the French infantrymen.

  ‘They were noble fellows,’ Garland declared as Pringle helped his orderly and another dragoon raise him. The lieutenant was shot in the chest. There was not much blood, although some trickled from the corner of his mouth when he spoke. As they sat him up Billy looked in vain for the hole where the ball had come out. It must be still inside and that was never a good sign. ‘Noble fellows,’ Garland repeated as if speaking of the opposing side in a cricket match. ‘I lay there almost at their very feet, and helpless with this leak in me, and yet not one of them made a move to finish me off. Splendid brave fellows.’

  Pringle was puzzled by the delight the young officer took in the quality of the men who had shot him. No wonder Garland was always so warm in greeting his former opponent from the duel. ‘Noble fellows,’ he agreed. The admiration was genuine, for the French had been in a tight corner and yet had fought their way to freedom. Less pleasant was the thought that with so many infantry and the guns near by, it was only British mistakes that had let them escape.

  That afternoon a party of light dragoons buried Lieutenant Colonel Talbot on the glacis at Fort La Concepción, firing a volley from their carbines over the grave. Major Tilney read the words of the service flatly, but there were clear signs of emotion from the officers and men who had known the colonel better. Several cheeks were moist by the time the little service was over.

  Pringle watched with MacAndrews, and as they walked away the Scotsman surprised him.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked.

  Pringle listened, wondering whether he meant the cry of a bird perched on the wall of the fort. ‘Sounds like a crow to me,’ he said, for his interest in such things was even less than his knowledge. ‘Otherwise I hear nothing.’

  ‘That is the point.’

  Billy Pringle suddenly understood. In all the activity and confusion of the morning’s skirmish it had not registered, but the guns had fallen silent at Ciudad Rodrigo.

  ‘Been like that for hours,’ MacAndrews said gloomily. ‘I do fear that it is all over.’
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  The night seemed to last for ever. Williams tried to stay awake, concerned that at any moment their hiding place would be discovered and the cellar invaded by French soldiers. He knew it was night, because Hanley’s watch told him so, and more than once he lifted the round brass piece and held it to his ear to reassure himself that it was still ticking. During the daylight hours there were tiny cracks of light between the floorboards above their head, but when night fell the darkness in the cellar was almost impenetrable. At need they lit a small candle, but were too cautious to risk a brighter light in case it betrayed them.

  It was noon before the French guns ceased to pound the city, and another half-hour before the Spanish guns also fell silent. Then they had waited, not knowing what was going on. Josepha’s mother’s cousin and her servants stayed in the house, and once or twice she sent one of the men down to tell them what was happening. Ciudad Rodrigo had surrendered, just as the enemy were preparing for their final assault. The governor himself had gone to the top of the breach with a white flag.

  At first things were ordered. The garrison laid down its arms and returned to its billets to await captivity. Some companies of French climbed through the breach and marched to secure key points in the town. As night fell the order vanished. More soldiers slipped inside the city, with or without permission. They heard heavy footsteps in the house above them, and shouts demanding wine and food. Before they blew out the candle Williams saw Dobson running a sharpening stone over his bayonet. Josepha was suddenly next to him, clinging tightly, and Williams wished that they had been able to persuade the lady of the house to join them as well. Then he heard her raised voice, calmly telling the Frenchmen to eat their fill from the table already laid out before them. The tone was as commanding as it was welcoming.

  More soldiers came during the night, and not all were French as some of the garrison were eager to befriend their captors and show them good places to find food. A few were angry, and he worried that things were getting out of hand. If the men began to search then it would not take them long to shift the empty barrels that lay on top of the trapdoor leading to the cellar. Josepha held him so close that he could feel her heart beating, as well as her wiry hair against his cheek. The girl had a habit of stroking his thigh that was pleasant, but scarcely calming.

  Angry shouts came from above, the lady screaming insults, and Williams prepared to free himself and take his sword up into the house. Josepha pulled him even tighter, the scent of onions on her breath strong.

  More shouts, from a new voice now, and Hanley whispered to him that it was a French officer damning the men and telling them to get out and go back to their regiments. A sergeant yelled orders, so the officer was clearly wise enough to confront the looters with disciplined men to back him up. It grew quieter, footsteps and softer conversation lasting for a while before there was silence. An hour later the footman came to explain that a senior French officer had commandeered the house and was now sound asleep, leaving guards on the door. For the moment they were safe, but they were also trapped.

  Night passed eventually, and at some point Williams must have dropped off to sleep because he awoke with the girl snoring softly, her head on his chest and his left arm uncomfortably beneath her. There were slivers of daylight from the floor above them, but the house was silent. He could dimly see Murphy sitting awake and on guard, his firelock over his lap. The Irishman winked at him, although whether his amusement came from their predicament or the officer’s good luck in waking with such a pretty companion was hard to say. With a struggle, Williams managed to reach Hanley’s watch. It was just a few minutes after five in the morning.

  The day crept by even more slowly than the night. The French officer remained in residence, and even when he left to go about his duties his servant and several soldiers stayed in or just outside the house.

  ‘Could we take them?’ Hanley whispered to Dobson when the room above seemed to be empty and the cellar was full of dim light. ‘Quietly, so that no one would know.’

  The veteran thought for a while. ‘Aye, probably. What then?’

  ‘Slip away as we planned,’ Hanley said quietly. ‘Although best to wait for darkness.’

  Williams watched as Dobson continued to stare at the officer.

  ‘I do not think Dob is talking about us,’ Williams explained. ‘How can we leave the ladies with a house full of dead Frenchmen?’

  ‘We could take them somewhere,’ Hanley suggested without any conviction.

  ‘Aye, carry bodies or lead prisoners through a captured town.’ The veteran’s irony was heavy. ‘For the moment we’re stuck,’ he added.

  ‘Wasn’t thinking,’ Hanley muttered and they fell back into silence.

  Another night and day crawled by. Josepha wanted to go out, and said that her appearance could easily be explained. ‘We want the Frog to leave, don’t we,’ Dobson said. ‘Can’t see the lady’s presence helping that.’ The girl could not follow the sergeant’s heavy accent, but when Hanley translated she was delighted at the compliment and soon persuaded to stay. Williams had to admit he was glad, for she continued to find comfort sleeping with her arms around him.

  The lady of the house once came down in person to see Josepha and ask whether they needed anything. A servant came with her to take away their night soil, and in truth the air in the cellar was becoming less and less wholesome by the hour. Fortunately the smell of burned buildings and hastily buried corpses pervaded the streets of the city so strongly that this was unlikely to be noticed outside.

  ‘Colonel Pelet tells me that he must regretfully leave my house tomorrow. Yesterday he was out for three hours with this French prince, touring the ramparts. He tells me that we were very brave, but badly led and betrayed by the English.’

  ‘Did he tell you to expect other officers when he departs?’ Hanley asked.

  ‘He has said nothing about that.’

  They waited for the rest of the day and through the long, long night. With a good deal of stamping and loud farewells, the French staff officer left early the next morning, and a servant came to say that his soldiers had gone with him. Two hours later an officious NCO arrived, demanding that the widow hand over any surplus loaves of bread she had in her possession.

  ‘Bribe him, bribe him,’ Hanley said under his breath as if the idea would somehow reach the lady in the house. Footsteps came alarmingly close to the hidden trapdoor as the man continued to rant about his orders and the needs of the Emperor’s brave soldiers. Williams gestured for the girl to go to the corner of the room, but she clung determinedly to his side as the NCOs readied their weapons.

  Then the lady’s voice came, too faint to catch the words, but it calmed the man. A few minutes later he and his party left, no doubt a little richer even if the brave Emperor’s soldiers were poorer by a few loaves. Williams felt himself breathe again.

  Minutes dripped slowly into hours and they waited nervously, fearing the appearance of more French soldiers. Darkness fell, and still they waited. Then Hanley showed Williams his watch. It was half past eleven and as good a time as any to take the risk. He led them up the stairs, treading warily although that was absurd, and tapped on the trapdoor as they had arranged. They heard the barrels shifting and the alarmingly loud creak of the door. Hanley spoke quietly to the lady.

  ‘All clear,’ he said, and climbed up into the house, his long cloak trailing behind him. Dobson followed, then Rodriguez, Rose and Murphy, each of them wearing their long greatcoats and forage caps, their shakos stowed away in their packs.

  ‘Goodbye, Josepha,’ Williams said softly to the girl. ‘I wish you every happiness.’ For a while she had wanted to come with them, and it had taken a long time and the older lady’s stern refusal to dissuade the girl.

  Josepha wrapped her arms around him. The embrace came naturally, as did the long kiss, and after so many days close together Williams revelled in the sensation of holding her. He understood Pringle’s interest, but hoped fate had so
me more permanent lover in store for the sweet child.

  Murphy put his head back down through the trapdoor and gave another theatrical wink.

  ‘Ready, sir?’

  Williams left the cellar with more reluctance than he would have expected.

  Outside in the street it felt cold and dangerously exposed.

  ‘This way,’ Hanley said, and set off with Williams at his side and the men marching two by two. He nodded amicably and acknowledged the salute of a corporal passing with a file of artillerymen in blue coats and trousers and carrying heavy sacks. With their cocked hats and cloaks he and Williams were obviously officers, and there was no particular reason for anyone they passed to assume they belonged to any army other than their own.

  ‘Fine night,’ Hanley said to a captain and lieutenant walking arm in arm in that amicable French way. One offered them a puff on his cheroot, and they took it happily, prompting a fit of coughing from Williams.

  ‘Germans, eh?’ Hanley had decided to act as if Williams and his men were from the redcoated Hanoverian Legion. It would explain both their uniform and their poor French should the need arise.

  The two French officers grinned, and one patted Williams on the back cheerfully.

  ‘More used to powder smoke, I’ll be bound,’ the man said.

  Bidding them good evening, Hanley took his little band on past the castle, returning the sentries’ salutes, and went towards the Gate of San Jago. This would be the first serious test. The soldiers forming the guard looked different, and as they came closer Williams noticed that their jackets were a deep brown with blue fronts and cuffs.

  ‘I am Colonel Espinosa of King Joseph’s staff,’ Hanley said in response to the challenge, ‘and my business is urgent. This is Lieutenant Langer of the Hanoverian Legion, who is my escort.’

  The sentry called for the sergeant.

  ‘You had better send for an officer, but damned well do it quickly.’ Hanley exuded arrogant certainty, and Williams could not help being impressed, but it was hard to stop his hand from reaching for the hilt of his sword.