All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  A sous-lieutenant appeared, his jacket unbuttoned.

  ‘Stand to attention, man, when you talk to me!’ Hanley hissed at him.

  Williams wondered whether he was overdoing the act, but the officer paled and fumbled with his buttons.

  ‘I am not permitted to let anyone through the gate without checking their papers,’ the man said, almost as if expecting reproof.

  Instead Hanley smiled. ‘Of course, Lieutenant.’ He reached inside his jacket and handed over a letter bearing the royal seal and commanding obedience and cooperation with the bearer, Colonel Espinosa. ‘And here is a pass from the Prince of Essling,’ he added casually, producing a second letter.

  ‘Your men?’ the sous-lieutenant asked almost apologetically, handing back the letters.

  ‘I dare say they have a pass from their regiment, if you would care to see it. But they are simply here to escort me and the dispatches I carry.’

  Williams felt a pang of fear that this was a mistake, for surely dispatches would be taken on horseback or by coach and they were on foot. The French officer did not seem to notice. Instead he saluted.

  ‘Thank you, Colonel. May I bid you a good evening.’

  ‘You may, Lieutenant, you may indeed.’ Hanley nudged his hat with his hand, somewhere between a wave and a salute. Their boots echoed on the cobblestones as they marched out under the arched gate. The sentries outside merely brought their muskets up to the salute as the officers passed. For a while they processed along the road, until Williams paused, ostensibly inspecting his little command as it passed. A glance back towards the city showed that they were out of sight.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and they left the road and plunged into the deeper darkness of the fir trees that ran down to the river. It took a few minutes, but then they found a path and followed it to a little stone hut beside the water.

  ‘This is the spot,’ Hanley said. So far everything had gone as planned. Weeks ago, before the siege started, there had been talk of sneaking him upriver to meet with a guerrilla band. After the heavy rain, the idea proved impractical and they had failed to make any headway, but the governor had assured him that the little boat was still kept in the same spot.

  ‘I don’t see anything.’ Williams tried not to sound worried. Rose and Dobson passed him their firelocks to hold and splashed into the water, reaching down to feel with their hands.

  ‘Here,’ said the sergeant after a moment. He began to lift some heavy stones out of the water. ‘Give me a hand!’ Murphy and Rodriguez rested their own muskets on the ground and waded in to join the other two. More stones came out, and Williams saw something rise to the surface.

  ‘Is it in one piece?’ Hanley asked, less cool now than he had been at the gate.

  A few more of the weights were tossed to thud dully on the bank. ‘Looks fine, sir,’ the sergeant replied after a moment. He gestured to the others and with a struggle they lifted the flat punt on its side to tip out the bulk of the remaining water, before righting it again. It would be a squeeze, but the six of them could all sit or squat in the damp-smelling wooden boat.

  ‘Quickly, get the packs and muskets on board,’ Hanley hissed. Williams went into the water, handing their firelocks to Dobson and Rose. He went back for the other weapons, but first tossed the packs to each man. Murphy and Rodriguez pushed the flat boat out into the water, wading behind it until they felt that they were near the main channel and then scrambling aboard.

  It was a clear night and the moon was already beginning to rise. Ahead of them they could see the long low shape of the Roman bridge. That was the first danger, for there were most likely sentries patrolling its length. The current was sluggish, but it took the laden boat and soon they were running quickly, almost out in the centre of the wide river.

  Williams could see the shape of a soldier walking beside the wall of the bridge, his musket on his shoulder. It seemed impossible that the man could not see them, but perhaps he was not looking. Long hours on sentry were rarely conducive to alertness; no doubt the man was happier being somewhere where he did not have to worry too much about a guerrilla knifing him in the dark.

  The bridge loomed up surprisingly quickly. Dobson was trying to steer, but he hissed at Murphy to be ready with his firelock to fend them away from the stone pier. In the end he managed to edge them away, but the flat bottom grated for a moment on some boulder beneath the surface, and they stuck fast. Williams could not believe that the sentries had not noticed them. Dobson was cursing under his breath as Rose and Rodriguez leaned over the side and pushed down at the rock underneath them with the butts of their muskets.

  ‘Qui vive?’ Came the shouted challenge, but it was not for them. Iron-shod hoofs clattered on the stone of the bridge. Williams heard an impatient answer thrown back at the sentry.

  The punt came free, and almost immediately they were under the great arch, ducking because it was lower than they had thought with the water so high after all the months of rain. Murphy poled them away from the wall when they veered into it and then they were out again in the open.

  Someone shouted. There were cavalry on the bridge, men in helmets with flowing horsehair crests. At their head was a big man on a horse taller than all the rest. His cloak was bright in the growing light of the rising moon, and something gleamed silver where it parted in front. Men turned, their faces pale as they looked down into the water.

  A musket flamed, but the sentry had not troubled to aim and Williams neither saw nor felt the ball come close. Already they were fifty yards from the bridge. Men were clambering down from their horses. Most French cavalry were equipped with carbines, but dragoons had once been trained as mounted infantry and they carried muskets only a little shorter and lighter than those of the infantry. Thankfully they rarely kept them loaded when they were mounted, because the motion of a running horse tended to shake powder from the pan and loosen the charge.

  They were a hundred yards away before the next shot came, surprisingly accurate for a musket and flicking up a little fountain of water just beside the punt. Murphy raised his own firelock and fired back, the explosion deafeningly loud and dazzlingly bright just inches from Williams’ head.

  ‘May worry ’em,’ said the Irishman, as he brought the musket back down, and used the butt as an oar.

  ‘Tells ’em where we are, though,’ Dobson hissed in reproof.

  More shots came from the darkness which sheltered them, but the punt was running too fast for good aim. One ball snapped through the air over their heads, but no more came close enough to notice.

  Williams looked back and there was movement on the bridge. He could not see clearly, but it took no great imagination to guess that the dragoons were mounting again, ready to come after them.

  ‘That was Dalmas,’ he said to Hanley.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Can’t be many cuirassiers in these parts. Do you think he was hunting for Espinosa?’

  Hanley pressed his teeth against his lower lip as he thought. ‘Better not try that trick again, then.’ He tapped his jacket where it held the coded page he had taken from Velarde. ‘Probably wants this.’

  ‘How far can we go on the river?’ At the moment they were running at a faster pace than any horse could maintain for long.

  ‘A good few miles, but not far enough for safety.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  The chase had begun.

  26

  ‘Shameful, quite shameful.’ Captain Burgoyne of the engineers was truly angry. ‘How will the Spanish ever trust us, after breaking such a solemn promise?’

  Ciudad Rodrigo was taken, and now the British were withdrawing to Almeida and so the engineer officer had just finished checking the fuses to his mines.

  ‘I recall the Spanish breaking a few promises to us last summer,’ Pringle said. Nothing had been heard of his friends in Ciudad Rodrigo and they were most likely captured or even dead.

  ‘There were not the numbers to face the French in the open,’ MacAndre
ws added in support.

  ‘But we could at least have tried.’ Burgoyne was truly agitated.

  ‘Aye, laddie, we could.’ The Scotsman said. ‘Not that it would have done them or us any good at all. Now are you ready?’

  The engineer came back to the task in hand. ‘Yes. Time to move back while I take my sergeant in and light the fuses. Be worth warning those dragoons that they are too close.’

  ‘Captain Pringle, if you would be so kind.’ MacAndrews grinned. ‘Might as well enjoy the privilege of temporary rank before it and the fort are blown to ruin.’

  ‘Certainly, Colonel,’ Billy replied deliberately. ‘Although I have already told them once.’

  He trotted over to where some of the 14th Light Dragoons had tethered their horses and lit a cooking fire.

  ‘Morning, Pringle.’ Major Tilney raised a chipped mug in greeting. ‘Care for a spot of tea?’

  Billy Pringle concealed his shudder at the prospect. ‘Thank you for the offer, but Captain Burgoyne informs me that he is to set off his mines, and suggests that you and your men move back to a safer distance.’

  ‘Man is starting at shadows,’ the major replied dismissively. They were a good one hundred yards away from the low ramparts of the fort. ‘There is no danger.’

  ‘He was most positive in his opinion.’ Pringle could not understand the major’s stubbornness. ‘By the way, may I ask about the health of young Garland?’

  ‘Fine, I believe. Are you sure about the tea? My corporal makes an excellent brew.’

  ‘Thank you again, but I must decline, and rejoin Colonel MacAndrews.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Pringle thought he detected a faint hint of scorn in the light dragoon officer’s face, but decided to ignore it.

  ‘Bloody fools,’ MacAndrews said when Pringle repeated the exchange. ‘Typical cavalrymen.’

  Captain Burgoyne was more polite when he trotted up. ‘Most unwise,’ he said, ‘indeed truly unwise. I would suggest that we retreat a little further. The fuse will burn through in about five minutes.’

  Pringle was somewhat uncomfortable with the ‘about’, for he had watched engineers make enough mistakes on that long road to Corunna. He and his grenadiers had also ended up too close to one explosion and felt something of its power.

  The first sound was muffled, quieter than the noise of the cannon from Ciudad Rodrigo during the siege, and then a second later the ground shook and the bastions of Fort La Concepción erupted. Pringle glimpsed tongues of flame shooting up before everything was swamped in fountains of thick black dust and smoke, which rolled out across the plain, engulfing the light dragoons and their horses. Some of the mounts broke free of their tethers, for soon the animals ran out of the cloud, obviously terrified.

  It took minutes to clear, and when Pringle and the others rode forward they pressed handkerchiefs to their mouths to breathe more easily. One of the 14th was dead, his head crushed by a chunk of masonry, and two more were badly injured. Major Tilney’s right arm was broken and there was another bruise on his face. Pringle suspected the man would soon be on his way home, no doubt considered a hero after his few months on campaign. The injured privates would be less fortunate. A chunk of stone had shattered the ribcage of one man. He sobbed, his lips bubbling as he struggled for breath, and it was doubtful that he would live long.

  The remains of another light dragoon lay nearer to the fort, for one of the mines had ripped open part of the glacis and with it the new grave of Colonel Talbot, flinging pieces of his corpse over a wide area. The biting stench of decay floated through the air with the dust and Pringle found himself gagging. An appalled sergeant from the RE vomited loudly.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ Captain Burgoyne said, choking on the word, but unable to say more.

  His party of engineers helped the light dragoons rebury their colonel and the fresh body of the private.

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ Burgoyne repeated as he watched them. ‘One of the mines did not ignite.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps two.’

  Pringle was left unsure whether he was concerned by the dead or the failure of his charge. ‘The damage appears extensive.’

  ‘Oh yes, the fort is slighted well enough to make it of little use to the French, but it is frustrating to leave a task incomplete.’

  Before they left, MacAndrews stopped to stare back at the smoking remains of the fort. Other than Pringle, his remaining men had gone on ahead, escorting wagons carrying the powder and other provisions left in Fort La Concepción and now going to add to the reserves in Almeida. It was scarcely a task suited for such experienced NCOs, but typical of the mundane fatigues falling to any spare men placed at the disposal of the divisional staff. Most of the men had already applied to return to their own corps, and Reynolds of the 51st had gone off to a staff appointment in Lisbon.

  ‘Ah well, it’s back to major for me,’ MacAndrews said after a while, and turned his horse away. Pringle followed and kept silent.

  Williams saw the plume of smoke rise high into the sky. They had heard the dull crump of the explosion and he had felt it worth investigating.

  ‘A few miles away,’ he said when he got back into the shelter of the pine grove. ‘The direction and distance are right, so my guess would be that it is Fort Conception.’

  ‘The French?’ Hanley asked.

  ‘Probably us. There would be no point leaving the place for the enemy.’

  ‘So we are retreating.’

  Williams nodded. ‘Not far yet. They’ll want to slow the French as they go towards Almeida. There must be the best part of a division camped in the villages to the north.’ They had seen the glow of the French campfires last night, and almost walked into their picket line. Williams saw his friend look doubtful. ‘This is still the best way. The valley to the north is no more than a ravine, and I doubt we could have made it through.’

  They had floated along the river at a good pace for three and a half hours, before pushing on to a stony beach where a tributary joined the Agueda. It was the last spot before the banks turned into cliffs. They used some stones to weigh the punt down, and then Williams, Dobson and Murphy had stripped and waded out, pushing the boat into the flow in the hope that it would keep going and confuse any pursuit. The officer had lost his footing in some soft sand and almost been swept away himself, but Murphy grabbed him, and then Dobson took hold and hauled the spluttering Williams from the current.

  The six men headed inland, staying off the main paths. The ground was rocky, with low hills and little valleys that made it hard to keep in a straight line heading westwards. Within twenty minutes they saw the first French sentries, helped because the bored soldiers were chatting in low voices that carried a long way in the night air. They doubled back and went on a wide loop around, but soon came up against another outpost. Dawn was less than an hour away, and then Williams recognised a distinctive silhouette against the lightening sky.

  ‘Signal Mount,’ he said, and after a whispered conference it seemed wisest to head south and try to hide up somewhere there during the hours of daylight. It was hard walking, with another pause of ten minutes to let a patrol of a dozen French infantry pass by before they could cross a track. They stumbled on the loose stony slopes, but slowly began to climb. There was a good chance that the French would have an outpost on top of the hill, but Williams doubted that there would be more men away from the main villages and tracks. Even so there was a nervous half-hour of dawn light before they found the grove a good three-quarters of the way up the side of the big hill. Exhausted, they posted a sentry and soon fell asleep.

  ‘It will be hard to slip past them, even at night,’ Williams said after he had explained the French disposition to Hanley in more detail.

  ‘We must try.’

  ‘Yes.’ The Welshman lay back on the grass with a sigh. ‘Do you think Dalmas is after us?’ he asked.

  ‘After me,’ Hanley said. ‘And after this,’ he added, touching the papers in his pocket. ‘Perhaps we should split up?’
/>
  ‘Would not do any good. If he is looking for a British officer he will be after any redcoats trying to slip through the lines. Like it or not, we are all at equal risk whatever we do.’

  Hanley put his palm to his chest and gave a little bow. ‘Thank you anyway.’

  ‘Delighted, of course!’ Williams pondered the problem. ‘I do not believe he will find it easy to track us.’

  Corporal Rose came through the trees and slid to a crouch beside the officers.

  ‘French cavalry, sir!’ he reported.

  Williams shrugged. ‘I suspect my belief is about to be tested.’ He followed Rose back out of the trees to a little knoll where Rodriguez lay, searching ahead of him with Hanley’s glass. Williams got down beside him.

  There were French dragoons down on the track where they had seen the French patrol the night before. It was more than a mile away, and even with the magnification of his own glass Williams could barely make out the individual men and horses, but the gleam of brass helmets was clear.

  After a few minutes he half jogged, half slid back down the little slope into the trees.

  ‘Dragoons. A dozen at least, and probably more.’

  ‘Dalmas?’

  ‘Didn’t see him, but it’s too far to see anything with certainty. It may just be a patrol or foraging party.’ Williams did not sound convinced. ‘I doubt it, though. Don’t think we can afford to assume that they are not searching for us. We may have left more of a trail than I hoped. Perhaps they have even followed us from the river. He knew we left that way, after all, and there are not too many places where you can land safely.’

  ‘Should we move?’

  Williams rubbed his chin. ‘They are still a long way away, and it will be hard for dragoons to follow us quickly up these slopes.’

  ‘There may be infantry as well.’

  ‘Yes. And this may be one patrol of many. If we move now then they have more chance of spotting us. Hard to walk up here without kicking stones and throwing up dust. Best to keep a close watch, of course, but we will be better off moving at night.’