‘Then I am sure it must be.’
Williams decided to ignore the tart response and felt obliged to continue a conversation he had begun. ‘Still, I’ll be glad to be back in the warm, once I have finished checking on the company. How are your fellows settling in?’
‘Well enough.’ Hatch smiled. ‘Squalor suits most of them, and some of the families have already made themselves as comfortable as in their own hovels back home. That grubby brute Peters was already rutting with his sow of a wife under a blanket.’ He paused, and frowned as if in deep thought. ‘At least, I assume it was his wife. Didn’t fancy lifting the blanket up to make sure, eh!’ Hatch gave a cheerful wink.
Williams gave a brief and restrained laugh for courtesy’s sake. The wit of his brother officers was often a little raw, and at times blatantly crude. Such was the common coin of army life, and if he did not especially care for these things, he knew that most of them were good fellows at heart.
‘Well, you’d know, of course,’ added Hatch.
‘I doubt that.’ Williams knew the reply was weak, but was not altogether sure what the other man had meant.
‘You are too modest. Everyone knows the Grenadier Company is a well-ordered household. I am sure you know each of your men well.’ Williams was suspicious of the compliment, but could not see any barb within it. ‘Acquainted with their wives and children as well.’
‘Contented men are good soldiers,’ said Williams, aware that it sounded prim, and trying to understand what the other man was implying.
‘Of course, and good officers keep them so, even if it means stirring out on a cold night to visit their quarters.
‘Well, we had better continue with our duties instead of chatting away. Good evening, Mister Williams.’ Hatch emphasised the ‘Mister’, and took a couple of brisk paces away before looking back over his shoulder. ‘You know, it is a pity we cannot encourage the lads and their women to bathe more often.’
Williams was dubious. ‘Not enough wood to burn to heat the coppers, but certainly an admirable enough ambition.’
‘Yes, might also liven up these inspections and let us see some tit now and again.’
Hatch vanished into a doorway before Williams could muster a response. He wondered whether it was only his imagination which made Hatch’s conversation a good deal cruder whenever they were alone. It was not something he could easily discuss, even with Pringle or Hanley. Williams shook his head, trying to dismiss both the thought and the encounter while he finished off his rounds.
At least what he saw was encouraging, for it was clear as he went around the billets of the grenadiers that the company was largely content, and he suspected that the mood was general to the battalion. The 106th had enjoyed their day of rest, aside from some inevitable muttering when told that they were still required to parade and then drill for a couple of hours. After that some had carrying and fatigue parties to perform, and sentries were required, although to universal relief they were not called upon to provide piquets today. Many of the officers and all of the clerks toiled to catch up with the company and battalion paperwork. Yet by the middle of the afternoon almost everyone had the chance to enjoy some rest.
Someone from the Light Company had produced a football – battered, patched, but still just recognisably spherical – and a noisy game developed, which at various times involved several hundred players. On the far side of the rows of houses, officers from the brigade played cricket amid the melting snow. With more than forty scouts in such a small area, scoring was difficult. Williams thrashed a few wild runs before a lieutenant from the 91st caught the ball in his feathered bonnet. Pringle enjoyed longer success by aiming his shots between scouts and trusting that the running men would collide with each other as their eyes followed the ball. Hanley, baffled that anyone could enjoy such a patently futile game, had contented himself with sitting near by and sketching the scene. It was rough, and he struggled to capture the sense of slowness and sudden action, so after a while he wandered to the other side of the town and tried his hand at drawing the football. This at least had the virtue of constant flow, although he remained entirely ignorant of any result.
When the cricket match broke up, Williams and Pringle went over to join their friend. There was no sign of the football abating, and Hanley’s drawing gave a good impression of the mobs of players whirling around the ball. He handed the pad to them for inspection. Pringle smiled, and Williams nodded enthusiastically as he wished once again to possess such skill himself.
‘I have only ever been able to draw trees,’ he confessed.
‘At least they don’t move about,’ commented Pringle. He flipped over the pages and cast his eye over a series of landscapes. Then there were the great arches of the aqueduct at Segovia. ‘Good to see this in daylight.’ Hanley had shown him the drawings the previous night, but the light of their candle had made it impossible to study them properly.
‘It is a spectacular work,’ said the artist, moderately proud of his sketch, and sharing his friends’ enthusiasm for antiquities of every sort.
‘Is it still in use?’ asked Pringle. ‘The preservation certainly looks remarkably good.’
‘It crosses the valley and I believe supplies most of the water to the town,’ Hanley confirmed. ‘There are regular marks and traces of an ornamental inscription at one of the highest points, but I had no opportunity to climb up and see them closely.’
Pringle nodded, but from the small human figures in the sketch he guessed that the height of the aqueduct was considerable indeed and wondered at his friend’s enthusiasm at the prospect of taking such risks. Personally, he had no head for heights, but perhaps Hanley was unaffected by such nervousness. ‘The marks perhaps indicate bronze letters?’
‘I should think so. A priest told me that the inscription declared the work to have been carried out by the Emperor Trajan, but priests are generally inclined to name either him or Hadrian.’
‘Local fellows, of course,’ murmured Williams of these emperors from Roman Spain, but his mind had drifted away as he caught sight of Miss MacAndrews, returning from another ride. Earlier in the day, he had seen the girl and her mother pass by, both of them straight-backed as they effortlessly controlled their mounts. Too far away to greet them, he found his mood souring when Wickham passed in the other direction and was able to bid them good day. At least the suave officer’s face betrayed no particular emotion, but the generosity of the smile with which Jane had greeted Wickham’s appearance was a source for concern – and, he had to admit privately, no little jealousy. It was hard to tell at that distance, but Williams felt that her expression became harder when the captain passed with no more than the barest of civilities.
Now the girl was out riding again, but this time without her mother. Beside her, mounted on a saddled mule, rode Mrs Kidwell, the quartermaster’s wife, who had joined her husband while they were in Lisbon. She was a plump woman, and her bulk kept the animal to the slowest of walks, which no doubt frustrated the fast-riding Miss MacAndrews. The two ladies paused on the crest of the hill beyond the town. There they were joined by three red-coated officers, and stood for a while to converse, before the group split up. Mrs Kidwell and two of the officers came at a steady pace, while Miss MacAndrews and the remaining man trotted briskly down the road ahead of them. The bearing of the redcoat told Williams that it was Wickham before he could recognise any features.
‘I said that one must admire the enterprise of a villain even as you deplore his actions,’ repeated Pringle loudly.
Williams was snatched from his thoughts, and looked puzzled.
‘We were speaking of whoever it was climbed up so high to steal the bronze letters,’ explained Hanley. Williams still appeared to be lost to the world, and so he returned his attention to Pringle. ‘The aqueduct at Toledo is almost as large, although these days less well preserved. I have a rough sketch of that somewhere near the back …’
Captain Wickham and Miss MacAndrews passed close enough fo
r the girl to raise her long whip in greeting, but neither she nor her escort showed any inclination to stop and talk. Williams could not quite make out the words she spoke to her companion, but the tone, and her manner in general, indicated deep sympathy.
The captain’s voice was deeper and carried more clearly. ‘I should have been a parson,’ he said in a resigned tone, ‘in a good living in Derbyshire, encouraging kindness in the world rather than making war. All through the jealousy of a man raised to be as a brother to me. I am almost glad his poor father did not live …’
The riders had passed, and perhaps were speaking more quietly, for he could discern nothing more. It did not matter. Like most of the officers of the 106th, Williams had heard this story from Wickham. Knowing the man better, he was inclined to believe that there was more to the tale, but could remember how readily he had sympathised when Wickham had first confided in him such an apparently intimate part of his history. Miss MacAndrews’ sweet nature would most likely respond in the same way and this worried him.
‘I am forced to question whether that man’s intentions are honourable,’ he said firmly.
‘Oh, I should not think so,’ replied Pringle without thinking. He was intent on Hanley’s sketchpad, as the latter pointed out features in drawings of other aqueducts and bridges, including one of the great bridge at Salamanca. ‘Of whom are we speaking, anyway?’
‘Of Wickham.’
Pringle had grave doubts about the integrity and general probity of George Wickham, but when he looked around and realised that Miss MacAndrews was the principal focus of his friend’s concern he realised that some delicacy was necessary.
‘Miss MacAndrews is a thoroughly sensible young lady,’ he ventured.
Hanley stood up. ‘She is,’ he agreed.
‘She is still very young,’ replied Williams.
‘She also has her parents with her to keep her under observation. I do not think that the major would take kindly to any attempt at his daughter’s honour.’
‘The mother is even more intimidating,’ added Pringle, hoping to lighten the mood. ‘You are a fine fellow, Bills, but sometimes just a little too ready to jealousy. You even became suspicious when out of the sweet kindness of her heart Miss MacAndrews was so assiduous in visiting old Truscott in hospital!’
‘I grew to suspect that he was enjoying her company and exploiting her sympathy.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pringle. ‘We only have his word for it that it was the French who shot him! Perhaps it was all arranged as part of some devilish scheme to win Miss MacAndrews’ favour?’
Hanley threw his head back in laughter. Williams joined in after a moment.
6
The next day was as restful. The brigades leading the attack were to march at eight in the evening. The 106th were ordered to parade with the rest of the Reserve Division at 9.30, to follow on once the order came. MacAndrews insisted on a spell of drill in the morning, but that still left the greater part of the day to prepare. In the afternoon the commissaries drove half a dozen bullocks into a pen at the end of the street, where they were slaughtered and butchered. The meat was fresh, if rather tough, and to everyone’s delight there was an issue of bread that was only just going stale. It made a change from ships’ biscuits, which seemed to be either hard enough to crack teeth or soft and teeming with worms. There was time to cook and eat a good meal and everyone was grateful for it.
Mrs MacAndrews kept close to her daughter whenever she was away from their billet. They saw Wickham from a distance, but spoke no words to him. Jane was surprised at being so disappointed, but was struck by the ardent glance he gave her. Then the rain began to fall, and no one was inclined to venture out unless required to by duty.
At 9.30 that night the drums beat for muster.
Rain still fell steadily, washing away the last remnants of the snow and turning the roads into slippery mires. A torrent of water cascaded down from the gutter fringing the roof of the convent and spattered on the stones of the courtyard. Sir John Moore’s cocked hat was protected by an oilskin cover, and a heavy cloak kept him reasonably dry. Even so water gathered at each end of his hat and now and then a drip fell in front of his face. Captain Napier had wrapped his pistols carefully to keep the powder within them dry as he handed them up to the general, who pushed each in turn into the holsters on the front of his saddle, and then flipped the tops closed.
There was shouting from outside the gateway, and a moment later Graham brought in a Spaniard, drenched to the skin and covered in mud. The colonel explained that the man was carrying an urgent message from La Romana. Moore sheltered under the roof of the porch as he scanned the letter and translated its contents. The general looked impassive, but all present knew that the contents changed everything. The French were moving north from Madrid. Napoleon was coming.
By the time the 106th had paraded the rain had stopped and a bright moon shone amid the ragged clouds. The men all wore greatcoats, and had their white cross-belts over them. Each man’s pouch and pack had sixty rounds of ball ammunition, and between them the pack and haversack carried hard tack biscuit for three days. In spite of the hour, many of the women of the regiment stood silently watching their menfolk, when they marched off the mile or so to join the remainder of the division nearer to Sahagun. A brigade from another division was formed up in column, preparatory to moving off ahead of them.
Then they stood for an hour, awaiting an order that did not come. At the end of that time MacAndrews and the commanders of the other battalions were called to General Paget. After ten minutes they came back, but there was none of the usual rush which accompanied the issuing of important orders. Their horses seemed almost to slouch, and more than one senior officer appeared slumped in his saddle.
MacAndrews nodded to Sergeant Major Fletcher to call the 106th to attention. Before the major had begun to speak a murmur came from one of the other battalions and quickly surged into a roar of dismay. Similar shouts came from other regiments. Williams and Hanley, standing behind the rear rank of the Grenadier Company, both turned as they heard a strange clattering sound. A hundred yards away and facing in the opposite direction a Highland battalion had paraded. First a few and then almost all of its soldiers threw down their muskets in frustration.
‘Boys,’ began MacAndrews, ‘the 106th showed its courage back in Portugal. We also proved to the rest of the army that its youngest regiment not only knew how to fight, but how to keep good discipline. We may not like some orders we are given, but I know that you will always obey them.
‘The advance is called off. We will return to our quarters and then the army is to withdraw.’
There was silence. Although many must have guessed what was happening it did not make the shock much less. They were ready to advance and expecting to fight. It seemed shameful to stop when the enemy was near. They knew that they could beat the French, and wanted the chance to prove it once again.
The mood was sullen as the 106th marched back to the hamlet. There was almost no talk, and MacAndrews wondered whether it would not have been better to hear a few murmured complaints.
After the men had been dismissed back to their billets, at close to midnight he crammed the officers into the small church, which was the only place big enough for all thirty men to be in one room. It lacked much of its roof, which was why no men had been quartered there, but with the aid of a lamp it was good enough for his purpose.
‘Gentlemen, the enemy is moving against us in great force, led by Bonaparte himself.’ That was dramatic news and provoked an excited buzz that for a moment lifted the sombre mood. ‘They are perhaps three days’ march away, perhaps more, but in numbers at least double our own even before they join up with Marshal Soult. Our Spanish allies are for the moment unable to provide any real support.’ There were sneers at this. Hanley, concerted defender of all things Spanish, just looked at the floor. ‘If we remain where we are, then we will face enemies on two sides and must be overwhelmed. Therefore, from tomor
row morning, the army will begin to retreat. We of the Reserve Division, along with the light brigades and the cavalry, will remain a little longer to cover the retreat. I doubt that we will be pressed so early. Marshal Soult does not have the strength on his own, and the other French armies are still too far away. At most we may see some of their cavalry. It is unlikely that we will begin to move until Christmas morning.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It will not be much of a celebration, I fear.’
The mood was gloomy throughout the battalion. Williams noticed that some men were more than usually irritable and argued over the slightest disagreements. Others were uncharacteristically silent and apathetic.
Major MacAndrews was far too old a campaigner not to sense the frustration of officers and men alike, and so he determined to keep everyone busy throughout Christmas Eve. Inspections were rigorous, and he urged every officer to look at packs and boots in particular. Most of the latter were in a bad state. They had hoped to draw new ones from store after reaching the main army, only to be told that none was available from the nearest depot.
As far as possible nothing that was not essential was to be carried. Experience had taught him that men burdened themselves with all sorts of useless weight on campaign, most of all trinkets they had scavenged or looted. While he doubted that any inspections would catch and make them discard even a quarter of such rubbish, it would at least be something. Alastair MacAndrews did everything he could to keep the battalion occupied and as ready as possible for the trials of the coming days.
It was not until late in the day that the major was able to snatch a few short moments with his wife, and even then there was much to arrange regarding their personal baggage and little or no opportunity for leisure.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ said Esther MacAndrews, only half in jest. ‘Tidying up your own little corner in the midst of impending disaster.’
‘I trust that things are not so very bad yet.’ Yet he had to admit that that the activity and the overall sense of urgency were most invigorating. ‘There is danger certainly. A march at this time of year through the mountains and pursued by the enemy is no gentle prospect.’
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