‘Would you like to come up on my horse for a ride?’ Esther asked the little girl.
‘Isn’t that kind, Sal.’ Mrs Rawson’s enthusiasm failed to prompt more than the slightest of nods from the little girl. Setting down the basket and ignoring the yaps of protest, she lifted the girl up and Mrs MacAndrews took her and set her in front of the saddle.
‘If you are very good, I will show you how to use the reins.’
They stopped in a large village that night, and there were more signs of the angry soldiers ahead of them. Doors and shutters had been ripped off and chopped up to make fires. There were few inhabitants, although it was hard to know where they had gone. Even fewer of them offered any hospitality willingly. Sir John Moore was ashamed and angry at the misbehaviour of some of the redcoats, and at the same time frustrated by the lack of support from his allies. Spanish failures had already lost them the campaign. Now that he had made an effort to distract the French and placed himself in a highly dangerous position as a result, the behaviour of the locals beggared belief.
‘The people of this part of Spain seem to be less well disposed than those I have hitherto met with.’ He was reading aloud to Graham from his letter to La Romana, urging him to publish a proclamation asserting the duty of all the communities, and especially the town mayors, to prepare food and assist the British army in every way. ‘When the magistrates are not present, to give regularly, the soldier must take, and this produces a mischievous habit.’
Silently Graham thought that there were always a few soldiers ready to take even at the best of times. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe that remains within the bounds of courtesy and yet still stresses the imperative for action. However, I am not sure how much the locals will listen.’
‘It is their country.’
‘Yes, and they know that the French are coming to occupy it, and do not know when we or a Spanish army will return to drive them out. If the French are refused food and quarters, then they begin hanging and shooting people.’
‘So the peasants are more afraid of them than fond of us.’
‘I fear so. One can hardly blame them.’
That night the report came in of a cavalry raid. The Grenadier and Light Companies of the 106th were among the troops roused from their billets to form up in the streets in case they were needed. After an hour they were dismissed.
‘Well, that broke the monotony of sleep,’ said Captain Headley of the Light Company.
‘At least the rain has stopped,’ ventured Pringle. The sky had cleared and was full of bright stars, now that the waning moon had almost set. It was a lot colder.
‘Snow soon,’ suggested Headley with a wry smile.
‘Oh well, it is nice to have things picturesque.’
On the next day they had only five miles to go to Benevente, but it took them most of the daylight hours. The Reserve Division deployed to cover the withdrawal of a large convoy of ammunition – some baggage had been captured by a party of French cavalry during the night, and as the day went on more and more squadrons were spotted by the outposts, probing tentatively at Lord Paget’s hussars. The British rearguard was sufficiently ordered to deter any serious attack.
In the afternoon a forlorn group of half-naked and bruised men staggered in loose files past the 106th. The light dragoon escorting them said that they were stragglers who had drunkenly abused the people in a small hamlet a mile off the road. The locals had caught them as they made away with their loot, surprised them, and beaten them badly. His task was to take them into the town for more formal punishment.
In spite of such a discouraging sight, MacAndrews enjoyed the day. It was good to have sense and obvious purpose to their movements rather than merely plodding along a quagmire of a road. Officers and men alike looked better with a task to perform. Yet there was something unreal about it all as thick fog often made them seem alone in the plain beside the river. It was dark by the time they crossed the bridge and proceeded to Benevente itself. The town was noisy and chaotic, the streets full of soldiers, many of them drunk and some prostrate.
That evening the major gathered the officers of the 106th and read to them the Order of the Day:
The Commander of the Forces has observed with concern the extreme bad conduct of the troops at the moment when they are about to come in contact with the enemy, and when the greatest regularity and the best conduct are the most requisite. He is the more concerned at this, as until lately, the behaviour of the part of the army at least which was under his own immediate command was exemplary, and did them much honour.
The misbehaviour of the troops in the column which marched by Valderas to this place exceeds what he could have believed of British soldiers. It is disgraceful to the Officers, as it strongly marks their negligence and inattention …’
MacAndrews wondered whether Sir John was striking the right tone. ‘I am told that the commander exempts the corps of the Reserve Division from his admonishment,’ he said aloud to his officers, for it was clear that many of them were offended. ‘Let us ensure that he has no cause to change that opinion.’ It seemed improper to add farther commentary to the general’s words, but again the manner of the conclusion seemed to him ill judged, even though he believed every word to be both sincere and no doubt true.
It is impossible for the General to explain to his army the motive for the movement he directs. The Commander of the Forces can, however, assure the army that he has made none since he left Salamanca which he did not foresee, and was not prepared for, and as far as he is the judge, they have answered the purposes for which they were intended. When it is proper to fight a battle, he will do it; and he will choose the time and the place he thinks most fit: in the meantime he begs the Officers and Soldiers of the army to attend diligently to discharging their parts, and to leave to him and the General Officers the decision of measures which belong to them alone.
The army may rest assured that there is nothing he has more at heart than their honour – and that of their Country.
‘Gentlemen!’ MacAndrews spoke loudly to halt the flurry of murmured conversation. He had caught phrases such as ‘must have a chance to face the French’, and ‘is it caution, or something worse?’ and did not wish to give them the opportunity to vent their frustration at having to retreat.
MacAndrews banged his hand down on the table he was leaning against. ‘Gentlemen. I should not need to emphasise that this is an Order of the Day. It is not the custom in the British Army, and certainly not in this regiment, for junior ranks to subject orders from the commanding general to discussion. I shall not detain you longer. Many of you have duties – not least ensuring that your men are as well provided for as possible – and I would advise the remainder to take every opportunity to rest. There is no doubt in my mind that we will have plenty of fighting as well as many more hard marches.’
10
Jane woke slowly. She was on her side and something heavy rested on her. The dying fire gave only a faint glow and it took her a moment to realise that it was a man’s arm clad in a loose shirt. A bulky, warm presence leaned against her back and she presumed it was the owner of the arm.
Her mind moved slowly and the memories of yesterday were dim and weak. Then she remembered Wickham’s note and how she had gone to meet him and fear snapped her into full consciousness. Was this it? Had she lost her honour and perhaps ruined her life, bringing disgrace on her parents? A rebellious part of her felt that it was severe punishment indeed, since she could remember none of the supposed ecstasy of such a moment. Perhaps it was true that only the man gained the pleasure.
No, this was not right. She could remember clearly her anger because Wickham had not appeared. So who did lie beside her, breathing so softly and still sound asleep? Jane lifted the arm as gently as she could so that she could turn on to her back, and then twisted her head to look. A large head lay beside her, and even in the poor light the hair on it was clearly fair and not Wickham’s dark brown. Turning a little more she saw that
it was Mr Williams, looking even more boyish than usual.
Jane was not sure how much comfort to take from this. She still remembered nothing of how she had got here, and a quick exploration revealed that she was almost completely naked. That did not appear to be true of Mr Williams, but she was unsure how much significance to rest on this. Again she lifted his arm, and began to slide out from underneath, raising her head to look around. A stamp and a snort, followed by movement in the shadows, revealed a horse, and there was just enough light to see an empty eye socket, so that made it Pringle’s mare. A mule was behind it. That explained some of the more earthy smells in the room. Clothes – her clothes, she realised – were stretched out around the fire, draped over bags and saddles. Beyond the fire Jenny Dobson sat with her back to the wall, her head down almost on her chest as she slept.
Memories rushed upon her of the French lancers, of her flight and the horse shying and plunging her into the river, and then the icy water and someone – yes, Williams – reaching out to grab her as she swept past. There was no recollection after that at all. Jane slid out and let the man’s arm drop so gently that he slept on without the slightest stir. She did not know whether or not she ought to be aware whether anything else had happened, but there would be some small comfort in being clothed.
She felt her shift. It was cold, and still perhaps a little damp, but surprisingly unstained, for the river had looked to be full of mud. Jane pulled it on and felt just a little more confidence.
‘Up and about, are we?’
Jane started, even though Jenny spoke in no more than a whisper. She smiled nervously, but for the moment could think of nothing to say that would not sound foolish.
Jenny stirred the fire into life, and added the last of the chopped straw. She lifted a small pistol from her lap, carefully relaxed the hammer and laid it down beside her. ‘How do you feel, miss?’ she asked with an unusual degree of deference.
‘Thank you, I believe I am well.’ Jane found herself trying to be overly formal because the situation was so very irregular. ‘But I shall be glad to be dressed. Would you help me?’ She had put on the small stays she wore over her shift, but needed someone else to tie the laces. In Portugal she and her mother had shared a maid, but her father had forbidden them to bring the girl on campaign – Jane suspected in a doomed attempt to make them stay in the comforts of Almeida – and more recently mother and daughter had performed the service for each other.
‘Good for the figure, these.’ Both women were still speaking quietly. Jenny fingered the stiff support, which was a delicate pale pink. She liked fine clothes, and longed for the day when she would own many of her own. That would come soon, she told herself. ‘Tight enough?’
Jane nodded. ‘Thank you, yes.’ She drew on her stockings and then reached for her silk drawers. Jenny had never seen such a thing before last night, nor even known they existed. Her admiration was fulsome.
‘I got them in Charleston,’ said Jane, finding talk of clothes pleasantly distracting. ‘The lady in the shop assured us they came from Paris, but then they will say anything.’ It all sounded so exotic to the sixteen-year-old Jenny.
‘Bet men like ’em,’ she said, shocking the other girl, but she continued obliviously. ‘Well, leastways taking ’em off.’
‘I cannot vouch for that one way or the other,’ came the prim reply. Yet the point could no longer be avoided. Jane looked down, still struggling with the words. ‘Last night,’ she began. ‘When I came here … did … That is to say, did he … I mean, Mr Williams …’
Jenny’s look was unbelieving and included just a hint of scorn. ‘He saved your life twice. When he pulled you out of the water you were like a block of ice. You’d be dead now if he hadn’t kept you warm.’
‘But did he …?’
‘Ravish you in your sleep!’ Jenny scoffed, only narrowly stopping from using a more blunt term. She could not believe the naive ignorance of a woman several years her senior who always appeared so confident in public. ‘Him. ’Course not.’ She laughed at the thought. ‘Expect some would, but not him.’ She looked her straight in the eye. ‘You’ve got a good one there.’
‘Perhaps Mr Williams has misinformed you. In no sense is he mine.’ Jane was relieved. She was sure that she was relieved. She also felt unnerved by the younger woman’s knowledge. ‘How is your husband, Mrs Hanks?’
‘Dead,’ said Jenny brutally. ‘A Frenchie got him. Mr Williams there killed the Frenchie, and here we are.’
‘I am so very sorry,’ said Jane after a moment. She wondered whether it would take time for the sorrow to sink in. Then she remembered the accident of yesterday morning, which somehow seemed an age ago. ‘I fear I have some more dreadful news to convey …’
‘Poor old Ma.’ Jenny seemed genuinely moved, but there were no tears or obvious displays of feeling. ‘Dad will take it hard. Poor old bastard.’ This appeared to close the subject and there was silence for a while as Miss MacAndrews drew on her petticoats – a second shorter one went over the first in deference to the cold – and then her riding boots.
‘So old Mr Williams saved you and me both, and here we all are. I told you, you’ve got a good one there.’
‘And as I explained before, Mrs Hanks, in no way is the gentleman mine.’
‘Please yourself.’ Jenny’s smile was broad and she was evidently enjoying the young lady’s discomfort. ‘But he could be if you wanted. He’s handsome enough in his way. Bit dull maybe, but loyal.’
‘Then you marry him.’ The response was unthinking, and then Jane thought how cruel the words must sound to a new widow.
‘Nah, he’s got no money.’ Jenny’s reply scarcely suggested any annoyance. The assurance in her tone surprised the other girl.
‘And do you feel wealth essential for happiness?’
‘Ask me when I’m rich.’ Jenny gestured at the sleeping man. ‘Look at him, out like a log. You could always creep off and see the lodger any time you got bored.’
Miss MacAndrews gasped aloud in shock. Jenny guffawed, while silently remarking that the other girl had known what she meant. Williams began to move, and a few very male groans punctuated his stirring to consciousness. He sat up and blinked, unsure where he was. He glanced around blearily, seeing the two women, the animals and the little room. The realisation that one of the ladies was Miss MacAndrews cheered and surprised him. It was closely pursued by the recognition that she was not wearing a dress. Amazement was swiftly chased away by excitement, which engaged in a bitter but indecisive battle with respect for her modesty. His face changed again as the memories returned, recent fear mingling with disbelief and wonder. He blushed, or perhaps it was the red light of the fire, but then Jenny noticed that the young lady’s complexion had also changed.
‘I hope that you are fully recovered, Miss MacAndrews?’ he asked, dropping his gaze at last.
‘Thank you, sir, yes, I believe I am unharmed.’ He did not notice the emphasis on the last word. ‘And also that I owe you my thanks.’
‘Pray do not mention it.’ Both of them were now looking anywhere but at each other.
‘I’m well too,’ put in Jenny after a moment, ‘although the little beggar is kicking me black and blue.’
Williams insisted on going outside ‘while Miss MacAndrews completes her toilette’. They both ignored Jenny’s just audible. ‘Not as if he hasn’t seen it all already’, but Williams had to look down in case he was smiling.
Somewhat later they shared a little of the food from Jenny’s bags – neither of the others had anything to eat with them, although Williams had a canteen of water. He urged Miss MacAndrews to eat, and when Jenny added her encouragement, Jane no longer felt bound by courtesy. The girl was soon greedily spooning up a bowl of the stew which Mrs Hanks had kept simmering. Jane was weak, but the warm food soon began to make her feel stronger.
Afterwards they began to speak of practical things. Williams was also pleased to find a map in one of the holsters in Pringle’s sad
dle, and a pistol with a small powder flask and a dozen or so shot in the other. The map was the work of Hanley, copied from one borrowed from Major MacAndrews. There were few maps in the army, and most of the ones bought in England or Portugal and Spain themselves were woefully inaccurate. Hanley had added to the impression of greater fiction than fact by embellishing the original with drawings. Next to Leon, he had drawn a little Roman soldier. Segovia had a tiny aqueduct, and Astorga, rather obscurely, a statue of a naked woman holding a vase. On a largely empty patch to the north-east, he had written ‘Here be dragons’ in an ornate script.
At the time, Williams had enjoyed the wit. Now he rather wished for something more true to the landscape, although he doubted that much if anything of value had been lost from the original sheet. It had surprised them all how little many Spaniards knew of villages and towns even fifty miles away from their homes.
It was still early in the morning when they went north. On his own, Williams would most likely have tried to slip through the French lines and rejoin the rearguard. With two mounts between three, and one of the three likely to give birth at any moment, he judged this to be impractical. Instead he hoped to join up with Sir David Baird’s column.
Jenny rode her mule. Miss MacAndrews perched herself as best she could on Bobbie, sometimes using the left stirrup, and balancing her right leg on the front of the saddle. She had not ridden astride since she was very small, and suspected that it would be too uncomfortable to do so now for any length of time. Although the thought was more than a little absurd, for the moment she was also determined to cling on to whatever traces of modesty she still possessed. Williams was happy to walk. Given Mrs Hanks’ situation, they could not have gone much faster for any length of time.
Williams was glad that he took them across country in as direct a line as he could manage when rain clouds blocked all save the dimmest sense of where the sun was. It meant that they spotted the cavalry on the road before they were themselves seen. They were in the far distance, little more than a dark bluish streak on the road below them. Pringle had left a small glass in a pouch on the saddle, and he extended this and thought that movement above the tiny figures hinted at tall lances. He wished that he had his own telescope to be absolutely sure that these were French and not some of the hussars covering the British retreat. Yet unless the going was atrocious, Baird’s column should be a good deal farther ahead by now. The cavalry must be French.
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