Beat the Drums Slowly

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Sergeant Rawson marched up and stamped to attention. ‘They are ready to move, sir.’ Pringle acknowledged his salute.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ He had felt it best to leave the sergeants to sober the drunks up so that they were capable of marching. He preferred not to know the methods, suspecting that they were scarcely likely to be according to regulation, but also guessing that they would have been far more effective than anything he could devise. ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing we couldn’t handle.’ Rawson looked uncomfortable. His left eye was swelling into a blue-black bruise. ‘Mr Hanley, sir, may I ask how your jaw is?’

  Hanley rubbed the area ruefully. He smiled. ‘I suspect as comfortable as your eye, Sergeant. I would never have believed that a man could hurt so much from slipping down some steps.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very nasty, sir.’ Rawson was relieved.

  ‘We must both be more careful to watch where we tread.’ Pringle knew what had happened and was willing to let them lie about it. None of them wanted to see Dobson before a court martial and given anything up to one thousand lashes. Pringle wondered for a moment whether this made him a bad officer, of the sort Sir John had criticised in his recent order. Hanley was not really concerned about such things. Lying in a good cause had never bothered him in the slightest.

  ‘It still beats me where they found the stuff,’ he said to Pringle after the sergeant had gone back to the company.

  ‘Ah well, that’s hard to say, but one of the fellows from the Twenty-eighth was telling me that they were quartered in part of the convent, and that the priest left in charge kept assuring them that their cellars were empty. Then one of their subs spots a wall that looks newly built, so gets his men to knock a hole in it. It opened up into a deep chamber, and when they lowered him they found a great vat full of splendid stuff. As they were filling their canteens – and I suspect any other bottle they could find – the priest came down and asked if he might have some.

  ‘They weren’t too impressed, and one of the boys shouts out that he wasn’t willing to share when he had plenty and they had none, so why should they share now. ’

  ‘It is a reasonable point of view,’ conceded Hanley.

  ‘Oh yes, unfortunately he took action as well, and tipped this vastly fat friar head first into the vat. The sub heard the splash and had them haul him out.’ Pringle chuckled. ‘Terrible for a man of God to lie so.’ Pringle had studied to go into the Church of England, until even his father was willing to concede that he was utterly unsuited to such an occupation.

  Excited shouts from the other officers drew their attention back to the plain outside the town. The British hussars had charged more than once, pushing back the leading chasseurs until they drove too far and had to flee for their own lives. Over time the French must have come at least a mile from the river. Their squadrons had started to scatter into little clusters of individuals.

  With a shout audible even at this distance a fresh regiment of hussars, joined by the remnants of the outposts, swept in against the French flank. Hanley managed to focus on the charge and distinctly saw Lord Paget, his sabre held high. The ensigns cheered as the French gave way.

  ‘One could hear all kinds of things coming at the same time from this one Athenian army,’ quoted Hanley, ‘lamentations and cheering, cries of “We are winning”, and of “We are losing”.’

  Several of the youngsters looked at him oddly, but most were too excited to pay any real heed. Hanley was widely considered to be a little odd, although of course a splendid fellow in many ways.

  ‘Thucydides?’ Pringle had a broad grin. ‘Well, this time I believe it is certain we are winning.’ The French were streaming back to the river, chased by the British hussars. ‘Regardless of this spectacle, it is certainly time for us to go.’ There were protests, voluble ones from Derryck, as they walked down the rise to join the company. Billy wished that his friend had not chosen a passage from the disastrous Athenian expedition to Sicily. He hoped it was not apposite to their own wider situation.

  They reached La Baneza after dark. There were milestones on this road, something neither Pringle nor Hanley had ever seen in Portugal and rarely enough in Spain. They counted twenty-four, and yet it was surprising the pace they kept up. It was so much easier marching independently than as part of a great column. Pointed towards the 106th’s billets, the men had just settled when orders came to move. The light brigades had arrived and this meant that each regiment now had to squeeze itself into a smaller number of houses. It was late, and both Hanley and Pringle were very tired when they finally flung themselves down on to piles of straw in a room shared with half of the company. Dobson sat in the corner, attended by Mrs Rawson, who did her best for the children. He still said almost nothing, although he had come to apologise to Mr Hanley, and to thank him and the captain.

  Wickham had good fortune that night. He arrived carrying orders to Sir John’s staff at just the right time to be invited to join them for dinner. The fare was good, and the company included a number of distinguished officers as well as the general’s own aides – all very useful acquaintances. The most spectacularly dressed guest was also the most melancholy. General Count Charles Lefebre-Desnouettes wore a heavy blue coat, lavishly embroidered with gold. He had led the charge of the chasseurs, but his horse had failed him by the riverbank as he and his men tried to cut their way out. He was captured, along with a good few of his men. Later in the day, the English general had permitted a message to be sent to the enemy, summoning his extensive baggage and allowing him to appear at this meal in fitting style. His sword had gone, and Sir John had generously unbuckled his own and given it to the count to wear.

  Quietly, Moore had also asked Colborne whether or not he should ask the prisoner to give his parole, a signed promise not to attempt escape. The military secretary advised against it, recalling an incident years before in Sicily, where a French officer had been most offended by such a question.

  ‘I am glad you told me this,’ came the reply. ‘Of course, I will not ask.’ The matter was dropped, and every courtesy paid to the distinguished prisoner. The ordinary chasseurs taken in the fight were entertained more modestly, although the hussars guarding them did prevent an angry mob of locals from slitting their throats.

  Sir John later asked Colborne whether he would escort the prisoner as the army continued its retreat. He was unsurprised and fully satisfied with his military secretary’s refusal on the grounds that he had far too many more urgent duties. Lord Paget’s staff proved equally reluctant to leave him. Wickham presented himself as an obvious choice, and General Paget freely expressed a willingness to do without him for a day or two.

  All in all it was most satisfactory. The next day Captain Wickham travelled inside the coach with the French general. They travelled at speed, and soon caught up and passed the brigades ahead of them. The count looked scornfully at the signs of disorder, with ragged groups of stragglers, many of them barefoot, staggering along through the mud. Some of the men were drunk, and more walked with expressions of blank hopelessness.

  ‘My chasseurs would cut through this rabble like a hot knife through butter,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘It is dreadful,’ conceded Wickham, seeing no reason to associate himself with the mobs of drunken redcoats. ‘Our men usually join the army rather than face the prison cell or the gallows.’

  ‘We are more fortunate in our conscripts, and the Guard picks the finest men from all the regiments. But how will your country take this retreat?’

  Wickham shrugged. ‘There will be anger, but the sensible will know that some officers at least have done their duty.’ The general was growing more amiable, and Wickham was both comfortable and performing an honourable, and not undistinguished, task.

  ‘My Emperor does not forgive failure.’ Lefebre-Desnouettes repeated the sentiment several times. ‘He sometimes forgets victories you win, but never defeat. Even in a relation.’

  Wickham was intrigu
ed. ‘Are you from his family?’

  ‘The countess – my wife – is a cousin of the Emperor,’ said the general, always happy to tell of the connection. ‘A distant cousin,’ he added modestly, satisfied with the obviously deep impression this had made on the English officer.

  ‘You should have been born French, my dear Captain Wickham.’ The count spread his hands. ‘Well, of course, everyone should have been born French. But a bold young officer like yourself could be a colonel by now, perhaps a duke or count, and married into the family of the master of Europe.’ Lefebre-Desnouettes had no idea whether or not his escort was either brave or capable, but knew that a little flattery was seldom wasted.

  ‘You are too kind, my dear count.’ The reply was enthusiastic, in Wickham’s rusty but competent French. ‘Although I confess it is true that good men are held back in our Service by the preference given to the friends of the powerful. I know all too well how a man whose friends neglect him is shamefully lost.’

  ‘The Emperor looks for merit. He does not ignore the advice of friends, but with us a man can rise high and rise quickly,’ said Lefebre-Desnouettes, who had been a count for barely a year. ‘Yet he is sometimes more generous with titles than with funds. Since the Russians surrendered, he has starved we Guard commandants of the money needed by the regiments. Yet he still wants the chasseurs and the others to be as finely equipped as ever. Always it must be the best – the best horses, the finest fur for colpaks and saddlecloths. I agree his Guards must shine in splendour, so that men fear them and ladies swoon as we pass. I just wish that he would pay for it.’ In truth Lefebre-Desnouettes’ debts came more from the gaming tables, but he was not about to make such a confession to a stranger.

  ‘Now we must pay to dress his regiments or suffer his rebukes.’ The count chuckled. ‘It is a terrible thing, my friend, when a man’s duty means he can no longer afford to pay for his wife’s pleasures, or even pamper his mistress!’ In truth the general was very concerned about his wife, and only his wife, but style mattered in talk with anyone, save the closest of friends. Better to let the Englishman hear what he expected.

  Wickham grinned. ‘I know something of such things.’

  ‘You have a wife?’

  ‘I have a wife. I also have many debts.’

  Lefebre-Desnouettes winked. ‘How about a mistress? Or more than one perhaps?’

  Wickham spread his hands deprecatingly. ‘I am only a poor captain, not able to match the establishment of a general!’

  ‘Yet surely a man of any vigour and spirit needs diversions from the stern call of duty.’

  ‘Ah, well, I have my eye on a certain young lady.’

  ‘Hah, I knew it, you dog! Even out here in this wilderness I knew it! Is she a blonde? I hear you English like blondes.’

  ‘Sometimes, but this one has red hair.’

  ‘And …’

  Wickham was happy to boast. ‘A face full of spirit, lips softer than any pillow and the curves of a Venus.’

  ‘But does she know how to use them?’ asked Lefebre-Desnouettes.

  ‘Not yet, I think, but the task of teaching her will be a great pleasure in itself.’

  They laughed, the French general slapping his hand against his leg and letting tears stream down his face. He seemed to be letting go of some of his low spirits.

  ‘I envy you,’ he said at last. ‘To have such a prospect waiting. I regret that escorting me takes you away from such a worthwhile quest.’

  ‘It is an honour.’ Wickham was genuinely enjoying his association with a general and aristocrat, even one who was so recently minted and an enemy.

  ‘But less of a pleasure. I fear I cannot compete with your little red-headed piece, but perhaps we can dine in the best manner permitted by our situation. I trust you will join me.’ The general’s servant had prepared a basket with a wide selection of bread, cold meats and cheese, as well as a few of those barbaric pies provided by the English. There were also half a dozen bottles of tolerable red. They ate and talked more of horses, and Paris, and women, until full stomachs and the warmth of the wine made the general drowsy.

  Wickham watched him doze and wondered when he might next have a chance to renew his pursuit of the MacAndrews girl. He had not been near the 106th for days, although he had seen her mother at a distance and thought that she looked rather haggard. The delay might actually help his cause, bringing the young miss nicely to the boil. With that happy thought Wickham let himself drift into sleep, by now used to the bouncing of the coach on the badly rutted road.

  12

  Jenny screamed and yelled, employing a vocabulary fostered by growing up in the regiment. Fresh panic consumed Williams with every cry. He had seen a cat produce a litter, and had to assume the principles were the same. This did not seem especially comforting.

  ‘Keep calm, Mrs Hanks. You will be fine,’ he said unhelpfully.

  Jane MacAndrews tried to distract him with tasks, setting him to boil water in the camp kettle, and then to sharpen the clasp knife he carried, and prepare and clean a short stretch of cord. In a life spent in garrisons throughout the world, her mother had always attended when the time came for one of the officers’ wives to give birth. Once old enough, Jane had accompanied her, watching as Esther MacAndrews calmly took charge, made sure that the attending army surgeon was neither too drunk, nor dangerously incompetent. There were a few times when her mother had delivered the baby herself, or with the help of one or two of the more sensible women. Sometimes Jane had watched, although she preferred to be outside, looking after any young children in the house. Seeing something was not the same as having to do it, and now she felt sick at the thought of being responsible, and terrified that there would be complications.

  ‘Keep calm, Jenny,’ said Williams once again, his nervousness prompting informality.

  ‘Get about your business, sir,’ snapped Jane. ‘Now the knife is sharp, plunge the blade into the boiling water.’

  Jane was glad that Jenny seemed also to have a good idea of what to do. Soldiers’ families lived their lives in public, and births, deaths and plenty more in between were all carried out in plain view. That also meant she knew what could go wrong. Fear as well as pain fed her yells, and with each cry fresh panic consumed Williams.

  He fell back on the language of the battlefield. ‘Steady, Jenny, steady.’

  Williams fussed and got in the way, then started to talk too much, offering constant advice and encouragement to the mother. Finally he knelt on Jenny’s hand, provoking a string of epithets which Jane felt it was probably just as well she did not understand. Miss MacAndrews told him in no uncertain terms to go outside and keep himself busy. They would summon him if his presence was required.

  The door of the cottage slammed behind him. The screams were muffled now, and if he tried hard Williams could almost pretend that he could not hear them. He paced up and down, feet crunching in grass stiff with frost. The sky grew red, and he watched the sun rise over the mountains. He looked to the animals, brushing them both down more times than could possibly be beneficial. A loud cry came from the house. Minutes later it was repeated, and he found himself running to the door and yanking it open.

  ‘Get out, Mr Williams!’ Miss MacAndrews’ voice was surprisingly controlled and of unquestionable authority. Jane was perhaps as frightened and nervous as he was, and was surprising herself at her ability to conceal this. Seemingly assured, she did her very best, hoping desperately that it was right and that nature would do the rest without any hitch.

  He closed the door and went back to his pacing. Then he thought that he ought to pray and knelt down. For a while the thoughts came in words, until these faltered and there were just unexpressed emotional pleas. The sun rose higher in a patch of blue sky that looked as if it would soon be swallowed again in dark cloud. He went back to pacing.

  The cry was distinctive, unlike any of the noises of the past hours, and wonderfully pure. Williams went to the door cautiously, opening it like a na
ughty boy expecting to be scolded again, but unable to resist the lure. This time there was no angry shout. Jane was wrapping something small and reddish pink in a piece of clean linen from Jenny’s baggage. The mother lay back exhausted, as her son bellowed heartily.

  ‘Noisy little bugger,’ she said before sleep took her. Miss MacAndrews looked exhausted, and lost in blissful wonder as she rocked the child gently and calmed him. Williams thought that he had never seen her looking more truly beautiful.

  ‘Take him,’ she whispered. ‘I have things to do.’ He did not resist for this was still a place where authorities other than those of the army prevailed.

  The boy was tiny and snub nosed, and far lighter than Williams could have believed possible. At first he was afraid that it was so delicate that it must break under his touch. One hand had come loose of the wrapping, and as he lifted it back beneath the little blanket he could not resist touching each minute finger.

  Jane looked up to see the officer walking slowly around the room, gently rocking the child in his arms. Williams’ face was split into a grin so broad that it could almost have come from some printed cartoon.

  The girl was drawn by instinct to children – indeed, almost any children at any time. She could never resist any baby, even if the last few hours had most certainly not altered her desire to wait some years before having any of her own. Reason told her that Jenny had had an easy time of it. Her senses screamed out that it was still painful and dangerous, and if truth be told part of her was terrified of the risks involved. Yet she was pleased to see Williams so taken by the infant, for it spoke of a natural kindness. He might make a good father, and indeed a good husband, if not necessarily for her. That assumed that he was equally capable of more practical assistance than simply cooing at a baby.