Beat the Drums Slowly

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Any other weapons?’ asked the ensign.

  Groombridge, who had joined the Royal Artillery as a boy, struggled for a moment with the idea that anyone who had two twelve-pounder cannons might require additional armament.

  ‘Oh, I see. Four muskets, sir. The Wee Gees don’t normally carry them, but as we were off on our own I reckoned it were worth having a few. There’s two hundred cartridges.’ Williams guessed the odd nickname must refer to the drivers.

  ‘Provisions?’

  ‘Biscuit and salt beef for another week. Rum for a fortnight. That’s for myself, the two artificers and the ten drivers. Two sacks of oats left. We had some rye from a village a few days back, but I won’t use that unless we get desperate.’ Seeing the puzzled expression, the sergeant explained. ‘It makes them crap. Sorry, sir, I mean it purges the horses something powerful.’

  ‘Well, hopefully we can find some better fodder before long. Thank you, Mr Groombridge, that all sounds excellent.’

  ‘Sir.’ Groombridge saluted, and silently wondered just what the young officer felt he had added to the strength of their little band. Then he noticed that the pretty young woman on the horse was feeding a baby. Well, isn’t that bloody marvellous, he thought to himself.

  They pressed on. Miss MacAndrews took the baby and rode in the wagon. The driver was a cheerful Irishman, and one of the two artificers who also sat among the baggage and stores showed a great fondness for little Jacob. ‘Raised four of my own,’ he explained, and assured the young miss that the lad was not at all fevered and seemed in the bloom of health.

  Groombridge rode a mule. He was still uncertain of what to make of the ensign, but had to admit that the arrival of a baby and a good-looking young woman had taken the men’s minds off their sense of isolation.

  Williams led Bobbie for a while, as the pace of the draught horses was slow. Later he rode for the first time in days. There was something reassuring about being among British faces and hearing English voices once again. Part of him regretted the inevitable loss of intimacy with Miss MacAndrews. There seemed now little chance that the all too brief and swiftly interrupted moment of lovemaking would be repeated. Nothing in the girl’s demeanour had given him cause to hope for this. That had not prevented him dreaming of it, even when he told himself that he should not.

  Meeting up with the little convoy also brought him new responsibilities, all of which needed to be handled delicately. Groombridge seemed a proud man, and was obviously highly experienced. Williams did not wish to offend him. That evening they halted in a tiny village. The inhabitants were relieved that no food was demanded, offered a little straw for the animals, and cheerfully made a fuss of the girl and the baby. Jane was given a tiny room to herself. The men were put in a barn with the horses. It was a big building, once used by the royal postal service until this shifted to the new road. By candlelight Williams and Groombridge studied the map. Nowhere as insignificant as this village was marked, nor was the little road they followed, but Williams had a fair idea where they were, and it was close enough to the sergeant’s own guess for them both to be confident.

  The main road was shown, and Williams had heard enough while he was still with the army to know that it was planned to follow it as far as Benevente, and probably Astorga.

  ‘Napoleon himself has come against us with the greater part of his army. We must be outnumbered two or three to one, and the Spanish cannot help.’

  ‘They don’t seem to want to keep their own bloody country,’ observed Groombridge.

  Williams felt it better to ignore the comment. ‘I do not believe that the general will be able to stop and fight. So he’ll keep on going. Now, if we are here,’ he pointed at the map, ‘roughly, anyway, I would guess we are ten or fifteen miles north-west of Astorga. If you look the road will get closer if we keep going straight – and I reckon that’s the way this track leads. We can’t cut across to join them. We don’t know where the French are, and cannot hope to sneak through with guns and a wagon.’

  Groombridge nodded. ‘The horses wouldn’t stand for it anyway. I wouldn’t trust them to last ten minutes off the track. If the snow gets deep or we reach a big slope we shall have to double up the teams anyway.’

  ‘Yes, so our best hope is to keep going and try to reach the main road and the army higher up. Maybe Nogales or Lugo?’ Groombridge nodded again. ‘Say two or three days’ time?’

  ‘Depends on the road,’ said the quartermaster doubtfully. ‘And the nags.’

  ‘I know.’ Williams paused. ‘Tomorrow I think that I will ride across the hills and see if I can pick up any word of the army as I get nearer to the grand road. Might help to guide us as to where to find them.’ A difficult exchange with the villagers, incorporating as many gestures as words, had shown him a path leading off to the left which would take him towards Bembibre.

  ‘Sir.’ Groombridge’s tone was neutral. Williams wondered what he thought of an officer who turned up one minute and then swanned off on his own the next. He thought for a moment of asking the sergeant to pay particular attention to the care of Miss MacAndrews and the child, and then decided that any hint of doubt over this or anything else was inappropriate. ‘Do not wait for me, but push on at the best speed you can make. I’ll find you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The next morning Williams had only a brief chance to speak to Miss MacAndrews as she and the baby were helped into the wagon. He explained what he was doing, loudly enough for the closest men to hear.

  ‘It is a good day for a ride,’ said Jane.

  ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘Try not to fall off,’ she said, reviving the old joke. Her smile was something to treasure, even if part of him rather wished for some sign of concern at his departure. ‘Young Jacob will miss you.’

  ‘I shall not be gone long.’

  Williams turned to Groombridge, but again spoke loudly. ‘I expect to catch up with you in the afternoon at the very latest.’

  ‘Sir.’

  As darkness approached at the end of the day, Groombridge settled the men in an empty farmhouse. There were pens – uncovered, but better than nothing – for the horses and vehicles. There was little forage to be had, apart from some chopped straw, so that meant using a good deal of their own supply.

  There was no sign of Williams. That was a little disappointing, for he had begun to form a reasonably favourable judgement of the young officer. His plan certainly seemed a sensible one.

  Jane found herself worried. The building had only a single room, and although the men had rigged up some ropes and draped blankets over them to cordon off a little corner for her, she was very aware that she was now with a dozen or more soldiers she did not know. It was not that she felt concerned over their behaviour, for they had been universally kind. Instead she began to realise how reassuring the presence of Williams had been. Whatever his fears – and she guessed they had been considerable – he had never once suggested to her that they would not find their way back to the battalion and her family. She missed him, more even than friendship would command, and that threw into even greater confusion the turmoil of feelings from the last week. The thought that he would abandon them never once crossed the girl’s mind. Trying to be cynical, she was convinced that he would not have the imagination for such a betrayal, but knew that was not the reason for her conviction. The fear grew that he had run into enemies or an accident.

  A muffled shout stirred the room into life. Jane stood to see over the hanging blankets. Groombridge had one of the muskets and was pulling back the flint to cock it.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  ‘English,’ came a call from outside.

  ‘It’s Williams,’ a different, familiar voice shouted.

  Groombridge relaxed the flint, and motioned to one of the drivers to unbolt the door. A corporal in a red coat with the white facings of the 32nd came in. More men followed. There were two men in jackets with the buff facings of the 52nd, four with the light gr
een of the 5th or the 36th, a pair in the yellow of the 26th, and another man with yellow facings and the kilt of the 92nd. The Highlander and one of the men from the 52nd had heavily bandaged feet and were using their firelocks as crutches.

  All were bone weary. Williams had stumbled across them in ones and twos earlier in the day. They were stragglers, who had moved away from the main route to avoid the French. All of these men still carried muskets, which was a good sign. The stories they told were not.

  Once they had been given a place by the fire and fed, Williams had Groombridge place a sentry, and took the quartermaster sergeant out into the cold, walking some way before they began talking.

  ‘It’s bad,’ Williams began.

  18

  The drums beat the Dead March as the prisoners were led towards the big tree. Dobson’s young son kept his face as rigid as possible, but there were tears in the boy’s eyes as he brought his sticks down in the slow rhythm. Half the drummers were from the 106th, and the remainder from the other regiment with a soldier condemned to hang.

  The battalions of the Reserve Division formed a hollow square facing inwards, and had been paraded all morning to witness the drumhead court martial and punishment of men arrested during the last few days. They stood in a field of snow on a low ridge to the east of Cacabellos. The village, with its narrow stone bridge, lay behind them. The 15th Hussars provided piquets, supported by the 95th, who were excused from the punishment parade by this duty. In any case, only a small number of their soldiers were under arrest – the result either of good conduct or greater skill in avoiding detection.

  General Sir Edward Paget presided, and was confirming his reputation as a keen advocate of the lash. Already some two dozen men had been tied to triangles formed from sergeant’s half-pikes and flogged. Young Dobson was glad that he had not been chosen as one of the drummers to inflict the punishment itself, even if this other duty was grim enough. Most of the sentences were small by the standards of an army that could inflict a thousand or more lashes, even if it was rare for more than a few hundred to be delivered at one time. Hanley had seen a flogging soon after he joined the battalion, but had been glad that there was none since then. MacAndrews was a reluctant flogger, preferring other punishments unless the crime was serious. Today, most of the charges related to theft or drunkenness, and the major was willing to accept that some object lessons were necessary.

  That had not prevented him from pleading for the life of Reade, the man now sentenced to be hanged. Formerly a sergeant, he had been broken to the ranks about an alleged failure, which was widely believed not to have been his fault. The man’s spirit had been shattered by the experience and the insult to his pride, and he had taken to drink. Yet in this case, MacAndrews was sure his excursion into Cacabellos had been a hunt for something to wear on his feet now that his boots had given out. It was simply unfortunate that he had run into a patrol of provosts, and when he tried to escape had fled around a corner and knocked down an officer. The major had no doubt that this was an accident. For the general this was of little importance. The man had been in a place forbidden to the soldiers, and was there with the intention of theft, whatever his motives.

  Sir Edward had given his verdict, and then dismissed the court so that they could prepare for the execution. He took the opportunity to inhale some of his diminishing supply of snuff, and wondered whether there was any chance of getting more. The general noticed that Captain Wickham had returned and so nodded to the man, only half listening to his explanation that the French prisoner was now in the charge of an officer rendered an invalid by fatigue. Paget had barely noticed Wickham’s absence, and doubted that it had in any way reduced the efficiency of his staff.

  Another hussar galloped up, reining in violently so that his horse skidded to a halt, flinging up mud and ice from the ground. The rider saluted.

  ‘Colonel Grant’s compliments, sir, and strong forces of French cavalry are pressing our outposts. He estimates there to be some five hundred, with more squadrons advancing to join them.’

  ‘Have they risked a charge?’

  ‘No, sir. Still skirmishing, but the fire is growing heavier.’ Sir Edward had heard the occasional shot, so that the report confirmed his impression of what was happening.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to the man. ‘That was a clear and soldier-like report. You may return to your squadron.’

  The hussar saluted and sped back the way he had come. General Paget made no obvious move to act on the information, but returned to the business of the punishment parade.

  MacAndrews found himself close to Wickham, and so bade him a good day, civility winning out over his dislike.

  ‘One of yours?’ asked Wickham as Reade was led away and stripped of his jacket.

  MacAndrews disliked the ‘yours’ from a man still on the roll of the 106th. ‘Aye, one of ours. Do you not recollect Reade from Three Company?’ Wickham had been a lieutenant in the same company, and had failed to deliver the order which had led to the man’s disgrace. MacAndrews tried to drive the point home. ‘He was a good sergeant.’

  ‘No, I cannot place him,’ said Wickham, and his face appeared genuinely unstirred by any memory, or indeed significant interest. ‘May I convey my best wishes to Mrs MacAndrews and Miss MacAndrews? I trust they are both well, in spite of the rigours of the campaign.’

  ‘Mrs MacAndrews is as well as can be expected,’ said her husband flatly. ‘Miss MacAndrews foolishly went riding too far on Christmas Day. She has not been seen since.’

  ‘Oh … I did not realise …’ For once Wickham’s calm was shattered. ‘I am so very sorry to hear that.’ The sentiment was genuine, although it did begin with annoyance that he would be unable to seek diversion with her. Fear quickly followed. MacAndrews spoke of her riding out. Did he know why? ‘Such a truly terrible thing. However, perhaps she has merely been unable to return to our lines?’

  ‘That is our hope.’ MacAndrews kept his voice level. ‘Thank you for your concern.’ He turned and strode back to the battalion. Wickham misread distaste in the voice for menace, and feared being called out. A major could not challenge a captain, but since he hoped for promotion before long that offered little assurance of safety. All over a daft slut who’d got herself lost in the middle of a war. The unfairness pained him. If the man could not look after his daughter properly, then it scarcely seemed reasonable to blame anyone else.

  Wickham sat on horseback among the general’s staff not far from the tree as the execution party reached it.

  ‘Proceed,’ said Sir Edward to the provost officer. Two ropes had already been flung over suitable branches. They were made into nooses and these were placed around the condemned men’s necks and fastened. The pair were then lifted up so that their feet rested on the shoulders of some crouching provosts. These stood up carefully, and the ropes were made fast to the branch. One last roll, and the drums stopped. When the signal was given the provosts would step away and let the men drop and swing. If required, they could return to pull the men’s legs and speed their deaths rather than allowing a slow strangulation.

  Sir Edward waited to give the order. He was thirty-three, although he looked older. For all his temper, it was not so much passion which moved him now, but a desire to do his duty.

  Another hussar appeared, this time riding right across the centre of the square. He was especially gaudily dressed, and Wickham recognised General Slade. Command of the cavalry had fallen to him since Lord Paget had been rendered almost blind by an attack of opthalmia.

  ‘The French are upon us!’ he called out, reining in his horse directly in front of Sir Edward and his staff. ‘They have twenty squadrons to our three, and so we have begun to retire.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ replied Sir Edward as calmly as he was able. ‘It seems, however, somewhat odd for you to bring this information yourself rather than sending an orderly dragoon. I must not detain you, since you must be eager to return to your piquets.’

  ‘No,
no, Sir John must be informed immediately.’ Wickham had a momentary hope that he might be given the task, until Slade set spurs to his horse’s sides and set off at a great pace down the slope towards the village and bridge.

  ‘Good God,’ murmured one of the ADCs, unable to restrain his surprise.

  Sir Edward permitted himself another pinch of snuff from the holder suspended on a chain next to his watch. He inhaled, and a moment later sneezed explosively. He walked his horse forward until he was in the centre of the square. Shots were now coming more frequently and appeared to be getting closer with every passing moment. Pringle, standing at the right of his grenadiers, thought that the general’s face was racked with thought. If it was an act, then it was a good one.

  ‘My God!’ he bellowed out at last. ‘Is it not lamentable to think that instead of preparing you to receive the enemies of our country, I am planning to hang two robbers? Nevertheless, I shall always do my duty.’ He turned and pointed at the corner of the division’s formation closest to the road down which the French were advancing. ‘But even though that angle of the square should be attacked, I shall hang these villains in that angle.’ He pointed now at the tree.

  They waited. More than one of the drummers around young Dobson was sobbing. Reade looked vacant, as if life no longer had any great savour for him and this last disgrace was a release. Paget broke his silence, turning his horse in a circle as he scanned the faces of the paraded men. ‘If I spare the lives of these men, will you promise to reform?’