Beat the Drums Slowly (39 page)

Sir John was every bit as warm in his appreciation as Colborne and Graham had predicted. The former had given him a full report, much fleshed out by his conversation with Groombridge and his own observation of the debris of battle.

‘Well done, sir.’ The general stood beside his horse, watching regiments pass on the road. For all his weariness, his enthusiasm revived Williams. The ensign could not really believe that he was meeting the commander of the army, let alone being praised by him. Then Sir John removed his glove and offered a hand. The handshake was firm and decisive.

‘Thank you, sir. You are most kind, but most of the praise more deservedly goes to the men.’

‘They shall not be forgotten. Do we have a list?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Colborne, waving a piece of paper. He had written it quickly, resting on his sabretache, the broad bag suspended alongside his sword’s scabbard, as Williams dictated.

‘Would it be possible for their respective corps to be informed of their good conduct?’ Williams’ admiration for the men overcame his timidity in the presence of so many senior officers. ‘Sergeant Jowers and Corporal Mulligan played an especially gallant role in the defence, and this should be known by their regiments, and those of the other dead men.’

‘See to it, George,’ Sir John said to another of his aides. ‘Now, sir, are you mounted?’

Williams struggled to understand the question. ‘I … er …’

The general understood his confusion. ‘Do you have a horse?’

‘No, sir.’

‘A pity. If you were mounted then I should have attached you to my staff for the remainder of the campaign.’

Williams was stunned, but the compliment was clear. ‘That is a great honour.’ It was indeed, for no officer as junior as an ensign was likely to be found in any commander’s staff.

‘Well, I would make you work, so the honour might wear as thin as the seat of your breeches,’ said Sir John with a remarkably impish grin. ‘But you cannot perform these duties on foot.’

‘Again, I must thank you, although if you would forgive me, I feel that I still have much to learn with my regiment.’

The answer greatly pleased the general. ‘Such a sentiment does you credit. I do believe that you are a serious soldier.’ The trace of Edinburgh, always there in the general’s speech, had grown stronger. ‘I am glad to see it, for we have too many fellows who consider war to be a game. It is a serious trade, sir, and there is much to learn, and not all can be learned in regimental duty. One day I may call upon you to serve away from your corps. It will be work, sir, hard work, and some of it dull in the extreme, but you will learn what it takes for an army to operate in the field.

‘We shall have need of trained men, and serious soldiers, if we are ever to return.’

‘Then are we leaving, sir?’ The question came before he had time to consider its brazenness, or he would never have dared to utter the words.

Sir John took no offence, sensing no malice or reproof in the question. ‘There is not food to support us for any time, and no useful purpose to be gained by remaining in northern Spain. So, yes, we shall leave. But first we need to give Marshal Soult the slip. You have already helped to make that easier. Thank you again, Mr Williams, you may return to your regiment.’

The Reserve Division set out at 9.30 that night, but halted again within an hour and formed up facing the enemy. Williams was aware of very little, nor did he have the energy to care. It was dark, and heavy rain soon turned into sleet, which made it hard to see any distance. The rest of the army was supposed to have preceded them, but regiments and brigades got lost. When the darker shadows of formed bodies appeared in the night, it was impossible to know whether they were friend or foe until they had come very close.

The reserve would march a short way, and then stop again. Each time the ‘enemy’ proved to be British. Many corps fragmented in the darkness and confusion. Men were tired, and the enthusiasm at the prospect of a battle had sunk again into despair, which made that fatigue hang especially heavily on hearts and bodies. Williams kept walking, and stopped when everyone else stopped, but he was aware of little. The curiosity of his friends was buried by the sleet and his brief, largely incoherent responses.

The retreat continued throughout the night and the next day. Stragglers were everywhere. Sir John’s staff passed one battalion, composed of a lone captain, two sergeants carrying the Colours, and thirty or so men. Yet returning to their familiar task as rearguard, General Paget insisted that not a single officer or man from the Reserve Division leave his place in the formation. In the light of dawn he halted the men, and they took up position to face any advancing enemy, but were allowed to stand, or even sit at ease in the ranks. There was no food other than some hard biscuit. Rumour said that four thousand loaves baked by the commissaries had been left in Lugo to welcome the French.

There were stragglers everywhere, and orders came for the 106th to flush any redcoats out of a cluster of ramshackle houses beside the road. A wine store had been broken open, and barns found with plentiful stocks of straw. One or both temptations proved too strong for a good few men. The grenadiers dragged men from their peaceful beds, kicking or prodding those who refused to stir.

Williams sat on a bale of straw, sheltered from the wind and sleet just inside the door of a barn. He had been yawning all morning, eyes shutting as his mouth opened wide. This seemed to be the first rest he had had for as long as he could remember. He lay back, revelling in the softness of the straw. Sleep came almost instantly.

‘Are we allowed to kick him?’ said Murphy, and it was the first joke he had made for days.

‘You are not,’ Major MacAndrews had appeared from nowhere, ‘although I suspect that I am.’ Instead he gently shook Williams by the shoulder.

‘Takes more than that with our Mr Williams,’ said Dobson, and so the major renewed his efforts with far greater vigour.

Williams stirred, and whispered ‘Jane?’ so faintly that the girl’s father could not be perfectly sure that he had heard correctly.

‘Get up, man.’ MacAndrews tried to be jovial. There seemed no obvious way of asking this young man whether he had conducted himself with the utmost respect and decency while stranded alone with his daughter. Even if he could think of suitable words, this was scarcely the moment or the place. ‘Get up, we will be marching again soon.’

Williams stood. He had slept for no more than five minutes, but felt surprisingly refreshed.

Hanley thought him almost indecently bright when he joined them outside. His own mood darkened farther when an elderly Spaniard appeared from one the houses and shook his fist at them.

‘
Los franceses son mejores que los ingleses, los ingleses son ladrones!
’

Hanley shrugged, but could not think of a reply.

‘That did not sound very complimentary,’ commented Pringle.

‘The French are better than the English – the English are bandits!’ guessed Williams.

‘Well done, Bills. You really are surprising us all these days.’ Hanley’s beard was wild and wiry. They had been ordered to clean uniforms in the halt at Lugo, but there had been no opportunity for a shave. ‘It is good to have you back.’

‘It’s even better not to be carrying that damned pack of yours!’ added Pringle.

They pressed on. Some men had been stirred into life. Others were left behind, still insensible or too well concealed to be readily found. The sleet held off, and as the sun shone they caught reflections off the helmets of the French cavalry. Later they halted on a ridge, looking back. The advancing French patrols again injected life into men who seemed past caring. Perhaps they remembered the massacre at Bembibre, or perhaps they were simply less drunk this time. A few score of the isolated redcoats banded together. Then there were hundreds and eventually over a thousand. A sergeant commanded them, and they retired in two ordered bodies, halting to fire volleys whenever the enemy cavalry came too close.

‘Let us go down there!’ Pringle suspected that the voice was Murphy’s, but was relieved that General Paget only heard the words and did not remark the speaker.

‘Never, sir, never,’ he called out angrily. ‘I would not risk the life of one good man for a hundred drunkards who have so forgotten their duty as to abandon the Colours.’

Williams felt the judgement a little harsh, but soon it was obvious that the stragglers needed no aid. They went down only when the French were driven off, because the general had noticed that some of the men were inclined to wander again, once the danger had gone. They were herded along the road, marched in groups to their respective corps. Before they went, Sir Edward had every man searched and his pack emptied. Anything that appeared to be loot was taken from them and piled up. Soldiers from the reserve were free to take whatever they wanted.

Hanley’s curiosity took him over to one of the piles. There were candlesticks, bits of plate and some coin, although rarely anything of real value. A bundle of at least seventy cheap spoons was the oddest thing he saw, but he watched as the eyes of a man from the 20th lit up at the sight of this treasure. The redcoat quickly bundled it into his own pack.

They were soon moving again, and marched for the rest of the day.

‘W
hat, sir? Another damned abortion! Pray, sir, and how do you account for this failure.’ Sir Edward Paget’s quick temper had flared into new fury. They were at yet another bridge, and the engineers had laid three charges dug into the roadway.

‘I fear the first explosion disturbed the powder trail and the other charges did not ignite,’ said the engineer, with the confidence of a man whose corps required officers to have studied and learnt the secrets of their craft.

‘Then why, sir, did you lay them in such a damned fool way! Remedy the matter at once.’ The general looked at the bridge. A great chunk had been taken out of one arch, leaving a path little more than a yard wide in that section. ‘How long will it take?’

‘Twenty minutes, I should think.’

‘Then make sure it requires no more than that.’ Sir Edward Paget looked around him. The Grenadier and Light Companies of the 106th were deployed on the bank, and the former were nearest. ‘Take your fellows across,’ he ordered Pringle. ‘I’ll wave when you are to come back.’

On the far bank the road forked. The main route went over the bridge, while another turned to go through the arched gateway of a large walled village. They filed towards the narrow strip of bridge. Williams was feeling sluggish again, and Pringle had to prod him to get him moving. As they crossed, Billy looked down with distaste at the fast-flowing brown river.

‘If I had wanted to have so much to do with water then I would have joined the navy,’ he muttered.

‘Seasick again,’ Williams responded. In truth his own illness on the voyage to Portugal had been only marginally less severe than Pringle’s affliction, but then he did not come from a naval family.

They formed on the far bank, waited until the general waved, and then began to walk back. The company had passed the narrow neck of the broken bridge when Hanley heard the sound of hoofs and turned to see French dragoons rushing towards them. He was at the rear of the company, and the words of command came to his mind as a memory from long and tedious sessions of drill.

‘Right about turn, forward!’ he called, and sprang ahead, dashing to get across the narrow part and have room for the company to form where the bridge was unbroken. The grenadiers were surprised by the order, but responded quickly and with only a little confusion. Men bumped into each other as they turned. Pringle and Williams were shouting orders and encouragement, as was Sergeant Probert, and the company was hustled back and began to form from one parapet to the other, the men in the front rank kneeling.

‘Fix bayonets!’ Hanley heard Pringle bellow the order and wondered why his voice sounded distant. He looked over his shoulder and realised that his urgency had taken him too far, for the company was now seven or eight yards behind him. Hoof beats pounded towards him and there was a French dragoon officer bearing down, the man’s long green cloak streaming behind as his horse flew along the road. Hanley drew his own sword, knowing he did not have the time to run. He swung wildly at the animal’s head, but the dragoon pulled the reins hard and the horse stopped and reared, its big feet thrashing only inches from his face as he sprang back. The gelding spat a great spray of yellow foam on to his face, and then the rider edged it forward and cut down. Hanley just managed to raise his own blade to block the attack, but felt his arm jar with the shock. The dragoon cut again and this time the strength of the blow knocked the Englishman down to his knees and his slim sword slipped from his hand. His eyes closed, anticipating the final attack, when there was a shot which was so close that the noise stunned him.

‘Mr Hanley, we’ve spun him!’ yelled Dobson, who had run forward to stand behind the officer.

‘Get down, both of you!’ shouted Williams as Pringle gave the order to present. Dobson grabbed the confused lieutenant and pulled him down on to the roadway. The company began to fire volleys over them. Hanley was sure that he could hear the balls whipping through the air. The French dragoon lay stretched on the road, and on an impulse Hanley crawled over and unfastened the dead man’s cloak. The Frenchman was staring up at the sky, his eyes empty, and Hanley wondered why such sights no longer seemed to prompt much reaction from him.