Haggard (44 page)

'Water,' Corcoran grunted. 'I must have water.'

Several of his comrades were already kneeling. On the other side of the brook, not twenty feet away, a few of the French were also drinking, scooping the bloodied liquid in their hands and conveying it to their mouths.

Roger looked back up the slope. Not all of his men had broken ranks to drink; most were pulling over the dead and dying, some calling for stretcher bearers, others out to discover what they could.

'Come on lads,' he said, tapping Corcoran on the shoulders. 'Up you get. We can't stay here all day.'

'Look what I've found,' bubbled Lieutenant Portman, more excited than anyone at the outcome of his first engagement. He held out his hand, showed two crosses of the Legion of Honour. Took them off a dead officer up there. Must have been a rare hero, eh?'

Llewellyn glanced at Roger, slowly took the two medals.

1 beg your pardon, sir,' Portman objected. 'The spoils of war, what. They belong to me.'

They belong to the French, sir,' Llewellyn said, and waded into the stream, hands outstretched. After a moment's hesitation a French officer came to meet him.
'Pour vous,'
Llewellyn said, uncertainly.

The officer gazed at the crosses for a moment, then took them. 'You 'ave the thanks of France, monsieur,' he said, and saluted.

How hot it was. The sun was past noon high, and scorched the field. There had not been time to bury the dead, and they were already starting to bloat as they were assaulted by a fresh horde of flies. The 29th and the 48th had regained their hilltop and stood to their arms, as did the rest of the army on the plain between them and the town. And as did the French on the far side of the brook. The only noise, apart from the humming of the insects, was the occasional crack of a musket from away to the south, where the French skirmishers were pot-shotting at the Spaniards.

'What are they waiting for?' Corcoran wanted to know.

'Why don't they go away?' someone else demanded.

'Ah, they ain't going,' said a third. They still have us by two to one.'

Or more, Roger thought, as he walked by the group. Perhaps they were waiting on Soult to debouch from the mountains in the British rear. Just as Sir Arthur Wellesley was certainly waiting for the arrival of Black Bob Craufurd with the three regiments of the Light Brigade, hurrying over the roads behind them. The battle was a long way from being over.

And there it was again. Another puff of smoke, immediately enveloped in a rolling black thunderclap. Take cover,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, hurrying back from an officers' conference. 'Behind the hill. Smartly now.'

Roger used his staff to hasten men into moving, get them away from their canteens and their salted meat, out of sight of the artillery. But apparently the French were no longer interested in the Cerro de Medillin. Few cannon balls came up here, as the main weight of the coming assault seemed to be directed at the men on the plain. Roger stood with Llewellyn and Portman to watch the French surging forward, to watch the Fourth Division, commanded by Major-General Campbell, charging in a counter attack and actually overrunning three French batteries before being recalled. This was worth a cheer, but nearer at hand, almost at the foot of the hill, things did not go so well. Here the First Guards Division and the Hanoverians took their bombardment with admirable courage, held their fire as the 29th had done, and then rushed forward with the bayonet to disperse the attacking French in fine style. But they had not been kept on as tight a rein as the Worcesters, and continued their charge even across the brook.

'Great God Almighty,' remarked Rowland Hill, coming to stand with the other officers to watch the disaster looming below them. Those fellows will suffer for it.'

Roger watched, and felt his belly roll. The disorganised mass of redcoats was commencing to break up and straggle, just as a compact column of blue-coated French was launched against it in a counter attack. Now he realised what their own assault must have looked like, seen from a distance. Only this time the roles were reversed. The Guards attempted to form line to meet the assault, and were scattered by a devastating volley. The Hanoverians simply dissolved; Roger watched their commanding general riding his horse into the midst of a melee and tumble from the saddle to disappear. The rest fled every way. The Guards were retreating in better order, but a good third of their men lay scattered in and out of the brook, and behind them there was a great gap in the British line.

'Can't we get down there, sir?' Portman begged. 'The army will be cut in two."

The battle will be equally lost if we abandon this hill, Mr. Portman,' Hill said. 'Pray do Sir Arthur the credit of having allowed for such a misfortune.'

There, sir,' Roger said, pointing, and they watched General Mackenzie's reserve division hurrying towards the break in the line. How few they were, hardly two thousand men, while at least ten thousand French were marching on the gap. But the three regiments of the reserve, the 24th, the 31st and the 45th Foot —the Warwickshires, the Hunti
ngdonshires, and the Nottingham
shires—took up their places and began delivering volleys with deadly haste and equal accuracy, while staff officers scurried around to shepherd the retreating Guards and the remnants of the Hanoverians back to their positions.

'Noble lads,' Rowland Hill said. 'Noble lads.'

'Will they hold, d'you suppose, sir?' Llewellyn inquired.

Roger stared down the hill at the thin red line. Many of them were not even properly dressed, were still wearing the uniforms of the militia regiments from which they had so recently been drafted. But they were showing no signs of fear. And now there came the clatter of hooves and the 14th Light Dragoons hurled themselves against the French flank, swords flailing, helmets gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"Stapleton Cotton, by Gad,' Hill cried. 'There's a cavalryman.'

'Now Hill,' Sir Arthur said from behind him. "Send the 48th.'

Roger and Llewellyn turned in disappointment, but the orders had already been given, and the Northamptons moved down the hill in line, sending volley after volley into the French flank; the

Worcesters had to watch the French column wither and start to ebb back across the brook.

'Oh, gallant Northamptons,' shouted Rowland Hill.

‘I
t should have been us,' Llewellyn muttered, and judging by the scowls on the faces of his men, the rest of the 29th felt the same.

'We should give them a cheer, sir,' Roger suggested. 'They'd do so much for us.'

'Of course you're right, Sergeant Major,' Llewellyn agreed. Three cheers for the Northamptons, lads. Hip hip . . .'

The Worcesters tossed their hats in the air. Surely the battle was finished. Surely the French, having been repulsed wherever they had attempted an attack, would call it enough. But even as the cheers broke out from the hilltop, fresh firing commenced on their left, at the extreme end of the British line.

'Stand to your arms,' General Hill commanded. They'll be here next.'

'Form line. Stand to.' Roger hurried through his company, slapping exhausted men to attention, paused at the far end to gaze down the valley, where two French divisions had crawled up the ravines in their attempt to turn the British left. He watched staff officers galloping away from Wellesley's side, and a moment later saw the 23rd Light Dragoons together with the 1st Hussars of the King's German Legion moving forward to charge the as yet disorganised French.

'There goes the cavalry, lads,' he shouted. 'Give them a cheer.'

Once again the Worcesters responded, only to have their cries die in their throats as they watched in horror the entire leading squadrons of the charging cavalry disappear into an unsuspected ravine, men and horses plummetting to their deaths in a mass of waving arms and legs and swords, of cries and neighs, of commands by the remaining officers as they brought their men under control, wheeled to the left, and continued their charge.

'Brave men,' Llewellyn said. 'Brave men.'

The French had formed square, and the horse, instead of vainly assaulting the bristling bayonets, rode round them to disperse a regiment of chasseurs coming to their rescue. Thus isolated the French began to retreat.

There it is.' General Hill had remounted, and stood behind them. Now he pointed, and in the distance they could see the rearmost French troops beginning a movement back along the road to Madrid. 'We've won, boys. We've held them off. Three cheers for Old England.'

Once again the men responded with a will, but Roger, standing away from the main body, suddenly felt his nostrils twitch. He turned to look down the hill, where the dead and wounded lay scattered in and out of the brook, left there not only by the encounter of the early morning but by the more recent action of the Guards. There a spark had ignited the parched grass, and now tongues of flame were licking upwards, and the cries of agony were redoubled as the wounded discovered themselves about to be burned to death.

'Captain Llewellyn, sir,' he said. 'Permission to attend the wounded with a detail.'

Llewellyn followed the direction of his pointing finger. 'My God,' he said. 'What a fate. General Hill . . .'

But Hill had seen it too. 'Aye,' he said. 'If you can find some volunteers, Sergeant Major. But take care, man, take care.'

'Who'll come with me to help those poor fellows?' Roger shouted.

'Oh, I will, Mr. Smith,' Corcoran cried.

'And I,' called another, and then nearly the whole company hurried forward.

The French may come again,' General Hill pointed out. 'You may take no more than a dozen men, Sergeant Major.'

'Very good, sir.' Roger pointed. 'You, Corcoran, and you and you. Come along now, lads. Let's make haste.'

They slung their muskets and followed him down the hill. Now the flames were high and very bright, and the heat seemed redoubled, while the cries of the wounded grew ever more piteous.

'Help, for God's sake, help me,' someone cried.

'Over there.' Roger directed the men, continued on his way. He knelt beside a gasping guardsman. 'Easy now, old fellow. Help is coming.'

'Help me, monsieur,' another voice shouted.

He turned, gazed at the flames. He sucked air into his lungs, discovered it was impossible to take a proper breath, pushed through the yellow wall, which licked at his legs and scorched his jacket. A French officer lay at his feet, blood and intestines trailing away from the terrible wound in his belly. No help was possible for him. But he could die more easily.

'I'll get you out, monsieur,' he said, and stooped, raising the man's arm and placing it over his shoulder, reaching down through
the blood and mess for his legs, checking as he heard a movement behind him. He turned his head, gazed at the other Frenchman, whom he had supposed dead, but who was now raising himself on his elbow, and thrusting forward his musket.

'Easy old fellow,' Roger said. 'I'll be back for you in a moment. Easy.'

The musket exploded into flame.

CHAPTER 3

THE CRIME

There you are, Mr. Haggard.'
MacGuinness pointed at the heap of rags, dried twigs, paper, fire blackened to be sure, but never really allowed to develop into a bonfire. 'Real amateurs, they were.'

Haggard tilted his head to look up at the walls of the factory. The roof had just been completed, and it was all but ready. And someone had tried to burn it down.

'Who are
they?’

'Well, sir . . .' MacGuinness stroked his chin. 'Wring?'

Peter Wring scratched his head. 'I wouldn't like to say, Mr. Haggard.'

'Who was watchman last night?'

'Harry Crow. You come over here, Harry.'

Crow was a large, slow-moving man. He blinked at the squire, uneasily.

'You disturbed them, Crow,' Haggard said. 'You must have seen who they were.'

'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, it were mighty dark.'

'But at least you can tell me how many there were?'

'Well, sir, two or three. I couldn't be sure, they ran off that quick.'

Haggard gazed at the man for a moment, then nodded. 'Very well. You may go home now.' He kicked the rubbish with his boot. 'Get rid of this mess, Wring.'

'Right away, Mr. Haggard. Right away.'

'It was a hopeless business from the start, Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness said reassuringly. ' Tis too damp to burn, down here.'