True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

W
illiam Hanley watched the pride of imperial France ride up the Alcala. It was a magnificent sight, and the Englishman could not resist stopping to watch the soldiers pass. He had seen them before, had watched the parades since the French had first arrived in Madrid several weeks ago, and had even chatted to some of the officers. They had come then as allies, but now things were different, and the horsemen clattering along the paved road were moving with grim purpose. Hanley had taken care to crouch down behind a small cart left at the mouth of an alleyway. This was not a day to be too visible.

First came the Mamelukes, a strange legacy of Napoleon’s Egyptian adventure. They did not wear strict uniform, although most had red fezzes surrounded by great white turbans and immensely baggy scarlet trousers. They carried curved scimitars, had pistols at their belts and wide-mouthed blunderbusses hanging from their saddles. From the beginning the people of Madrid had hated and feared them. Women had fled to the opposite side of the street when they passed. Men spat at their shadows and crossed themselves. The Mamelukes looked like an oriental fantasy, but to Spaniards they had stepped straight out of old nightmares from the time when the Moors had ruled most of Spain and trampled the Church beneath them.

Next came the Chasseurs. Once known as the Guides, they had guarded General Bonaparte since his Italian campaigns, and still remained his favourites. Napoleon was far away in France, but that did not make these tough old soldiers any less determined. Veterans to a man, they were immaculately turned out in their
green jackets and overall trousers. The jackets were heavily braided, with brass buttons like the ones running along the seams of their overalls. They were light cavalry, so were mounted on modestly sized horses and carried curved sabres. Hungarian Hussars had set the fashion for European light horsemen more than a generation ago, and so each Chasseur had a send jacket, known as a pelisse, which they wore draped over their left shoulder. The pelisses were red, again heavily braided and also trimmed with black fur which matched the round fur caps each man wore on his head. Tall green and red plumes nodded with the motion of the horses.

The last men were larger and rode bigger and darker horses. These were the Empress Josephine’s Dragoons, dressed in dark green jackets with white waistcoats and breeches. Their boots came up to the knees and were polished like black mirrors. Each dragoon wore a high brass helmet bound with a mock leopard-skin turban. They had dark horse-tail crests and high white plumes. A long straight sword rested on each shoulder.

These men were La Garde Impériale – not ornamental toy soldiers, but hard-fighting regiments recruited from veterans. They had left behind some infantrymen who could not keep up. The men who had ridden over the enemy at Austerlitz and Eylau did not need the help of mere conscripts. The Guardsmen were perfectly turned out. Only the strictest NCO could (and no doubt would) have found fault with them if they had been at this moment on the Field of Mars in Paris. They made a spectacle of colour, all set off by the backdrop of the pale brown stone of the grand houses along the Alcala. Yet combined with the beauty of the scene was a sense of menace and brutal self-confidence.

It was that savage intent combined with swagger which Hanley knew he could never capture on canvas. For years he had dreamed of being an artist, had studied and practised. He knew he was not good enough, was doomed to be able to recognise great art, but never to create it himself. He could imagine mixing the colours, reproducing both the detail of the background and the soldiers, their horses and equipment with great accuracy and precision. Yet his picture would still be utterly lifeless.

Anyway, that dream was gone – had died at the same time as his father. He had never met his father, had seen him only twice and then from a distance. It was not that different with his mother. She was an image of beauty, but he could remember just a handful of occasions when they had been together. Mary Hanley had only been beginning to make a name for herself on the stage when she fell pregnant. It was an interruption to her career, and meant a rapid severance of relations with her lover. Hanley’s father never openly acknowledged his bastard, but granted him an allowance. A year later Mary became mistress to another man, who made it clear that she would never be allowed to have the child with her. The boy was left with her own mother, who did the best she could. Hanley received an education, and when he grew older was allowed to travel and study art and antiquities. His allowance was moderate, but now it had come to an end. His father was dead, and his half-brothers had no intention of subsidising the product of an indiscretion.