True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (11 page)

Hanley and Miss MacAndrews certainly danced well. The tall, dark officer seemed to sweep the diminutive girl effortlessly round, her white dress billowing with the motion. Everyone could see that they made a grand couple. Ensign Redman could
sense that this did not encourage great affection for them from either of the Miss Stocktons.

‘Who is that officer?’ asked the older sister. ‘Is he new?’

‘That is our Mr Hanley. Like me he belongs to the grenadiers, but has only joined the regiment after a prolonged leave of absence.’

‘Ah, then is he a man of means?’ Her interest was pricked. Handsome was all very well, but to little end if not accompanied by a decent income. ‘I must say he looks quite dashing, although that MacAndrews girl is too abandoned to be fully decent.’

‘He is something of a mystery, beauty fear not well connected,’ replied Redman, and then decided that no one could blame him if he repeated, but did not confirm, a rumour that was doing the rounds. ‘He is a grand fellow, although very dark. They do say his mother is a Hindoo . . .’

By this time Williams and Miss Dawlish were several steps behind everyone else. They barged into one couple, and so he lifted his partner inches from the ground as he took long strides to catch up. Miss Dawlish gasped in surprise, then stumbled as he put her down in a patch of clearer floor. Williams at this point realised what he had done and stared back at her, his mouth agape. He grabbed at her to break her fall, nearly lost balance himself and only just kept her upright. The girl pulled away from him and then there was a sound of tearing, audible even over the music and the chatter of the now fascinated crowd. Miss Dawlish’s pale pink dress had ripped a good six inches up from the hem, showing a white petticoat beneath.

Both of them froze in horror. There were cries from the crowd, quickly drowned out by gales of laughter. Williams sprang backwards, as if stepping away could somehow repair the damage. Miss Dawlish looked at him, then down at her torn dress. Then she screamed – the loudest noise Williams felt he had ever heard in his entire life. The girl fled, still shrieking, and was soon whisked away by Miss Crabbe and Miss Fotheringham herself. Williams’ apologies were drowned in the noise, and now he wanted only to be away from here. He too hurried out of the ballroom.

‘Poor Williams,’ whispered Miss MacAndrews to Hanley, as if speaking of a small child.

The incident was one of the most talked about of the entire evening. For the men – and especially the officers of the 106th – it was a grand joke. Such things happened and no harm had been done. The ladies expressed huge sympathy for the unfortunate Miss Dawlish. Some of them were even genuine, although she was not an especially well-liked individual. Most felt repeated description of the incident made her embarrassment all the more delicious.

The ball continued. Miss MacAndrews danced more dances with other officers from the 106th, and once with Thompson of the Yeomanry, even though she knew her father would be less than enthusiastic about this, given his distaste for cavalrymen. She declined the invitations of any civilians, save for an elderly and rather stiff clergyman named Hawkins, whose parish lay next to this one. She found Pringle, and insisted he fulfil his promise to her, which he did with considerable delight. For a big man, inclined to plumpness, he had a remarkably delicate step. At the first opportunity, he complimented the girl on her elegance and grace.

Jane frowned. ‘Such a tribute is rather diminished by the lack of competition.’ They separated, drew back, and could not speak again until the dance brought them closer again.

‘Then may I say that your beauty would shine out in any company,’ ventured Pringle, still struggling to deal with her directness.

‘Better, although a pretty compliment should never have to live alone.’

‘Should I speak then of your perfection of figure,’ Pringle whispered as they leaned close for a brief moment, then immediately realised that this crossed the boundary of propriety.

‘Yes, I had observed your admiration.’ His eyes followed as Jane’s gaze flicked for just an instant down to the front of her dress. The pace of the dance quickened, producing an impressive motion. They stepped apart again, before Pringle could think of any response. Each spun around, and Pringle moved behind the
line of men, while gaze path took her behind the ladies. At the end they turned in, and once again faced each other. Pringle was greatly relieved to see the girl smiling. She glanced beside her to Miss Crabbe.

When the couples closed, there was amusement in her voice. ‘Once again, it may be a question of comparison.’ Miss Crabbe was tall and spindly, as well as notably flatchested.

Pringle waited until there was more distance between each couple, then spoke in a voice not intended to reach more than his partner. ‘If you listen carefully, you can hear her knees knocking together.’

‘Aren’t we terribly cruel,’ said Jane, but there was mischief in her words. ‘I spoke with Miss Crabbe earlier, and her high estimation of people seemed to depend entirely on the size of their fortune.’

‘I believe that when a wealthy gentleman shows interest, then there is no concern about her knees being together.’ Pringle was amazed to have made such a comment, normal enough in chat between subalterns, but scarcely appropriate here.

The frown returned to Jane’s brow. ‘I am quite sure I do not know what you mean, sir.’ Pringle hoped that this was true, and that his coarseness would be missed, but he was not quite sure. Her eyes were bright and the sparkle of reflected light gave them a knowing gleam. ‘In case you suffer from a false impression, that was not an invitation for you to show me,’ Jane added. Pringle could not help laughing out loud, startling the nearest couples, and provoking several stern glances. Miss MacAndrews shook her head in mock disapproval.

Hanley also danced a good deal, and several of the ladies, especially the younger Miss Stockton, showed him particular favour. She was rather thrilled at the idea of dancing with a man so mysterious that he might be part Indian.

Pringle drank heavily in spite of his earlier resolution, and as the evening progressed slipped away from the main room. The dance with Miss MacAndrews had been a delight, but was scarcely calculated to calm him down. A too-eager attempt to win over
a pretty little maid ended with her kicking him in the shins, at which point he decided discretion was the better part of valour. A little lost, he stumbled around until he found the library and Williams sitting reading.

‘What have you got there, Bills?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘Not a dancing manual, I trust.’

Williams looked angry for a moment, and then sagged.

‘I suppose they have sent you to find me.’

‘No, I’m just lost.’ He reached over and lifted the book to see that it was the first volume of Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall
. ‘You’ll be a while if you are going to read all of that.’ The distant sound of music came through the open door. It was nearly midnight.

‘We ought to go back, you know. Duty and all that,’ Pringle added after a moment.

‘I made a fool of myself.’

‘Haven’t we all.’ Pringle rubbed his shin. ‘Look, it was nothing. Accidents happen and it could have been a lot worse. My oldest sister once lost half her dress dancing with a sailor. Well, they’re all clumsy as mules when they’re on land. And she married the fellow, so it can’t have been that bad.’ He paused. ‘You obviously don’t have to marry Miss Dawlish, though. Well, I doubt she’d have you.’

‘Should I apologise?’

‘Only if you should meet her. Best not to make a fuss. I dare say she’ll be trying to forget it. Come on, we had better go.’

There was a sense of things drawing to an end by the time they returned. Nevertheless, Miss MacAndrews appeared and insisted on dancing with Williams. ‘Come, sir, you shall not escape my clutches so easily.’

‘I thought . . . I mean that I feared . . .’ he stammered, ‘that you would . . .’ He did not know how to finish. ‘I am not a very good dancer.’ He spoke as if he expected the girl to change her mind even at the last minute.

‘Then it is high time you became proficient,’ said Jane firmly. ‘Come. You do know that you are supposed to lead me?’ Her smile was warm, the mockery gentle. Williams stood tall as he took her arm and led her out on to the floor.

There was little conversation as they danced, although Jane did her best to engage him.

‘Do you not think it has been a delightful evening?’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Williams fervently, but said no more as he concentrated on keeping in step, all the while intoxicated to be so close to the centre of his adoration.

‘The orchestra has been quite good.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I believe Mother has quite worn Father out.’ This time there was no response, as Williams was unsure whether or not to comment on the condition of his commanding officer.

‘Do you find the yellow of Miss Fotheringham’s sash a pleasing shade?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Although perhaps red would suit her complexion better?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Or mud-brown?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Are you aware that she is the Empress of China?’

‘Oh yes.’ Williams looked puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon. I fear the desire to prevent my dancing from disgracing you has made me inattentive.’

That at least was courteous, and Jane decided that it would be difficult to achieve any more than this for the moment. ‘I am quite positive you will not,’ she said, and decided to abandon attempts at further conversation. She smiled at him, and Williams’ heart soared.

Miss MacAndrews did not quite manage to make Mr Williams look competent, but she emerged with both her feet and her gown unscathed, and that was probably the best that could have been hoped for.

It was now almost one o’clock, and this proved to be the last dance of the evening. Carriages had been waiting for some time. If the regiment’s officers had been the hosts then they would no doubt have taken the fairest of their guests ‘hostage’ and insisted on several more dances as ransom for their release. Such
behaviour would have been inappropriate when they were guests of the very respectable Mr Fotheringham. They too left, unsteadily in many cases. Williams, Hanley, Truscott and Pringle walked together to their billet. It was a beautiful night, and Pringle looked up at the stars until his head swam and he began to feel giddy. Truscott needed to support him the rest of the way. The other two trailed behind them.

‘Did you enjoy yourself tonight, Bills?’ asked Hanley, using the nickname for the first time.

‘Oh yes. Indeed yes,’ replied the volunteer earnestly, knowing the world to be a truly wonderful place.

T
here were plenty of sore heads among the officers when the half-battalion marched out an hour after dawn the next morning. As it was June, the dawn came early and a good number of them had not slept at all. Billy Pringle, who had drunk heavily and dozed for just a couple of hours, looked no worse than usual – he rarely showed great enthusiasm for the early morning anyway. Redman looked unnaturally pale and red eyed, and Hanley only a little better. Williams had drunk only two glasses of wine – the most he felt that he cope with for he loathed the taste, but he suffered in order to be polite. He had not slept a wink, too full of the thrill of dancing with Miss MacAndrews. Then his doubts had returned, and he cringed as he remembered how little he had said, knowing that she must have thought him dull and uninteresting, and that she had condescended to be his partner only out of pity.

His spirits revived a little as they marched, and his fatigue vanished as the familiar rhythm of the march took over. The men were in good spirits, and once they were a discreet distance from the village they took a delight in singing cheerfully, beginning with an ironic rendering of ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’. Williams joined in – he was Welsh enough to relish singing – and even sang lustily when the redcoats began to bawl out one of their favourites called ‘Confound our Officers’, sung to a pretty Scots tune. The 106th’s officers were rather fond of this song, and some smiled or even joined in. They were all still walking. After their horses had warmed up, the captains could ride if they chose, although as it turned out most did not. There seemed to
be a feeling that they should share the hardships of their juniors, at least this time.

The 106th camped after six miles, laying out tent lines in a field on an estate owned by one of Lieutenant Colonel Moss’s acquaintances. A letter had arrived that morning from the colonel, informing them that at the end of the week they were to meet up with the left wing and that the whole battalion would then train together for a few more days before marching to Portsmouth. When MacAndrews informed the officers of this they all felt that it confirmed the rumours of a posting overseas. The question was where, and speculation about this filled the next few hours as they rested and had lunch. Somehow – the mechanism of such things was never clear, but was no less real for that – the word had already spread among the redcoats. Williams heard Tout adamantly maintaining that they were off to South Africa or perhaps Egypt, which he seemed to believe was near by. ‘Elephants and blackamoors, I tell ye.’

Opinion among the officers varied. Pringle and Truscott both thought Sweden the most likely, although they argued over whether they would be fighting alongside the Swedes against the Russians, or with the Russians against the Swedes. They were confident, though. Williams remained quiet, but from what he had read in the papers there seemed a similar confusion on the part of His Majesty’s government. Ministers had decided that an expedition to the Baltic offered distinct advantages, and were sure that given time they would be able to think of something for the expedition to do.

‘Moore has been sent with an army. No doubt we are reinforcements,’ asserted Truscott.

‘He’s a good man. One of our best,’ agreed Pringle. Sir John Moore was one of the most respected young generals in the army.

‘My cousin Bunbury speaks most highly of him,’ said Derryck. ‘He is in the Ninety-fifth and trained at Shorncliffe.’ The new style of training introduced by Moore when he commanded at Shorncliffe caas the subject of much speculation. All agreed that the brigade he had trained was among the finest in the
British Army. It consisted of two light infantry battalions and the new Rifle Regiment.

‘The sweeps, what do they know?’ said Redman, using the nickname of the 95th Rifles, earned by their dark green, almost black uniforms.

‘No, it must be Spain.’ This was from Mosley, who was trying with scant success to light a cigar. ‘We’ll go and help the dons throw out the French.’

Hanley pricked up his ears at this. The dreams had come again during his brief sleep; no doubt the thoughts of Mapi were brought on by the dance, for this time the dead girl who haunted his slumbers had had red hair. ‘I should like that. What the French have done to the Spanish deserves punishment.’ Perhaps to fight in Spain would drive away the memory and the nagging sense of guilt.

‘Just being French deserves punishment,’ said Anstey cheerfully. ‘It is our solemn duty to cut them to ribbons. Still, you are all wrong, the wise money is on South America.’

That surprised most of them. The previous year a British expedition had attempted to acquire some of Spain’s territories on that continent. It had started well, but ended in utter humiliation when the army surrendered at Buenos Aires.

‘That is where we are going. To avenge Whitelocke,’ Anstey maintained.

‘They should have shot that coward,’ said Redman.

‘You can borrow my musket if you like,’ offered Williams. Even Redman joined in the smiles. General Whitelocke was a coward and an incompetent who had been condemned by court martial, but simply cashiered. It was not all that long ago that the Navy had shot poor Admiral Byng for much lesser crimes.

Hanley scarcely listened. Since Madrid his hatred of the French Emperor had grown less passionate, but remained strong. He wanted to fight against France, and could think of no better place to do this than in Spain. It beggared belief that his colleagues could talk so lightly of aiding the Spanish at one moment, and then invading Spanish colonies the next. None of it seemed
to matter to them. They seemed perfectly willing to slaughter whichever foreigners their government chose, utterly unconcerned about the reason.

After their rest, the regiment trained hard for the remainder of the afternoon. There were close-order drills by company, and much physical exercise. Hanley found it all so frustratingly dull. As they went once again through the same exercises the prospect of going to war faded back into the distance. Soldiering seemed to consist only of dull and pointless routine. He failed to see how an obsession for neatness and polishing metal and leather till it shone would help to fight the French or any other enemy. The uniformity and the mechanical drills were an attack on all that made men individuals.

Later on, Pringle took the Grenadier Company off to practise skirmishing. This was something MacAndrews had introduced with great enthusiasm. Technically the Light Company were the battalion’s skirmishers, the men who would fight in open order ahead of the main line. Yet in America the lights had often been detached from their regiments. So had the grenadiers, and all troops including the centre companies had been called upon to skirmish. MacAndrews was determined that his men should be trained to do this, for untrained men fought badly in open order.

Pringle kept half the company formed in two ranks as a reserve. The rest spread out in pairs, a few yards apart. Williams kneeled, with loaded musket – h had mimed the action – as Dobson ran to the side and forward, keeping out of his line of fire. Then Dobson was kneeling, loading, and once he brought his musket up to the shoulder he yelled ‘Go!’ and Williams pulled the trigger. It was soft, with no resistance, because he had no intention of wearing out the spring by firing the action for no reason and so had not cocked it. He mouthed the word ‘Bang!’ and sprang to his feet, and this time made it to a low stone wall. That was their objective, and Williams stood behind it while he once again mimed the loading process. He rested his piece between two of the upright stones on the wall when he was finished and shouted for Dobson to join him.

The attack came from the left with one discharge of Lieutenant Truscott’s pistol and a chorus of shouts from his men. These were the sharpshooters, six men picked from each of the other companies as the best shots. The men grinned as they bobbed up from behind the side wall and ambushed the grenadiers.

MacAndrews had not warned Pringle that he had arranged this little surprise. He and Brotherton also appeared to observe the results, and the acting adjutant ran through the open gate and began tapping some of the grenadiers on the shoulder to mark them as casualties.

‘That’s it, you bite the ground, old boy,’ he said cheerfully to Hanley.

‘What?’ replied the puzzled ensign as Brotherton kept on running.

‘Lie down, you’re supposed to be bloody dead!’ called the adjutant over his shoulder.

Altogether five more men of the company were declared casualties. Dobson and Williams were at the end of the line, but the ambush had come from behind and they escaped, but were left exposed.

‘Come on, back we go, Pug!’ Dobson set off at a surprisingly fast run for an old man. Williams hesitated for a moment before following him back towards the new line that Pringle was forming facing the sharpshooters. Brotherton came towards him waving his hand of death. Williams swerved, stumbled, but managed to recover and swung sharp left as he kept running. Brotherton was laughing as he pursued, caught up and at the last minute changed his aim to knock off Williams’ shako.

‘Bills, you rogue, you have cheated death! The pox will just have to take you!’ he yelled as Williams kept running. Truscott fired again, and half his men mimed firing a shot. Brotherton decided to be vindictive and declared Redman to be a victim.

‘Right between the eyes. Don’t worry, in your case that won’t hurt!’

Redman complained as he sat down in the grass, prompting another shout. ‘Lie down, sir. Trust a grenadier not to know when
he’s dead!’ The acting adjutant was clearly relishing his role.

Pringle had committed half of his supports to join the skirmish line. ‘Mr Williams,’ he called, ‘help Sergeant Darrowfield control the skirmishers. You take the left.’

Williams was surprised, but responded immediately. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘Get on with it, then!’ shouted Pringle. ‘Oh, and Mr Williams.’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘You’re out of uniform!’ Williams looked up at where the peak of his shako should have been. Pringle smiled.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ He jogged to the left of the line, looked at Darrowfield and saw him nod.

‘Line will advance. Number One!’ The front rank man of each pair jogged forward fie paces, kneeled and mimed firing. ‘Number Two!’ The rear rank men advanced in their turn.

It did not take long. The sharpshooters were heavily outnumbered and Truscott ordered the withdrawal before the grenadiers had time to work around the flanks of their shorter line. Brotherton allocated them just a single casualty. Williams was standing near the prostrate Hanley when it was declared over. The ensign was lying on his back, staring up at the blue sky and idly chewing a straw.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Williams asked.

‘I am quite comfortable. I may decide to stay dead for a few days.’ The two men exchanged grins. Pringle appeared, and lightly kicked Hanley with his boot, declaring that the dead do not feel anything. ‘Ah, resurrection,’ he added, as Hanley sprang up.

‘Perhaps you mistake me for the gardener,’ he said, rubbing his side. Williams stiffened, his smile instantly gone, but made no comment. Hanley regretted the joke, but had not meant any harm. He almost wished the Welshman would have been more angry, but then there was no time to think as MacAndrews called them all over to him. There was praise for their conduct, interwoven with detailed criticism of mistakes and ending with encouragement. This was typical of the Scotsman’s approach during the next few days. The training was hard, but it was also
imaginative, and simple drills turned into mock battles. On some of the days they marched long distances. For these it was invariably either blazingly hot or pouring with rain. Tout’s conviction that the Regimental Sergeant Major could control the weather grew stronger.

Most of the officers took to gathering in the evenings in a large tent set aside for the purpose. It was known that Lieutenant Colonel Moss had decided that the 106th should form a communal mess, of the type now common in many regiments. The officers and the two volunteers would contribute for their food and other provisions and regularly dine together. It was sociable, but Hanley for one was worried that this would devour almost all of his pay before any other expenses. Williams was even more nervous.

MacAndrews enjoyed the week and the command. Another letter arrived from Lieutenant Colonel Moss, and one from General Lepper, and both stated clearly that they hoped to confirm him as major. It was encouraging, yet long service and countless disappointments made him reluctant to take anything for granted. His wife showed no such reticence.

Mrs MacAndrews and her daughter arrived on the afternoon of the sixth day, riding into camp along with Mrs Mosley and Mrs Kidwell. Williams was standing guard when they arrived and felt Miss MacAndrews looked especially fetching in a russet riding habit. Her mother was spectacular in red, and the pair easily outshone the other ladies, and especially the poor quartermaster’s wife, who did not ride well. Williams presented arms, and directed them to Captain MacAndrews’ tent on the main road of the camp.

‘Thank you so much, Mr Williams.’ The captain’s wife dazzled him with her warm smile. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again. Please give my compliments to the other gentlemen.’ Jane nodded to him, before she tapped her mare with the long whip to catch up with her mother, who had gone straight into a canter.

*

‘I am getting old,’ said Alastair MacAndrews.

‘You were born old,’ replied his wife with scant sympathy. The last half-hour had not supported his statement, but she had never been one for unnecessary flattery with anyone who mattered.