True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (14 page)

Moss wondered for a moment whether to launch the charge
now, but knew it was too soon. He turned and walked backwards for a few paces, smiling cheerfully at his men. The second volley came thirty seconds later. The noise was louder now, although not as loud as when using a full charge and a ball. Moss had turned back to face forwards. He raised his sword high. It was time. Rush the enemy so that even if some had reloaded by the time they arrived they would be flustered and not fire in an ordered way. Boldness always paid.

‘Come on, boys,’ he screamed, his voice becoming high pitched in the excitement. ‘Charge!’ The colonel ran on, waving his sword in circles over his head. The redcoats behind him cheered and surged, each individually dropping his musket from his shoulder and grabbing it in both hands. There had been no order to bring the firelocks down into the charge position.

The colonel was the first to reach the small fortification, with the closest of his men five yards behind. The neat line was now very ragged, broken into small clumps and individual running redcoats. Hanley was lagging with the weight of the colour and little Trent was behind him, in spite of the best efforts of the sergeants to keep them together. The men of the attack force were still cheering as Moss jumped lightly down into the ditch in front of the rampart. Muskets went off above him, but he had managed to deny the defenders their organised volley. The ditch was as deep as the wall was high, so that Moss could not reach the top. He tried to scramble up, but the earth was soft and gave under him, causing him to tumble back down. As he scrambled to his feet, cursing, the first men landed down beside him. A hand reached down from the rampart as he tried again. He looked up to see a toothless smile from one of the older soldiers. The man beck to him, and Moss took the proffered aid and let himself be pulled up. He knocked down the turf lying on top of the rampart as he came, staggered and grabbed at the man’s shoulder, yanking hard on the woollen tuft at the fringe of his epaulette. There was something odd about that, but it escaped him at the moment.

Moss barged through the men, looking for Captain Wickham.
He was planning to be complimentary about the defenders in his declaration of the attack’s success. Then the air was shattered by the thunder of a large volley. It came from beyond the redoubt, but men were in the way and Moss could not see what was happening, did not see Major MacAndrews leading his two companies against the attackers’ left flank.

MacAndrews had been waiting with the grenadiers and Number One Company below the crest to the rear of the ridge. Wickham had been left at the redoubt to look conspicuous, but was not in command. His role was to signal as soon as the first man came within ten yards of the ditch. A wave of his cocked hat and MacAndrews began to march his men up and around the attackers’ flank. Thomas, who had hung back in the attack, had watched the neat line of almost two hundred men breast the crest and swing round, wheeling till they were at ninety degrees to the ragged line in and around the ditch. MacAndrews halted them when they were just twenty yards away and fired. In a real action he would then have charged, but a little tact seemed necessary when fighting against your commander. He let the men load and began platoon volleys, a quarter of each company firing in turn, then the section to its right and so on, so that fire rippled along the front.

Moss declared the attack a victory, although a costly one. He paraded the battalion after they had marched back to camp and told them how pleased he was, but his speech was shorter than usual. He told them to be bold, to follow his lead and never give the enemy a moment’s relief. His dented enthusiasm rallied at this, and there was a big cheer when he declared that after fighting against other heroes from the 106th, just facing mere Frenchmen would be child’s play. Inwardly he fumed.

W
illiams whistled as he strolled along the well-shaded lane. The late afternoon sun was strong and hot, and even without pack and belts his woollen jacket was heavy. It was pleasantly cool under the trees that grew on either side of the muddy track and closed over it like a tunnel. He was now a good two miles from the regiment’s camp and as usual there was a thrill in the sense of freedom this brought. There was no need to worry about how to behave, balancing the need to be sociable, but not over familiar, and respectful and enthusiastic in his duties, without appearing sycophantic. Worse still, there was never any privacy. Solitary by nature, and used over the years to spending so much time alone happily reading or dreaming, it was this he found most difficult. That made these occasional walks in his off-duty moments all the more precious. It was simply a relief to be away from pipe-clay and shouted orders, from tobacco smoke and constant talk.

As usual Williams found himself thinking of Miss MacAndrews. He knew that she was beautiful, and yet still found it hard to picture her face clearly in his mind. If only he had a likeness, and perhaps a lock of her red hair to keep with it and wear around his neck. The married officers had taken quarters in the small town near the camp, and Williams had seen the girl only twice in the last week. Admittedly the colonel had kept them all busy and his enthusiasm for them all spending as much time as possible in the mess had prevented most evening strolls and with them the hope of a chance meeting. This evening, however, Moss was attending a dinner at a house some miles away and so attendance in the
mess was less important. The mood among the officers was also a little strange and there was a general sense that it would not be an especially convivial evening. Several others planned to be absent.

Williams had enjoyed this morning’s mock battle. It had been exciting doing more than simply manoeuvring for the sake of practice. The ambush of the flanking force had gone perfectly, and it was especially satisfying for the grenadiers to surprise and overwhelm the light bobs who were always so apt to swagger. Then came the rapid march back to the defences, MacAndrews driving the men hard. Number One Company was determined not to be outdone by the grenadiers and so both moved quickly. He could feel a sense of excitement as the men took to the idea of proving themselves better than the rest of the battalion. The waiting had been harder, once they were in position behind the ridge. MacAndrews had let them sit, but it was difficult not knowing what was happening. Then they heard the defenders of the redoubt fire their first volley and knew that the attack had started. Ordered to their feet, they had still not begun their own advance for what seemed like an age, until Wickham waved his hat as a signal.

The defenders knew that they had won, and Williams suspected that they would make this clear to the men from the other companies at the first opportunity, whatever the colonel’s judgement. The mock battle had anyway become just a little more real around the redoubt, resulting in a good few bruises and the odd black eye. Williams admired the way MacAndrews had out-thought the enemy, even if it was a little disconcerting since that enemy was their own commanding officer. It had also been reassuring for the company to be led by Pringle. Captain Wickham was a fine gentleman, and yet there was a vagueness about his manner that was just a little unsettling in a commander. MacAndrews always had been – and still was – so definite and precise in his instructions.

Sadly, it seemed as if the last days of training would be spent in more familiar drills. Williams knew that most of the officers in the attacking force wished for another opportunity and were convinced that they would do far better next time. The
lights in particular wanted a chance to outwit the clodhopping grenadiers. Moss had announced, however, that there would be no more mock fights. There were whispers that he was angry with the officers of the attacking force for letting him down, and the defenders for doing too well. Williams hoped that was just malicious gossip, and still admired the colonel, although a small part of him wondered whether he might be a little too rash. Of the two, MacAndrews seemed to possess a surer hand, even if he lacked the colonel’s flamboyance and charisma.

Williams left the track and climbed over a stile. A path led over a low hill and then down through a little patch of woodland to the river. Ten minutes later he was swimming lazily in the gentle current, enjoying the coolness of the water around him. His uniform was carefully folded and piled on a fallen tree trunk. This was luxury and relaxation, and even a huge sense of freedom. Worries about tensions within the battalion faded as he enjoyed the moment. He ducked his head under the chilly water and swam beneath the surface.

‘The tone of this place has really fallen of late,’ said a voice as Williams burst back up. The sneering tone was familiar, but for a moment he could not see who it was.

‘Yes, full of bloody peasants,’ agreed another voice. That was Hatch, which meant that the other was Redman. The spot was well known and often used by the 106th’s officersbut even so Williams had hoped for some peace.

‘Go to the devil, both of you,’ yelled Williams, slightly surprised at his own vehemence.

‘Oh, doesn’t he know some bad words, Redman,’ said Hatch.

‘Well, he mixes with common soldiers, Hatch.’

‘Look, can’t you leave me in peace. It was so agreeable until you turned up,’ tried Williams in a softer tone.

‘So, he doesn’t want our company. Not good enough for him, I suppose,’ said Hatch. ‘Not agreeable indeed. He’s been reading books. Well, we will leave His Grace to his ablutions.’

‘Anyway, we had better move upstream where the water is clearer,’ said Redman. There was female laughter at this. Williams
had now cleared the water from his eyes and turned towards the bank. Redman stood by the tree trunk, his arm around the waist of young Jenny Dobson. His other hand prodded Williams’ clothes with a stick. Hatch was behind them, holding the reins of a pair of horses.

‘Jenny, does your father know you are here?’ asked Williams, realising as he spoke how fatuous it must sound.

She looked a bit sheepish, but then rallied. ‘I’m a woman now, Mr Williams, and go where I choose.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. Her face was a little thin, but had a gentle prettiness about it, perhaps even beauty, and this was well set off by her thick brown curls.

‘That’s true enough for anyone to see.’ Redman dropped the stick and reached round to undo the lace at the front of the girl’s blouse. He struggled for a moment. Jenny looked a little shocked, but then used her own hand to help him. The tie undone, the young ensign pulled the top down and began to fondle the girl’s left breast. ‘And she knows how well gentlemen will treat her. A lady, is our Jenny.’

Williams was shocked, a little ashamed, but did not manage to look away. He was a quite glad that he was shoulder deep in water. It was only when Jenny Dobson moved to push Redman’s hand away and refasten her blouse that Williams himself managed to shift his gaze down.

‘You should go home, Jenny,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘You parents will be worried. Best to stop now before you make a mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake.’ Redman was now stroking the girl’s cheek. ‘We’ll look after her and all have a pleasant time.’

‘Go home, Jenny,’ repeated Williams. He started to swim towards the bank. Hatch had already mounted.

‘Mind your own business and don’t pretend to understand the ways of gentlemen.’ Redman’s voice was dripping with contempt. He put his hands round Jenny’s waist and lifted her up. Hatch took her arms and pulled the girl on to the horse behind him. She did not resist, but Williams noticed that she would no longer look at him. Redman then mounted.

‘Let me take you home, Jenny,’ implored Williams.

‘Goddam it, stop interfering, you Welsh prick!’ screamed Redman. Hatch rode away with the girl. Redman walked his horse over to the trunk, and reached down to grab the pile of clothes. Williams’ shirt fell away, but the ensign galloped off hallooing and waving his jacket and trousers in his hand. They were fifty yards away by the time Williams scrambled up on to the bank. Their scorn for him did not matter, but to be leading Dobson’s daughter astray brought on a cold rage. He could not catch them now, but he could at least follow them, and maybe bring the girl away bshe was disgraced. The two young officers were more than a little drunk and so there just might be time.

Williams pulled the shirt on to his wet skin. It was long and fell to the middle of his thighs and would almost be decent if it were not that the dampness made it more than a little transparent. The same was true of his drawers, which he had worn while swimming. He pulled on his boots, and was glad that he had not worn the long black gaiters when he went walking in his fatigue trousers. He lifted his shako up from the ground and put it on his head. It was easier than carrying the thing. Then, in shirt-tails, boots and hat, the gentleman volunteer went off on a quest to preserve a maiden’s honour, in spite of herself.

On reflection it was probably a bad choice to cut through the woodland in the hope of getting ahead of the riders following the towpath. Tactically it made sense. The river curved in a great loop before it came to the next spot where the bank was gentle and a little beach favoured bathing or indeed other activities. Practically, the route was overgrown, and at times he had to force his way through. Williams reflected that at least knights errant had their armour to protect against brambles and nettles instead of just bare legs. He was not sure just what he was going to do if he caught up, and hoped that an idea would come to him. If Jenny refused to leave then he could not force her, and he doubted that he could shame the two ensigns into letting her go.

After a few minutes, Williams started to wonder whether he was losing his way. He pressed on, knowing that the woods were
not large and that he should strike the path at some point if he kept going. A little later he saw the ground rise slightly, and realised that he must have gone too far to the left. He veered the other way and finally came to where the trees were thinner. The path was near and suddenly he heard hoof-beats. There was a rocky outcrop crowned by a long-rooted elm just where the path turned away from the riverbank. Williams had just enough time to get into its shelter. There was excitement that he had beaten them and would have surprise on his side. He waited, readying himself to leap, and when the sound of a trotting horse came so close that it must be at the bend itself, Williams sprang out. He was shouting, with his shako in one hand as he waved his arms and placed himself in the middle of the path.

Jane MacAndrews screamed. Her horse reared and she struggled to keep her balance and rein the mare in. Williams gaped in astonishment, then just managed to jump backwards and avoid the animal’s front hoofs as they thrashed against the air. Jane lost her hat, and her red hair came unpinned and flew around her face. A good rider, she had ridden this grey only once before and knew her to be skittish. She felt herself slipping, her weight shifting backwards and to the left and her knee coming off the support of the side saddle. The mare was now turning in close circles. Dimly she recognised that it was Mr Williams who now seemed to be running round and flapping his arms in half-hearted preparation to catch her or give support. The idiot plainly knew little about horses and was only making the beast more nervous.

The mare reared again, and Jane lost her balance altogether and felt herself falling backwards. The horse cantered away back down the path. For a moment the girl fell, then she struck Williams, knocking him down and landing on top of him. Jane was a little dazed, and Hamish winded and at first unable to speak. There was silence for a while.

‘Well, I trust your intentions are honourable,’ said the girl. She was staring up at the blue sky, her back resting on the body of the volunteer. One hand reached down and touched bare skin,
but she did not feel real alarm and certainly kept any trace of this out of her voice.

Her hair was in Williams’ mouth and brushing over his face. It felt quite wonderfully soft, and he had to cough before he could speak, although what came out was still barely coherent.

‘I . . . of course, of course. Must apologise . . . Have behaved abominably . . .’

‘Do you make a habit of jumping out on poor innocent girls whenever they go riding? And apparently half naked as well.’

‘It’s all a mistake,’ Williams blurted out, sounding rather like a child caught in the midst of some prank and hoping to escape punishment. ‘I thought you were Redman and Hatch.’

‘Then I shall modify the question. Do you make a habit of wandering about half naked and jumping out on your fellow officers?’ Williams could hear the amusement in her voice and suddenly was himself laughing. Jane joined in, and for a while they both simply laughed at the ridiculous situation. Williams laughed until he could hardly breathe.

‘Mr Williams, I am quite safe and unharmed,’ said Jane eventually. ‘You can let go of me!’

Hamish realised that his right hand had slipped around the girl’s slender waist. His left rested on her skirt and could dimly feel her thigh beneath.

‘I am so very sorry,’ he said nervously, through another mouthful of wispy red hair. ‘I did not realise.’

The girl rolled off him and knelt up on her hands. She smiled as she looked at the discomforted Williams.

‘Mama called you a Viking. I do not think that is adequate. You are clearly a satyr.’ The volunteer babbled more incoherent apologies and claims that she had misunderstood. Jane stood up, taking care not to tread on the skirt of her russet riding habit. Then she very pointedly looked up at the sky.