True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (34 page)

‘Am I interrupting?’ The voice was the one that filled his dreams. Williams sprang to his feet, turning as he did so, brushing against Jane MacAndrews, who had been leaning to look over his shoulder. She stepped back in surprise, steadied herself, and then smiled.

Williams was overwhelmed by her beauty. Her face seemed so fresh, her eyes so bright, and that striking red hair mutinously strayed from under the broad-brimmed straw hat she wore. A ribbon bound the brim close to her face to guard her white skin against the power of the sun’s rays. He recognised the russet riding habit she had worn in England and that time by the river. The apology decayed to murmurs and then collapsed into silence. Williams just looked at her, struggling to find the courage to speak. His resolution of the early morning, that he would tell her how he felt or at least how highly he esteemed her, battled with his shyness and lost.

Jane was a little puzzled and eventually decided that this conversation would require considerably more effort. ‘Well, I must say I am surprised. I had expected to find you at least a captain by now!’ She laughed and Williams laughed easily with her. There was no malice in the joke, and he thrilled because her tone conveyed genuine affection. Jane MacAndrews smiled again. In spite of his freckles and peeling skin she thought him not ill favoured in appearance and bearing.

‘Still just a humble volunteer.’ He was tempted to tell her of his refusal of a commission, something which he had not even spoken to his friends about. Instead he let his curiosity triumph. ‘Has your father said anything?’

Jane made a face. ‘Father has said nothing to me at all save for a brief hello and an even briefer kiss. Mother has not had much more luck with him. Did you know he gave up his tent to us and slept outside rolled in a blanket?’

Williams shook his head. ‘I would guess that he felt obliged to share the fortunes of the men. I am sure he must be pleased to see you both.’

‘Hmm, perhaps. He is probably a little angry as well. I don’t believe he thought Mama and I would be able to make our own way out to Portugal.’

‘He commands the battalion. He has to appear strict, but I am sure deep down he is glad that you have come.’ Williams took a deep breath. ‘I know that I am.’

‘Mama will be pleased,’ said Jane mischievously. ‘She likes to be welcomed.’

‘I . . . that is, I did not . . . of course, a fine lady.’ The girl struggled to keep her face impassive as Williams babbled nervously. Even at nineteen she felt so much older and wiser than these young boys. ‘That was not my meaning. Miss MacAndrews, I . . .’ He coughed and struggled on so that Jane almost felt a little cruel. Almost. ‘Miss MacAndrews, forgive my bluntness, but you are . . .’ Williams floundered.

‘Ah, here is Mr Hanley, with my fine steed.’ Jane was rather relieved at the distraction. She had hoped that their earlier moments of intimacy and friendship would by now have allowed Williams to overcome his shyness. Yet once again he was nervously inarticulate in her presence, and she was beginning to find this slightly annoying. ‘I have not ridden a donkey since I was a child. Mama insists on calling hers an ass, and then pretends not to understand.

‘It is good to see you, Mr Williams. Now, would you favour me with a lift, for that is quite beyond poor Hanley at the moment.’

It took a moment for Williams to understand her meaning, and then he leaned forward and cupped his hand. The girl’s brown leather boot seemed light and delicate in his hand. In truth she needed only the slightest of lifts, and no doubt could have managed without assistance.

‘Good day to you both,’ she said, and with a flick of her crop headed away. ‘I wish you good fortune and pray for your safety.’ The two men watched the girl go. She looked so out of place surrounded by an army and yet exuded utter confidence.

‘So did you tell her?’ asked Hanley.

‘Tell her what?’

Hanley looked at his friend. ‘Well, you know best.’

Williams thought for a moment. ‘Are my feelings that obvious?’

‘Oh no, a blind and deaf man might not notice.’

Williams sighed. ‘I managed tell her that she is.’

‘Is what?’

‘I did not get that far.’

‘Well, she is, and there’s no doubt of that.’

Hanley had not spoken much of his past life, but Williams had guessed a lot. ‘You are more experienced in these things. I do not really know and haven’t felt . . . Well, I have never felt like this. Do you understand ladies?’

‘Understand women!’ Hanley could not help laughing. ‘I doubt there is a man alive who really does that. There is only one consolation. They don’t understand us either.’

There was a ripple of noise along the ridge. Men pointed away to the south-east, shading their eyes with their hands to look into the sunlight. Excited conversations broke out. Williams and Hanley followed their gaze. There was a thick cloud of dust above the horizon, the sort thrown up by thousands of marching feet and the iron-rimmed wheels of heavy guns and wagons. The French were coming.

T
he second dust cloud was quite distinct through the magnification of the glass. I
t was low and thick, which meant infantry and guns. Horsemen threw up a higher, thinner cloud. A force of cavalry alone would be little more than a diversion, but the second column suggested real power and had to be taken more seriously. Sir Arthur Wellesley snapped his glass shut. The nearest French column was doing precisely what he had expected and would most likely strike at or near the village of Vimeiro. Most of his army was positioned to meet just such an attack, or on the ridge to the west of the village which protected the bay. The second French column – with perhaps half of Junot’s army – was swinging round to threaten the British left. Only a single brigade was posted to meet such a threat. That would not be enough, but there was no threat at all to his right wing and the troops already in the centre should be adequate to hold it. That meant he could shift brigades from his right over to the left.

Beckoning to his staff, the British general began to issue orders. Only one brigade would remain to hold the western ridge and the other three were ordered to march behind the village and follow the valley to the north-east, strengthening his left. With so many orders going out at once, Captain Wickham was given the task of taking instructions to Brigadier General Nightingall’s brigade. They were not far away, for Wellesley and his staff had been observing the progress of the enemy from the highest point of the ridge. Still, it was pleasant to be given something to do, and even more satisfying that the duty would take him back to his own brigade.

Wickham’s surprise at his transfer to General Burrard’s staff had been brief. After all, such distinction was only his due. The meeting with Colonel Fitzwilliam had been awkward, but similarly short. The colonel – he was really only a captain like Wickham himself, but Guards officers possessed army rank much higher than their regimental responsibilities – had always been grudging in his duties towards him. Still, today he had been polite enough and had complimented Wickham on his service in the previous action and asked solicitously about his wound. He had even handed over a letter from his wife, on whom the colonel had called before embarking. That gave pause for thought. Lydia was warm-natured, and might all too easily be taken advantage of by a smooth hypocrite like Fitzwilliam. Probably the man had behaved like the pompous prig he was. Probably. He would have to read the letter carefullynt>

The order was soon delivered, and Nightingall’s ADCs carried instructions to the 82nd and 106th as well as the other detachments with the brigade. Wickham rode his horse back at a gentle pace, justifying this because he had only the one bay mare and did not want to tire the beast out at the start of what might be a long day. Had he known of this appointment he would have bought a second horse from among those whose owners had fallen. Still, perhaps today would offer more opportunities in that respect. He could not resist passing his own battalion on the way.

‘Morning, Billy,’ he called out to Pringle. ‘Morning, boys.’ Wickham’s smile was warm as he gave a leisurely wave to the Grenadier Company.

‘What is it like living in such exalted circles?’ asked Pringle.

‘Oh, endless work.’ In fact Wickham had so far done little, other than engage in light conversation with several of the other aides. He was good at being pleasant. Indeed, he could not help feeling that his elevation was not only deserved, but overdue. After all, he was an experienced officer, with years of service in the militia before he had transferred to the 106th. Had those who should have promoted his interests done so with proper zeal, he would long since have been well on the path to distinction
and higher rank. As ever, jealousy and spite had held him back.

Pringle looked up at his company commander and wondered. His speech was sharp and there was no sign that he had been drinking. In fact, he already had the assurance and arrogance of so many young staff officers. ‘What is going on?’ he asked.

‘The Frogs are coming. Two big columns, so I imagine there will be some hot work before the day is out.’ Wickham was speaking loudly, and almost shouted as he added, ‘Still, nothing my boys can’t handle. Give them hell, lads!’ He dug his heels into his little mare and urged her off. ‘Back to work!’ he called cheerfully over his shoulder as he rode away. There were some smiles among the grenadiers, but no wild enthusiasm. The captain had left them, and for the moment was out of the small world of the company. Wickham raised his crop to Williams as he passed. The volunteer nodded curtly in return. Miserable little bugger, thought Wickham, who had no clear memory of the battle a few days before.

The 106th formed into column behind the 82nd. Other brigades had to move off before them and it was a good half-hour before they began the march down off the ridge. A group of women were waiting for them as they came towards the bottom of the slope. Most were soldiers’ wives with their children. Mrs and Miss MacAndrews were also there, and had indeed arranged for the other women to stand as a group and see off their men. Jane was holding a baby in her arms, leaving its mother free to deal with her three other offspring.

The group cheered the battalion as it passed, Major MacAndrews riding at its head. A touch of one finger to his cocked hat was the only acknowledgement of his wife’s vigorous waving. Seeing this, Esther ostentatiously blew him a kiss and the men of the Grenadier Company who led the column sent up a great cheer of their own. Williams was on the far side of the rank, but just glimpsed Jane making the baby’s hand give little waves. Pringle bowed to her. When Four Company passed, Truscott did even better and left the formation to give a small bunch of wild flowers to the girl. Jane stopped working
the baby’s little arm and took them with her free hand. She smiled and curtsied and the passing soldiers raised another happy shout. When Truscott had gone back, Jane leaned over and gave the flowers to a small girl in a ragged dress. The child looked utterly thrilled at the gift. before

It was a strange way to march to battle. MacAndrews forced himself not to look as they passed, still more not to look back. He had spoken to Esther for a short while the previous night, and had even fewer words with Jane. It was a thrill to see them again, even if he had not wanted them to come and still feared for them. At the very least they would see things which no lady should have to see. He had to hope that nothing worse would happen. His wife had solemnly promised to keep far away from the fighting and not allow curiosity to get the better of them. She would probably keep her word, but that was not to say that something unexpected might happen. There were a handful of other officers’ wives with the army, although he doubted that there was another single, respectable young lady here.

Esther had explained how they had gone to Harwich soon after the 106th had embarked, having already written to Brigadier General Acland. MacAndrews had forgotten, or perhaps had never known, but Esther had helped nurse back to life a cousin of the general while they were in the West Indies, and called in a favour.

‘And of course, I worked my charm,’ she had added complacently. ‘So did Jane. How could they possibly have refused to help two poor ladies? They are supposed to be gentlemen, after all.’

MacAndrews had tried to be discreet, but the battalion was a small place and as close as a family and he knew that word would soon spread. Only briefly had he wondered whether he would be thought a fool for giving up the tent to his wife and daughter and sleeping outside himself. It had been the right thing to do, and he had never bothered too much about the opinions of others. He could not be seen as acting commander to enjoy privileges and comforts denied to so many. None of the ordinary soldiers’ wives had been able to call in a favour from a general if they had lost
in the ballot for permission to come. There was also a superstitious part of him that warned against being too happy the night before a battle, lest fate decide to exact a payment. He was no more or less afraid than before any other battle, but this minor self-sacrifice oddly made him feel better.

The battalion marched on. From their position still several miles away Junot, Thiebault and Delaborde saw the dust thrown up by marching feet and knew that the British were altering their deployment to meet Brenier’s men marching around the flank. A messenger went to the rearmost brigade of Loison’s division and sent them to reinforce Brenier’s attack. They were ordered to press on as fast as they could to catch up. The attack could then be made by two brigades – equivalent to a division, but not a real division, thought Delaborde ruefully. Even so, it should be able to punch through anything the English could offer.

Wickham found the pace set by General Wellesley gruelling and knew that his poor mare was getting tired. He was now annoyed that Fitzwilliam had not taken him back to the beach when he went. Instead he was to stay and so be ready to report more fully to Sir Harry when he landed. After ordering the brigades to march to the left, Wellesley had gone gingerly down the forward slope of the ridge to check on the positions around the village. Once off the hard going, he set off at a canter, and was soon through the cluster of whitewashed houses around the village church and among the olive groves and dry-stone enclosures of the hill beyond it. Everything had seemed in order with the two brigades posted there. A third formation provided support behind the village. Then Wellesley had sped off along the track behind the eastern ridges. He had personally taken the brigade commanders and shown them where he wished them to form to protect the left. That done, and the first battalions already moving into place, thetaff had hastened back to Vimeiro itself.

It was now mid-morning, and sporadic gunfire announced that the French were in contact with the army’s outlying pickets. Wickham lagged behind as the general and his staff rode back down the valley. His mare was struggling, its sides flecked with
a foam of sweat. No one seemed concerned. As yet there had been no more sign of Fitzwilliam, let alone of General Burrard. Damn Fitzwilliam. He knew what a staff officer’s duties meant and could at least have loaned him another horse. Wellesley and his senior staff had already changed mounts once today, while the junior aides were all mounted on expensive and well-cared-for thoroughbreds. As a mere captain of a line regiment, who was starved of funds by the jealousy of others, he had not been able to afford anything better, and anyway the only horses for sale were those whose owners had died in the first battle.

Wickham lost sight of the main group when they went through the narrow streets of the village. He must have made a wrong turn, for he came out along a dirt track between two low houses with sloping, red-tiled roofs. The church, surrounded by a high-walled graveyard, was to his right. He kept going, thinking that he could cut over in that direction and catch up. His mare could now manage not much more than a brisk walk and he did not want to tire her even more by going back. It was the longest he had spent in the saddle for many weeks, and although he had enjoyed it, he could also feel aches beginning to develop.

The track swung round towards the churchyard and Wickham followed it. The firing had become heavier. He tried to spot the general and his staff, but it was hard to see much as the hillside rising up in front of the village was covered in vineyards. There were soldiers from the 43rd Foot in the churchyard, knocking loopholes in the walls. They were a light infantry regiment, and reckoned – not least by themselves – as one of the finest battalions in the army. They had white facings and every man wore shoulder wings and had a green plume on his shako, while their badges were shaped liked hunting horns. The men looked fit and confident, their officers brimming with swagger. Wickham had wanted to join one of the light infantry regiments, but had been thwarted by the refusal of his ‘friends’ to aid him in purchasing such an expensive commission. He hailed a captain supervising the work.

‘Mornin’. Getting warm, I fancy.’

‘Deuced warm. Though not as warm as the reception we’ll give Johnny Crapaud if he comes this way.’ The captain had a long, horse-like face, his thin lips drawn back to reveal teeth stained heavily from smoking. ‘Any orders for us?’

‘No, I am looking for Sir Arthur’s staff.’ Wickham enjoyed the implication that he was on first-name terms with the general. ‘Have you seen them?’

The captain shook his head. ‘I’d try up the hill. The firing is getting heavier and I suspect he’s the sort of man to stay close. Good luck to you!’

‘And good hunting to you too,’ said Wickham, walking his weary horse onwards. There was a strange noise now over the firing. An odd sort of rumbling, followed by rhythmic shouting. He could not catch the words, but it was unlike anything he had ever heard before. He threaded his way slowly through the gardens and rows of vines on the slope. It was still hard to see anything, although now and again he glimpsed lines of redcoats. A green-jacketed rifleman from the 60th Rifles limped past him, his left leg clumsily bandaged. Wickham asked the man what was happening, but the man just shook his head. Most of the 60th
were Germans – belying their official name of the Royal American Regiment and many of these spoke little or no English. In truth Wickham sometimes struggled with the accents of some of his own soldiers in the 106th.

The rumbling noise and the chanting were coming closer. Then cannon boomed out their deep-throated challenge. A few moments later there was a sound like rolling thunder as a battalion volley echoed down the slope. Then there were three cheers – three distinct and very British cheers, which turned into wild cries. Wickham could see nothing, but the chanting had stopped. He came through the gate of a vineyard and could at last see clear up the slope. A line of redcoats was surging up towards the crest of the hill. Their formation was ragged as they rushed forward through a thinning cloud of smoke. In the centre their colours fluttered with the motion. A Union flag, and another with a red cross on a black field. That meant black facings so it must be the ‘dirty
half-hundred’, or the 50th Foot to give them their formal title. The dye from the black cuffs on their jackets tended to run in the rain, making the men’s hands, and anything they touched, black.