True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (7 page)

‘That is our task. To go to Lisbon, and judge what will happen next. Siniavin will help us, but he is not an imaginative man and he must not know our purpose for his opinion will be worth little. All sailors respect the English fleet too much to understand the weakness of their army.’ When Russia had made peace with France the previous year, the Tsar and his ministers had made many concessions to the French. One was giving up all of their Mediterranean bases. That left the squadron of warships stationed there with a long journey home, unsure whether or not
the Royal Navy would treat them as enemies. Admiral Siniavin was their commander, and he was a cautious man who had put in to the broad mouth of the Tagus and anchored off Lisbon on the pretext of repairing storm damage. He maintained friendly relations with the French there, but kept his distance even though he was an ally. He also ensured his crews were prepared for anything. Denmark had shown how little the British regarded neutrality when there were warships at stake. The three men would join this fleet – their sleeping companion was to replace the captain of one of the ships who had died in an accident.

‘Siniavin is instructed to introduce us to the French leaders, and as many of the Portuguese as possible. The English we will simply have to watch.’

The general coughed again, and, when he had recovered a little, he silently prayed that he would live lg enough to see and to write his report. Denilov would have to carry it back, for he knew that he would not survive to do so. He wished there had been someone else, but the elegant count still had some powerful friends and they had arranged for him to be sent – the rumour was that he was fleeing the creditors who would bankrupt him – and at least now he had shown some trace of love for Mother Russia. The general allowed himself hope. The great hope that cracks were at last about to appear in the upstart empire of Bonaparte, and the smaller hope that Denilov would belie his reputation and serve the Tsar well. Then the coughing began again, and all he knew was the terrible pain.

Denilov looked at the old general as if the man were already dead.

George Moss stayed in London until the middle of June when he received official confirmation that the regiment was to join the expedition. He and Sir Richard watched from the gallery when Parliament decided to support Spain. It now looked as if it would definitely be Spain, and Moss decided that it was time to join the regiment and hurry its preparations. He had got what he wanted, and when he left there was a general sense that London
had become a more restful place. The politicians won less often at cards. The general’s wife wept for a day and a half. The mistress had already grown bored with him so was not greatly concerned and simply returned her main interest to her old protector.

A
lot had happened in the regiment by the time Moss arrived, and the biggest change had come on the day after MacAndrews had taken the Grenadier Company on its march. At eight o’clock sharp on that bright morning, they and the other companies were ordered to parade and witness punishment at a spot half a mile or so outside the village. The muscles in Hanley’s legs ached from unaccustomed use, but at least he had slept well and dreamlessly for the first time in over a week. Williams was by now well used to marching, and as usual had slept like a log. MacAndrews had arranged for hot stew and an issue of rum to be waiting on their arrival and let the men enjoy this before giving them the bad news. It meant several hours cleaning equipment to be fit for parade. All of the men’s boots and gaiters were covered in mud and most also had grime on their white trousers. The order was to parade without packs, so there was less urgency about cleaning greatcoats. Still, the shakos needed attention, as did their belts, which once again needed to be whitened with pipe-clay. There was a good deal of cursing and complaining – about their captain, the army in general, the Regent and the King themselves. Tout even seemed to blame the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Most of the men had had less sleep than they would have liked, but the grenadiers were every bit as smart as the other four companies. Together they formed the right wing of the 106th – in battle, when the entire battalion was present, their station was the right of the line. The left wing, with the remaining four centre companies and the Light Company, was somewhere near
Taunton, and had been for the last two months. At the same time the right wing had gone to Dorchester. Both detachments were supposed to be aiding the civil powers against rumours of organised sedition among millworkers. There were very few mills in the area, and as far as anyone could tell no more than usual discontent among the folk who worked in them, so instead the 106th had paraded and trained, carrying out field exercises with some militia stationed near by and with the local yeomanry. After a few weeks they moved away from the towns and were billeted in villages which offered better scope for trining.

Now the grenadiers and the men of Companies One to Four paraded to watch a flogging. They formed up as three sides of a rectangle. The fourth side was composed of the high brick wall that enclosed the garden of Hanscombe Hall – the Hall itself was almost a mile away and not in sight. The field had been chosen because this was a private matter, to be dealt with within the regiment and not under the gaze of outsiders. Against the wall a tripod made from sergeants’ half-pikes tied together had been erected. The Grenadier Company stood in line at a right angle to the wall, with Number Four Company facing them. The other three companies formed the long side of the box.

Major Hawker spoke for half an hour about honour, glory and damnation to the King’s enemies. MacAndrews let Hawker’s words flow past him. The stocky, red-faced major had always had a sudden and vicious temper. More recently his behaviour had become highly erratic. Mostly he kept to himself, drinking alone in his room – his speech sounded a little slurred even at this time of the morning. Hawker had no family, had never much sought the company of the other officers. It had been the same in the West Indies, where his consumption of wine and spirits had amazed even the hard-drinking planter society. Then the old colonel had taken a very active role in running the day-to-day affairs of the battalion. He was a man who liked the small details of soldiering. The 106th’s second major had not been with them, having secured a comfortable staff appointment in Ireland which kept him well away from such a
dangerous posting. Hawker had been required to do very little, for often the companies were detached individually.

Inactivity seemed to have suited him. Oddly enough, so had the climate, in spite of his hard drinking. Disease had cut as big a swathe through the officers as through the men of the battalion. Almost all the ensigns had died or become so sick that they would not be fit for service for some years, and perhaps never. The lieutenants were nearly as badly affected. Half the captains had died or been forced to sell out and leave the army. Yet Hawker had remained robustly healthy.

It would be wrong to say that MacAndrews actively regretted this. Yet he was the senior captain in the 106th, and had been even before the battalion went to the Indies. When a vacancy for major occurred, whether through death, transfer or promotion, he was the rightful successor to the rank. That was assuming no one purchased over his head. That was the way of the army, and no one could let it become personal. He did not especially like Hawker, and thought he was a bad officer, but the only thing that really mattered was that the major was still there, and most unlikely to be promoted or leave the service.

‘. . . so damnation to the French! Let us slay our enemies again and again!’ Hawker’s voice was always rather high pitched, and in this climax of his speech he became positively shrill. MacAndrews happened to know that the major had never once fought the enemy in all his eighteen years of service. Still, at least he had finally ended his oration. The Regimental Sergeant Major brought the right wing to the present, and then allowed them to rest arms.

The prisoner, Private Scammell, was brought in, wearing loose white fatigue trousers and bare from the waist up. Mr Hughes, the assistant surgeon, certified that he was fit to receive the punishment of four dozen lashes. Then the two guards and a sergeant took him up to the tripod and tied his hands together at its top. The charges were read, and two drummers came forward to inflict the punishment. There were a number of boy drummers in the battalion, but most, like these, were grown men, for
army drums were heavy. Anyway, an experienced sergeant stooside them to ensure that they performed their task properly this morning.

It was the second flogging in a week, the third since the half-battalion had been detached under Hawker’s command, and that was more than had been inflicted in the 106th in the entire year before that. They were not a flogging battalion, preferring other lesser punishments and appeals to a man’s honour. Yet recently the mood had changed, and the major had become far more savage in his punishments. In the previous week he had broken to the ranks Sergeant Reade, also from Number Three Company, and then awarded the man three hundred lashes. His crime was to have been found asleep when supposed to be mounting guard. This was widely believed to have been an honest mistake, for Lieutenant Wickham had not passed on the order, but that officer had failed to speak clearly before Major Hawker. There was still much bitterness over this, kept fresh because Reade had received only one hundred lashes, and was now in the room serving as a hospital, waiting until he had recovered sufficiently to receive the balance of his punishment. A soldier of previously unblemished record, most felt that the shock of losing his rank had shattered him physically before the flogging had begun. The remaining two hundred lashes might easily kill him. The redcoats felt a good man had been unfairly and unnecessarily broken.

There was little sympathy for Scammell. He was known to be a thief, and worse, a thief who would steal from his own comrades, and was a sullen, unpopular man. Even so there was a feeling that the sentence was too harsh, and Mr Wickham had regained a little of his lost reputation by speaking up for the man and asking for leniency. Another man, Thompson, widely held to be even more of a rogue than Scammell and patently guilty, had actually been let off identical charges. The new harshness of Major Hawker’s punishments made the men of the Right Wing nervous. That his decisions seemed so arbitrary and unpredictable was far worse. There was a sense that Scammell had not been treated fairly, which was as close as anyone could come to feeling
sorry for such an unpleasant man. They watched in silence, faces wooden, as the two drummers alternately lashed the man’s back, till the blood ran down and soaked his white trousers. Scammell made not a sound, and that was admired, for strength was respected in anyone.

All but Hanley had seen a flogging before. Not long ago he might have been troubled by the sight, but Madrid had changed that. He had the same odd sense that what he was seeing was not real – the blood and lacerated flesh on the man’s pale back no more than oils cleverly painted on to canvas. Indeed, some paintings had seemed more real to him. Perhaps it was because he did not know the man? Or was it just that he had now seen worse things? It began to bother him that he felt no pity – indeed did not feel anything at all. Williams tried to empty his mind, just like the old soldiers on parade. Simply stand there, not thinking and responding only to the next order. It did not quite work. He accepted that flogging was necessary – was indeed surprised at how readily men like Dobson accepted it – but wished that a better way could be found. Pringle was at the rear of the company, and glad that his view was poor.

‘Forty-eight, and all done, sir!’ bellowed Sergeant Forster, who had been in charge of the punishment detail.

For what seemed like a long time Major Hawker said nothing. His face looked taut, his eyes staring into the distance at nothing. During the punishment he had stood with the acting adjutant and the Regimental Sergeant Major in the centre of the box formed by the half-battalion. He had not watched the flogging, but had instead continually scanned the ranks of the companies, looking at each man in turn. He seemed to be in dcomfort and more than once had rubbed his left arm.

‘Punishment complete, sir,’ said Sergeant Major Fletcher to prompt his commander. Hawker nodded, but said nothing.

‘Remove the prisoner,’ bellowed Fletcher in a voice that must have echoed as far as the village. Mr Hughes rushed forward to staunch Scammell’s wounds while the drummers undid the ropes tying him to the triangle.

‘’Talion will order arms,’ Fletcher continued, his voice seeming to do the impossible and grow in volume. ‘Order . . . Arms!’ The companies went crisply through the three movements. The sound seemed to stir Major Hawker into life.

‘Behold the price of treason!’ he yelled, gesturing wildly at Scammell, who had refused help and was walking stiffly off parade beside Hughes. Hawker did not look at him, but glared at the paraded redcoats, his expression one of intense malevolence. ‘Traitors to their King and revolutionaries must suffer!’ Once again his voice had become shrill. The adjutant was trying to catch the eye of any of the other officers. Even the RSM’s face betrayed traces of surprise.

‘They will suffer the consequences of their evil crimes. This man plotted against his King and has been flogged! Only His Majesty’s clemency prevented the supreme punishment of death.’

The men of the 106th were stunned. A few in the more distant parts of the line even turned their heads to stare at the irate major. There was some muttering. Such was the shock created by his words that it took a long moment before the sergeants standing behind the companies barked out an order to face front and be silent. Major Hawker’s outburst seemed to have come from nowhere, but the noise from the ranks stopped him in mid-flow. His face, already bright red, seemed to glow.

‘Is this mutiny?’ he screamed, his voice so unnaturally high pitched that there was more murmuring.

‘Silence in the ranks!’ boomed Sergeant Major Fletcher.

Hawker turned unsteadily towards the RSM, but his eyes did not seem to focus. His cocked hat dropped from his head into the grass. He turned again so that he faced the Grenadier Company.

‘Traitors everywhere,’ he croaked. ‘You!’ He pointed towards Hanley and Dobson in the front rank of the formation. His arm was waving wildly. The old soldier managed to remain stiffly at attention, but the ensign found himself vaguely gesturing with his right hand and mouthing the word ‘me?’

‘Not you. The rogue lurking at the back. Come out, you scoundrel, you revolutionary. I can see you.’

Williams pushed his way between Hanley and Dobson. He straightened up, then marched as formally as possible five paces forward and came to attention. (He did not quite know why he did it. Later he assumed it must just be the habit of obedience. Billy Pringle suggested that it was the sign of a guilty conscience.)

Hawker was swaying as he stood. His face was now more purple than red. His voice revived to uncanny strength and he delivered his words in almost a screech.

‘Ah, Robinson. I know you, you blackguard. Thought you could escape me, you rogue, you dastard! I’ll have the skin off your back. Captain Smythe, give this man a thousand lashes!’

Smythe lay buried in Jamaica. No one knew any Robinson. Williams stood so rigidly to attention that he found himself quivering. His right leg felt as if it was about to give way. He was trying to stare above the major’s head, but Hawker suddenlurched towards him. The adjutant was coming up behind him. Williams did not see it, but MacAndrews had left his station on the right and a pace ahead of the company’s line and was now marching straight at the major.

Spittle flew from Hawker’s mouth. He almost collapsed when Brotherton the adjutant put his hand on the gold epaulette on his left shoulder.

‘Sir, Mr Williams is a gentleman,’ whispered the acting adjutant. Gentleman volunteers, like the officers they hoped to become, were not subject to corporal punishment.

Hawker had dropped to one knee, shrugging off Brotherton’s grasp, but now he sprang upwards towards the trembling Williams. ‘Goddam it. I’ll kill the son of a bitch myself,’ he yelled, reaching for his sword. Brotherton tried to grab him again, and MacAndrews was almost up to them, also stretching out his arms towards Hawker.

For Williams, time seem to have slowed to a snail’s pace. He saw the major’s eyes roll upwards till all that was visible was the whites, then Hawker simply dropped forward, falling like a sack of flour, even as Brotherton and MacAndrews reached towards him.