Whose Business Is to Die (13 page)

Pringle sighed. ‘About two more minutes I should think. Then I shall have to tell friend Truscott that I nearly managed to lose his brother.’

‘Billy,’ Williams began, and hesitated. ‘Is the major well,’ he said after a moment, ‘and his family?’

‘Pringle, you are a numbskull!’ His friend started patting his jacket. ‘Now where did I put it.’ Eventually he found what he wanted in a waistcoat pocket. ‘They are all well, so far as I know, but I have correspondence. A letter from your sister and another from a certain lady.’

Williams felt his heart quicken, excitement and fear both rising, and it took an effort not to snatch the letters.

‘Thank you,’ he said, marshalling himself. ‘Has my sister also written to you?’ Williams was aware that the pair corresponded, although he remained unsure what significance to attach to this. It might be no more than friendship and gratitude on Anne’s part, since Pringle had fought a duel to defend the reputation of his second sister, putting a ball through a young cavalry officer who had abandoned her and helping to arrange their subsequent marriage.

‘She has, and so I am happy to tell you that your family are all in good health. Mrs Garland’s infant caught a chill some time ago, but has been nursed back to health.’ Williams suspected more by Anne’s hands than those of the child’s mother, but this might have been unfair. ‘In all other respects they have passed a pleasant enough winter.’

Pringle took off his glasses and polished the lenses with the fringe of his crimson sash. It was a familiar ritual, one he never cared to have interrupted, and so Williams did not speak. The pontoon was almost across, and soon he would have to go. He was still holding the letters, and so used this opportunity to put them into his sabretache – the waterproof case fixed to the scabbard of his sword. All cavalrymen carried them, but as
a staff officer he also found it useful and had acquired one. He wondered what Miss MacAndrews had written, dreading the final destruction of his hopes. Hanley had told him that he had more prize money to come, several times greater than the award he had already received. It was not true wealth, his friend had warned, but still a sum of several thousand.

Williams had never possessed so much in his life – that was assuming his friend was correct, and Hanley usually knew about such things. Not a fortune, then, certainly not on the scale of Miss MacAndrews’ let alone that of a nabob, but if not quite her equal it would have made it possible for him to seek her hand without disgrace. It was a bitter irony for this to have happened when it must surely be too late.

Pringle coughed. ‘My dear fellow,’ he began, ‘there is something …’ They were interrupted by a screech. Sam Truscott was hopping about, one boot on and the other half off, yelling in horror. Men laughed as he passed, and then dodged when he flung the loose boot away. Something green-brown in colour leapt from it. Captain Truscott was on the newly arrived pontoon, leading his company off, and his face was grim as he stared at his younger brother.

‘Who would have a brother,’ Pringle said.

‘I dearly wish that you did not,’ Williams said under his breath, although he feared that his friend caught either the words or the sense. ‘I had best be off,’ he added out loud, ashamed of himself, and walked over to unhitch Francesca’s reins. He led the mare towards the pontoon. ‘Steady, lass, steady,’ he whispered to the horse as she shied a little at the sight of the wooden ramp propped against the boat. He and Truscott exchanged pleasantries, although he could tell that all the time the captain was really watching young Sam.

‘Visit us again soon, Bills,’ Pringle called, his voice no longer serious. ‘It is well known that staff officers never have anything useful to do!’

Williams coaxed the mare into the pontoon. The only other person going back across the river was a commissary, a
sallow-faced little man with prominent yellow front teeth, who gabbled away for the entire trip, barely pausing for breath. Williams made appropriate noises, but paid no real attention. If on his own he might have been tempted to read the letter – and that from his sister as well in due course, but he could not pretend that this absorbed his thoughts. It was not something to be done in company, for he feared its contents and his own reaction. Instead he tried to think on other matters.

‘Do you know how quickly an army eats up stores of food, sir?’ The question broke through his musings by its sheer volume. For just a moment the commissary looked abashed.

‘I understand it to be very swift,’ Williams said. He wondered whether the man judged him to be fresh in the country from the newness and quality of his jacket. Staff officers were so often friends brought out fresh from England with little knowledge of the country or of war.

‘You are most correct, my dear sir, and so is it to be helped if there is not always sufficient when many thousands of soldiers arrive at short notice? Why, a man can only do so much if he is not informed, and is it my fault if some then go without …’

Williams suspected that the man was preparing his excuses for higher authority. No doubt he had made some error – gross even by the low standards of commissaries – but it did not appear to affect his own brigade and so he once again tried to ignore the flow. The army was bigger these days, there was no doubt about it. With two British divisions and one of Portuguese along with the cavalry, Marshal Beresford commanded more men than had fought under Sir Arthur Wellesley at Vimeiro, and almost as many as the British had fielded at Talavera. Yet this was only a part, and the smaller part, of the army, and the same Sir Arthur was now Lord Wellington, and led another six divisions further north, watching Marshal Masséna. The war was becoming less intimate, and there were far more officers and whole corps that Williams simply did not know, even by sight or reputation.

*

The sun was low in the sky by the time Williams recrossed the river, having waited for forty minutes until room was found for him. The 106th and their brigade had gone when he reached the far bank, in a pontoon filled with Portuguese infantry. He came without the missing mules and their drivers and escort, who seemed to have crossed during the afternoon while he was looking for them at the brigade’s former campsite. Williams did not understand how he had passed them, but there was no longer any doubt about it, and he found them already on the east bank and half a mile from the crossing. Telling the sergeant in charge to wait there because he would send back for them, Williams rode on to find the brigade.

They were not where they were supposed to be, but a brigade of KGL guns was there, watering its horses and settling down for the night. They had arrived only an hour ago, but the German captain thought that the infantry had been moved further down the road.

Ja, the first brigade. If not there, then they have gone to the left.’

That was the opposite direction and seemed unlikely. Francesca was tired, so he kept her to a walk as he followed the road. There was no sign of anyone else. Half the army, perhaps more, were across the river, and yet here he was riding past fields that seemed to be empty. As the sun set he saw the roofs of a village a quarter of a mile away. That must be Villa Real, where the marshal and his staff were, but he had no desire to ride in there and ask where his own brigade was – not unless he had to. Williams was glad that he had left the sergeant and the mule train behind. It was bad enough wandering about on his own, but at least he was not dragging unwilling pack animals and drivers with him.

Williams rode on, and wondered what was in the letter, for he had been in company or moving all day, and there had been no opportunity to read it. He tried to force the thoughts down. He was riding in the dark and seemed to have lost the army. Williams could not afford to let his concentration wander. By now he must be near the outposts of the army. Perhaps Colborne’s
brigade had been given this task, and perhaps not, but someone would be out here watching the French. Men got nervous at night, especially when the enemy were near. It was eleven days since the charge at Campo Major and the French had been unusually quiet. The slow crossing had meant that for the first day less than a third of the army was stranded on its own on the east bank. They were vulnerable, outnumbered by the French and with nowhere to run if driven back. It was a risk, perhaps even a mistake, and yet either the French did not realise what was happening or they chose not to act. That did not mean that they would remain idle for ever.

Francesca stopped and sniffed the air. Her ears twitched and she arched her neck, stepping back, and then turning when he tried to calm her. Williams scanned the fields around them, silvered by the light of the moon and stars. He caught the faint smell of wood smoke and, listening, heard soft voices on the air.

Williams nudged the mare on, cutting away from the track in the direction of the sound and smell. They splashed through a little stream, and then he saw a darker patch against the night. Closer he saw the outline of a wood, the red glint of fires coming from beyond it. He checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard, and went on carefully. No one challenged him, and he saw no signs of sentries or pickets. He stopped, waited for his breathing to steady, and listened again. The voices were stronger, and he heard someone roar with laughter. He could not catch the words, but struggled to believe that he could have ridden through his own army and ended up in the enemy lines. Williams patted the mare on the neck and they walked on.

‘Clumsy sod, look where you’re going!’

This time there was no doubting the words or the language. He pushed on with more confidence, but still with caution. Passing round the edge of the copse he saw a couple of huts, and beside them lines of tethered horses, half a dozen campfires, and men either sitting by them or rolled in their blankets.

He saw the sentry standing carbine in hand just as the man challenged.

‘Lieutenant Williams, One Hundred and Sixth Foot, on the staff of Colonel Colborne,’ he replied.

‘Advance, friend.’

‘Major Morres, Thirteenth Light Dragoons,’ the officer in command said when Williams was introduced. ‘Do you bring us new orders?’ he asked, the voice weary, but resigned to the ways of the army.

‘No,’ Williams said, and saw the look of relief.

‘Thank God. This is the first food we have had for two days and the lads need a rest. Would you care to join us, Mr Williams, or do you have pressing duties? You must be tired, out and about at this late hour, and your horse certainly appears in need of a rest.’ Morres peered at Francesca, and the mare chose this moment to stick out her splayed teeth and roll her long tongue. ‘That is a horse, I take it?’ the cavalryman added.

Williams explained that he was searching for his brigade.

‘God knows where they are.’ Morres and his squadron had been on picket duty for a day and a half. ‘We were only just relieved by the Portuguese a couple of hours ago and sent back to rest. So there is nothing beyond us apart from their outposts – oh, and Johnny Crapaud beyond that, I suppose. There have been hussars lurking about all day, but they did not seem inclined to try anything. We still have a picket on the far right near the river, but the rest of the front is covered by the Portuguese.

‘So I would guess the Second Division and your lot will be back towards the river somewhere. No sense blundering off until you have rested. Join us in some food and a pipe and then be on your way. There is plenty of time for you to get lost again before the night is out!’

The major and three other officers shared one of the huts.

‘Keep something for Macrea,’ Morres told the soldier who brought them their stew. ‘I sent the cornet back to report to General Stewart. If he returns he may be able to tell you where your brigade is placed. That is if the fellow can find his way back in the dark!’ A cornet was the most junior officer in the cavalry, ranking with an ensign.

Williams asked them about the outpost duty, and as he listened to the explanations remembered another night, visiting the greenjackets of the 95th when they had watched the border country up north.

While they were eating, one of the lieutenants looked at Williams. ‘I know you, do I not?’ The man rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, you were with us at Campo Major. Near Logan when he chopped down the French colonel.’

The news caused Morres to become even more hospitable, especially when Williams praised the boldness of the 13th and the success of their charge.

‘It was most gallant, and I believe that the whole army shares in my admiration.’

The cavalrymen smiled, exchanging glances.

‘That is what all the fighting soldiers say,’ the lieutenant who had recognised him said. ‘They know that the fault in exploiting the success was not our own.’

‘The marshal blamed us to Lord Wellington, who wrote a stiff rebuke and ordered that it be read to us on parade.’ Morres waved his spoon in barely controlled anger. ‘“Undisciplined ardour!” ’ His voice grew louder. ‘“Their conduct was that of a rabble, galloping as fast as their horses would carry them over the plain!” ’ By now he had stood up and was shouting. ‘Threatening to dismount us and set us to guarding stores! God damn them all. Take our horses, would they!’ The major looked around wildly. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said in a more controlled tone, and went out of the room.

‘It is an understandably difficult matter for us,’ the lieutenant explained. ‘It is to be hoped that when Lord Wellington learns the truth he will alter his opinion.’

‘I am sure that is true,’ Williams agreed. Privately he had his doubts. From all he had heard and the little he had seen, the commander of the army was a shrewd man, but not one inclined to make public admission of a mistake.

‘Brigadier General Long paraded us and read out the rebuke as ordered,’ the lieutenant continued. ‘Then in front of us all he
ordered that it would never be entered in the records of the regiment.’

Morres reappeared. ‘Please excuse my passion,’ he said gruffly. ‘The injury is still a fresh one.’

Williams stood and offered his hand. ‘I most earnestly believe that every corps in Portugal holds the Thirteenth in the highest esteem.’ He smiled. ‘Though I suspect in the case of the enemy that esteem is mixed with fear!’