Whose Business Is to Die (31 page)

Hanley managed to tie his handkerchief around the wound. His arm still worked, although each move was painful. He had the pistol and his sword, but suspected that he would have to drop them if there was to be any chance of getting close. If he was here, Williams would think of a way, or at least get killed in the attempt. He tried to think of what his friend would have done. Hanley felt down and checked that the sheathed knife was tucked inside his boot. It was a trick he had learned from the partisans, although he had never before had occasion to make use of the slim stiletto.

Gutiérrez’s daughter cried out, begging for mercy. Her father was sobbing.

‘Give up, Hanley. You cannot win.’

It was not pleasant hearing a young woman being hurt, even when he did not know her and her father was in the pay of the enemy. Yet Hanley wondered why the sound did not bother him more. He tried to tell himself that it was pragmatism. It was not within his power to save her if Sinclair and Brandt chose to harm her, and so he tried to tell himself that he was simply facing the facts of the matter.

There was another shriek, and once again the man returned and piled another bit of material on the wall. As far as he could tell, they did not want him to think that they were doing more than slicing away her clothing. The thought reminded him of Jenny Dobson and her hussar uniform and he smiled. Would he be more worried if it was Jenny being held by the enemy, or
was the girl right and he did not really care too much about anyone save himself?

‘She is almost unveiled, Captain. And very lovely she is too. Soon there will be nothing else to cut apart from that smooth skin. Eventually that is. Be a shame to waste her charms too soon. Do you want this on your conscience?’

‘What will you say to the priest, Sinclair?’ Hanley yelled at him.

‘I am no papist. You should know that.’ Sinclair smiled. ‘I do not believe in any God watching over us all and neither do you. I just believe in winning.’

The girl let out another scream, and something about it sounded odd.

‘I shall count to ten and then let the sergeant enjoy himself. One.’

Gutiérrez managed to free himself from the soldier’s grip and dropped to his knees, begging Sinclair to have mercy.

‘Two.

‘Three. Give up, man!

‘Four.’

The girl screamed and Hanley made up his mind, hoping that he was right.

24

B
aynes watched the French make another attempt to force the new bridge. Through his glass he could see the dark shapes of men who had fallen in their first effort. The column came rapidly, its frontage narrow so that it could fit across the bridge, but when it was halfway over it seemed to stagger. The formation rippled and men dropped. Baynes could see puffs of smoke from the garden walls and house windows of the village. A few Frenchmen kept running, but others slowed down and most stopped. Men started to fire back at their hidden opponents, and even from this distance he could tell that the attack had failed.

The merchant had tagged on to Marshal Beresford’s staff, following when he went over to see General Blake. He knew quite a few of the Spanish officers and was pleased to see that servants were just bringing them breakfast. Before he could accept their offer to join them, he was drawn aside by Colonel D’Urban.

‘I regret that we were unable to be of more assistance,’ he said. ‘But I hope that you were able to find all that you needed.’ The colonel glanced to either side. ‘Is there any news?’

‘Not yet.’ Baynes had told D’Urban a little of their plan, although not the details.

D’Urban nodded, and had the sense to say nothing more. Soon he was summoned to the marshal’s side. Baynes wondered what was happening, whether Sinclair or Dalmas had come and whether Hanley had been able to seize his chance. It was ten past nine, and so long past the time they were supposed to meet, but still too early for worry to grow.

A German officer on the staff of General Zayas, commander of one of the divisions brought up from Cadiz, was beckoning to him to join them at their meal, Baynes accepted the offer with great readiness, for there was nothing for him to do and he preferred to chat rather than brood on what might be happening. The mood among the senior officers of all the Allies appeared to be good, for so far the battle was developing as Marshal Beresford had predicted and wanted.

They watched as the French prepared a more serious attack on Albuera. This time they would send a battalion over each of the bridges, while another waded through the river. More and more French cavalry gathered near the fords, hussars joining the dragoons and the lancers. The Allied cannon played on them, but the range was some seven hundred yards even for the closest battery and at such a distance their light guns did little harm.

‘Here they come again,’ one of the Spanish staff officers said, as the French cannon fired and their infantry columns started forward. The skirmish line ahead of them was thicker this time. ‘They are learning,’ the Spaniard added. ‘Yet I do not think they can force us from this position.’

Baynes saw Beresford and D’Urban conferring. An ADC was summoned, given his instructions and then galloped away towards General Stewart and the Second Division.

The German officer had gone silent and was carefully scanning the woodland between the two streams feeding the River Albuera.

‘Look there!’ he said, grabbing Baynes by the arm. ‘Here, take my glass.’

The merchant obeyed and focused on the trees, and at first saw nothing but green leaves. Then something glinted, and he caught movement. It was not clear, but he was sure there were soldiers there, although how many and what they were doing he could not tell.

‘Do you see them?’ the German demanded. ‘That is where they are coming from and that is where they will deliver their attack!’ The man’s voice was deep, and he was inclined to shout
even in ordinary conversation, and his strongly accented Spanish carried to the senior officers.

‘What is this?’ General Blake asked. He was thin, clean shaven and had a pale, sober countenance.

‘Lieutenant Colonel von Schepeler is on my staff,’ Zayas explained. He was stockier than his commander, red cheeked and with a luxuriant moustache. Born in the New World, his skin was deeply tanned.

‘Well, Colonel?’

‘The enemy are moving to threaten our right, sir. I can see men in the woods over there.’

‘Numbers?’ Zayas barked the question in his guttural voice.

‘I cannot tell, sir.’

For a while no one spoke as they scanned the trees. The guns still thundered, and there was the distant rattle of musketry – the sound always reminded Baynes of a boy dragging a stick along an iron fence.

‘It does not look like many,’ General Blake said a few minutes later. ‘This is a serious attack and the straight road to Badajoz, so I cannot believe that it is a feint. Yet we must be prudent. Colonel, you go and take a closer look.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Von Schepeler saluted and called for his horse.

‘Ought we to apprise Marshal Beresford of this?’ Zayas suggested.

‘Yes, of course,’ Blake said. ‘Come.’ They strode off to tell their news.

Down by the village the French had come across the river and were getting close to the houses. Some of their voltigeurs had driven the greenjacketed Germans back from an isolated garden and were now firing from behind its walls.

There was a murmur from in front of him and Baynes saw that French cavalry were crossing the river at the ford. An entire hussar regiment in brown led them, with dragoons and lancers behind. He watched as a horse was struck by a cannon shot and flung down, its rider falling into the muddy river. The cavalry did not stop and began to form in column on the near bank of the
river. Impressed by their numbers, the British dragoons watched them from a distance.

‘Colonel Colborne, Marshal Beresford’s compliments and you are to advance your brigade to support the village.’ Major General Stewart was today wearing his deep green rifleman’s jacket, with its three rows of silver buttons. His manner was as cold as ever since their disagreement. ‘Two Spanish regiments will be moving up on your right.’

‘Sir.’ Colborne saluted and turned to Dunbar. ‘Captain, ride along the line and tell the battalions that we are to advance and that they are to wait for the order.’

The brigade was formed in its proper order, with the Buffs on the right, then the 2/48th, the 2/66th and the 2/31st. Each had all its ten companies, for the Second Division did not follow the common practice of grouping the Light Companies into a temporary battalion of their own.

Five minutes later, Colborne raised his hat and pointed it forward. Voices yelled in each of the corps, giving the necessary orders, and the entire brigade stepped off towards Albuera. The colonel waited for them to get nearer and then he and Williams walked their horses forward, a little in advance of the gap between the 2/66th and the 2/48th.

A four-pounder shot bounced some way ahead of them, skipped along for more than a hundred yards and then hit the ground again, popping up to pass over the heads of a file of soldiers in the 2/48th. The line marched on. Williams saw two columns on their flank, the closest wearing broad-topped shakos and dark blue jackets. From this distance they were hard to tell apart from the French, and he was glad that they had been warned about the Spanish infantry.

Dunbar was riding back to join them when his horse shied as another cannonball threw up a spout of mud as it buried itself in the ground. He pulled hard on the reins, making the animal buck, but he kept a tight grip and used his whip each time the beast kicked out with its hind legs. Williams had changed mounts
and was now riding Musket, and the gelding seemed disturbed by the sight.

He patted its neck. ‘Steady, boy.’

A shell exploded almost underneath Dunbar’s horse, hurling it up in the air as jagged pieces of casing drove into the poor animal’s belly. The captain managed to free his feet from the stirrups and spring away, rolling as he landed on the grass. His horse was on its side, its tongue lolling out as its head writhed, great coils of pale innards spilling from its torn stomach. Dunbar managed to open the saddle holster and fish out a pistol. Williams looked away, and even so shuddered a little when he heard the shot. An orderly brought another horse and the captain joined them. No one said anything.

The brigade marched on, and more and more shot fell among them. A man in the front rank of the 2/48th lost his foot when a four-pounder ball came skimming across the grass looking no more lethal than a well-hit cricket ball. His rear rank man was lucky, the shot passing between his legs. The sergeant walking behind jumped out of the way.

‘Close up!’ he shouted as the ranks parted to go around the wounded soldier. ‘Wait for the bandsmen, boy,’ he added, leaning down to pat the man on the shoulder as he stared mutely at the mangled end to his leg.

As they came up behind the village an ADC from General Stewart brought new orders.

‘You are to wait here, ready to advance in support of the KGL when needed.’

‘Pass the word, Dunbar,’ Colborne said, ‘and tell the battalions to lie down.’ They were not the principal target of the French gunners, but some shots missed the troops around the village or flew high and so fell among them.

The brigade halted, and the men were allowed to lie down in their ranks. Officers paced up and down beside them, for an officer was not permitted to take shelter in the open field. A bouncing shot took half the arm off a young ensign from the
2/66th, who screamed for only a moment before he was carried off.

‘Brave lad,’ Dunbar muttered.

‘Keep moving! Quickly there, keep moving!’ The sergeants harried the men as sergeants always did, and only a few had time to tuck the long tails of their coats up before they ran across the ford. A line of skirmishers from the voltigeur companies was already extended along the top of the slope above them.

Dalmas found a place where the bed of the stream looked solid enough and took his horse down the bank into the water. He did not want to slow down the infantry going through the ford. The big horse did not hesitate and the water came no higher than its knees.

‘Over there, form on the markers.’ An officer pointed to men standing holding the little flags or fanions carried by each company of infantry. ‘Quickly now.’

The leading regiment was forming up in column of companies on the gentle slope ahead of him. It was a narrow formation, each of the five companies deploying in a line three deep one behind the other while the voltigeurs were out skirmishing. Such a formation moved quickly and kept its order, and if necessary could deliver a charge against the enemy, as long as that enemy was weakened and unlikely to stand the sight of bayonets coming through the smoke.

They were good soldiers, these men, almost all of them moustached veterans, and they moved with spirit in spite of the long march they had made to get here. Dalmas remembered the army that had trained at Boulogne and then crossed half of Europe to shatter the Austrians and Russians at Austerlitz. He doubted that there would ever be regiments quite so good as those, where every man was a veteran and they had had years to train. Even so the sight of these men gave him confidence.

Dalmas let his horse run up the slope until he was among the skirmishers and then knew that they had done it. The low rolling ridge stretching to the north towards the village of Albuera was
empty of soldiers. Marshal Soult had let the enemy see what they expected, sending a single brigade across the river at the Allied centre. The feint was delivered with force to keep their attention there, and all the while two entire divisions of infantry and most of the guns were marching to hook around the enemy right. Another brigade had made itself visible behind the diversionary assault against Albuera, but it too was now marching to come up as a reserve for the flank attack. Dalmas had discovered the route the flanking force had taken, riding it as darkness fell the night before, and he had led the vanguard this morning.

Four regiments of French cavalry were already across the river and formed on the Allied bank, and several more were coming. They faced the Allied positions and helped to add to their sense of meeting a frontal attack. As Dalmas watched, the closest regiment wheeled towards him and set off down the road running parallel with the stream. They would move to this position, cross in front of the infantry and form up covering their left flank – the right would be protected by the stream. When that was done Marshal Soult would have concentrated three-quarters of his army ready to deliver a massive hammer blow to the Allied flank.