All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (11 page)

‘Foul night,’ he said, to make conversation with the three subalterns in the tent, and as true Englishmen they considered the matter and then solemnly assented. Dolosa, one of Morillo’s officers from the Princesa Regiment, nodded politely, while following little of the conversation.

‘Been foul days and nights ever since we came up here,’ said the bespectacled Lieutenant Mercer. The three battalions of the Light Brigade had arrived at the end of January and, supported by Hanoverian Hussars of the King’s German Legion, they formed the advance posts of the British army. Since then it had rained almost every day.

‘Still better than “Dough Boy hill”.’ That was Simmons, a small, very keen youngster who was undoubtedly on his first campaign.

‘True enough. We had almost one hundred men in the company when we landed, part of one of the finest brigades ever to leave England.’

‘Yes, I remember seeing you arrive at Talavera,’ said Williams. The Light Brigade had force-marched very hard, but still missed the battle itself.

‘You were there, Mr Williams?’ asked Simmons.

‘In Mackenzie’s Division.’ Williams felt the mood warming towards him. ‘Captain Pringle was wounded near the end of the battle.’ Pringle had a patrol of Spanish soldiers camped and forming its own outpost a mile and a half further down the River Agueda. Now that the British outposts were ahead of Fort La Concepción and the French had come closer, MacAndrews was extending the training to give more direct experience. In turn, parties of thirty new recruits were sent out on route marches and patrols, with some of the experienced Spanish NCOs and British leaders in charge of them. The French were enough of a presence to help give a sense of purpose to what they were teaching, and care was taken not to expose the training parties too much. This was the furthest forward they had been.

‘Well, in just over half a year since then we have lost more than forty men – and none to the French,’ Mercer added. ‘Fever and flux in the main. And so, yes, Mr Simmons, rain or not, it is certainly a good deal healthier up here in the north.

‘And rain or not, it is time to do the rounds. Perhaps you will be kind enough to show our guests something of the position?’ The young officer nodded eagerly in response. ‘I’ll not take you down to the pickets themselves, though, Mr Williams,’ Mercer continued. ‘Unfamiliar voices and more people than they expect on a dark night is a recipe for a mistake.’

Williams understood the caution. At least the rain had stopped, and he was just thinking that it should not be too uncomfortable stepping out into the night without his greatcoat when Dobson appeared, bringing it with him. The sergeant and a Spanish corporal named Gomez joined them as the enthusiastic Simmons showed them the position.

‘This is the company’s alarm post,’ he said, tapping the side of a big boulder some fifty yards short of the crest of the ridge. The cloud had cleared for the moment and a bright moon revealed the rugged landscape at the top of the bluff. Simmons led them up. There was just a gleam in the valley below to suggest the line of the river. ‘We have to report every day on the height of the water. At the moment all the rain means that it is almost at flood. Hence the advance of the infantry so far, because most of the fords are too deep to use. If it were dry, we would be further back and only the cavalry so far forward.’

Williams did his best to explain to Lieutenant Dolosa. His Spanish was improving, and the Spaniard now had a smattering of English, but these were complicated matters. Gomez understood English quite well, and that was the reason they had chosen to bring him.

‘Where are your sentries?’ asked Williams.

‘Two men on the bridge itself, and then a sergeant’s picket of a dozen men some fifty yards further back up the slope. The path winds tightly on both sides as it climbs up the valley. The rest of the company are where you saw them in the chapel, with half always kept awake, and then three companies back in the village of Barba del Puerco.’

‘Beard of a pig,’ said Williams.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Williams?’

‘I think that is what the name means – pig’s beard,’ he replied, and sought confirmation from Dolosa. The Spaniard nodded and then shrugged, unwilling to speculate on the whims of the local farmers.

Simmons chuckled. ‘Funny thing to call a place. They are thirty minutes from us.’

‘And the French?’

‘Are on the opposite side of the valley. You can see their picket in the daytime. Generally they behave, although they do tend to take pot shots at us now and again. Haven’t hit a thing, though, as the range is absurdly long for a common musket.’ The 95th carried rifles, and in the past Williams had noticed their disdain for more old-fashioned weapons. ‘Most days they call across that they will see us tonight and slit our throats, but as yet they haven’t stirred.’ Simmons grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I nipped across there just after dark and could not see any sign of anyone.’

Williams could not help smiling. The lad was not boasting, although obviously proud of his boldness. He was also impressed by the young officer’s precise knowledge of numbers and distances, and said as much when he returned to the tent.

‘Standing orders for the brigade,’ explained Mercer, who had returned from his rounds. ‘All courtesy of the general, God rot his black soul.’ Simmons and Lieutenant Coane were taking a turn sleeping inside the chapel, and he had sent the rest of his party to join them in resting.

The hostility of many officers in the Light Brigade to their commander was something Williams had already encountered. In fact, Mercer’s attitude seemed mild compared to some.

‘Are you sure that I should not present my compliments to Captain O’Hare?’ asked Williams, wishing to change the subject. Pringle had sent him to inform the British picket of their presence, but by the time they had missed their path in the darkness it was late and the captain had retired for the night. At least Billy had told him not to return until daylight.

‘No need, old boy,’ said Mercer. ‘The captain was feeling unwell and it is best not to disturb him.’

It was rather odd, but from the lieutenant’s expression Williams guessed that this was not an unusual occurrence. The subject was obviously a delicate one, and for a while they lapsed into silence.

Then a shot split the night air.

Jean-Baptiste Dalmas had learned how to be patient. It was a skill that had eluded him when he was a schoolmaster and the slowness of his pupils had frustrated and angered him. Most of them tried their best, and he could still picture the strain of concentration on many of their simple faces as they struggled with Latin or geometry alike.

That was ten years and many lifetimes ago. His exemption from conscription was removed when a local beauty began to favour him instead of the major’s son, and six months later he had fought at Marengo and become a sergeant. After Austerlitz he was commissioned, and by the time the Polish campaign was over and he had charged at Eylau and Friedland, he was a captain. Dalmas liked being a soldier and knew that he was a good one. The problems were so much simpler, and direct action brought clear results. Much more satisfying than trying to beat knowledge into young minds. Thankfully he had found many enemies to be as unimaginative as his former pupils.

Dalmas had spent the day watching the bridge and the British soldiers guarding it. There had been little to see, as he lay concealed behind a nest of boulders on the French side of the valley. He watched as sentries were posted, saw them relieved and visited by their officers doing the rounds, and then had watched with amusement when a lone Englishman had crept across the bridge and crawled about on the French bank. It was entertaining tracing the man’s steady progress. The fellow came close at one point, but Dalmas knew that someone who did not move was hard to see and so waited, half holding his breath, until the dark shape of the Englishman moved on. It was all about patience, but at the end of the day the French captain felt that he had the measure of this enemy. They seemed capable soldiers, and Dalmas had fought the British before and knew that they could fight hard and so should not be underestimated. These men wore green uniforms, which meant that they were light infantrymen armed with rifles. Such weapons were accurate, but slow to load, and men who killed from a long distance were often reluctant to let the enemy come close.

Satisfied at last, Dalmas crawled back from his little nest, feeling pains in his limbs as the blood started to flow again. He was cold and stiff, his long coat drenched from the earlier rain, but he had learned all that he could about the enemy position and knew that the plan could work. He reached the road and followed it as it twisted and turned up the steep side of the valley.

The first company of infantry was already sitting on its packs just behind the ridge and the others were coming up to join them. A group of officers in long cloaks stood beside the resting men. Dalmas went up to them and saluted.

‘Ah, Dalmas,’ said Général de Brigade Ferey. ‘Not in your helmet today!’

Captain Dalmas belonged to the 1st Regiment of Cuirassiers, although he had lately heard that the detachment in Spain was to be combined with others to form a new regiment, the 13th. Perhaps he would return to them one day, but for more than a year he had served as an additional ADC on the staff of Marshal Ney. Disdaining the fripperies of flamboyant uniforms so popular with most staff officers, Dalmas made a point of wearing his steel helmet with its black horsehair crest and his heavy cuirass. It was a mark that he was a serious soldier, and perhaps a conceit, for only a determined man would keep such uncomfortable gear when he did not have to wear it. Tonight he wore instead a soldier’s bonnet, and had plain trousers and simple hessian boots rather than the knee-high boots of his regiment.

‘Didn’t want to rust, General,’ he said cheerfully. Ferey was not yet forty, and had a fine record as a fighting general. Dalmas liked the man, trusted his judgement and hoped to rise as far himself. The Emperor was generous when it came to rewarding success.

‘So, what have you seen?’ Ferey had offered to send one of his own aides with Dalmas, but the latter had refused and had a good enough reputation to be given his way.

‘A pair of sentries at the bridge. Then a dozen men a short way back. All are their green riflemen. Does not look like more than a company here, and the rest are back beyond the top of the crest.’

‘Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, then.’ The general drew his sword, and swished the blade impatiently so that it hissed in the night air. ‘What is the approach like?’

‘The road is easy to follow, but winds a lot and is steep. The river flows high and fast and is very noisy. That should cover the sound until they get close. The bridge is narrow and long, and turns sharply to the right as you approach from our side, and less so on the far bank.’

‘Barricaded?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of them.’ The general turned to one of his own aides. ‘Get them up and ready. The first two companies go in unloaded, but have the captains check that the men have dry cartridges in their pouches.’ Ferey did not want an accidental shot to warn the British. Dalmas was inclined to agree with him, although it meant that they would be unable to fire if they ran into opposition. Perhaps for the best. If men could fire, then they were more inclined to stop and shoot rather than keep advancing, and the trick tonight would be to press on whatever happened and overwhelm the outnumbered defenders.

‘Permission to go with them, sir,’ asked Dalmas.

‘Denied,’ replied the general instantly and with some force. ‘Old red-faced Ney wants you back in one piece,’ he added more quietly. ‘I have a good man to take them in. Better an officer they know rather than a stranger.’

No doubt the general had some favourite to reward, Dalmas thought sourly. The attack should work. The whole brigade had moved to a village several miles away, and so they had slept in the dry and not had far to come. Six elite companies, the grenadiers and voltigeurs supposed to be the pick of their regiments, were in the lead, with the main force of the brigade moved close enough to support if necessary. If they could surprise the enemy, and then go in hard and fast, they should be able to storm the position and kill or capture all of the British. Dalmas had seen no sign that the greenjackets were expecting them.

‘Have you fought the rosbifs before?’ asked the general.

‘They are tough – stubborn like the Russians, but more flexible.’ It was the British who had given Dalmas his only defeat when he was in command, and he knew that a man needed to win a lot more victories to make the Emperor forget any failure. Over a year ago, when the redcoats were fleeing to Corunna, Dalmas had been sent to take another bridge and open a way behind the enemy. It nearly worked, but a redcoat officer named Williams in charge of a ragged force of men from many regiments had somehow ended up in his way and then repulsed his attacks. Since then Dalmas had constantly played over his decisions in his mind. There were mistakes and he would learn from them, but so much of it had been luck. It was not so much his pride that irked him. A soldier needed to be proud, but Dalmas felt himself to be a clever man, in control of his emotions, and he resented far more the stain of failure which had interrupted his previously rapid rise. The former schoolteacher wanted to make his name and his fortune while there were still wars to fight and glory to be won.

General Ferey left him and walked across to where the two companies stood in rank.

‘Lads, we are going over that hill and then over a bridge and up the other side!’ he announced. With the noise of the wind he had no need to worry about the sound carrying to the enemy. ‘There’s a half-company of fancy fellows in green waiting on the other side. They think they are clever because they have rifles and can shoot further than us, but it’s night, and they couldn’t see a donkey’s arse at thirty paces, let alone shoot it.’ Dalmas saw the men in the front rank grinning. They all wore long greatcoats and had their white cross-belts over them. On their shoulders were epaulettes of the elite companies – red for the grenadiers and green and yellow for the voltigeurs, although in the dark he could see little more than their shapes and the dull gleam of their white cross-belts. No one had bothered to fit plumes to their shakos, although one of the leading grenadier companies wore tall bearskin caps instead, making each man look bigger.