All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (16 page)

‘The Agueda is lower than it was, and so we have pulled back the infantry so that there is time to react. On 6 April they probed as far as San Felices el Chico, so the KGL and the Ninety-fifth turned out to meet them. The French were foraging, and after stripping the place they pulled back.

‘It confirms all our reports that they are struggling to feed themselves. I also suspect that their boldness is intended to conceal their vulnerability. However, as it is, we can still communicate freely with Ciudad Rodrigo, and there should be no difficulty sending them another powder convoy.’

‘Hope it is not throwing good money after bad,’ muttered Cox, ‘but at least the blackguard will have no excuse not to fight when the time comes.’

‘We must keep the road to Ciudad Rodrigo open as long as possible. It will let us send aid, and perhaps do more. On top of that, it helps to make life difficult for the French and that is a worthy end in itself. Are the guerrillas active, Hanley?’

‘Yes, as much as they can be. Don Julián Sánchez has something like two hundred men. His is the biggest band and the best organised.’

‘Fine. Thank you for your efforts, Hanley. I want you to go with a patrol from the KGL hussars tomorrow and see what people are saying to the north.’

‘Sir.’ Hanley had hoped for a rest, but had not been optimistic.

‘Now, Colonel, perhaps you could treat us all to that fine dinner you promised!’ The brigadier spoke lightly, but although he struggled to be jovial he did not quite manage it and it came across as brusque. If Cox was offended he did not show it, perhaps used by now to Craufurd’s manner. Hanley was pleased to be included in the invitation and spent a pleasant few hours chatting to Shaw Kennedy, a serious and capable young man who appeared devoted to his chief.

‘He had to surrender his brigade at Buenos Aires,’ he whispered after the wine had flowed. ‘That’s a dreadful thing for anyone, and especially for a proud man who knew how the thing should be done.’ A harsh expression came into his face. ‘White-locke ought to have been shot.’ Hanley had heard such comments before. General Whitelocke had botched the whole expedition to South America. He had been court-martialled, and although condemned he suffered no more punishment than the ruin of his career.

After Cox and the brigadier had retired, the ADC proposed one last toast. ‘Here’s to grey hairs, and damnation to white locks!’ The Portuguese staff officers looked baffled, and Hanley wondered how much of General Craufurd’s simmering anger came from the shame and frustration of this earlier defeat. He hoped that it would not prejudice him against the Spanish, or make him too eager to clear his name, but there was little he could do in either case.

A little later, Hanley sat in the small room allocated to him and wrote a ciphered letter to Baynes to be enclosed with the reports and captured documents. It gave his own impressions of the mood of allies and enemies alike.

The French are waiting. As yet there is no sign of our old acquaintance or other royal agents. This seems unlikely to change until the main invasion is imminent.

T
emporary Lieutenant Colonel MacAndrews was still angry, prompting another savage assault with his riding crop against the top of the parapet. Already punished, this time the shaft of the whip snapped, and several inches at the tip flicked around loosely for a moment before hanging limply down. The Scotsman stared sadly at the ruined whip, his anger deflating.

‘There is nothing I can do,’ explained Captain Morillo.

The Scotsman knew that was true, and over the last weeks he had come to like and respect his Spanish colleague. ‘Damn it, but they were starting to learn their trade properly.’

‘They were also better outfitted than half the soldiers in the army.’

By the end of March, the Scotsman had managed to beg and borrow boots, grey uniform jackets and trousers, and some old shakos and belts to equip the recruits sent by the Army of Estremadura. Properly accoutred and given weeks of drill, the raw country lads had started to look a little like soldiers. Then a Spanish colonel had arrived late one night, praised their work and dined cheerfully with MacAndrews, Morillo and the senior officers. The next morning the man was just as jovial when he marched the recruits away to serve with General La Carrera’s division, who were stationed on the flank of Craufurd’s British. A few days later another hundred new conscripts appeared, without a musket, jacket or belt to their name. Soon other small parties arrived, some of them men from the guerrilla bands.

‘They really do think that I am their damned quartermaster, don’t they?’ MacAndrews snapped angrily at his colleague. He gently flicked his whip, watching the tip spin wildly for a moment, and then sighed. ‘I was actually beginning to feel proud of them,’ he said wistfully, and without any open signal the two officers resumed their walk around the ramparts of the fort.

‘I cannot be too hard on men who panic at night,’ MacAndrews added after a dozen paces, thinking back to the flight of Pringle’s detachment at Barba del Puerco. ‘Especially when they are raw and are not set a good example.’

Morillo had already apologised for the conduct of Lieutenant Dolosa. ‘He was once a very brave man,’ he said, ‘but I fear he has seen too many defeats and too many friends killed as they stood alongside him.’

MacAndrews grunted, and but for his temper would have been more sympathetic, for he had seen men lose their nerve before. Sometimes they recovered, but others seemed broken for life. No one could really be sure how long his own store of courage would last.

‘There, but for the Grace of God …’ the Scotsman muttered, and could not help wondering about a couple of the redcoated officers sent to him. From the ramparts they could see the different parties training in the courtyard or outside the fort. Captain Reynolds looked positively bored as he watched a dozen of the Spanish NCOs practising skirmishing. Beside him a young lieutenant fidgeted, barely able to keep still, and then visibly jumped when the first man fired off a blank charge. It was always the way with detached services. Commanding officers usually sent either their best men, eager for advancement and to learn new things, or the ones they did not care to have serving with their battalion. Yet all in all he felt his team were good, and as the weeks passed they had begun to make real progress. The Spanish NCOs were shaping up very nicely, and although it had not been the purpose of his mission to train raw recruits, the Scotsman was doing it to the best of his ability.

In the courtyard below them, a Spanish corporal barked at his men to hurry as they filed into the armoury to collect their muskets. In the last week MacAndrews and Morillo had changed the routine of the fort, so that the recruits were issued with muskets only when they drilled and had to turn them in again at the end of the day. It was impossible to do the same with uniforms, and even with firelocks and bayonets the system was not infallible. Most of the guerrillas slipped away at the first opportunity, taking with them a new musket, cartridges and clothes. Some recruits, their heads filled with tales of heroic ambushes, full bellies and pockets, and no discipline, went with them.

‘Two more of the rogues vanished last night,’ said MacAndrews wearily.

‘
Viva Fernando y vamos robando
!’ Morillo repeated the old joke, and when MacAndrews looked puzzled the Spaniard offered an explanation. ‘ “Long live Ferdinand VII and let’s go robbing!” They have all heard the stories of the brave
guerrilleros
– and heard about the armies slaughtered by the French dragoons. Which would you choose?’

‘We could increase the guard,’ said the Scotsman doubtfully.

Morillo looked at him, but said nothing, for they had had this conversation before and the conclusion was bound to be the same.

‘I know, I know,’ MacAndrews said apologetically, ‘the men are working hard enough as it is and there is no sense in wearing them out. The recruits must do duty as sentries and we cannot afford reliable men to watch them at all times.’ He shook his head, for neither man could think of a better way of doing things. ‘Nor is it good for young soldiers to know that they are not trusted.’

They came to the ramp leading down into the fort, and MacAndrews paused for a moment and turned to face his colleague. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether we serve any useful purpose.’ There was only so much that he and Morillo could do, and it fell far short of the original idea for this mission. ‘No doubt that devil of a colonel will return as soon as we have knocked this new company into some sort of shape.’

‘At least we are not doing any harm,’ the Spaniard said with a wry smile. There was sadness in his eyes, and MacAndrews tried to imagine the sorrow of a proud man whose country was occupied by a stronger, perhaps overwhelming, enemy. For an instant he wondered whether to make a joke about the English holding Scotland, but doubted his colleague was in the mood for so frivolous a comparison.

‘Aye,’ he said, drawing the little word out as only a Highlander could.

The sound of shouted orders came from beyond the walls, followed by a spattering of shots as Reynolds’ men went through their exercises. ‘The non-commissioned officers are coming on with their open-order drill,’ said Morillo with genuine satisfaction. So far the Army of the Right appeared to have forgotten the batch of NCOs, or perhaps someone somewhere was content to let them undergo more thorough training.

‘They are all good men,’ conceded MacAndrews, ‘eager, and quick to learn, but there are so few of them.’ He set off abruptly, for once catching Morillo by surprise, and the Spanish officer had to jog for a few paces to catch up.

They passed a young sentry, face rigid with concentration, and the boy presented arms with quivering intensity and a reasonable approximation of the correct movements. MacAndrews raised his broken crop in acknowledgement.

‘They are all learning,’ he said when they were out of earshot. ‘At least we can draw some satisfaction from that.’

Morillo smiled. ‘Yes, although I fear we cannot assume too much of the credit. They are far more eager not to look bad in front of the Portuguese that to impress us,’ he said. In the last month Colonel Cox had sent a detachment of his infantry to stand guard at the old fort. ‘Probably done more than we have to make the fellows want to learn and do well.’

Hoof beats echoed from the tunnel behind the main gate as two officers rode in, resplendent in their tall Tarleton helmets and heavily braided blue coats.

‘Morning, Ross,’ MacAndrews called out, once again raising his crop so that the broken end flapped wildly for a moment and made one of the horses step to the side, its neck arching away. The rider whispered softly to the beast, and with the gentlest touch of his heels and a firm grasp on the reins steadied him.

‘Good morning, Colonel,’ Ross replied when the horse was calm. Captain Ross and his six guns of the Royal Horse Artillery were another recent arrival and were now using the fort as their headquarters. The ‘Chestnut Troop’ – named after their matched teams – looked superb and showed every mark of efficiency. In the RHA not only were the gun limbers drawn by six horses apiece, but all of the gun crews also rode, so that they were fast and highly manoeuvrable. ‘I bring good tidings of great joy.’

The artillery officer handed his reins to the other rider and swung nimbly down before he spoke again. ‘Tomorrow, sir, I shall have a section of guns at your full disposal. General Craufurd gives his enthusiastic consent, and so my pieces are at your service, ready to smite whomsoever stands in your path.’

Ross was a bright, eager man, and MacAndrews felt his glum mood recede. ‘That is excellent, most excellent.’ The Scotsman had asked for the loan of a single six-pounder to add some excitement to a field day involving all of his little command. Although the troop was based in the fort and kept many of its carts and wagons there, its guns were usually out serving with Brigadier Craufurd’s outpost and support line. MacAndrews had made gentle enquiries before sending in a formal request, and had not been too hopeful of securing the use of a single gun. Now it seemed that he would have two cannon at his disposal.

‘It will be good for the men to hear guns fired,’ Morillo said, for he and MacAndrews had come up with the idea together. ‘There is a danger that the noise of battle overwhelms young soldiers, so it is better if they are prepared.’

Captain Ross grinned. ‘I am firmly convinced that cannon fire is an essential part of any education. Unimpeachable sources assure me that these days the masters at Eton regularly shoot at their pupils. They do the same at Harrow, it is said, and no doubt it will spread in time to the universities. Sadly the aim of the Fellows is likely to be poor, otherwise they might do the nation a great service.’

It looked as if the gunner had more to say, but he was interrupted by the arrival of a lieutenant wearing a red-brown uniform and the high-fronted Portuguese shako.

‘Beg to report, sir, but the colonel sends word to say that the drill is about to begin.’

Craufurd’s command had recently been reinforced by the arrival of the 1st and 2nd Regiments of Portuguese
caçadores
, expanding his brigade into a division. These light infantry battalions were frequently in or near the fort, and MacAndrews had gladly accepted an invitation to watch them at their drills.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant …?’

‘Matthews, sir.’ The Portuguese Regency Council had appointed the British Marshal Beresford to reorganise their army, weakened by years of neglect, and then wrecked by the French invasion. It was almost a question of starting from scratch and forming an entirely new army. Beresford brought with him a large number of British officers, each given a step in rank as a reward for transferring to the Portuguese service for the duration of the war. Some were commissioned from capable sergeants, and the Scotsman wondered whether Matthews was such a man, as he looked to be about thirty.

Matthews proved garrulous, full of enthusiasm for his new regiment and its soldiers, and MacAndrews soon decided that he was not a former sergeant. Such men were often capable, but tended to lack confidence when speaking with men who might once have commanded them. More likely Matthews was simply an elderly ensign, lacking either money or influence, who had seized this opportunity for late advancement. Silently, the Scotsman wished him luck.