All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (21 page)

Pringle wondered how long the mood would last. Josepha dozed beside him, and as he shifted to get more comfortable he tried his best not to wake her. Personally he doubted that the British army would be willing to take too great a risk to save Ciudad Rodrigo. He had never before experienced a siege, and was none too enthusiastic about the prospect. It was hard to lose men, and he suspected that the day’s casualties would not be the last.

Even more he worried about Josepha. Pringle had not known that she had gone to Ciudad Rodrigo to stay with the widowed cousin of her mother, a lady who appeared to have generous views on the freedom allowed to young people. Civilians were not safe in a siege. Indeed, they were probably not safe from the French almost anywhere in Spain, but when a city fell it was worse. Soldiers forced to fight their way over or through the walls of a fortress were apt to run wild. Pringle already wondered whether he would be able to protect her when the time came.

Yet worse than that was the realisation of Josepha’s desperation. They had met when he led a training march through Fuentes de Oñoro and he had accepted her family’s hospitality. He had returned at every opportunity, for the girl’s mother was dead, her father almost always absent and her enthusiasm was so great. She had spoken of her betrothal, but so dismissively that he had not felt worried. Now the fellow was here, and a bloodthirsty leader of partisans no doubt unlikely to take too kindly to a rival.

That mattered less than the words she had spoken before she had drifted off. Josepha had talked of marriage and going to England, and there had been such desperation in her voice. Pringle had not realised that she was looking for such a thing, and then wondered whether that was because at first his Spanish had been limited. Had he given her some hope of that without meaning to do so? That would be unfortunate, because she was a sweet-natured girl of immense kindness. The truth was that in the last months he had once or twice thought of marriage, but not with this pretty child. Instead he found himself thinking of Miss Anne Williams more and more often. His life seemed to be becoming much more serious.

Billy Pringle was worried, and for the first time since returning to Spain he really wanted to be so drunk that the world and his cares faded away for a few hours. He wished MacAndrews or someone else was here, for then he would not be senior and could indulge himself. Instead, he stared up through the high window at the silhouette of the castle’s tower and simply worried.

T
he ball hit the old stone battlements and flicked up a little puff of dust as it flattened. A moment later a second bullet punched yet another hole in the hat held on a stick above the parapet by one of the recruits. Corporal Rose grinned at him, and the lad was by now confident enough to smile back. Pringle was pleased, for he felt the men were beginning to get used to being under fire.

Shots had so far come in groups of four, and so Rose waited for two more to strike the wall and then bobbed up in the embrasure. He took a moment to aim and steady himself and then fired down into the field beyond the glacis. As he ducked back behind the battlements he exchanged his musket for one freshly loaded. Pringle had six of the company up on the wall assisting Rose. Five loaded and the other raised the hat on a stick to give the French sharpshooters a target. Rose was probably the best shot in the company and so he was given this job, while the others drilled the remainder of the recruits. Pringle wanted to avoid another shambles like the last sortie.

Day by day, the French were drawing an ever tighter ring around the town. Before dawn, pairs of their voltigeurs crept forward to within musket range of the wall. Some had scraped pits for cover, while others used garden walls or fallen trees. Throughout the day they sniped at the defenders, shooting especially at the embrasures they knew contained guns. Not many gunners had been hit so far. Inevitably almost all were struck in the head or shoulders since the rest of them was protected by the parapet, and so the wounds were bad or fatal.

The chances of Rose hitting any of the concealed Frenchmen was slight, and Pringle kept wishing that they had one of the 95th with them to use his more accurate, rifled musket. He was more concerned with making his men feel valuable, and giving obvious purpose to practising loading.

His men had not been ordered to take part in any of the sallies launched after the first day. None had gone well, for the French regiments closest to the town were obviously veterans. Sometimes they gave way a little when surprised, but it was never long before they struck back, usually from an unexpected direction and always with ferocious confidence. A day ago Pringle and Williams had watched helplessly from the walls as they saw voltigeurs working their way around both flanks of a strong column from one of the volunteer battalions. Suddenly shot at from the sides and rear, the citizens turned so recently to soldiers had panicked and fled. So had many of the townsfolk lining the battlements, for while the sallies were launched the French skirmishers were too busy to fire at the walls and so it was safe to stand there. Women had screamed and then the two British officers found themselves clinging on to the battlements to stop themselves from being swept away by the stampede. Fighting outside played to all the strengths of the French.

That afternoon Pringle heard the senior engineer officer Brigadier Don Juan de Beletá say as much at a meeting held by the governor. He had found himself summoned to these daily sessions, and was by far the most junior in rank to attend. Sometimes it was just the soldiers who were brought together, but on other days the bishop who held civilian authority and other town worthies were also present. Pringle struggled to follow the rapid Spanish, but noticed that the soldiers usually did their best to speak slowly, or sometimes employed French.

‘It is better than sitting and doing nothing,’ said Herrasti after patiently listening to his subordinate’s observations. ‘Soldiers and civilians alike feel better because we are doing something. They are inspired, too, by your raids, Don Julián.’ The governor gave a slight bow.

El Charro responded with equal courtesy. ‘I’ll ride out again tonight with all my men. Half will strike at their bridges.’

‘What progress have they made?’ asked the senior engineer, particularly interested in his French counterparts. Marshal Ney had set his men to building two bridges across the Agueda. The town’s guns controlled the stone bridge under its walls, and there were no other crossings for a great distance with the water so high.

‘The first is finished,’ Don Julián Sánchez said tonelessly. ‘The second will soon be complete. They are still throwing up redoubts to protect each one.’ That was chilling, because it would give the French much greater access to the far bank and help them to surround Ciudad Rodrigo completely.

‘Everything we have sent down the river at them has not made much difference,’ Beletá explained. His men had floated heavy logs, and even tried a barge set on fire, but the current had not worked well and the French intercepted almost everything. ‘How much damage can you do?’

Don Julián shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll rob them of sleep, and maybe kill one or two we find wandering about, but there is no point flinging my men against ramparts.’ He looked around the table, glancing at each face in turn and lingering. Pringle was not sure whether or not El Charro paused just a little longer when looking at him. It was very strange to be in the same room as Josepha’s betrothed. Pringle was surprised at his small size, but that impression swiftly faded in the face of the guerrilla leader’s controlled force. The others were older men, of higher rank in the regular army, and yet all clearly respected the former sergeant. El Charro knew how to fight, and governor and townsfolk alike felt happier that he was here.

‘While half my men go for the bridges,’ Don Julián continued, ‘I shall take the rest and slip through the French outposts. We shall head for the Salamanca road and see if there are any supply convoys to snap up.’ There were still wide gaps in the French outpost line. Messengers and even large parties could pass through with care.

‘Then may God go with you, for we could dearly do with a victory,’ said the governor. ‘Still, I have received a letter from Lord Wellington assuring me of his support.’ He beamed at Pringle. ‘Gentlemen, we must be careful, but we will continue to raid and harry the enemy as much as possible. The trick will be never to go so far that we cannot readily escape.

‘I cannot say how much we will hurt them, but even the least thing will help. And we can slow them down. Every hour spent standing to arms and facing one of our attacks is an hour they cannot be labouring on the siege works, so let them spend more time floundering in the mud.’ Pringle’s orders to Rose and his party followed the same reasoning, perhaps creating a nuisance, and at least helping to instil some experience into his raw soldiers.

‘The artillery will only fire in support of our sallies or if some magnificent target appears.’ This was the Commandant General in charge of the artillery. ‘We must save powder and shot to smash their batteries when those are built and cannon mounted in them. A little practice now will help our gunners to learn, but we do not want to wear out the guns or their crews so early on.’

Herrasti dealt with a few more minor matters, before asking the bishop to close in prayer. At the end he smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, that is all for today. Thank you, gentlemen.’

As they left, Captain Pringle thought it best to let all the senior men go first, and so was almost the last to leave the room. Don Julián Sánchez was waiting in the corridor, and the little man fell into step beside him, holding his helmet under one arm.

‘I believe we have a mutual friend.’ El Charro was smiling, but Pringle could not help thinking that the same was true of many a predator before it pounced. He hoped that his face betrayed no emotion. The man should not know of his affair with Josepha, but then guerrillas were surely very good at finding out about their enemies. Billy Pringle dearly hoped this small and cheerful man was not his enemy.

‘Guillermo Hanley,’ the guerrilla explained.

Pringle hoped his own broad smile would pass for simple pleasure and not relief. ‘Oh, Hanley. Yes, he is an excellent fellow.’

‘He said the company coming from La Concepción would be led by two of his comrades and that you were both men to be trusted.’

Was there an edge in El Charro’s voice? ‘Decent of him, although to tell you the truth, I cannot see what good we are doing here.’

‘You are here as a symbol,’ said Don Julián Sánchez. ‘People feel that if redcoats are here with us, then your general will be all the more ready to come and save them when the crisis comes.’

‘Then why keep us out of the way rather than parade us marching out to new attacks?’

‘Herrasti has done that once, and it cost him one of your number. You are no use to him if you all get killed.’

They came out of the castle into the market square.

‘
Viva El Charro!
’ The shout went up almost instantly, soldiers joining in with the women and the elderly civilians going about their business. ‘
Viva El Charro y viva los ingleses!
’

The guerrilla leader waved to the crowd. A few women ran forward and knelt to kiss his hand. ‘You see what I mean,’ he said to Pringle as they at last got through the crowd. ‘I do know all about being a symbol. We give them hope, and that is a rare and precious thing in a doomed town.’

Pringle was shocked at the words, and this time he obviously betrayed his feelings.

‘Do you really think Wellington will let his army be destroyed outside these walls?’ El Charro looked up at him, his head leaning slightly to the left. ‘What would that achieve?’

‘If the French give him a chance, he will take it.’

‘If. Well, they sometimes do make mistakes, but not too often. They’re good, and there are a lot more of them than there are redcoats.’

‘There are now the Portuguese as well.’

As a Spaniard El Charro instinctively winced, but as a skilled leader and a practical man who had lived on the borders, he let himself consider the point. ‘Still not enough of them to even the odds.’

‘So the war is lost.’ Pringle thought of Reynolds drunkenly holding forth. He had heard plenty of other British officers express similar thoughts, but had not expected them from so feared a guerrilla.

‘It is not over.’ El Charro’s voice rasped the words and he grabbed Pringle firmly by each arm. ‘As God is my witness it is not over. The fight must go on because there are Frenchmen in Spain and it will not stop until they are dead or gone.’ He let go, and forced a smile, but the steel in his expression remained. Pringle did not doubt he meant every word he said.

‘We fight the little war. Ciudad Rodrigo is not Spain. What is one more town fallen as long as men survive to kill more Frenchmen? The little war continues, and if the French keep winning that does not matter if we do not lose. We live and we keep killing – one by one or two by two. It is better than nothing. The little war is not about fighting, it is about killing without being killed. We can wait.

‘I think your Lord Wellington understands this, and that is why I like him and why I know he will not come to save Ciudad Rodrigo. You should know that I understand because I do not think the governor or the others will let themselves admit the truth. If I were Lord Wellington then I would not come to this place. He will watch and wait, and let the French waste time and blood and food outside this town.’

‘And what will he do with that time?’

‘Just the same as me. He will still be alive at the end and so will his army and that means he can kill Frenchmen.’

‘You do not plan to stay here?’

‘For what purpose? In the little war there is no shame in running, only good sense. I will stay while I can be of use, but I do not intend to die or be captured here. As I say, there are Frenchmen to kill, and until the last of those whoresons has been buried or fled Spain it would be a terrible waste to die.’ He patted Pringle on the arms, gently this time. ‘Besides, a symbol should not be killed.