All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (36 page)

It was no good. Fires betrayed the presence of French outposts in their path, and Williams knew from experience that the ravine made the first river impossible to ford above Fuentes de Oñoro. Light was beginning to grow at the edges of the sky and dawn was less than an hour away. There was no way round, and instead they looked for a hiding place. Dobson and Rodriguez went ahead and found a little gully not far from the low cliffs above the river. It was open to the air, but bushes along the edges offered cover for a sentry and there was no good reason why anyone should go there.

Williams reckoned they had covered less than four miles as the crow flies, although they had tramped for three or four times that distance to do it. All were weary. They had a couple of hardening loaves and some thin ham to eat, as well as a few doughboys. Water was less of a problem, for they had filled their canteens when they crossed the stream.

The officers took their turns lying against the side of the slope and acting as sentries. Williams found it difficult to stay awake, for within a few hundred yards the view was blocked by slopes in all directions. If the French did find them, then there would be little time to do anything about it.

As the day went on, cloud built up until the sun was blotted from sight. It grew dull and surprisingly cold. The gully was not big enough for them to remain hidden and move around much and so the chill gradually seeped into them.

The first spots of rain fell late in the afternoon. The sky was dark and brooding, and the promise of more was soon fulfilled. Lightning flashed in the sky, and the great peal of thunder followed only a few seconds later. Big drops of rain slammed down in a torrent.

‘Might be our best chance,’ Williams shouted to Hanley over the drumming noise. Another great flash, and this time the crack and boom of thunder was almost instant.

Hanley pulled his cloak around him. ‘What?’

‘The storm. Only a fool would go out on a night like this!’

‘How encouraging!’ Hanley did his best to smile as the water poured down his face. ‘But you are Welsh,’ he said. ‘This is your natural element.’

‘I’m half Scots.’

‘A distinction without a difference where rain is concerned, I should have thought.’

‘Very poetic,’ Williams said. They waited an hour, hunched like animals in their coats or cloaks, the locks of their muskets wrapped in cloth in the hope of keeping the powder dry. The slamming rain drenched them, soaking through their clothes.

‘Time to go,’ Williams said, before it was fully dark. The storm raged and surely no sentry would be vigilant at so miserable a time. The six men forced the pace, glad to get their limbs moving. None of them felt warm for half an hour, and then the sweat added to the dampness wrapping their bodies. Williams’ face was sore from the stinging strikes of the rain.

Finding their way was difficult, the rain so heavy that it was hard to see very far at all. Darkness made it even harder, and the slopes were treacherously slippery. All of them fell, and there were plenty of bruises, but luckily no broken bones.

Williams insisted on leading, with Dobson off to the left, and they groped through the hills until they reached a track leading down towards a village not far from the bridge. They moved cautiously, but saw no sign of the French, and it seemed that their pickets had been pulled back, probably because of the weather.

‘They could not see much at the moment out here,’ Williams suggested when they stopped for a conference.

There seemed no end to the rain. The thunder and lightning slackened for a while, before returning with even greater fury. It was in a flash of forked lightning that Dobson glimpsed the bridge and the shape of two sentries.

‘Poor sods,’ he whispered to Williams after they stopped.

‘Yes, who’d be out in this weather.’

Then the veteran had an idea, and the sheer brazenness of it rapidly convinced Hanley. Williams was more sceptical, but his senses were dulled after so many long hours of fumbling in this storm.

Hanley marched them all down in a little column towards the bridge, the NCOs in twos and Williams at the rear with his own musket over his shoulder.

‘
Qui vive!
’ The challenge came very late and was barely audible through the pounding of the rain on the water and against the stone of the bridge.

Hanley called out that they were relieved.

Williams barely heard a muttered ‘Thank God’ as they marched across the bridge. Hanley saluted, and then Dobson leapt forward, slamming into one sentry at waist height, knocking the man down. Murphy’s knee jerked up into the other Frenchman’s groin, and as the man crumpled, the Irishman hit him hard on the head with the butt of his musket. Dobson was struggling with his man, but Rodriguez rushed to his side and with a neat jab knocked the man out.

‘Shall I kill them?’ he asked Hanley.

‘No need. Tip the muskets in the river and drag this pair away to the far side. Tie their hands, gag them and leave them.’

The Spanish sergeant looked as if he felt this was a lot of work, but helped the others drag the unconscious Frenchmen away. There was no sign of the stronger picket that must surely be near by.

‘No sense in looking for trouble,’ Williams said, and then pressed on, keeping parallel with the road so that they would not get lost.

Again it was Dobson who spotted the horsemen coming from the west along the road. He stopped dead, raising his hand, and they threw themselves down into the mud. Williams watched as the dozen or so horsemen splashed through the deep puddles on a road now little better than a quagmire. There was a flash of lightning, but so distant that it gave barely any light and he could not see the men in more detail. He could rarely remember being so cold and miserable and it took real effort to push himself up again when the horsemen had gone.

They kept going, forcing themselves on although their limbs were numbed and heavy. Williams had lost all track of time and the night remained so solidly dark that it gave no real clue. On they trudged, clothes heavy with water.

The rain stopped suddenly, and for a while it was strange not to hear it constantly or to feel the sharp jabs of windblown drops hitting skin. Soon afterwards the sky began to grow lighter and Williams guessed that it was nearly three. There was no sign of a French picket when they came to the little bridge over the second river. They were back on the road now, for that was the only way across.

‘Dob?’ Williams asked softly. Any talk sounded appallingly loud now that the storm was over.

‘Looks quiet,’ the veteran hissed, down on one knee.

‘I’ll take a look. Wait here.’ Williams pushed himself up and walked forward. He sensed that the fatigue was making him careless, but it was better for just one of them to take the risk.

The officer strolled on to the bridge, looking warily around him. He had unslung his musket and held it down low. Williams doubted any cartridge could have survived the deluge of the night, but it gave him comfort to feel the firelock’s weight.

No one shouted a challenge or fired. There was silence apart from the eager bubbling of a river swollen by the storm.

Williams turned and beckoned to the others. There was no one there, and so they marched along the road, daring to hope that they had got through the French lines. The sun rose, a fiery red that shaded the cloudy sky in lavish pinks and golds.

‘Red sky in the morning …’ Hanley did not finish the quote, but Williams wished he had not spoken.

There were houses up ahead, the familiar dull stone and faded tiles of the region.

‘San Pedro,’ Williams said.

‘São, I believe,’ Hanley said automatically.

Then the horsemen burst from the shelter of the little streets. Six went to the right and the same number to the left. They were in dark blue jackets and had round fur caps.

‘Muskets!’ Williams shouted. The four NCOs already had their weapons ready before he gave the order, for what good it would do them.

Three more horsemen came from the village, and one had the high-crested helmet of the British light dragoons. Williams dared to hope.

‘My God, Hanley!’ said the man in the helmet.

Williams watched his friend blink a few times, still slow with fatigue and surprise.

‘Cocks,’ he said after a moment. ‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Where the hell have you sprung from?’ The light dragoon officer needed a shave, but that only seemed to add to his striking good looks. ‘It’s only the French that way, or should be at least!’

‘Thank God we are through them,’ Hanley said. ‘We have come from Ciudad Rodrigo.’

‘Have ye indeed. Well, I’m damned.’ He spoke in rapid and fluent German to the KGL Hussars.

‘Best cavalry we have in the army,’ he said to Hanley and Williams after quick explanations had been made. ‘And I say that as a proud member of the Sixteenth!

‘Well, I dare say the generals will want to hear your story. The French are up to something. I need to take some of these fellows over the river and see what we can see, but I’ll get half a dozen to take you to Almeida.’

With little fuss the German hussars unstrapped their saddle blankets from the rear and put them in front of them. That allowed the six men to ride behind the cavalrymen. It was a kind gesture, but the position was uncomfortable and after a few minutes Williams wished that they had walked, for without stirrups he felt as if he was always about to fall.

They rode north along the road, and in time passed by the west bank of the river close to Fort La Concepción on the far side, although it was too far for Williams to see the place clearly. He could see a chain of French cavalry videttes already on this eastern bank.

Jean-Baptiste Dalmas did not like failing, but was beginning to wonder whether he had lost until suddenly his luck changed in this bright dawn.

Things had begun to go wrong when that fool of a souslieutenant at Ciudad Rodrigo had been slow to obey orders and report the appearance of ‘Espinosa’. The man was not from the company assigned to Dalmas, but even so his orders had been clear to all the guard commanders and the idiot had waited for a good twenty minutes before doing what he was told.

The boat had been a surprise, and Dalmas was annoyed that he had not thought of it, but if warned that someone was claiming to be Espinosa his men would have been ready to move and at the very least the sentries on the bridge made vigilant. Dalmas had followed, found the place where the enemy landed and a few miles on spotted the wreckage of their little boat smashed on the rocks.

It was hard to track men in this country, especially since the French were advancing and there were outposts and parties of soldiers everywhere. That must have made it difficult for the enemy to move. Again he had orders sent round to look for some redcoats or for a Spanish officer claiming to be on the King’s staff, but the Englishman was not so foolish as to try that ploy a second time. Once or twice his men thought that they had picked up the trail. Nothing came of it, and instead he broke them up into patrols and tried to look at all the places they might cross if trying to get to their own army. That was why he had taken ten dragoons and gone over the bridge past the ruined Spanish fort and so had chanced to be in the right place at the right moment.

Dalmas watched the half-dozen hussars and their passengers. It was a guess, but he was sure these were his men and they did not know that he was there. Dalmas was further forward than any French patrol, and during the night his men had led their horses slowly, sneaking past the thin line of British outposts. That led him to this valley parallel to the road, and as he lay on the grass he could watch the enemy. Before they came forward, the cuirassier officer had seen the preparations for the big attack and guessed that the British would soon be going back a lot faster.

He ordered his men to remove their helmets and don their cloaks. From a distance it should not be obvious that they were French. He hoped to avoid being seen at all, until he was ready to strike, but he did not know this country and could not be sure that they would be able to remain hidden. Then they mounted and rode along behind the hills, trying to match the course of the road.

Dalmas followed his prey, looking for the right moment when his ten men could swoop, take or kill the enemy, and escape. He needed to be careful and so he waited, always calculating his chances.

Then, as they drew near Almeida, Captain Dalmas saw an opportunity so beautiful that it warmed his soldier’s heart. For the moment the spy was forgotten, for the cuirassier could see how to hand a victory to Marshal Ney.

‘Perfect,’ he said.

‘Sir?’ his corporal asked.

‘Nothing.’ Dalmas scribbled a note. The corporal seemed to be the ablest man with him at that moment. ‘Take this to corps headquarters!’ he said and gave a wolfish smile. Jean-Baptiste Dalmas was going to win after all.

T
he greenjackets of the 95th proved to be generous hosts. Steaming mugs of tea appeared immediately, and were soon followed by bowls of hot stew. Williams wondered whether he had ever tasted anything so delicious. He had taken off his greatcoat and was hoping that the sun would at least begin to dry his sodden woollen jacket.

Captain O’Hare’s company – the same men who had held the bridge at Barba del Puerco – were doing their best to dry themselves out and clean their rifles. Some tried putting a fresh pinch of powder in the pan and then squibbing off into the air, but the previous night’s deluge had usually turned the barrel’s contents into a useless sludge. That took more care to clean. Rodriguez and the redcoated NCOs were soon performing the same laborious task with their muskets. Williams had propped his own piece against a rock, and planned to follow their example once he had eaten, but then an eager young private offered to do it for him. He thought for a moment, and then remembered him as the lad who had shot his ramrod into a Frenchman during that bitter fight back in March. It seemed an age ago to Williams, and the memories were hazy and confused. Somehow that always seemed to be the way with battles.