Run Them Ashore (31 page)

Hanley turned and fled. Williams longed to follow him, but there was the rocky path of a fast-flowing stream at the bottom of the fold in the ground between them and he doubted that his mule would make it. Another bullet plucked at his long hair, and the Poles were getting close now. He turned the beast around and slapped it again to make it go. There were shouts and more shots, but the mule kept running and streaked back to the stone wall surrounding the grove. The priest was there, with one of the partisans, and both had raised muskets aimed at him. Williams wondered whether they would think he had played them false and fulfil Don Juan’s threat, but the priest was calling him on.

‘They have got Sinclair,’ he said. Four or five voltigeurs clustered around the Irishman, lifting him. Two more held the scout down on his knees. About twenty more formed a skirmish line, while the rest doubled back towards the houses.

‘They have always had Sinclair,’ Williams said, wondering whether they still did not believe him. His mule, so sure footed up until now, stumbled and dropped its shoulder, making him lose his balance and fall. Something whizzed through the air where he had just been and slapped into the chest of the priest. There was a sharp report.

‘The tower,’ the partisan said, as the priest staggered, blood pumping out over his body. He was choking, but could say no words as he fell. Williams saw a wisp of smoke drifting from the window of the church tower, which must have been almost three hundred yards away. It was an incredible shot, and both the sound
and the accuracy made him sure that the man had a rifle. The dying man slid down, leaving him wet with his blood.

‘Come on, English,’ the partisan called, and hit his mule hard to drive the beast on. Williams’ animal began to follow and he managed to grab the saddle and haul himself up on to its back. Carlos and the others met them on the far side of the olive groves.

The sun was setting red beneath the mountains before they reached the rest of Buera’s band. Don Juan questioned two of his men for some time before he called Williams to him. El Blanco was beside him, and with him were Paula and her sister, clad once again in breeches and boots. That is a shame, thought Williams, although he was pleased neither had yet cut her hair short again. His own was longer than he had ever had it in his life, and it would be good to be rid of much of it when there was an opportunity. Barbers seemed rare in the mountains.

‘The warning saved us, and I hear it was you who gave it. For that you have my thanks.’ Don Juan spoke very formally.

‘Major Sinclair is a traitor or a French spy pretending to be a British officer.’ Williams could see no other explanation. ‘Either way he fights for them. It would explain a good deal,’ he added, stating the obvious.

‘Never did care for the man,’ El Blanco said.

‘I think he has a rifleman with him, perhaps a deserter from one of our foreign corps. The man is an excellent shot, and it was not chance that the bullet struck Xavier.’ He did not add that he was sure it was Brandt, plying his trade for yet another army. It would do no good to mention Paula’s attacker – her first attacker, he reminded himself, and promised once again that he would see Hatch brought to account.

‘Sinclair can do less harm now that we know his true colours,’ Don Juan said. ‘But anything he saw and anywhere he went is not safe. We must look for new campsites and places to hide stores.’

‘I must tell my commanders,’ Williams said.

‘Won’t your friend Hanley do that? He should have got away.’

‘He does not know. French soldiers appeared and Sinclair fell from his horse as he tried to escape. There was nothing to see that showed his guilt if he was not looking out for the signs. Sinclair can still do us harm, so I must make sure that they know about him in Gibraltar and Cadiz.’

‘Write a letter, and we will see that it gets through,’ El Blanco said, and the other leader nodded his approval.

‘They might not believe a letter. I must report in person.’ Williams also thought of Lieutenant Hatch. He could not put that in a letter.

‘Are you up to the journey?’

‘I shall have to be.’ In truth he had forgotten all about his wound when he had smoked Sinclair and gone to warn his friend. On the journey back the pain had returned, but in spite of all the rigours of the last few days it was getting better.

‘Gibraltar is closest,’ Don Juan said, glancing at El Blanco. ‘We will get you there.’

24

N
ear the end of January Marshal Soult, the Duke of Dalmatia, gathered his twenty thousand men and led them northwest towards the border with Portugal. Dalmas went with him, and took Brandt.

‘I think he might be useful,’ the cuirassier had said to Sinclair, ‘that is if you can spare him.’

The Irishman was happy to agree, since with many battalions stripped away from the divisions left behind there was little chance of any more drives through the mountains or ambushes set to catch the partisan bands. He was also well satisfied with the havoc he and Dalmas had wrought. Bribery and threats had produced a good few informers from among the prisoners, and with Sinclair’s knowledge of the guerrilleros they had dealt a succession of savage blows against the irregulars. The Frenchman was the better soldier, the Irishman had a more naturally devious mind, and the two of them proved a very effective team. Some of the raids into the mountains had marched far and fast to no result, wearing out boot leather and spirits without ever seeing the enemy. Yet more than half had worked, and they had inflicted heavy losses, dispersing those bands they did not destroy. For the moment the survivors were too scattered and wary to cause much trouble.

The marshal was pleased. ‘Now, Dalmas, find me a way into Badajoz,’ he commanded when the pair were summoned to Seville. ‘And you, Sinclair, make sure that Andalusia stays ours while I am away. Do the British still think that you are one of their own?’

‘For the moment.’ He was sure that was true, and was pleased with his performance, pretending to flee from the Poles, then making his horse rear and taking an artful dive. It was a shame Brandt had missed the red-coated officer who was with the partisans. If it was Williams then he must have seen through the charade. ‘In a few weeks they will probably find out.’

‘Then use those weeks to fool them, and make sure they do not fool you.’

Dalmas had an idea for that, a bold idea, and the more Sinclair thought about it the more he enjoyed its impudence.

‘They want to come out from Cadiz.’ The cuirassier major had just heard the Irishman’s latest instructions from Admiral Keats. ‘Good. With the sea and ramparts to protect them we cannot get at them in Cadiz, so we want them to come out. Then we can fight them in the open and crush them.’

‘What about the risk? Marshal Victor’s corps is weaker than it was.’

‘Not by that much. The duke has only taken a few of his regiments and he still has the bulk of three divisions. At best the English and Spanish will match him in numbers, and there is no Milord Wellington here. The rest of the English generals are children without him, and from all you say La Peña is an old woman. I’d back Victor and his veterans against any of them.’

‘It’s still a risk,’ Sinclair said, but without conviction.

‘It’s war,’ Dalmas replied and shrugged – an odd movement since as always when on duty he was wearing his cuirass. ‘Draw them out. Tell them how weak Victor is and how afraid we are of being raided. Then make sure he knows where to find them and can meet them on ground of his own choosing. Smash them in the open, and the city itself might fall.’

‘Is that your key into Badajoz?’

‘Maybe. If I’m lucky.’

‘You should have been born Irish,’ Sinclair told him, and knew that he would miss the big man and his reassuring competence. That night he went south, already planning the messages he would write to Cadiz. The key was to convince, and that was best
done by subtle modifications to the truth. He had a list of the regiments in Victor’s corps and their current strengths. Reduce them by a fifth, and add to the numbers given for those in hospital or on detached service, and it would give the English and Spanish exactly what they wanted to see. An enemy still strong enough to blockade, but one bluffing them to look stronger than he was.

There was another letter to write, one explaining his remarkable escape in case Hanley was already back by the time his messages got through. Experience said that ridiculous and unflattering details were one of the best ways to sell a lie. He had used being shot in the bottom before, and wondered whether this time he might claim to have sneaked out hidden in a dung cart.

As he rode south, Chef de Battalion James Sinclair was happy man, his mind alive with possibilities.

January was wet all along the Andalusian coast, and much of the time it was cold. Near the end of the month Major MacAndrews led one wing of the 106th and a few dozen Spanish cavalrymen to raid a convent held by the French. The intention was to distract the enemy and let a much larger Spanish raid take the town of Medina Sidonia, which in turn was meant to draw their attention and permit the Spanish to throw a bridge of boats across the river separating the peninsula of Cadiz and the Isla with the mainland.

‘Let us hope the French are as confused by all this as we are,’ MacAndrews told his officers when he explained the plan, and Hatch had laughed along with the rest. The remnants of the Chasseurs had been disbanded, with many of the men going to the allegedly Royalist French
Chasseurs Britanniques
, but he had remained in command of a half-company of riflemen attached to the 106th.

Hatch did not care much for Tarifa, and cared even less for a week spent sleeping in the open with only a boat cloak to keep out the rain. Yet in every other way he could not remember a time when he had felt happier – if he was honest, even when
his best friend Redman had been alive. Revenge was far sweeter than he had ever guessed, and the knowledge that he had won so complete a victory over his enemy without anyone realising. Sometimes, sitting in the mess of the 106th, he had burst out laughing at the mere thought, especially if Pringle or Truscott or any of the others from the old days was there. No one paid him much notice, for they all knew he was a sot and a queer sort of fellow, and no doubt spending time with foreign soldiers would only make him worse. There was amusement at his odd ways, and that only made it all the more hilarious.

The woman had been an impulse. Hatch was not a bold man and knew it. He had served well enough in half a dozen actions and had played his part, but no more than others in the regiment. Not a coward, then, and yet he did not have the reckless courage of men like Williams or the quiet confidence of the likes of Pringle. Taking the woman had changed that. It had all happened so quickly and then it was done and no one shouted at him or called him to account. Hatch realised that the world was there to be seized by anyone spirited enough to do it.

During the chaos of the next day he had known that he could not be touched and that he could do anything. When his men were sniping at the castle he had picked up a rifle dropped by one of the wounded and begun to fire. He was sure that he had hit at least one of the defenders. As the chasseurs fled around him and the Poles surged up to the battery, Hatch went through it all without ever fearing for his own safety. The brigade was in rout, but he was safe and had waited, resting his back against some boulders as men fled to the beach. He saw Williams, running away from the crowd and up on to a little rise, and another impulse came so naturally that the rifle was at his shoulder before he knew it.

Hatch aimed carefully, feeling a thrill of power, let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger so that the rifle slammed back into his shoulder. Smoke blotted out the view and he ran to the side and saw Williams – terrible, invulnerable Williams – with blood on his side and then the Welshman’s head jerked back as
he was shot again. The French had completed the job for him, his enemy had gone, and he felt free. Hatch was sure that he would enjoy the rest of the war, at least once they left this miserable hole of a place.

His men were compliant enough, and had a talent for making themselves comfortable in the field through energetic and well-organised theft, whether from local civilians or the rest of the army. With his new-found boldness Hatch encouraged them, as long as he was given an appropriate share, including plenty of bottles of spirits they were lifting from the mess stocks of the 106th. Once he found three of his soldiers with an officer’s valise and let them keep the contents after taking half of the thirty guineas they found inside. Part of him still missed Brandt’s roguish spirit, but on the whole it was more comfortable without the murderous Pole. The only real shadow in his bright existence was Sergeant Mueller, who watched him with evident disapproval and tried to rein the men in. Hatch longed for some pretext to break the man to the ranks, but the German was the consummate soldier, always efficient, never crossing the lines imposed by discipline. The lieutenant found it easier to ignore the dull fellow as far as was possible. His lately acquired funds allowed him to frequent the gaming table, and in two nights he gambled and lost all fifteen guineas.

The raid gave everyone a lot of marching and discomfort to little purpose. MacAndrews took them to the convent, but it was too strong to assault without heavy loss and his orders were only to threaten it, so Hatch deployed his men alongside the Light Company to harass the place. He carried a rifle all the time these days, and cheerfully popped away at the slits in the fortifications.

This was all very amusing, until news arrived of the advance of a battalion or more of the enemy which meant that the detachment would soon be heavily outnumbered by the French. MacAndrews withdrew his men, looking for a good spot to defend where his smaller numbers would not place him at a disadvantage. The Scotsman had lately developed the irritating
habit of humming or singing softly to himself, always the same song.

‘We’ll ne’er see our foes but we’ll wish them to stay …’

‘It sounds as if the major is longing to join the Navy,’ Hatch said to Ensign Derryck.

‘Last night I thought we had!’ Every night without fail the heavens had opened, and at the last bivouac they had been flooded out by an overflowing stream.

An elegant Spanish officer on a spirited Andalusian came through the French lines to bring a report to the major.

‘The Spanish have not moved,’ MacAndrews told his assembled officers, ‘but I am assured they will move today. If the fellow who brought the message is anything to go by, then they certainly do not lack courage and want only organisation, so I expect that they will advance.’ The staff officer had ridden back to carry his assurances to his superiors, and it took a cool hand to ride in full uniform past the French garrisons.

Hatch took a party of chasseurs out on patrol while his sergeant led out another group. The lieutenant let the men disperse when they came to a farm so that the buildings could be searched thoroughly. There was little to find, for no doubt the French had been here often enough before, but then he heard a woman screaming. A couple of his men had found a peasant girl and cornered her in a pigsty. No doubt the girl was dirty enough in the first place, but after being thrown down in the mud she was filthy. Hatch doubted that she was very pretty, but there was something about her fear and helplessness that thrilled him. His new-found boldness was about to surface when a shot split the air. Sergeant Mueller appeared – goddamned Sergeant bloody Mueller – with his patrol to restore order and announced that a larger French detachment was approaching. They left the girl – perhaps the French found the bitch – and went back to MacAndrews’ force. Just once the sergeant’s impassive veil dropped, and Hatch saw his expression of contempt. Well, damn the man, he would break him or, failing that, shoot the bugger just as he had shot Williams.

At noon the next day the French battalion retired, which suggested that the Spanish had indeed moved, and so MacAndrews led his men back to the convent. Forty-eight hours had failed to make it any more susceptible to attack, so the skirmishers resumed their old occupation of shooting at the high walls and hoping luck would carry a ball through one of the narrow firing slits.

‘We shall weary them with the noise, if nothing else,’ MacAndrews declared, leaving Hatch’s men and a detachment of redcoats to keep up the fire while he took the remainder along the Medina road. They surprised a foraging party of dragoons and infantry and quickly put them to flight, capturing twenty men. A little later a column of black smoke curled up into the air as the French burnt a storehouse filled with forage rather than let the British capture it. At the end of the day MacAndrews was back, retreating as the French battalion advanced against them once again. This time the Spanish main force was ready, and they pushed into Medina against little opposition, only to abandon it as the enemy battalion returned and more troops came to reinforce them. The same staff officer once again crossed the lines to inform MacAndrews that bad weather had prevented the attack from Cadiz and so there was no point holding on against superior numbers.

‘Well, it has all been a pleasant winter ramble,’ the major told them as he marched his force back to Tarifa.

Hatch was glad to be back under a roof and by a warm fire even if it was in the drab surroundings of Tarifa. That night the mess was even more convivial than usual, and soon stirred by two pieces of news. The first was that Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam was recovered and would soon arrive from England to take back command of the battalion. Hatch had never met the colonel, but heard that he was a decent, gentlemanly fellow. There was a fair chance that the remaining chasseurs would be posted elsewhere, and he was not sure whether to ask to return to the battalion or seek a posting elsewhere, perhaps with the Portuguese. Much depended on whether he would keep his lieutenancy if he went
back to the 106th, and on FitzWilliam’s attitude towards him. Hatch had no desire to be an ensign again, and part of him wondered whether his new-found confidence would find better opportunities elsewhere.

At that point, MacAndrews requested and was granted an invitation to enter the mess.

‘Gentlemen, I have some remarkable and very pleasing news, which I am sure many of you will be delighted to hear.’ The Scotsman cleared his throat, drawing out the moment before he continued. He had their attention, and Hatch suspected nothing.