Run Them Ashore (32 page)

‘I am glad to be able to tell you that our errant boy has been found. Mr Williams is alive, apparently well, and with the irregulars in the hills.’

There were murmurs and then cheers led by Pringle and the Welshman’s other friends, and MacAndrews let them die down. ‘Captain Hanley writes to say that he has seen him, although he is at a loss to explain why our comrade has gone all gypsy on us. No doubt we shall find out when he returns.’

Pringle pushed back his chair to stand and then raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the gypsy, and to the One Hundred and Sixth.’ He paused, looking around the room. ‘And commiserations to all those junior to Williams on the list!’

A roar of laughter filled the room, the major chuckling with them. When an officer was killed the men junior to him received a step in seniority, edging them just a little closer to promotion. If Williams had died then the most senior ensign would have been raised to lieutenant.

‘Just my luck!’ Derryck said, grinning from ear to ear.

Hatch tried to laugh, eager to be a good fellow even when it was well known that he and Williams were not friends. It would not come, and he had to trust that his grimace would be taken for a smile.

He could not believe it, for he had seen the man fall and known in his heart that he was dead. The bullish confidence of the last months crumbled away as fear seized him. Williams had been looking the other way when he fired. He could not have
seen who it was, even if he realised that the bullet had come from his own side, and then the other ball had struck and that must have been fired by an enemy. Williams could not know – could not even suspect.

What about the girl? The question forced itself unbidden into his mind. He remembered standing above her after it was over, the knife again in his hand, and wondering whether one swift thrust would ensure her silence. The woman had passed out, and no eyes stared up at him, but he was appalled that he had even thought such a thing. He felt fear then, not of the consequences, but of what he had become. Hatch had never wanted to be a saint, only a brusque and dangerous English gentleman. That he could even consider murdering a woman had sickened him, and he threw the knife away into the corner with bitter disgust. He was almost tender when he covered her with Williams’ cloak, and only after he left did the elation come.

Even fear did not make Hatch regret the decision. He was not that sort of swine, but nor did he fancy the prospect of court martial and disgrace – if not worse. Surely they would not take the word of some foreign slut over an officer with a proven record? That was a thin hope, and at the least his name would be damaged.

Williams might well know what he had done. After all, the man was with the partisans and they were not folk to forget a wrong. What would the Welshman do? Hatch could still picture Redman’s body, the wound over his heart, lying pale and naked after the attentions of the looters. He must get away.

The next morning he requested permission to see MacAndrews and submitted a letter applying for transfer to the Portuguese service.

‘I will forward it, of course,’ the Scotsman said, for he was acting governor of Tarifa and thus Hatch’s superior even though he no longer served with the 106th. ‘However, I cannot say how quickly anything will happen.’ Hatch tried to read the major’s expression and failed.

‘Good luck to you, Hatch.’ MacAndrews offered his hand. ‘I
am sure the colonel will support your application as strongly as I would.’

FitzWilliam arrived that evening, and the next day the Scotsman left for Gibraltar, leading away the Grenadier and the Light Companies. They were to go to Cadiz to be combined with the flank companies of two other corps to form a temporary flank battalion and the major was given this command. Opinion in the mess saw it as a well-deserved reward for the skill with which he had handled the 106th during the colonel’s absence.

Hatch spent less time in the mess and instead drank on his own – at least his chasseurs continued to supply him with plenty to drink so his empty purse was not called upon to pay for this relief. FitzWilliam promised to expedite his application, had even made a half-hearted if polite attempt to persuade him to reconsider and remain with the 106th, but the days turned into weeks and nothing happened. Williams began to stalk his nightmares on those rare occasions he managed to sleep.

At Cadiz the admiral and the generals waited on the weather. January ended with storms and February was no better. For the first time in his life Hanley felt the stirrings of seasickness when he attended another meeting on board the
Milford
, the big ship riding at anchor. Its motion was oddly unpredictable, which meant that the big lurches of the deck kept taking him by surprise. The outer harbour offered only a little shelter from the wind, which caused a deep swell and sent rain hammering against the stern windows. Everywhere on the ship was damp, the wood slick underfoot and he had slipped and fallen after coming aboard.

‘We are ready, apart from the weather,’ Sir Richard told Hanley and Wharton. ‘And the Spanish assure us that they are ready, but it will have to get a good deal better before they are able to put to sea – a very good deal better. I have been a sailor all my life, and even on the calmest day I should not care to be in some of the barges they have to carry their troops.

‘La Peña is to command. General Graham is convinced that
was the only way to get the Spanish to take part, and he is probably right, much though I regret the necessity. The Spanish have some fine regiments here, very fine, and several of their brigades are led by stout fellows, but La Peña is a nervous fool. Most of his own officers call him the “Dowager”.’

‘There is no choice, Sir Richard,’ the chaplain reminded the admiral. ‘Without them there are not the numbers. Graham can muster little more than five thousand men, but La Peña will bring at least twice as many. Sinclair reports that Victor has somewhat over eight thousand soldiers in or near the siege lines, excluding some of the gunners manning batteries. That is correct, is it not, Hanley?’

‘Other sources suggest similar figures, some a little higher and some a little lower. If he is playing us false it does not seem to be in this respect, at least not by any great margin.’

‘Have your doubts about him grown stronger?’ Wharton’s avuncular manner slipped to reveal the keen-sighted and calculating master of spies.

Hanley considered his answer. ‘Yes, though not for any very clear reason. The more I think about it the more I believe him to be a French agent. I do not know why, and I may be in error, it is just that I feel him to be false.’

‘If so, then what is his purpose?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Soult has taken a strong force away, and so there must be fewer men here along the coast, and fewer to besiege Cadiz. Does he inflate their numbers to deter an attack?’

‘Or hide them to encourage one?’ Wharton suggested.

‘Either way the attack will happen, for the generals are decided on it, the politicians support it, and whatever the risks it seems to me the best thing to do. With Soult gone north there is all the more reason to make trouble here in the south and so relieve the pressure on Lord Wellington.’

The plan was straightforward, the admiral punctuating his explanation with fingers jabbed at the map of the coastline from Cadiz to Gibraltar. Escorted by the navy, transport ships and barges would carry all of Graham’s men and most of La Peña’s to
Algeciras near Gibraltar. From there they would march overland back towards Cadiz. When Victor pulled his men out of the siege lines, the remaining Spanish regiments would attack from the Isla. At the least they would overthrow some of the enemy’s works, but the principal aim was to force Marshal Victor to battle.

‘Break his army, and thus break the siege,’ Sir Richard concluded, slamming the palm of his hand down on to the table.

‘Perhaps we can use Sinclair, and at the same time test him,’ Wharton said.

‘I am all ears,’ the admiral replied, spreading his hands.

‘Let him know of the expedition, say that he is to muster irregulars, but let him believe that our numbers are fewer. If he tells the French then they will be more willing to fight and that is all to the good.’

Hanley snapped his fingers as the idea came. ‘Why not tell him that the commanders mistrust each other, are hounded by the Regency Council and so may be rash, while the soldiers are inexperienced?’

Wharton was pleased. ‘Yes, that would convince and should encourage them to boldness. They say Marshal Victor is longing for a chance to beat the British after the repulse at Talavera.’

‘Well, he may get his chance soon, God willing,’ Sir Richard said. ‘And God willing Graham can make sure that La Peña does not make a hash of it all.’

25

T
he luck went against them from the very start, when one of the mules bucked off its rider, kicked another animal so badly that its leg was broken, and then sprang over a precipice. That left them with three mounts between five of them, and so they walked the rest of the way, winding around the mountain as they climbed.

‘It is not so fast, but it is safer,’ Carlos Velasco explained. ‘There is nothing up here to attract the French.’ Don Juan had provided a local guide, although Carlos seemed to know the country quite well. Another of El Blanco’s men came as escort and so did Guadalupe. The brief intimacy she and Williams had shared was not repeated, and for most of the journey she said little.

There was no reason for the French to be up so high, and yet, on the third day, the guide hissed a warning and they pressed back against the rock wall beside them, holding the mules tightly and praying that they would not bray. The path was only a couple of yards wide before the ground fell away in a slope so steep that it was virtually a cliff. In the valley beneath them a strong force of infantry – two companies at least – was slowly climbing, skirmishers to the front, flanks and rear.

Carlos tapped Williams on the shoulder and pointed higher up to a line of figures standing out dark on the crest.

‘We cannot go through the pass,’ the guide told them. ‘We must go back or go over the top.’

Williams wondered whether he should have agreed to go back, but the man was sure the path was not closed. It meant giving up the mules, for they would have to climb as often as they walked,
and so El Blanco’s man led them away. Carlos told him to meet them at a village on the far side of the peaks.

‘If you are not there by Sunday, we’ll go on.’

It proved a hard climb, far harder than Williams had expected. These mountains were not so very high, but the land was broken by ravines and cliffs so that walking even a short distance as the crow flew meant precarious descents and hard climbs. They went for two days without seeing any more French, or indeed anyone at all. The Welshman’s leg hurt and became stiff, and Carlos made them stop earlier than the guide wanted because there was the prospect of shelter in a shallow cave – little more than a hollow in the cliff face. Wet snow fell, and a bitter wind howled among the rocks, but they had carried some dry kindling and found enough fuel for a small fire. Huddled together, the thin soup seemed the most wonderful of all foods.

So much of Williams’ time in Spain had been spent in the wet and cold that these days he laughed at the thought that once he had believed it to be a place of eternal sunshine. The next day the snow became heavier, and they had to be even more careful not to lose the way and stray from the path. Williams was sure that he was going more and more slowly. Guadalupe also found it harder going, and it was odd how he had taken her strength for granted in the past. As he looked at her now, he could see she was a slightly built young woman scarcely out of childhood, and even a year spent with the guerrilleros had not prepared her for so arduous a journey.

They pressed on, but he and the girl were flagging. The guide’s assurance that they were on their way down cheered them only a little, for it still seemed the same routine of scrambling down rocky scree and then clambering up slopes the other side. Snow turned to rain, but the wind was still cold and it did not feel very different. There was no more kindling and that meant cold camps and no hot food. At the end of the fourth day, the guide took them up again, leading them slowly along a precarious path until they reached a deep cave sunk into the side of the slope.
It was pleasantly sheltered, even warm out of the wind, so that their cold food tasted better.

Carlos was on watch when the shouts echoed up from the valley below. He woke them, and they crept to the mouth of the cave from where Williams saw a big fire a few hundred yards below them. Figures moved around the fire and the men did not seem to care about being seen.

The sun rose, breaking through the clouds to give the first dry and bright day since they had begun. Williams could see that the men camped beneath them wore no uniforms and were instead clad in the drab blacks and browns of partisans. There were fifteen of them, and as many horses and mules, and they did not seem in any hurry. Most slept late, and the two sentries paced in a leisurely manner as they circled the camp. It was late morning before the others rose, and as they stretched and stamped their feet Williams felt Carlos tense beside him.

‘El Lobo,’ he whispered, which settled any thought of leaving the cave in daylight. At noon some of the partisans began to climb the slope towards them, so the guide took them back, crawling through a crack in the rocks to reach a natural chamber, where they lay and waited. Time passed slowly. There was only dim light filtering back from the mouth of the cave. Guadalupe lay beside Williams and her hand pressed his tightly.

They heard men’s voices, at first faint and then echoing as they stepped into the cave. The accents were strong, and even after months with El Blanco’s band Williams could understand only a few of the words. It did not seem as if they were hunting for them or anyone else. A long sound of splashing made it clear that one of them had decided to use the cave for another purpose. Then there was laughter and the voices receded.

In the near-darkness they lay and waited. Guadalupe kept a firm grip on his hand, and moulded herself close to him. Eventually Carlos crept forward and peered through the crack. He watched for a while, seeing and hearing nothing, before he went through into the main cave. The guide followed.

‘I love you, ’Amish,’ the girl whispered in his ear, hope and
desperation in every word, but she was so close that she must have felt the change in him.

What could he say? Williams admired her and pitied her, and could not deny that she was lovely and there beside him, soft to the touch and so very warm and alive. He did not love her.

She needed a good man who loved her and would love her forever. Someone who would justify the newfound hope kindling within her after so much pain. She did not need a man who would take her only to leave her and plunge her back into despair. His head told him all this, but still had to struggle as his flesh thrilled at her softness.

‘I am sorry,’ he began, and in an instant felt her withdraw, the whole sense of her body beside him immediately different.

She shook off his attempt to help her up and left him. Williams followed, feeling himself a miserable worm, but not knowing what else to do or say. At the mouth of the cave Carlos and the guide lay, peering out.

‘Smugglers,’ the former surgeon said in a low voice. There were more men down below them, seven of them with a string of heavily laden mules. El Lobo went out to greet them, giving the leader a hug and lifting the man off the ground. ‘The old rogue is not letting the war interfere with the chance of making money.’

The two bands mingled, sharing wine and food with every sign of friendship. Their guide was the first to spot the soldiers, dressed in long coats and coming in file down a path on the far side of the valley.

‘French,’ he said.

It was a few more minutes before anyone down in the valley saw the infantrymen. Someone shouted and Williams watched as El Lobo whipped a pistol from his belt and discharged it into the man he had hugged. One of his men clubbed another of the smugglers to the ground and all the others had weapons in their hands. A smuggler was hacked about the head. The rest threw up their hands. By the time the French soldiers reached them the fight was over.

‘Some French general has gone into business with the bandits,’ was Carlos’ judgement. Not that it mattered to them, but since the partisans and soldiers had camped in the valley for another night it meant that they must wait in their cave. Guadalupe said nothing apart from short acknowledgements when someone passed her something. She never looked at Williams and he was glad when darkness fell and it was impossible to see anyone inside the cave. Sleep eluded him, and he lay on his back hating himself for hurting so fine and brave a young woman.

El Lobo’s men left in the morning, the voltigeurs following them an hour or two later. They waited for a few more hours before risking leaving the cave. It was another dry day, and they made good progress for a while, but it was already Monday and so they had missed the rendezvous. In fact it took them another day and a half to reach the mountain village. Carlos went ahead to see someone he knew there, found that the man with the mules had never arrived, and that French soldiers had passed through the day before. It was a gamble, but they risked staying the night in one of the little houses, glad of warm food and proper shelter.

For the next week they went slowly, wary alike of enemy troops and the irregulars of El Lobo. Williams was glad of the slower pace, and felt that his leg was getting better, but worried that it was taking so long for him to carry word of Sinclair’s treachery. He wished now that he had written a letter as El Blanco had suggested, although whether that would have travelled faster and more safely was hard to say.

When they came nearer to Gibraltar their path was blocked again and again. The country was less sheltered here, and something seemed to have stirred up the French, for there were large detachments marching and countermarching across the country, while patrols seemed to be everywhere. A dozen dragoons with yellow fronts to their dark green coats and drab covers over their brass helmets surprised them as they were leaving the shelter of a straggling pine forest. They fled, seeking cover, and for the next three hours the French horsemen hunted them through the
driving rain. Such a small group of soldiers would normally be wary of guerrilleros lying in wait.

‘Must be a lot more of them around,’ Carlos gasped as they lay panting in a dense thicket, after having to run for half a mile. Only the broken ground had stopped the horsemen from catching them.

At long last the dragoons gave up, but they were too weary to go any further and rested in a dell surrounded by thick thorn bushes. ‘Either you’re a Jonah or the French just do not like you, Englishman,’ Carlos Velasco suggested. Guadalupe would still not meet his gaze. The former surgeon obviously sensed something was wrong, although he said nothing.

The next day they saw more patrols, and drifted steadily north and west to evade them. In the end they gave up trying to cross the lines and reach Gibraltar, and instead made towards Tarifa. They were weary, filthy from their journey, and running low on food. Yet it was like finding the natural grain in a piece of wood, and they found themselves going faster and faster. The guide left them to visit an isolated village and came back with bread and fruit, and that night they had a better meal than they had had for days. As they ate Guadalupe looked at Williams for the first time in a week. He wanted to say again how sorry he was, how he hated to hurt her, but the others were there, and what would the words really have meant? Instead he offered a weak smile. The girl did not return it, but she did not look away, and that at least was something.

They were close now, and on a drab day when heavy showers rolled in from the sea every hour or so, they headed for where they hoped to find the Allied outposts. The land was rocky, with low sandy hummocks and patches of marsh, and they felt very exposed. No one was in sight, and they tried to take what cover they could as they went towards a low ridge topped by cork trees. Williams unslung the musket he had carried throughout the journey. It was French and felt awkward in his hands.

‘What is wrong?’ Carlos asked. Surviving as a guerrilla had given him a healthy respect for men’s instincts.

‘I do not know.’ Williams took the wine cork from the muzzle of his firelock, thinking once again that this partisan habit was a good one, and then pulled off the rag covering the lock. Flicking open the pan, he saw that the powder was there and it looked dry.

They went more slowly now, his wariness spreading to the others, all of whom drew their own weapons. Guadalupe had a pistol in one hand and a curved sabre in the other, with the haft of a clasp knife sticking from her sash.

When it came the shot sounded dull in the heavy damp air. The ball went nowhere near them, and it must have been a signal, for enemy dragoons appeared from the trees. There were five to their right about a quarter of a mile away, and seven or more further to their left. The Frenchmen whooped and spurred their horses at the fugitives.

They ran. No one needed to shout the order, the four of them just sprinted for the trees, splashing across the waterlogged ground. It was bad going for horses and that slowed the dragoons, but the closest was within a hundred yards when they burst through the first line of trees. The hill had a wide top and they kept going, dodging between the trunks. Williams stumbled, his weight falling so awkwardly on his bad leg that he cursed in pain. Carlos stopped to fire back at the leading dragoons, and Guadalupe took the Welshman’s arm as he pushed himself up. There was warmth in her eyes as he thanked her, and they ran on, going down the far side of the ridge where the cork trees were thinner. They came into the open, and there was a wide field leading to another, denser wood. It seemed their best chance, so they sped towards it.

The guide was at the back. He was one of those tough, stocky mountaineers, so common in these parts, but he was not made for sprinting. Hearing the pounding of hoofs coming closer, he spun around and took aim with his carbine as two of the green-coated cavalrymen bore down on him. When he pulled the trigger the flint sparked and powder flared, but the main charge must have been wet or shaken out because the gun did not fire.
The leading dragoon hacked down with his straight sword. Its edge was blunt, for French cavalry were taught to thrust, and so the blow bludgeoned the man, knocking him into a crouch. The second horseman had to lean low to spear the tip of his blade into the man’s forehead, the momentum of his cantering horse driving the steel through the bone. With only a grunt, the guide fell, the dragoon pulling his sword free as he rode on.