Send Me Safely Back Again (12 page)
The country was rugged and empty, the track winding through valleys where rows of olive trees clung to the slopes. They crossed little bridges and went through long stretches of forest without seeing any other travellers.
Once again it was Ramón who spotted the rider at the moment when they were ready to begin after a rest of an hour,
during which Wickham had dismounted and done his best to be genial and draw a somewhat sullen Williams into light conversation.
‘I see ’im,’ said Dobson. ‘On the crest to the right of those pines.’
Williams searched the slope, caught the movement and saw the silhouette of a cloaked horseman slip behind the trees.
‘Looks like a soldier,’ said the veteran.
Williams nodded. He had even thought he glimpsed the shape of a helmet.
‘Could be a deserter, or a wandering Spaniard,’ said Wickham dismissively. ‘Even if they’re French the Doña Margarita’s pass will surely get us through. Nothing to worry about.’
Williams’ instincts made him doubt such a sanguine assessment, and he sensed Dobson felt the same. So too did Ramón, and the driver used his long whip mercilessly to push the team hard and get quickly through the series of defiles they saw up ahead. He was good at his job, and if the carriage rocked on its springs as it took the tighter corners, he never lost control. Wickham yelled in protest, but then came the higher, sharper tone of La Doña Margarita ordering the driver to keep going.
A sharp corner led to a bridge, and Ramón braked for a moment as the horses’ hoofs threw sparks off the cobbles as they swung to turn in time. The left wheels brushed against the parapet, their iron rims sending up more sparks and squealing as they scraped past in a dark flurry of old mortar, but the carriage was still moving on. Williams looked back to see several stones tumble from the wall and splash into the brook.
They were going uphill now, and the horses naturally raced up the rise. Williams was still looking back, and on the longest stretch saw a horseman following them, with two more behind him. Then the man reined in hard and his horse reared up as he stopped sharply. He was bare headed, and wearing a long cloak.
A musket ball flicked a long splinter from the wood of the carriage roof just beside the rail he held. The report was almost instant, and as Dobson yelled a warning and pointed to the left,
Williams spotted a French dragoon struggling to control his mount, frightened by the noise and smoke. Beside him, two more dragoons steadied their own horses and drew their long swords. Each had a cloth cover over his helmet to prevent the brass from glinting in the sun and betraying their position. On the right four more dragoons appeared from the trees and followed them, the carriage throwing up a great spray of muddy water as Ramón flogged the horses to pelt down the track.
Wickham heard the Frenchmen crying and leaned from the window of the carriage, calling at the driver to halt.
‘Don’t shoot!’ he screamed in French at the pursuing cavalry. ‘We are friends of King Joseph!’
Ramón did not stop and the Frenchmen splashed down the trail after them. Another man fired, this time with a pistol, and the ball snapped through the window above Wickham’s head, ripping a neat hole in the leather curtain. The major’s head shot back inside, and Williams was sure he caught a burst of clear, feminine laughter.
‘Don’t shoot! We are friends!’ This time the shout came from inside the carriage.
‘These lads mean business,’ called Dobson, clinging desperately on to the handrail as the carriage lurched and swung. He had his blunderbuss cocked, but knew that one-handed he would not be able to aim and feared wasting his charge when it seemed unlikely they would get the chance to reload.
Williams leaned back, pointing his heavy pistol at the closest dragoon. The carriage bounced, and the muzzle leapt from its aim squarely at the yellow front at the centre of the Frenchman’s dark green jacket. Thankfully he had not pulled the trigger, but the threat of the gun was enough to make the dragoons rein back a little. Another fired a pistol, but the ball must have gone high or wide, because neither Dobson nor Williams felt it pass near.
The carriage lurched again as Ramón skilfully took another bend in the road. Williams almost lost his footing as he leaned back, and for a moment his left foot was in the air, his balance
going, and then another jolt pitched him back against the back of the car.
There were more dragoons waiting, this time six men on foot and two more holding their horses. The dismounted men fired a ragged volley. One shot cut a groove in the roof of the carriage, and another twitched at the heavy curtain on the left-hand window and slapped into the far side of the car, prompting a cry of alarm that sounded more male than female.
The right lead horse was pumping blood from a wound in its neck. Ramón knew the animal was dying, but wanted to get as far as he could, and so he whipped the poor beast and the team ran on. Gouts of blood sprayed back red from the wound.
After a hundred yards the team began to slow perceptibly. Then more dragoons appeared, weaving through the trees beside the road, four on either side. The green-coated riders had their swords out, and an officer was bellowing orders. Two men raced along beside the team. Dobson aimed as best he could, one arm looped through the handrail so that both hands could try to steady the blunderbuss. He anticipated the bump, waited for the moment when the carriage sank back down on its springs and pulled the trigger.
The detonation seemed huge and the cloud of filthy smoke blew back around the two men on the rear of the carriage, but the explosion of the nails and scrap metal struck the dragoon on the right from behind, punching through the cloth cover and the brass of his helmet and shattering the rear of the man’s skull. His head flopped to one side, but some nervous reaction kept the man’s knees in their high boots firmly astride the horse, and the animal ran on with its dead rider.
Williams aimed at the man on the other side, but then another dragoon closed with him, sword lunging, and the ensign swung his arm back and fired with the muzzle of his pistol no more than a yard away. He pulled the trigger and the flint snapped down and sparked. Nothing happened; perhaps the powder in the pan had been shaken out in their jolting drive. The dragoon was closing, and almost by reflex Williams flung the pistol at him,
striking him in the mouth and making him yank with his left hand at the reins and swing away. He blocked the path of the men that followed, and for the moment they opened up some distance.
Williams reached for the other pistol and hoped desperately that this would fire. The carriage was starting to slow, and then the right lead horse died and the left’s collar was grabbed by the French dragoon who had sped up on that side. The trees fell back from the road as they came to a crossroads marked by a little shrine to a local saint. Ramón fumbled for a pistol just as the right lead slumped down. The team swung to the side, tugging the Frenchman from his saddle, and then the front wheel sank into a shallow ditch. There were screams from inside the carriage as the whole car rocked violently and the occupants were flung about. Dobson lost his balance and fell, rolling on the grass. Williams somehow stayed on.
Half a dozen French dragoons were closing, led by a slim officer whose uncovered helmet had a leopard-skin band and a tall white plume as well as the black horsehair crest. Farther back down the road, more dragoons cantered up in support. Williams jumped to the ground, and levelled the pistol at them, using his free hand to unbutton his greatcoat.
‘Jackets, Dob,’ he said. He was not sure the French would be inclined to take prisoners. With one man killed he could not blame them, but at least he would make the effort and show the enemy that they were British soldiers.
‘View halloo!’ The cry came as clear and purposeful as the brass call of a trumpet. ‘Tally ho! Come on the Twentieth!’ Williams could not see who was shouting, for the cries came from behind the carriage and the road off to the right. Then there were the thuds of a heavy-footed horse pounding through the mud and an immaculately dressed light dragoon officer shot past. His cloak billowed behind him, his trim-waisted tunic had rows of white lace widening at the shoulders, and he had the distinctively British Tarleton helmet with its comb of a crest. Behind him rode a corporal in the regulation place for a cover
man. Both officer and NCO had their heavy curved sabres raised high.
‘Charge, my lads!’ the officer called, and behind him another rider appeared, this one a trumpeter in a green uniform Williams did not recognise. The man raised his trumpet and blew the intoxicating notes of the charge.
Williams fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the shot strike home on the chest of a dragoon’s horse.
The French fled. Their horses were tired and they were spread out, and that was the worst condition in which to meet a cavalry charge. The officer yelled the order and the men wheeled sharply, and then kicked their spurred boots to send the horses racing as fast as they could back the way they had come. The dragoons coming up in support joined the prudent withdrawal.
None of the French looked back to share Williams’ surprise when he realised that the three horsemen were alone and that no squadron followed them.
‘Mad bugger,’ said Dobson admiringly.
The Frenchman with the wounded horse lagged behind, and the light dragoon corporal kept after him even after his officer had reined back. He closed steadily, and with a well-aimed and heavy swing the stockily built man cut the French dragoon from his saddle. His cry of pain hastened the flight of the others.
The light dragoon officer nodded approvingly, and then walked his horse back towards the foundered carriage. He had thick side whiskers framing his open, handsome face.
‘Well, that was all rather thrilling,’ he said happily. A couple of shots echoed up the valley. ‘Ah, that must be the excellent Charles, and the admirable Corporal Evans. They should keep Johnny Crapaud amused for a few hours. Corporal Evans displays a natural talent for banditry. Well, he is Welsh. Those fellows will be lucky to get away with their boots by the time he has finished.’
Williams dropped his long coat and revealed a red jacket which, for all its failings, still showed him to be an ensign in the British Army.
The light dragoon officer noticed and gave an easy smile. He wore a number of decorations Williams did not recognise. ‘I hope you will not take offence, my dear fellow, but if I were you I would have strong words with your tailor. A horse whip would seem the ideal way to start.
‘By the way, my name is Wilson.’
‘M
y lady,’ said Colonel Wilson with an impeccable bow. ‘It is good to see you again. I hope you were not in any way incommoded during the chase?’ Wickham took the Doña Margarita’s hand to help her step down from the carriage. In spite of her condition she did so with graceful ease.
‘I am perfectly recovered, Sir Robert. And must thank you for such a timely and heroic arrival.’ Her voice was deep, the English perfect with the barest trace of an accent, and her speech less formal than before. With her mantilla now around her shoulders, Williams for the first time saw her face clearly. Her long black hair was coiled on top of her head and braided down to her shoulders. Her eyes were such a deep brown as to seem almost black, and she looked boldly at each of them in turn, her gaze strong and unblinking. They were set in a round, almost heart-shaped face, with lips that were wide and a little fleshy. If her features were not perhaps wholly perfect, there was an animation in her expression and movements which leant them a lively beauty. As much as her appearance, Williams admired the coolness she had displayed in the recent chase, confirming what Ramón had told them of the lady’s courage.
She was taller than he had guessed, or perhaps for the first time was standing straight, so that she was only a few inches shorter than Wickham. Her skin was a dark cream, at the moment still somewhat flushed with excitement. ‘You are the perfect caballeros, appearing at the moment when all seemed lost,’ and after the compliment, she made the slightest motion of a curtsy, hardly bending her knees and yet conveying a considerable elegance.
‘I am most delighted to hear it, although I dare say your fellows would have fought the enemy off without our aid.’
It was a generous, if absurd, compliment. ‘We are most glad you arrived,’ said Williams.
‘Indeed, for we were most surely outmatched,’ added Wickham.
‘A happy chance,’ replied Sir Robert, ‘and we are pleased to have been of service. Now, we ought to get your carriage ready to move again in case any more of those fellows turn up.’ They were surprised to see the colonel undo his helmet’s chinstrap, take it off, and then peel off his cloak and jacket. ‘Come, Dobson, is it not? Let us see if we can shift this wheel, while the Doña Margarita’s man attends to the team.’
Williams was surprised to see a senior officer so readily submitting to manual work. Wickham was aghast, but immediately reprieved from copying the example when the lady asked him to help carry her travelling case over to the shade of a tree so that she could sit down. He was all attention.
The ensign happily joined Wilson, his corporal and Dobson as they clambered down into the shallow ditch. The wheel was undamaged, but the slope of the little trench almost vertical, although no more than eighteen inches deep. Without tools, they could not dig out a gentler slope.
‘Well, brute force it is,’ declared the colonel. The dead horse had been taken from the traces and dragged away by the rest of the team. Then the remaining lead was moved back to replace the animal behind, and Ramón led them forward while the four others heaved at the axle to raise the coach. The horses strained, were whipped on, and with a sudden surge the rim of the wheel gripped the top of the bank, crumbling the edge, until the carriage was rolling on. All four of them quickly let go to save themselves from being dragged forward as the team raced a few yards before the driver restrained them.