Whose Business Is to Die (29 page)

Twenty minutes later one of General Stewart’s ADCs brought the order to stand down and have breakfast. Soon afterwards the Spanish divisions began to re-form and march back until they were level with the rest of the army. There was a sporadic squibbing off of muskets all along the line as the men on picket duty tried to clear their loaded weapons. The easy way was to add a fresh pinch of powder to the pan and then pull the trigger in the hope that the main charge was still dry enough to go off. If it failed, and a persistently lazy soldier would often try two or three times, then all that was left was the hard way, yanking out ball and charge with the aid of a long rod, ideally hooked at the end. Williams had seen all sorts of contraptions devised by redcoats who swore that their own method was the best.

Sentries were posted by each company, and then the rest stripped off their drab grey greatcoats and set about lighting fires. There would be hot tea, at the very least, even if there was only cold biscuit to eat. Williams wondered how they managed to find the wood, because Albuera was little more than a ruin, roofs, doors and window frames long since stripped away by
successive French armies that had marched through. Colborne and his staff enjoyed a pleasant breakfast with piping-hot tea, a thick porridge and several eggs and rashers of bacon.

‘Found it, sir,’ Dunbar’s soldier servant said when questioned about the bacon.

‘The man’s a rogue, but invaluable,’ the captain said when the private was out of earshot. Not even Colborne was inclined to take the matter any further, and little was said as they drank and ate in contentment.

At seven o’clock, well fed and as rested as they could be, the colonel decided that he had sat idle long enough. ‘Dunbar.’

‘Sir.’

‘Stay here in case of orders. I doubt that there will be any for some time, but be here just in case I am in error. Williams and I will take a ride to see what is afoot.’

They went forward into the streets of Albuera with its unroofed houses. Marshal Beresford and his headquarters were in the few largely intact buildings nearest to them, and as they approached orderlies were waiting with horses for the commander and his staff.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Colborne saluted when the marshal appeared.

‘Colborne,’ the marshal replied with his accustomed bluntness, and without any trace of a smile. He glanced at Williams, but paid him no attention, and without more ado the big man climbed into the saddle and cantered off.

‘We are going to see General Blake,’ D’Urban explained. ‘It is quite likely that with this reinforcement the French will not risk an attack.’ Then he too clattered after his commander.

Colborne and Williams walked their horses through the village. The KGL light infantry were preparing to defend the far end, and as far as Williams could see it would be a hard business charging across the bridges to storm the place. If the French had enough men they might send some wading through the little river as well, but that would slow an attack down, and there was
open ground for a musket shot in front of the houses. If they did get in it would cost them dearly.

They went around the village in a loop, passing some of the dragoon guards on outpost duty and exchanging pleasantries with Brigadier General Long before riding on. Yet Williams found his eyes continually drawn to the rolling country south of the Spanish infantry.

Colborne noticed. ‘I do not care for it either, but if we had four or five times as many men we could not hold it all.’ He rubbed his chin in thought. ‘However, it will do no harm for you to take a ride down there. I shall return to the brigade and expect you back in half an hour.’

Williams gave Francesca a loose rein and let her rush up the smooth slope and then run along the top. He waved amicably at a few Spanish staff officers as he passed them.

It was soon clear that Colborne was right. The higher ground extended a long way south, all of it open with scarcely a tree or bush to be seen. It rose very gradually, with occasional dips and troughs, but there was no obvious point to anchor the entire position. About a mile south of Albuera, Williams came to a small knoll, which was perceptibly higher and then dropped away until it climbed to a second crest about five hundred yards away. That one was higher again, although not by much. Francesca rode down one slope and up the other side without the slightest hesitation, the going good at every stage. Even if not much of a ridge, this higher ground seemed very well drained. At the top of the second knoll he stopped and turned, and could see the village of Albuera and the entire Allied army in the distance. As the colonel had said, they did not have enough men to occupy all of this ground, but he did wonder what useful purpose the Portuguese served on the far left. The slope there was difficult, the river harder to cross, and an attack at that point seemed unlikely. Yet even if they were brought south they could not stretch the line this far without making it dangerously thin.

Williams rode back, and for a short while lost sight of the army as he went down into the little valley. When he reached the
top things had changed. There were dark shapes of formations of French troops advancing towards the river – probably cavalry but impossible to tell at this distance. Much further away and to the north-west a shadow moved on the road from Badajoz, which he hoped was the Fourth Division and his own battalion. Williams wondered how his friends were, and inevitably Miss MacAndrews forced her way to the front of his mind. He had received no correspondence from her since his letter. Had she never received it or instead chosen not to respond? He stared off into the distance to where Elvas stood, too far to see, but close enough for a man to ride there in less than a day.

Would she be awake so early in the day? He pictured her lying in bed, a fan of red hair spread around her soft, peaceful face. The dream came of turning Francesca away from the armies and riding to her – just him, a knight riding to find his lady. He could bang on the door and demand entry, and then sweep her up in his arms.

It was only a dream, and not a serious one, even if a small voice whispered that such devotion might truly win her heart. At Barrosa he had fought knowing that the girl was not many miles away in Cadiz, and now it looked as if the same thing would happen again. In a strange way it was worse than if she were hundreds of miles away or even home in England. The thought that it was almost but not quite possible to see her made the prospect of an action worse. A vision came unbidden, but irresistible in its cruel irony, of lying bleeding out his life’s blood, and thinking that Jane was not so very far away and yet might as well have been on the moon. He wondered whether there was time to write another note, and ask Dunbar to have it delivered if he fell, but dismissed such thoughts as indulgent.

Williams kicked his heels to race Francesca on as fast as she would go. This was not a time to think, but to try to be as busy as possible. No one had good thoughts before a battle, and the best a man could hope for was to have no thoughts at all. He had seen too much of battle not to know all the horrors that it held. Since being wounded the previous year some last piece of
inner defence had crumbled. Before that, a naive part of himself had still believed that he could not be hurt. He was experienced enough to know that the odds of coming through were better than of being wounded or killed, but he no longer had quite the same assurance that he would always survive.

Instead of heading back straight towards the main Allied line, Williams decided to ride to where he had seen Brigadier Long and so be better placed to report to Colborne. It was an easier route, since it would not require him to thread his way between the Spanish formations, and he should be able to return well within the half-hour.

A cluster of mounted men ahead of him was surely the marshal and his staff, and rather than go through them he veered right and galloped along land sloping down to the river. Beyond the senior officers, four teams of horses pulled limbers and guns into position on top of the low ridge. There were several squadrons of cavalry in cocked hats and red jackets on the slope covering the new bridge and the main ford just to the south of it.

More French had appeared on the far side of the river. There were at least four regiments of cavalry, and their own horse artillery trotting up to deploy. Williams saw Long and headed to him, arriving just as the brigadier general angrily gave instructions to an ADC.

‘Tell Marshal Beresford that I must have the Fourth Dragoons. Tell him that they are needed here and cannot be spared. Now go!’

‘Back again, Lieutenant Williams?’ There was no real anger in the general’s voice and once again Long seemed pleased to see him. ‘Some damned fool ordered the Fourth to the rear to tend to their horses and forage! Have you come from beyond our right?’

Williams nodded. ‘Colonel Colborne asked me to take a look, sir.’

‘We should have extended the line and at the least occupied those two low hillocks. Better yet have spent yesterday entrenching them and mounting batteries.’

‘Sir, they are moving to cross at the ford!’ One of Long’s staff was pointing at a formation of cavalry in blue jackets and grey trousers walking their horses forward. Unlike other cavalry, their front rank carried tall lances and their red over white pennants fluttered as they moved.

‘Are they French?’ asked a captain with the blue facings of the 3rd Dragoon Guards. ‘I thought only the Spanish had lancers?’

‘They are Poles,’ Williams said. ‘The Legion of the Vistula, and they are fine soldiers.’ Williams had seen the same uniform once before, back when he had held the bridge and protected the army’s flank as it limped towards Corunna.

‘Well, not as good as the Third I am sure – or any of our fellows,’ Long declared. The captain looked pleased by the compliment.

The first of the Poles splashed through the ford and urged his horse up the little slope on this side. Half the formation came through and then divided into a line of skirmishers. The rest of the squadron came behind them as a formed reserve. Across the river dragoons in brass helmets, green jackets and high black boots manoeuvred to support them. The six guns of the French Horse Artillery battery deployed in a line to cover either this advance or fire at the village. Beyond them two regiments of chasseurs in green advanced towards the bridges.

‘Well, they wish to draw our attention if nothing else,’ Long said. ‘Instruct Lefebure not to open fire without my express order,’ he told an ADC, the Dutchman Williams remembered from Campo Major.

Williams spotted a column of infantry marching along the highway. They were in tan-coloured greatcoats with off-white covers over their shakos and they came with little pomp, but there was a sense of purpose about their movements.

‘I imagine you should return to your own station, Mr Williams,’ Long said, and then turned to the captain from the dragoon guards. ‘Best drive those lancers back to their side of the water.’

Williams turned Francesca round and saw an officer in the scarlet jacket and lace of a major general accompanied by an
ADC coming to join them. It was General Lumley, the commander of one of the other infantry brigades in the Second Division, and he looked none too happy. Williams wondered whether his own presence had provoked the annoyance, but the general ignored him and reined in beside Long.

‘Good day to you, my dear Long,’ Lumley began. ‘I do not enjoy the circumstances of this, but I am sent by Marshal Beresford to take command of the cavalry. At least one of the Spanish commanders is senior to you, and so it is thought better to appoint an Englishman of higher rank to ensure that the cavalry are not wasted.’

Long’s horse stirred, throwing back its head, and Williams suspected that the rider had involuntarily jerked hard on the bridle. The brigadier general flushed, his mouth twitching at the corners, but he said nothing for a moment.

‘I deeply regret this necessity,’ Lumley said.

At length Long mastered his emotions. ‘Well, sir, it is surely not the moment, but that is not in our hands. Be assured that I shall do my utmost to be of service to you in any capacity you wish.’

‘I am most glad of it. I have not long arrived and had little chance to observe the ground. If you would be so good, I would have you at my side throughout the day.’

Williams trotted away before anyone remembered that he was there to witness such an awkward encounter. There was a cheer and he saw the dragoon guards turning their trot into a canter and raising their long swords. Ahead of them the Polish skirmishers gave way and scattered, for they could not hope to resist a formed body. The supporting half-squadron advanced in turn and as the two lines were about to meet some of the dragoon guards found their horses faltering. Even from this distance Williams could see the red and white pennants flickering and flapping with motion and he wondered whether this had frightened the beasts. There was a brief struggle, the flash of swords and the ripple of ranks intermingling, but the pace had gone from the British charge. The men in red retreated, chased by the lancers, until a second squadron of dragoon guards came forward, and this time they did
not check. The Poles were sent in their turn flying back to the ford as Williams reached the top of the slope, still peering back over his shoulder.

The roll of many drums shocked him. The entire Allied infantry had formed up – the Spanish and Portuguese in two lines and the Second Division in a single line. Orders were shouted and they all marched forward towards him. There were ten battalions of redcoats in the centre, even more Portuguese in dark blue on the one flank, and Spanish in white, brown and light and dark blues on the other. With Colours unfurled and drums beating they stepped on with all the good order of a field day. It was an inspiring sight, and one that made him stop, but he was puzzled as to its purpose. Recovering himself, he went over to join Colborne and Dunbar as they walked their horses ahead of the brigade. Williams passed them, wheeled round and went with them.

‘Wondering if you would turn up again!’ Dunbar said in welcome. ‘We are ordered to crown these heights.’