All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (15 page)

There were shouts from their left and another group of grey hussars appeared from behind the ruin of a stone barn. These men were barely five hundred yards away, and when Hanley looked he saw that they wore round fur caps rather than shakos, and that made them members of the elite company of the regiment.

Benito took them to the right, but not as sharply as Hanley expected, and he wondered whether his guide was trying to avoid the patrol behind them. A glance in that direction showed that these were now a little closer, but the men in black fur caps were much nearer and surely the greater threat as they spurred their horses into a gallop.

Hanley whipped his mare mercilessly, and from somewhere she found enough strength to break into a canter as they went up the slope of the rise to their right. The men from the elite company were closing, and when he looked back over his shoulder, he could see that they had already halved the distance. Several had stubby carbines in their hands, but were sensible enough not to waste the shots firing at a running target from the back of a bouncing horse.

Benito was a smaller man, and his little pony was beginning to outstrip the mare bearing the weight of the big Englishman. Then Hanley saw a horseman ride out on to the top of the hill ahead of them and he knew that the game was up. The man wore a drab brown coat, but his helmet was unmistakably the high brass helmet with horsehair crest worn by the French dragoons. Two more riders appeared a moment later, both carrying lances, and while one wore a wide-topped French shako the other had the square hat of a Polish lancer. Hanley was too tired to wonder why a patrol should be so mixed, but that really did not matter because they were boxed in and had nowhere left to go.

‘French!’ he called, as Benito headed straight towards the three riders on the ridge, and Hanley could not believe that the man had not seen the new danger. He wondered about trying to cut away to the left, but knew that he would not make it and so in blind faith or resignation he kept after his guide.

A long line of horsemen appeared on the height, and some wore wide-brimmed hats and others seemed to have every headgear known to the armies fighting in Spain. More than half had lances, but the rest carried bulky infantry muskets, and these now aimed them and fired, the noise and smoke making several of their ponies and horses shy.

‘El Charro!’ cried Benito – the closest Hanley had ever heard him come to enthusiasm – and then he saw the man himself, waving in greeting.

J
ulián Sánchez García was these days formally Don Julián, a brigadier in the Spanish army, but when men spoke of him it was almost always as ‘El Charro’, for the nicknames sported by the guerrilla leaders made them seem more than mere men. Hanley guessed that he was in his late thirties, but with his big moustache and bushy whiskers it was hard to tell his age more clearly. Brigadier or not, Don Julián had the hard face and hands of a man who had served as a sergeant in the army and then worked his own land for long years before the war. He was as tough and unforgiving as the earth of Old Castile. It was said that the French had slaughtered his family, and when Hanley looked into those cold eyes he could believe it. He hated the French with a passion, but it seemed that he would not kill any of them today.

‘No point,’ he said. The hussars had retired at the sight of the guerrillas, but had not gone far and now formed in a single line and watched them. ‘Surprise has gone, and I don’t want to lose anyone for no good reason.’ He winked at Hanley. ‘If I hadn’t come out to save you and the worthless carcass of this old bandit, then it might have been worth an attack. Probably should not have bothered, but there it is. If we charge now they’ll just pull back, and somewhere out there is another squadron or two.’

The guerrilla leaders who survived were cautious men, fighting when there was least risk and keeping at a safe distance the rest of the time. Don Julián had only some of his men here today, and none would think any less of him for running away. These men planned to be alive on the day they chased away the last Frenchman.

Hanley had met Don Julián in Ciudad Rodrigo, but this was the first time he had ridden with his band, and seen his men close up. Nearly all wore some items of uniform, but blue French infantry jackets mingled with the green of chasseurs and dragoons, and the whites, yellows, light and dark blues and myriad other colours of Spain. There were battered cocked hats, shakos of every nation – one man even had a Highlander’s bonnet – as well as an array of helmets and sombreros and civilian tricorne hats. Some of the French helmets were dented, and a few coats stained with the blood of their previous owner. Their weapons were as varied, with rapiers, a few antiquated broadswords and the straight swords or curved sabres of every type of cavalry regiment. Others simply carried wicked-looking knives to back up their lances. Most had some sort of firearm, even if it was just an old horse pistol or blunderbuss. It was hard not to think of Falstaff’s ragged regiment, for the men would almost have been a parody of soldiers if it were not for their capable manner. El Charro’s men did not move in ranks or formations and looked like banditti, but as they went, there were scouts on all sides and the men looked ready to kill or escape without the need for any order.

They pulled back without leaving a rearguard.

‘They won’t believe it isn’t a trap,’ said Don Julián complacently, and as they rode he and Hanley exchanged news.

The French were getting more active. ‘It’s not yet the big attack,’ said the guerrilla leader, ‘but their foraging expeditions are getting bigger and each time they go further. There are more troops near the border facing the British outposts. You know about Astorga?’

‘Junot has attacked the city.’

‘Yes, and there is talk of a threat to Badajoz.’

‘Lord Wellington still thinks the main attack will come here,’ said Hanley.

‘So do I, and I think it will not be long once Astorga falls. You were not here two weeks ago when a French brigade came nosing around outside Ciudad Rodrigo. A lot of those whoresons of hussars who were chasing you, and a couple of battalions of infantry.’ At times the farmer and the sergeant were close beneath the surface. A
charro
was a nickname for a man from Salamanca, but sometimes it was slang for a roughneck or peasant. ‘They came and had a look, surprised a picket and took some prisoners, and then strolled off again. Must have been looking at the defences and sniffing out the town’s strength.

‘Will your Lord Wellington fight for Ciudad Rodrigo?’ The question was abrupt.

‘I am only a lieutenant.’

‘You’re a man, aren’t you? Then tell me what your gut tells you.’

‘Perhaps, at least if the circumstances are right,’ Hanley said after a while, and then grinned. ‘He won’t want to lose anyone for no good reason.’

Don Julián Sánchez García was silent for a while. ‘He has sense, that one,’ he said finally, ‘but I wonder if he is a killer.’

Late that night they rode into Ciudad Rodrigo, and the next morning Hanley found that the town’s governor wanted to know the answer to much the same question.

Lieutenant General Don Andrés Pérez de Herrasti was short, like El Charro, but unlike the guerrilla leader in almost every other way. He was twice Don Julián’s age and had the mild expression of a schoolteacher or village priest. His white hair was worn long and neatly tied back in the fashion of the last century, and his manners were those of an impeccable Castilian gentleman. This was merely one meeting of many held since he took command, but that did not prevent him from donning his full uniform, the deep blue coat heavy with gold decoration on the high collar, cuffs and turnbacks, and his heavily plumed hat carefully brushed.

‘It must always look as if I have not the slightest doubt of holding this city until the end of the world,’ he said to Hanley. ‘And so I put on a show and hope that the people believe me, just like we must put on a show for the French. This place is old, just like me, and if the fire is still in the blood neither of us can claim the same strength in our flesh and bones as once we had. We must pretend, and do our best, and hope in the end for help.

‘Your general writes to tell me that he shall do everything in his power to support us.’ Herrasti did not ask the question, but merely watched Hanley closely. The British officer could not tell whether or not he was satisfied, but after a few moments he moved on and listened as they went through what they had learned.

‘So the French are coming. When?’

El Charro spread his hands. ‘By the summer. It is hard to see why they should wait any longer.’

‘Any news of their siege train?’ asked the general.

‘Nothing new,’ said Hanley. ‘The order to gather some fifty heavy cannon and mortars at Burgos was issued earlier in the year, so we must assume that they are being prepared.’

‘Hmm, they probably don’t need all fifty for this old place,’ said Herrasti, ‘although it is nice to be respected. Now my problem is not guns so much as gunners. Out of my five thousand men barely a quarter are regular soldiers. The volunteers are keen, but it takes time to teach them simply how to march and load a musket. Artillerymen need much fuller instruction. I have the cadets of the Artillery School, but apart from a few of their instructors, they are just boys and none have ever fired at the enemy. It will be very hard to smash the French batteries before they can shatter our walls. I have sent to La Romana and Del Parque for more gunners, but so far …’ The general trailed off, resigned to the unwillingness of the nearest Spanish commanders to reinforce him. For a moment he looked even older than his years.

‘No matter. So when the battering train is ready, they will come. Will anything else delay them?’

‘Astorga?’ suggested Don Julián in a flat tone.

‘If it lasts the month we shall be lucky,’ said Herrasti dismissively.

‘It keeps Junot away.’

‘Ney has almost twenty thousand veterans,’ the governor said firmly. ‘He does not need Junot.’

Hanley was sure that the 6th Corps was smaller than that, but thought it better not to argue the point. ‘Wellington could concentrate more men than that and be here in less than a week. You are not on your own, sir. Ney cannot risk attacking on his own and being overwhelmed. He barely stayed a few days before you chased him away back in February.’

‘So for the moment the British frighten the French enough to keep them at bay. At least until they gather more soldiers.’

‘Lord Wellington may be able to bring other divisions up from the south,’ said Hanley, but in the end he knew that the French should be able to muster so many men that the British could not hope to face them in the rolling plains around Ciudad Rodrigo. They wanted the Spanish town to delay the French, so that the defences of Portugal had time to become stronger.

The governor was understandably disinclined to see his garrison as merely a difficult stepping stone on the French path to Lisbon. ‘He must come, I tell you, he must.’

As Hanley rode out of the gate and over the Roman bridge spanning the Agueda he could understand the Spanish reluctance to place their faith in the British. The road to Almeida took him close to Fort La Concepción and he was sorely tempted to ride over and visit his friends, but he resisted the urge and pressed on over the border to the big Portuguese fortress with its high cathedral. That evening he met with the governor, Colonel Cox, in a room overlooking the ramparts. Several of his Portuguese staff were present, as was Brigadier General Craufurd and his ADC, Shaw Kennedy. There was little sign of great enthusiasm or trust for their Spanish allies, and especially General Herrasti.

‘The man is a fool and a rogue.’ Cox’s already ruddy cheeks seemed to glow with passion. ‘Damned fellow isn’t fit to command a corporal’s guard, let alone a fortress. Wellington has tried to get him replaced, but as usual the dons do nothing. We’re the only ones bothering to keep an eye on the French, eh, Hanley? Doubt he had a clue what they were up to until you told him.’

‘Will he fight?’ asked Brigadier General Craufurd. He was quite short and slimly built, and when he had removed his hat and dripping cloak after coming into the room, Hanley saw that his hair was grey. He was forty-six, older than Wellington and most of the other senior officers, and this was the biggest command he had ever received in a career marked by disappointment. Baynes had explained that Wellington had asked for him, and given him this plum of a prime brigade in close contact with the enemy because Craufurd was a scientific soldier, a man who had thought about and studied outpost duties for many years. The brigadier’s expression was certainly highly focused and spoke of a great force of character, but Hanley could not quite make up his mind whether it also hinted at real intelligence. Craufurd dominated a room of bigger men, and not simply by his rank. His hair must once have been as black as a raven, and even now repeated shaving left his chin heavily shadowed. It helped to create a sense of brooding presence, of immense strength and temper just waiting to explode.

Hanley could not tell the brigadier’s attitude to Herrasti, but felt that it was worth supporting the Spaniards. ‘He stood against Ney back in February.’

‘No more than a feint.’ Cox was dismissive, and unwilling to be contradicted by a lieutenant. ‘When the French come properly he’ll fold at first sight. They’re all the same. It won’t be the Spaniards who save Spain, because they haven’t the stomach for it. Look at that affair at Barba del Puerco last month. The only Spaniards near by ran off into the night, and then turned up when it was all over to go looting.’ Cox’s Portuguese staff grinned at this uncharitable assessment of their neighbours.

There seemed little point in arguing, and so Hanley said nothing until he was asked to give his report.

‘Well, they are not hurrying,’ was Craufurd’s assessment after asking several more detailed questions. ‘This may give us a splendid opportunity to strike first and give Ney a drubbing.’ Hanley was amazed that anyone should talk of the British attacking, but the brigadier said no more and instead summarised the reports gained from his own pickets and patrols. ‘The French are pushing a little more boldly, but as yet nothing serious.