All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (6 page)

‘How about you, Dob? If he really wants the characters out of the way.’

The grin was even bigger now. ‘Depends how smart he really is.’

Williams knew there was more than one way to take that, but decided not to press the issue. The sun came from behind the clouds and he had to squint as they marched on. It was not strong, but there was still a hint of warmth and that was good to feel on the skin.

‘I think he is smart,’ Williams said after a while, and half hoped that he was wrong.

‘
H
ere’s to Christmas at home!’ said Williams, raising a glass of Hanley’s champagne. A series of wins at cards had left his friend in funds and inclined to celebrate. Williams loathed almost all alcohol, but the discovery that he quite liked champagne was fairly recent. The toast was one they had repeated often enough on their way back from Talavera, when all of them were weary and Pringle and Hanley both recovering from wounds. Now it rang rather hollow.

‘Well,’ said Hanley thoughtfully, ‘perhaps Spain is more home to me now than England.’ Orders had arrived detaching him from the battalion and sending him back to the war.

‘You were most welcome to stay with my family,’ said Williams.

‘Yes, and the invitation is most kind.’ Privately Hanley was relieved. He and Pringle had visited Bristol and met Williams’ family – as it turned out, in time for his sister to run off. Mrs Williams was severe at the best of times, and he doubted Christmas would be any too jolly. Now that the newly married Mrs Garland was there, no doubt lording it over her sisters, the idea of another visit had little appeal.

‘Do you know any more about your orders?’ asked Truscott.

‘Nothing has been said, although I am to go to London before I leave.’ Hanley mused for a moment. These were his closest friends, and the urge to tell them fought against a growing habit of secrecy. ‘Do you remember Baynes?’

Truscott thought for a moment, but Williams at once looked up sharply.

‘Oh yes, that portly civilian who was with Wellington’s staff at Talavera,’ said Truscott. ‘Some political wallah or other. Is he involved?’

Williams knew Baynes to be considerably more than that, and so guessed that there might be a certain delicacy involved in Hanley’s role. ‘Good luck, William,’ he said, and then thought it better to change the subject. ‘I wonder when the battalion will follow you?’

‘You’ve been listening to rumours again, young Bills,’ said Truscott.

‘The battalion is once again reunited, and with all the recruiting parties out, we may soon be back to something like full strength. Is it not reasonable to suppose that such a rare thing will before long be sent abroad?’ Only the absence of the three companies driven back to Portugal had prevented the 106th from being sent on the expedition to Antwerp earlier in the year, since almost every other unit that had come back from Corunna had joined the new expedition. ‘By all accounts the corps coming back from Holland are in no state to be sent abroad again.’

Truscott shook his head sadly. ‘That sounds as if it was a ghastly business, and little more than a waste for no good end. However, simply because the regiment is in prime condition does not mean that we will go back to Wellesley’s army.’

‘MacAndrews is going,’ said Hanley.

‘True,’ Truscott conceded, ‘but on detached duty of some sort.’

‘It is a training mission to aid the Spanish,’ Williams explained. He had not shared Dobson’s suspicion with the others.

‘Well, God knows they need all the help they can get in that regard,’ said Truscott, remembering the night before Talavera when thousands of raw Spanish conscripts panicked and fled at the sound of their own volley. ‘Good luck to him, though, as I doubt it will be an easy task.’ In the last year British and Spanish armies had not cooperated well, leaving considerable bitterness on both sides. ‘Still, I have not heard the details of his orders.’

‘He is to take a number of officers and good sergeants,’ said Williams. ‘A third will come from the battalion and the rest from other corps. The colonel asked if I wanted to volunteer for the duty.’ Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam had arrived that morning and seen Williams in the afternoon. He was friendly, full of praise for the lieutenant’s record and the fine conduct of Williams and the other men from the 106th who had fought at Talavera.

‘I presume from your talk of Christmas at home that you did not accept?’ Hanley grinned. ‘That’s a shame. It would have been nice to have company on the voyage.’

‘Sorry. The colonel gave me the day to consider it, but I would prefer to wait and go back with the whole battalion.’

‘You surprise me,’ said Hanley.

‘Ah, I believe I may have an explanation,’ said Truscott. ‘Am I correct in assuming that the major’s family is remaining here?’

Williams nodded. His friends knew of his feelings for Miss MacAndrews, but even so it was difficult to speak of them. ‘It has been a long time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps too long, and it may be that my hopes are in vain.’ The lieutenant seemed ready to plunge into gloom. They had all heard the stories of other suitors for Miss MacAndrews. It was even said that the new colonel was much taken with the major’s daughter.

‘Another glass, gentlemen?’ suggested Hanley, wondering whether FitzWilliam wanted to send a rival off to Spain to clear the field. As he rose to fetch the bottle he patted Williams on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Bills.’

‘Well, I fear that we have strayed from the point in hand,’ Truscott continued. ‘The battalion will no doubt be sent off some time next year, but there is no assurance that it will go back to Wellington’s army. Have you not heard the stories of this planned expedition to the East Indies?’

‘Yes, and when I came through the depot a month ago, the mess was full of talk of us training to be light infantry,’ said Williams.

Truscott shrugged. ‘It has happened to other corps. And in the main they have chosen battalions with good numbers of active young recruits, much like us.’

‘Perhaps, but here we are a month later, and it seems that no one is speaking of it any longer even as a possibility.’

‘True enough.’ Truscott accepted his refilled glass from Hanley and took a generous sip. ‘I did hear tell that they could not provide sufficient muskets of the light infantry pattern.’

Williams drank more carefully, eager to make the champagne last, as his friends were always quick to refill an empty glass and he rarely cared for more than two. ‘Portugal or Spain still appear most likely.’

‘If the new ministry still wants to fight there,’ said Truscott cynically. Yet another government had fallen after the debacle of the expedition to Antwerp, this time in such acrimony that two former ministers had fought a duel.

‘They must fight there,’ said Hanley quickly. He had lived in Madrid for several years before the French came and had seen what their soldiers had done to protesting crowds. He loved Spain, and in spite of a still lingering admiration for France’s revolution and for Bonaparte, he wanted the country to throw out the invader.

‘They certainly should,’ Williams added with less passion, but considerable assurance.

Truscott carefully wiped up some spilled champagne with his one hand. His friends knew he liked to be left to do such things himself rather than be helped. ‘You may both be right, but that does not mean that they will. Napoleon is free again to lead all his armies into Spain. If he does that, then I do not see that there is the strength to resist him. Only a year ago Moore declared that Portugal could not be defended. Spain is crumbling, if it has not already crumbled. Much as I admire Major MacAndrews, it is hard to see his efforts making any difference.’

They finished the bottle in gloomy silence.

Pringle arrived that evening, leading in more new recruits. The battalion paraded the next morning, and then was busy with drills and inspections until lunchtime. That afternoon Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam invited him to his rooms for a private chat.

The colonel was of average height, but Pringle only noticed this when he stood close to him. FitzWilliam was the son of an earl and his upbringing, combined with his years in the Foot Guards, produced a confidence and poise that magnified his presence. It looked as if he had been poured into his uniform, the coat suggesting a broadness of shoulder and slimness of waist that stopped just short of caricature and gave an impression of height. FitzWilliam’s face was very round, an effect deliberately reduced by his full side whiskers, a little darker in shade than the hair on his head. By no means a handsome man, the colonel had presence, helped by the lively spark in his brown eyes and the smile that spoke of a ready wit. His welcome was warm, and full of praise for the battalion’s record and Pringle’s own conduct.

‘I saw the One Hundred and Sixth marching out from behind the hill at Vimeiro, and then again when they tumbled back that French column,’ said the colonel. ‘Was on Burrard’s staff in those days, so did not have a chance to do more than watch.’ He modestly waved down Pringle’s instinctive praising of staff work. ‘Well, the next time we get a chance to have a go at the French I shall be with you.’

‘Do you know when that might be, sir?’ asked Pringle, who already felt comfortable talking to his commander.

‘Not before next year, I suspect. Probably in the spring or summer.’ FitzWilliam gave a disarming smile. ‘And before you ask me, no, nothing is certain as yet. Perhaps Portugal, perhaps the Mediterranean or further afield. I fear Horse Guards have yet to inform a mere lieutenant colonel!

‘Still, that is for the future. When the time comes I shall rest easily knowing that you have my Grenadier Company.’

‘You are too kind, sir, too kind.’

‘My dear fellow, I am merely stating the truth,’ said Fitz-William with obvious sincerity. ‘The battalion has been well led, or it would not have distinguished itself so highly in Portugal and Spain. I was not present to witness Moore’s campaign, but have already listened to those who were. However, I should be indebted to hear from you of Talavera.’

The colonel listened avidly to Pringle as he described the last campaign. Throughout he smiled encouragingly, only interrupting to ask questions that were always pertinent. Pringle began to realise that there was a sharp and clinical mind behind the suave exterior. FitzWilliam gave every impression of being a serious soldier, and Pringle responded by speaking in greater detail, giving his own opinions and the reasons for them.

‘Tell me more of the Spanish,’ said the colonel as Pringle reached the end of the campaign.

‘I have seen something of them, although in truth Hanley and Williams have seen far more. They were at Medellín.’

‘A grim day.’ It was one of many defeats suffered by Spanish armies. ‘I shall most certainly seek their views, but I should also greatly value your own.’ FitzWilliam launched into a series of questions, about Spanish officers and their backgrounds, the quality of their NCOs – ‘We all know they are the fellows who matter the most’ – of drills and tactics, their commissariat and its limitations, the generals and the government supporting them. Billy answered as best he could. It reminded him of Oxford, and he felt that he was being guided towards some conclusion.

‘So, from all that you have seen, do you believe that we can win the war with our allies in their current state?’

‘No,’ said Pringle, surprising himself with the speed of his answer and the firmness of his conviction. ‘With Austria gone and the rest of Europe humbled, Bonaparte can lead three hundred thousand bayonets into Spain. Only in the most favourable conditions can the Spanish withstand the French in the field. We can beat them, but cannot match such numbers.’

‘And so the answer?’

Pringle fought against the urge to say that Britain should leave a doomed cause. He did not want to believe that, and felt that he did not even though it was hard to come up with reasoned arguments against the proposition. ‘Time,’ he said, testing the idea in his mind as he spoke. ‘The French will want to win quickly, but may find that harder than they think. If they have not shown skill, the Spanish are certainly determined. Many of the defeats have come from rushing too hastily against the enemy, pitting raw soldiers against hardened battalions. In time the Spaniards will make better soldiers.’

‘And then the numbers become more balanced.’ FitzWilliam smiled. ‘Have you heard about the reorganisation of the Portuguese army?’

‘A little,’ said Pringle, sensing that he understood the colonel’s line of reasoning, but was still unsure of its implications for him. ‘General Beresford has taken a staff of English officers and is retraining their regiments.’

‘Quite so. It is said that he is doing wonders. Once the Portuguese are ready, they will at least double the size of Wellington’s army. The Marquess Wellesley’ – that was Wellington’s older brother, currently serving as envoy to Spain’s Central Junta – ‘has suggested a similar endeavour with the Spanish. It is a much more delicate matter, and for the moment kept to a small scale.

‘Perhaps you have already heard that our own Major MacAndrews is to be sent to Spain to establish a small training camp. The purpose is to take sergeants and corporals from the Spanish army and train them in drill, outpost duties and fighting in open order – the Spanish have few skirmishers, and that places them at a grave disadvantage against the French voltigeurs.’

Billy Pringle thought that he at last discerned the colonel’s purpose, and so the conclusion did not take him wholly by surprise.

Colonel FitzWilliam looked at him steadily. ‘MacAndrews is to take with him a party from this regiment as part of his command. I feel that you would be highly suited to this duty. It needs experienced men, otherwise there is little reason for the Spanish to pay any attention. Even so this is largely a gesture, but if Spanish generals begin to see that better non-commissioned officers make for better regiments, then they may permit an expansion of the idea.’

Pringle was unsure what to say. On the one hand, the frustrations of recent weeks made the prospect of returning to Spain attractive. He liked and respected MacAndrews, although he doubted whether the scheme was practical. The Spanish had their own ways of doing things, and seemed unlikely to relish instruction by foreigners.