'When will they stand and fight, Sergeant Major?' someone asked.
They'll fight when they're ready,' the sergeant major said. 'And you'll know about it. Keep time.'
The Worcestershire Regiment tramped through the shattered village, and Captain Llewellyn held up his hand.
'We bivouac over there," he said.
'Begging your pardon, sir,' Sergeant Major Smith said. 'May the lads use wood from the village?'
Llewellyn considered for a moment, then nodded. 'Very good, Sergeant Major.' He wheeled his horse and rode across to the next company where battalion headquarters was to be found.
'Fall out,' Smith commanded. 'You heard the captain. Let's have some fires now. Fall out.'
The men broke into excited chatter as they stacked their muskets, discarded their belts and knapsacks, prepared their foraging tools.
'Picquets,' Smith said. 'You, Corcoran.'
'Me, Sergeant Major? Why me?'
'Because I'm saving you from a flogging, that's why boy. You and you. Go with Corcoran. That hummock over there. Face the east. There's our enemy. You there. Muskets are stacked, not left to lie in the mud. You, sir, get that hat on.'
He wondered what they'd fight like, when the time came. But he didn't suppose it was really a reason for concern. He had taken enough recruits and moulded them into fighting soldiers during the past few years, and this lot certainly didn't lack enthusiasm.
Hooves. 'Fall in there,' he bawled. 'Fall in.' A hasty glance across the sodden field assured him that this was not merely Captain Llewellyn returning, and not even Colonel Hallam accompanying him, but that they were both escorting the general of division himself, Sir Rowland Hill. The sergeant major felt his heart pounding. It was his bad luck that the Worcesters had been brigaded under Hill, a man with whom he had once played cards. But there was really no cause for alarm; the combination of seventeen years, of his moustache, and of all commissioned officers' tendency to regard NCOs as NCOs rather than as men protected him.
'At ease.' The general's cheeks were pink, as ever, and his mouth was smiling. Now he pointed at the hills to their east. 'Over there, lads, is Spain. Tomorrow we'll be there. But you want to remember lads, that they are our allies. Just as much as the Portuguese. I'll hang the first man who takes without paying, and the first man who lifts a skirt without invitation. We're here to fight the frogs, lads. And I can tell you this, they aren't far away. But if they won't fight us, why, we intend to march on Madrid and send Joseph Bonaparte home, on his ass. That's our plan, lads, so keep your powder dry.'
Three cheers for the general,' shouted Captain Llewellyn. 'Hip hip . . .'
The Worcesters responded with a will, the little cavalcade rode on, leaving the captain behind.
'Dismiss the men, Sergeant Major,' Llewellyn said, and dismounted himself. 'And bring me that fellow who was trailing his musket.'
Smith remained at attention. 'I have given him picquet duty, sir. Tonight and every night for the next week.'
Llewellyn frowned, and then nodded. 'Saves the waste of time of a flogging, eh. Sergeant Major? Punishment confirmed. Fall out the men. And tell them the general means what he says. It's Madrid for us, and then, the end of the war will be in sight. You tell them that, Sergeant Major.'
The end of the war. It was not something Sergeant Major Smith had ever seriously considered. This war had lasted too long for it ever to end. But it occurred to him that he must have considered it once. He could hardly remember. He had fled Alison Brand's bed —strange how he could only think of her as Alison Brand, rather than Alison Haggard—blindly, fearfully, aware onl
y that he had committed as ghastl
y a crime as it was possible to consider. That he had been innocently involved, that the real crime was hers, had not seemed relevant. She had been Father's wife, Father's young and beautiful wife, and there could be no doubt of his love for her, of whose side he would take.
Even if she could be proved to be hardly better than a whore? But how to prove that?
So then, what it came down to, was fear of Father rather than remorse at what he had done. He had merely anticipated what Father would have done to him, by running away without a shilling in his pocket, by deserting his commission, which at any time would have left him an object worthy only of contempt, and also by deserting his regiment, in time of war, which left him worthy only of a hanging. Then he had sought death, but without the courage to take his own life. Then he had presumed that as a front line soldier he would soon stop a bullet, and be forgotten.
Seventeen years ago. He had been surprised, at once by the realisation that however much of a moral coward he might be he was certainly not a physical one, and even more by the realisation that he liked the army life. Even the aimless marching and countermarching amidst the canals and in the rains of Holland, with malaria fever making his teeth chatter at every step, or the searing heat of the Egyptian desert, had been enjoyable. As he expected to die, wished to die, he had lived every day for itself, had fought every battle as his last. And as was the whim of Fate, had prospered. Nor had he ever doubted that the peace of 1802 was more than a truce. The war would not end until Napoleon had beaten the English or was himself beaten by the English. That was obvious.
By which token the mere expulsion of Joseph Bonaparte from Spain would mean very little. Yet after seventeen years even he must realise that the war had to end some day, and that he might very well survive that day. But why should it make any difference? He was a professional soldier. As a company sergeant major he was nearly at the top of his particular branch of his profession, and Great Britain would still need an army, even after peace with the French. He would remain with the colours. No man could ask for better anonymity.
‘
Ah, 'tis a wonderful place,' Corcoran commented, tramping as usual at his shoulder. The contrast with Portugal was nothing short of miraculous. Instead of burned and looted villages, here were clean and prosperous towns; instead of starvation rations of whatever they could carry in their knapsacks, here were market places filled with produce; instead of mayors and town clerks hanging from improvised gallows at every crossroad here were haughty officials who regarded the British soldiers with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. And instead of the tormented and mutilated bodies of young women in the gutters, here were dark-eyed beauties hiding behind shawls and mantillas, peering down at the marching soldiers from wrought iron balustrades, sometimes tossing flowers for the men to catch. No French army had as yet retreated through this pleasant land.
And what of the pleasant land you have foresworn, Roger wondered? He had no idea. He had no idea what might have become of it, in seventeen years. The exploits of John Haggard made little impact upon the national scene, as he had turned his back upon that scene, nor would Roger ever inquire. He knew his father lived, because he had read of his impassioned speech against the abolition of Slave Trade, only two years ago. How his defeat on that occasion must have angered the old man. But for the rest, he knew nothing. He knew nothing of Charlie, whether he was by now a captain or even an admiral. He knew naught of Alice's marriage. He knew nothing of Alison's amours, and of her children. He knew nothing of what had happened in Derleth Valley, save that he did not doubt it would be as prosperous as ever. He sometimes wondered if his room remained as he left it, what he would feel like were he to re-enter it. Childish thoughts, because only a child had ever dwelled there.
'Fall out.' The order came down the line. The men moved more smartly now, at once because of their increased experience and because of the crowd watching them.
'Sergeant Major, do you suppose . . . ?' Corcoran was exchanging smiles with two Spanish girls across the street.
'You'll make your own decision about that, Private. But remember what the general said. He's a man of his word.'
Corcoran winked. 'And what about you, Sergeant Major? Don't you ever feel the urge?'
'A clapped soldier is no damn use to anyone,' Roger remarked, and walked away. He messed by himself, although his tent was next to the company sergeants'. They knew better than to attempt to penetrate his reserve; Sergeant Major Smith was a law unto himself.
But didn't he ever feel the urge? Especially now, on a warm summer's day? Gone we're the rains of the spring and the icy blasts which had accompanied them from the mountains. Now the sun shone out of a blue sky, and the land through which they had marched was already turning to brown dust, which eddied above the column and obscured the brilliance of their uniforms while denoting the passage of troops for miles around. But he had turned his back on women, years ago. Not intentionally. As a private soldier he had taken his turn in line for the few whores who had been available, and suffered the humiliation of impotence as Alison's face had risen before him, as her scent had clouded around him. No women for Sergeant Major Smith. He was a man of iron. There was a subtle joke, appreciated only by himself.
But how he wished this marching would end, and they could again see their enemy. It made sense, of course. If Marshal Victor would not assault them until he was sure which way they were moving, there was no need for Sir Arthur Wellesley to assault Marshal Victor until his army had been brought up to strength, until his ammunition wagons had been replenished, until his veterans had been rested and his recruits assimilated. But that was done. Roger could look down at the glowing red of his jacket, the gleaming white of his belts; he had even be
en presented with a new staff,
and his shako was a crisp brown instead of a disintegrating grey. While no one could doubt that Corcoran and the others were as trained as they would ever be, barring only the experience of actual combat. Too much more of this lying about in cantonments and discipline would suffer. 'Pensive, Sergeant Major?'
He came to attention. ' Tis good campaigning weather, sir.'
‘I
ndeed it is,' Captain Llewellyn agreed. He was young, for a captain. His army career had only begun in 1803. Had I remained an officer, Roger thought, I might well be colonel of this regiment now, and he be calling me sir. Except that had I remained an officer I would also have remained with the artillery. But thoughts of that nature were a waste of time. 'And we shall be campaigning,' Llewellyn said. The general returned last night, from Cuesta's camp. Tis a combined operation we're after. Sergeant Major. Victor must be crushed.'
'And will the Dons fight, sir?'
Llewellyn frowned. 'Do you doubt that? Tis their land.' 'I meant, sir, in our fashion
. Will they obey General Welles
ley?'
'We shall have to wait and see. But I doubt it matters. Tis the numbers that are important. Why, we shall outnumber the frogs by at least two to one. They'll not escape us this time.'
'As you say, sir,' Roger agreed. He had had sufficient experience of fighting alongside inexperienced or self-centred allies; they were less nuisances if they had not been there at all. Still, he had no reason to doubt Sir Arthur Wellesley's dispositions. That long-nosed old bugger had led him to three victories, so far, in two years. He seemed to know what he was about.
'Mind you,' Llewellyn said, chewing his lip. it will be a risky business. There is talk that Soult is hovering over there . . .'He pointed to the mountains fringing the north. 'Just waiting to descend on our flank. And then the Light Brigade has not yet come up . . .'He was definitely agitated, for all his attempt to suggest that he was looking forward to the prospect of a fight.
‘I
am sure Sir Arthur keeps Marshal Soult in mind, sir,' Roger said,
‘I
'd but wish, if you'll excuse the liberty, he kept our grub more in mind as well. This last week we might have been back in Portugal.'
'Aye, well, there is a war on, Sergeant Major.' The Dons don't look as if they're starving to me.' Llewellyn nodded. 'Difficult. They do not understand us, to be sure. They do not understand anything. Even when we offer them
money they prefer to hoard their food. But Sir Arthur is working on them, you may be sure of that. Now you get the men ready to march.'
Forward, once again, into the heart of Spain. The day was 16 July 1809, and no weather could ever have been so hot, even in Egypt. Every footstep dislodged a puff of dust, and the cavalry, out to either flank, as well as the artillery bringing up the rear, created clouds which hung above the column and showed no tendency to dissipate in the windless air. Men coughed and choked as their red jackets became orange, while officers riding up and down the column were shadowy, half visible figures, nuisances because they created yet more dust.
'Column will halt and fall out.' The order was received with a clatter as men sat or lay by the roadside. And here was relief. Immediately men materialised from the yellow murk, great muscular fellows with sun browned skins sheltering beneath enormous sombreros, every one with a full barrel on his back and a cup in his hand.