Another shot rang out as Williams made his way cautiously up the last stretch of the slope. He held his sword high. It was his only weapon. He had left the loaded pistol with Miss MacAndrews, and told her to flee at the first sign of danger. Whether or not she would follow the order was another matter. There were boulders on the slope, each slippery with ice, and patches where he sank down into several feet of snow.
It took a good five minutes to reach the top. Williams took off his forage cap and laid it down. Gently, he raised his head to peer over a large rock perched on the thin crest, and found himself looking straight into a man’s face.
Williams flinched by sheer instinct, gasping out a startled yelp and ducking back down. At the same instant, he heard a flurry of robust, and definitely Anglo-Saxon oaths. Williams looked up again. The man wore the distinctive Tarleton helmet, with its high crest running from back to front. As far as he knew, only the British used the headgear, and then only for the light dragoons and some gunners. The man’s dark blue jacket had red facings and three rows of brass buttons trimmed with gold lace. His overall trousers were grey, with a red stripe and more brass buttons. They were also undone, and the man’s purpose in coming to this quiet patch sheltered by a cluster of rocks was immediately obvious. He noticed Williams’ red coat, and looked relieved.
‘Bloody hell, you gave me a turn, you daft sod.’ His accent had the burr of the West Country – perhaps even Bristol itself, where Williams’ family had lived for some years. His face was round, the cheeks ruddy, and the little hair visible beneath his helmet was close to the colour of straw. The impression of a slow-paced yokel was shattered, however, by the quick wit evident in his eyes and expression. He noticed the officer’s epaulettes. ‘Oh, sorry, sir. Didn’t expect to see an officer.’ The man stiffened to attention automatically. His hands were too busy to permit a salute. Steam rose into the air with the sound of a cascade impossible to stop.
‘That’s quite all right.’ Williams smiled and kept his gaze high. ‘You are something of a surprise to me, Driver …?’
‘Parker, sir.’ The uniform was that of the Corps of Royal Artillery Drivers, formed just two years earlier. Such men were attached to each brigade of foot artillery, in charge of the horses, limbers and wagons that towed and supplied the guns. In the old days these tasks had fallen to civilians contracted for each campaign, who had frequently proved unreliable. The corps was under the control of the Board of Ordnance, which also oversaw the artillery, although it remained distinct in uniform. In its brief existence it had also acquired a reputation for indiscipline.
‘Well, Parker, once you have finished, you can take me down to see whoever is in charge.’ Williams turned and waved to Miss MacAndrews, indicating that things were safe and that she should ride round the valley floor to join him. For one short moment he had dared to hope that they had stumbled on the main army, although it seemed unlikely that they should be so far east. A longer glance at the little column was enough to crush that thought. They were not yet safe.
It took them a good five minutes to walk down the steep slope. Looking around, Williams realised that the valley they had been following led into a much wider one. Here the track was well defined and wide. A trail of hoof-prints and ruts led down as far as the halted column of artillery. There were two guns, each of them quite big by the look of things, with their limbers pulled by six horses. Four horses drew a long, four-wheeled wagon. A smaller cart was pushed to the side of the road and its team unharnessed. Two of the horses lay dead alongside it, and Williams guessed that the shots had dispatched the animals. About a dozen men stood around the vehicles.
The man in charge wore the four yellow stripes of a quartermaster sergeant on his sleeves. ‘Groombridge, sir.’ He was short, very broad in the chest and must have been pushing fifty. He wore the uniform of the Royal Artillery itself, with its infantry-styled jacket in blue, and a shako.
‘Pleased to see you, Mr Groombridge. My name is Williams, of the 106th. Although I must say surprised as well.’
‘No more than us to see you.’ Groombridge was precise in his speech, and his face gave nothing away, all the time exuding absolute confidence. He was not about to be impressed by some raw ensign. ‘Didn’t think any of us were out this far.’
‘May I ask where you are going?’
‘Mansilla, sir. We’re taking these guns and equipment to give to the Dons. Beg pardon, sir, I mean the Spanish army.’
‘Mansilla fell to the French days ago. We saw it happen.’
‘We, sir?’ Groombridge’s voice betrayed the faintest trace of relief at this indication that the officer was not alone. At that moment, Jane walked Bobbie around the curve of the valley just over a hundred yards away.
‘I am escorting Miss MacAndrews, the daughter of my commander,’ explained Williams. ‘We became cut off when the army began to retreat.’ The drivers noticed that the rider was a woman. As she came closer it became evident that she was young and attractive.
Groombridge concealed his disappointment well, and if he was surprised at an officer traipsing around the countryside with a young woman then this was equally well hidden in manner of all good NCOs. ‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’ His eyes were pale grey, and still conveyed the innocence of childhood – at least until Mr Groombridge was roused. Then the rest of what Williams had said sank in. ‘Retreating, sir?’
‘How long have you been away from the army?’
‘Three weeks now. We landed at Corunna and then waited there for these nags to arrive. It meant we left in dribs and drabs. Lieutenant Simmons was in charge, but he fell ill ten days back, and told me to push on.’
Williams tried to explain what had happened in the campaign, realising that much could have happened since they were cut off. He doubted the British Army had halted yet, and the massacre at Mansilla made it even more unlikely that Romana’s forces were in any fit state to resist the enemy.
‘I think it would be best if you came along with me, Mr Groombridge,’ said Williams, doing his best to adopt a tone that suggested no real alternative.
‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant rather suspected that the lone officer would be coming along with him. ‘We can’t push too hard, though, because of the horses. There never was much strength to them, and we have been short of fodder.
‘It breaks my heart, but we have to abandon the forge here.’ He gestured at the two-wheeled cart whose team had been removed, and the two dead horses beside it. ‘Poor things were lame.’ Williams noted that the sergeant’s tone made it absolutely clear that he was not about to abandon the guns or wagon to travel more quickly. In fact, he had dismissed that thought himself, at least for the moment, but it would be worth remembering that Groombridge’s respect for rank extended only so far, at least for the moment.
‘It’s a pity.’ The sergeant’s accent had a trace of Kent. ‘Because it’s the only decent bit of work among the whole lot. Those carriages are twenty years old if they are a day.’ He was pointing at the guns. Something had seemed odd about them from the beginning, and Williams at last realised what it was. They had twin trails, rather than the single, solid block trail now in use. ‘Reckon we’ve been giving the Dons all the stuff we don’t have a use for ourselves. And of course nobody much uses twelve-pounders any more, so the limbers and the ammunition cases are full of rusty old shot and charges of grape from the navy. God knows what they expect the dagoes to do with that. On a brass gun of all things. Won’t half knacker the barrels.’
‘Any other weapons?’ asked the ensign.
Groombridge, who had joined the Royal Artillery as a boy, struggled for a moment with the idea that anyone who had two twelve-pounder cannons might require additional armament.
‘Oh, I see. Four muskets, sir. The Wee Gees don’t normally carry them, but as we were off on our own I reckoned it were worth having a few. There’s two hundred cartridges.’ Williams guessed the odd nickname must refer to the drivers.
‘Provisions?’
‘Biscuit and salt beef for another week. Rum for a fortnight. That’s for myself, the two artificers and the ten drivers. Two sacks of oats left. We had some rye from a village a few days back, but I won’t use that unless we get desperate.’ Seeing the puzzled expression, the sergeant explained. ‘It makes them crap. Sorry, sir, I mean it purges the horses something powerful.’
‘Well, hopefully we can find some better fodder before long. Thank you, Mr Groombridge, that all sounds excellent.’
‘Sir.’ Groombridge saluted, and silently wondered just what the young officer felt he had added to the strength of their little band. Then he noticed that the pretty young woman on the horse was feeding a baby. Well, isn’t that bloody marvellous, he thought to himself.
They pressed on. Miss MacAndrews took the baby and rode in the wagon. The driver was a cheerful Irishman, and one of the two artificers who also sat among the baggage and stores showed a great fondness for little Jacob. ‘Raised four of my own,’ he explained, and assured the young miss that the lad was not at all fevered and seemed in the bloom of health.
Groombridge rode a mule. He was still uncertain of what to make of the ensign, but had to admit that the arrival of a baby and a good-looking young woman had taken the men’s minds off their sense of isolation.
Williams led Bobbie for a while, as the pace of the draught horses was slow. Later he rode for the first time in days. There was something reassuring about being among British faces and hearing English voices once again. Part of him regretted the inevitable loss of intimacy with Miss MacAndrews. There seemed now little chance that the all too brief and swiftly interrupted moment of lovemaking would be repeated. Nothing in the girl’s demeanour had given him cause to hope for this. That had not prevented him dreaming of it, even when he told himself that he should not.
Meeting up with the little convoy also brought him new responsibilities, all of which needed to be handled delicately. Groombridge seemed a proud man, and was obviously highly experienced. Williams did not wish to offend him. That evening they halted in a tiny village. The inhabitants were relieved that no food was demanded, offered a little straw for the animals, and cheerfully made a fuss of the girl and the baby. Jane was given a tiny room to herself. The men were put in a barn with the horses. It was a big building, once used by the royal postal service until this shifted to the new road. By candlelight Williams and Groombridge studied the map. Nowhere as insignificant as this village was marked, nor was the little road they followed, but Williams had a fair idea where they were, and it was close enough to the sergeant’s own guess for them both to be confident.
The main road was shown, and Williams had heard enough while he was still with the army to know that it was planned to follow it as far as Benevente, and probably Astorga.
‘Napoleon himself has come against us with the greater part of his army. We must be outnumbered two or three to one, and the Spanish cannot help.’
‘They don’t seem to want to keep their own bloody country,’ observed Groombridge.
Williams felt it better to ignore the comment. ‘I do not believe that the general will be able to stop and fight. So he’ll keep on going. Now, if we are here,’ he pointed at the map, ‘roughly, anyway, I would guess we are ten or fifteen miles north-west of Astorga. If you look the road will get closer if we keep going straight – and I reckon that’s the way this track leads. We can’t cut across to join them. We don’t know where the French are, and cannot hope to sneak through with guns and a wagon.’
Groombridge nodded. ‘The horses wouldn’t stand for it anyway. I wouldn’t trust them to last ten minutes off the track. If the snow gets deep or we reach a big slope we shall have to double up the teams anyway.’
‘Yes, so our best hope is to keep going and try to reach the main road and the army higher up. Maybe Nogales or Lugo?’ Groombridge nodded again. ‘Say two or three days’ time?’
‘Depends on the road,’ said the quartermaster doubtfully. ‘And the nags.’
‘I know.’ Williams paused. ‘Tomorrow I think that I will ride across the hills and see if I can pick up any word of the army as I get nearer to the grand road. Might help to guide us as to where to find them.’ A difficult exchange with the villagers, incorporating as many gestures as words, had shown him a path leading off to the left which would take him towards Bembibre.
‘Sir.’ Groombridge’s tone was neutral. Williams wondered what he thought of an officer who turned up one minute and then swanned off on his own the next. He thought for a moment of asking the sergeant to pay particular attention to the care of Miss MacAndrews and the child, and then decided that any hint of doubt over this or anything else was inappropriate. ‘Do not wait for me, but push on at the best speed you can make. I’ll find you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The next morning Williams had only a brief chance to speak to Miss MacAndrews as she and the baby were helped into the wagon. He explained what he was doing, loudly enough for the closest men to hear.
‘It is a good day for a ride,’ said Jane.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘Try not to fall off,’ she said, reviving the old joke. Her smile was something to treasure, even if part of him rather wished for some sign of concern at his departure. ‘Young Jacob will miss you.’
‘I shall not be gone long.’
Williams turned to Groombridge, but again spoke loudly. ‘I expect to catch up with you in the afternoon at the very latest.’
‘Sir.’
As darkness approached at the end of the day, Groombridge settled the men in an empty farmhouse. There were pens – uncovered, but better than nothing – for the horses and vehicles. There was little forage to be had, apart from some chopped straw, so that meant using a good deal of their own supply.
There was no sign of Williams. That was a little disappointing, for he had begun to form a reasonably favourable judgement of the young officer. His plan certainly seemed a sensible one.
Jane found herself worried. The building had only a single room, and although the men had rigged up some ropes and draped blankets over them to cordon off a little corner for her, she was very aware that she was now with a dozen or more soldiers she did not know. It was not that she felt concerned over their behaviour, for they had been universally kind. Instead she began to realise how reassuring the presence of Williams had been. Whatever his fears – and she guessed they had been considerable – he had never once suggested to her that they would not find their way back to the battalion and her family. She missed him, more even than friendship would command, and that threw into even greater confusion the turmoil of feelings from the last week. The thought that he would abandon them never once crossed the girl’s mind. Trying to be cynical, she was convinced that he would not have the imagination for such a betrayal, but knew that was not the reason for her conviction. The fear grew that he had run into enemies or an accident.
A muffled shout stirred the room into life. Jane stood to see over the hanging blankets. Groombridge had one of the muskets and was pulling back the flint to cock it.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘English,’ came a call from outside.
‘It’s Williams,’ a different, familiar voice shouted.
Groombridge relaxed the flint, and motioned to one of the drivers to unbolt the door. A corporal in a red coat with the white facings of the 32nd came in. More men followed. There were two men in jackets with the buff facings of the 52nd, four with the light green of the 5th or the 36th, a pair in the yellow of the 26th, and another man with yellow facings and the kilt of the 92nd. The Highlander and one of the men from the 52nd had heavily bandaged feet and were using their firelocks as crutches.
All were bone weary. Williams had stumbled across them in ones and twos earlier in the day. They were stragglers, who had moved away from the main route to avoid the French. All of these men still carried muskets, which was a good sign. The stories they told were not.
Once they had been given a place by the fire and fed, Williams had Groombridge place a sentry, and took the quartermaster sergeant out into the cold, walking some way before they began talking.
‘It’s bad,’ Williams began.