‘Look familiar?’ Pringle said sourly as they boarded the grimy little ship. It was the Corbridge, the same merchantman that had carried them to Portugal.
‘That fellow does,’ said Hanley, to whom one ship looked very much like another, but who had noticed the man in a shabby blue coat and round hat. The ship’s master was a bald, inhospitable Northerner, who had only once invited the officers to dine in all the weeks of their voyage. Unable to forbid them all access to the deck, he had ensured his men made them feel unwelcome, constantly moving them aside to attend to urgent tasks. He was standing on the dockside, glaring at the ragged and dirty soldiers.
The recognition was mutual, as was the lack of goodwill. ‘Told you I’d be back to collect you,’ said the sailor bluntly. Britain’s military adventures in the war with France had more often than not ended in disappointment and evacuation. Pringle, Hanley and Williams all found themselves reluctant to walk up the gangplank and board the ship. The optimism of the summer and its victories made the sense of defeat stronger. They had beaten the French at every meeting, but Spain had fallen to the enemy anyway, and no doubt Portugal would follow soon enough.
‘Have we failed?’ asked Hanley suddenly.
‘Someone has,’ said Williams, ‘and no doubt there will be scoundrels in London who will blame a fallen hero, unable to defend himself.’
Pringle looked surprised. ‘I do believe you are becoming political, young Bills.’
‘The general was a great man,’ he said with belligerent devotion.
Billy Pringle patted him on the shoulder. ‘Yes, he was, and he will be universally mourned. I do not feel any fault was his.’
Williams had rejoined them only that morning, as the detachment was moving down to the quayside. He had waited with the general throughout his final hours, watching as his staff did their best to comfort him.
‘Are the French beaten?’ Time and again Sir John addressed the same question to every new arrival. He seemed desperate for reassurance, and it appeared to be his overwhelming concern. Williams had been moved when the general’s French servant burst out crying on seeing his master, to be told simply in his own language, ‘My friend, this is nothing.’
Closest to him was Colonel Anderson, who sat by his side, holding his hand, once the surgeons had abandoned a brief attempt to examine him more thoroughly. The pain they caused was too great, and nothing they could do would change the outcome.
‘Anderson, you know I have always wished to die this way.’ Williams only just caught the whispered words. ‘Are the French beaten?’ The question was to Major Colborne, who had just arrived.
‘Yes, in every point of the field. You have won.’
‘We have won. I hope the people of England will be satisfied.’ His breath was coming with more difficulty, but the voice was still strong. ‘I hope my country will do me justice.’
One of the few chaplains in the army prayed in the long spells of silence. At times, Sir John revived. He asked always after his aides, and his staff hid the truth that one lay dying and another was feared dead. He told Anderson that they must ensure that Colborne was made a lieutenant colonel, and then he tried to give a message to his mother, but lost the thread of his thoughts and trailed off into silence. When Graham and General Paget arrived he did not know them. The light in his eyes was failing. From the expressions of the others Williams guessed that his words were making less sense.
He did see Stanhope, and the last words were definite. ‘Remember me to your sister.’
A gun boomed out from the flagship in the harbour. Anderson closed the general’s eyes. ‘Eight o’clock,’ he said. One aide was sobbing, and most had tears in their eyes. Williams wished that he could cry. A sense of duty and courage made him feel that a man should rarely be moved to tears, but bear things with fortitude, and yet at that moment he felt it must be a great release.
He waited, eating listlessly when food was set before him, and he heard some of the staff talk of the jealousy of the ministry and its failure to support the campaign. When dawn approached they went up to the citadel. A few of the staff wondered who Williams was, but Graham and Colborne spoke for him. He was not sure why he stayed, and mourned so deeply a man he barely knew. They laid the general to rest inside one of the bastions of the fortress. A fresh grave was already there, for one of the brigade commanders of the Reserve Division had died almost as soon as they had reached the safety of Corunna.
There was no coffin even for the commander of the army. Sir John was still in his uniform, and then the body was rolled in a blanket like that of any soldier and lowered into the grave. His cloak was put across him. The service was short, for as the light grew the French artillery started to bombard the British outposts. A party of redcoats began to shovel earth over the cloak, and at first they worked with a tender care, until Graham told them to hurry. He knew his friend was not one to stand on ceremony or worry about himself when the good of the army required so much to be done.
Williams left them and wandered on his own through the streets, looking for his regiment. Battalion after battalion was moving down to the harbour, and he realised that he must look for them there, but he walked in a daze. Hanley saw him first and prodded Pringle, and then they had both halloed heartily. Pringle needed to be cheered up. There was no room for horses unless the mount was of high quality or belonged to someone of seniority. The orders were to kill all the others, but he had not been able to bring himself to perform the execution and forbade anyone else to do it. He had unsaddled the mare, patted her on the neck, dodged her teeth, and then let her loose on the beach.
Williams’ expression made it clear that he was scarcely likely to lighten the mood. He told them briefly of the general’s last hours and his burial.
‘We were wondering whether we had lost you again.’ Hanley explained how they had found the horse.
‘I should report to the major,’ said Williams.
‘Not practical, old boy. He’s already taken most of the battalion to another ship.’ Pringle appreciated his friend’s sense of duty, but suspected he had another concern. ‘His family were already on board.’
‘I know.’ Williams thought of Jane and that plunged him into deeper gloom.
A harassed and weary-looking Captain Pierrepoint came through the press and ordered Pringle to take the Grenadier Company on board the Corbridge. ‘No time to be lost,’ he called, and then was gone back into the teeming press on the docks. Two other companies from the 106th would join the grenadiers. That was the same allocation as on the way out, when the Corbridge seemed crowded. Pringle guessed that it would be more roomy this time, in spite of the fifty of so stragglers from other units who were already below decks. The 106th was not much more than half the size it had been just sixth months earlier. They had lost dozens of men in the retreat, although a lot fewer than many of the regiments in the army. Compared to Portugal, there were few dead and wounded from the previous day’s battle. Only one of the grenadiers had been hit in the fighting, and several others helped Eyles on board. He had been shot in the leg, but had every hope of recovery.
Little was said as the three officers followed their men.
The next company came after them. Williams chanced to look back and returned Scammell’s nod. Just for a moment he also spotted Hatch staring at him with a look of pure hatred. The man caught his glance and gave a smile with just a hint of mockery. They had exchanged no more than the briefest of greetings since his return, and he had to admit that the other ensign continued to baffle him.
The men were sent below, and after claiming a tiny room for themselves and the officers of another company, the three friends returned to the deck and watched as the ship moved out into the bay. They ignored the less than subtle hints from the captain that their place was to be stowed away with the other cargo. After months of campaigning, they were far less easily bullied.
Dobson marched along the deck, his gaze defying any sailor’s inclination to stop him, and stamped to attention beside the officers.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he said to Pringle, ‘but may I have a word?’ His voice was at its most formal. Jacket stained and patched, his trousers torn, and with a thick beard far darker than his grey hair, the old soldier still stood with drill-book precision.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, sir, it’s just that I would like to ask your permission to marry.’
‘Good God,’ said Pringle before he could stop himself.
‘Mrs Rawson and I have grown close. Annie … I mean Mrs Rawson, would like to have it done soon.’
‘Good God. I mean … I am sorry.’ Pringle thought of the prim and religious sergeant’s widow. ‘Of course, of course, if you are sure.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Congratulations, Dob.’ Williams was even more shocked than Pringle, and yet he found himself beaming like a fool and pumping the old veteran’s hand. His friends quickly followed his example.
‘Would you ask the captain for me, sir?’ asked Dobson. ‘Annie would prefer a chaplain, but God knows when we’ll see one of them.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Pringle thought that this should ensure an interesting encounter with the ship’s master.
‘Thank you, sir. Well, I had better go and tell Mrs Rawson the good news.’ He stiffened to attention, saluted, did a perfect about turn and marched away.
‘Well, well …’ said Pringle, for the only other things he could think of saying were profane in the extreme and he knew that Williams disliked such loose speech.
‘It seems a little sudden,’ ventured Hanley, although he guessed that life as a soldier’s widow was unlikely to be easy.
‘Often the way in the army.’ Pringle smiled. ‘Have you heard the old story? An officer met a pretty young woman just a few hours after a great battle. She was sobbing, and he told her how sorry he was that her husband had been killed. “Thank you,” she says, “but it’s not that. I have just this moment received a proposal from a sergeant, and it is not twenty minutes since I accepted a corporal.” ’ He roared with mirth.
‘They do seem most unlike in character …’ began Hanley, still finding the whole business odd.
‘Oh my good God!’ Pringle spoke over him, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the rail.
Hanley caught the movement first, and Williams followed his gaze and saw the shape moving through the waves. It was small and dark brown and he did not know what it was, until it was lifted on a swell. A horse was swimming towards them, its head held above the water. It was Bobbie. She was close enough for them to make out her empty eye socket. She was swimming fast, but as the wind caught the sails the Corbridge was moving still faster.
Pringle broke down, tears coming in floods, and for once it was not seasickness which forced him below deck to seek refuge in his cot.
The French guns opened fire ten minutes later. With the British withdrawal, the enemy’s gunners had flogged their teams to drag the cannon up to high ground overlooking the harbour. Williams and Hanley watched as the first shots provoked a flurry of movement on board the ships nearer the shore. Within minutes, several were moving.
‘Cut their cables,’ muttered the captain. ‘Daft buggers,’ he added.
They were too far away to see the details. Williams had a sense of panicked movement on masts and rigging. White sails dropped from spars as ships set every stitch of canvas in their rush to escape. He could see two ships moving fast at such an angle that they must surely hit each other. Then one seemed to gain, and he was willing to credit their captains with unusual skill, until he watched the ships shudder and knew that they had bumped. Behind them another pair of ships were hopelessly locked together.
‘Daft buggers,’ repeated the master.
Hanley pointed to another ship, its masts at unnatural angles, and its deck canted up to one side. ‘I think it’s run aground,’ he said.
‘’Course it’s bloody run aground,’ came the gruff comment from behind them.
Soon there were boats in the water, rowing hard, away from the foundered ships, carrying their crews and passengers. The French artillery were still firing, but perhaps because of the distance neither Hanley nor Williams saw any sign that their shot was actually hitting any of the ships.
‘Biggest balls-up since Yorktown.’ The expression had come into Williams’ mind from nowhere, and Hanley was surprised to hear his pious friend employ even such a mild vulgarity. The master of the Corbridge gave a brief snort of laughter.
The Corbridge was running ahead of the wind now, and the captain took them near an old ship of the line with its guns removed to serve as a transport. An officer on deck screamed vitriolic abuse at the master for cutting across them so recklessly. TheCorbridgecontinued blithely on its way, rushing between a pair of sluggish old merchantmen whose hulls were long overdue to be cleaned.
Hanley tapped Williams on the shoulder. He said nothing, and simply pointed. Two ladies stood at the rail of the ship to starboard. One was tall and dark haired and held a bundle in her arms. The other was smaller, her red curls flowing in the wind, and she was waving.
Miss MacAndrews shouted something, but the words were lost and she looked equally uncomprehending when he called back greetings. He wished that he had his telescope, so that he could watch her for longer as the ships grew apart, but he would not run below and fetch it for that would mean losing sight of her now.
Williams was happy. Hanley sensed it, and could not help smiling as well.
‘Well, I suppose that we are going home,’ he said, even though he did not really have one.
Williams did not appear to be listening, intent only on the diminishing figure of the girl as they rapidly left the other ship behind.
‘I love you!’ he bellowed as loudly as he could.
‘I’m sure you do, lad,’ said the master gruffly. ‘Now you can both damned well get off my deck.’