GENERAL ORDER, 7TH AUGUST 1808
Major General Spencer’s corps having joined the army, the
regiments will be brigaded as follows, from the right
1st Brigade – 1/5th, 1/9th and 1/38th regiments
under Major General Hill
3rd Brigade – 1/82nd and 106th regiments
under Brigadier General Nightingall
th Brigade – 1/45th, 1/50th and 1/91st regiments
under Brigadier General Crauford
4th Brigade – 1/6th and 1/32nd regiments
under Brigadier General Bowes
2nd Brigade – 36th, 1/40th and 1/71st regiments
under Major General Ferguson
6th or Light Brigade – 2/95th and 5/60th
under Brigadier General Fane.
The foregoing will be the general formation of the brigades in one
line, excepting that the light brigade will be ordered to take post in
front or in rear, or on either flank, according to circumstances. The
cavalry will be in reserve, and posted as may be necessary. A half-
brigade of artillery will be attached to each brigade of infantry.
Howitzers will be attached to the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 6th brigades,
and the 9-pounder brigade will be in reserve.
‘Spencer’s now second-in-command to Wellesley,’ said Moss, reading the rest of the general’s order. A few weeks before it had been planned that the commander of the Gibraltar force would lead a brigade including the 106th. Evidently that plan had been discarded even before the force landed. ‘Everyone clear about the new order of battle?’ he asked Toye, MacAndrews and Thomas.
The senior major grinned. ‘I notice they have split up the Highlanders. Very wise, or we could end up with another forty-five to deal with!’
Moss snorted with laughter. MacAndrews simply said mildly that there was an idea, and did anyone know where to buy the white cockades worn by Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men.
‘Well, we should be off at last.’ Moss resumed his instructions. ‘The advance will commence before dawn on the ninth. That will give us a few hours’ marching before the sun gets too hot.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’ Toye’s skin was heavily burned and already beginning to peel. It took great effort for him to resist picking at it.
‘No details yet, but the talk was all of Lisbon last night at the general’s table.’ Moss had been invited to dine with Wellesley along with two of the other battalion commanders. He enjoyed giving the impression of special knowledge, although in truth the conversation had dwelt mainly on hunting and horses.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘by the end of tomorrow we will issue three days of rations to every man. I’d be grateful if you would have a word with Mr Kidwell about that.’ Moss addressed the adjutant.
‘Ammunition?’ asked MacAndrews.
‘Just sixty rounds per man at present. The rest will remain with the train, along with eighteen more days’ worth of food.’ Moss watched his two majors closely. His dissatisfaction with them had grown even stronger. It was not that they failed to perform their duties. Both men were efficient and reliable, but at the same time they seemed to lack any spark of enthusiasm. Too old, Moss thought, looking at MacAndrews’ grey hair. Yet Toye was only a few years older than Moss himself, and always looked like a puppy nervous of being kicked. What was wrong with the man?
‘Well, at least we are not too far from the front of the column,’ said MacAndrews. ‘Not so much dust.’
That was true, but seemed to Moss another symptom of worrying about the little things. ‘Better yet, it puts us closer to the enemy if we should encounter the French unexpectedly. Shame we are no longer with the Lights, which ought to have ensured us of an early blooding. Anyway, it should not be long now. Remember, gentlemen, if in doubt, go straight at the enemy and show them British steel. I want the French to get to know the 106th – and fear us!’
Toye smiled politely. MacAndrews wondered at the colonel’s growing tendency to make speeches at every opportunity. It was almost as if he were performing. ‘The lads are ready,’ he said simply. ‘And the eighty-second look like a solid corps.’
‘Yes, all in all, we are well placed. General Nightingall is a good man.’ Moss’s tone suggested generous condescension in this judgement. Before the others left his tent, the colonel’s servant brought them a glass of indifferent wine and they toasted the regiment and the honours it would win. MacAndrews had an unsophisticated palate, but Toye was only just able to restrain himself from wincing at the sour taste. The loss of his personal stores was an additional annoyance, and perhaps added to Moss’s disappointment with his senior officers. As yet there had been no opportunity to detach any of them from the battalion. Thomas would do, for an adjutant required a thoroughness and attention to detail which the man clearly possessed, however dull he was as company. The other two lacked animation, and the fire he wanted to impart to the entire regiment.
Moss grimaced as he took a sip of some truly foul port. It was the best his servant had been able to buy, and since there were only a few bottles, it was reserved for his own use and the mess would have to make do with even worse muck. Well, they would have to make the best of it and so would he. It fell to him to inspire the regiment, and by God he would do it. He would also have to make sure that his seniors understood the true situation. The years of waiting for another chance to distinguish himself were almost over, and the moment would not find him wanting.
‘Mathematics has never been my strong point, but it seems an odd way to count,’ said Hanley. A group of subalterns from the regiment were sitting around the table in the mess and studying a copy of the new general order. ‘I mean, one, three, five, four, two, and six.’
‘Well, it is the order in which we would stand when formed for battle,’ offered Williams in explanation.
‘Still seems odd. Why not just number us off from right to left? Or from left to right for that matter?’
There was stunned silence for a moment, so that Anstey’s voice saying ‘My trick, I believe’ carried clearly from the game in progress among a group of officers sitting on stools outside. ‘That’s ten shillings you owe me, you rogues.’
‘Seniority, William,’ said Pringle in a tone that suggested this should be adequate explanation. Hanley still looked puzzled, prompting Truscott’s strong pedagogic instinct.
‘I’d never have believed it.’ He shook his head. ‘You are sometimes quite the griffin. And you have been with us now for a couple of months? Truly amazing.
‘Seniority is everything, and a grenadier most of all should know that. You do understand why your company is placed always o anight?’
Hanley said that he supposed everyone had to be somewhere, and that it was simpler if they were always in the same place.
Derryck broke out in a fit of giggles. Others were smiling ruefully at such unbelievable ignorance.
‘No,’ Truscott continued patiently, as if speaking to an invalid or small child – or still worse a civilian – ‘it is because you are senior to all the other companies in the regiment. Therefore you have the place of most honour, the right of the line. The Lights come next in seniority, so they are on the left, the second place of honour.’
Williams could see his friend framing the question and so answered before he had a chance. ‘It goes back to the Greeks. A man carried his spear in his right hand and his shield in his left. It was the spear that attacked and the shield that defended, so the right was associated with attack and therefore became the place of most honour. The entire army was viewed as if it were one man, and so the right flank was the most prestigious place. If you remember your Thucydides . . .’
Truscott was grateful for the sanction of antiquity, knowing that Hanley would appreciate that, but was in no mood to listen to a long digression from Williams. ‘With officers of the same rank,’ he cut in, ‘seniority is given to the man first appointed. We have two major generals, so naturally they are given the first and second brigades. Major General Hill has been longer in the rank, so equally naturally he and his First Brigade take the post of greatest honour on the right of our line.
‘General Ferguson and his Second Brigade have the second post of honour on the left of the line. After that our brigadiers are stationed according to their seniority.’
He could see Hanley about to raise another question, but held up his hand to stop him as he felt it important to complete his explanation. ‘The third place of honour is once again on the right of the line, just to the left of the First Brigade, and so that goes to the senior brigadier.’ Truscott began to arrange cups on the table to mark the positions, ignoring a call of ‘Hey, I have not finished’ from Pringle. The explanation continued and Hanley struggled to follow.
‘And so each brigade takes post according to seniority, working in towards the centre. The Sixth or Light Brigade is the only exception. It contains our riflemen and so is different to the others. Their duties require them to cover any advance or withdrawal and often to close with the enemy and skirmish. Therefore where they are actually stationed will vary, but nominally they are treated just as if they were the light company of a regiment and so stationed on the far left of the rest of us.’ He looked at Hanley, expecting signs of enlightenment.
‘It does seem very complicated,’ he ventured. Truscott rolled his eyes.
‘It is actually simple, William,’ said Pringle. ‘It becomes as natural as eating once you get used to it. May I have my cup back now, or will it break up the army?’ He grabbed the pewter cup and quickly drained it. ‘Alas for the Third Brigade. Morituri te salutant.’
‘But surely the brigades could deploy in the logical sequence of their numbers,’ Hanley suggested. ‘Would not that be still simpler?’
‘God save us from logical grenadiers!’ Truscott decided to try again. ‘That would ignore the places of honour and danger. The flanks of a line are vulnerable, so the best and steadiest officers and regiments should be there. Seniority ensures that this happens. It is the same for a battalion though Heaven knows why we should grant precedence to grenadiers.’
‘Because their minds work so slowly that they will stay in position even after they are dead,’ offered Derryck.
Truscott ignored him as usual. ‘It is the same within a brigade. Each regiment’s seniority determines its position relative to the others. Surely you appreciate that.’
‘I had simply assumed we went where we were told.’ Hanley was struggling with the grammar of this new language.
‘So tell us, fount of knowledge, where will we be in the Third Brigade?’ asked Pringle mischievously.
‘I understand that we are a new corps,’ Hanley ventured.
‘The newest, in fact.’ Williams had decided to join in again. ‘And so the most junior regiment of the line.’
‘But the best!’ asserted Derryck stoutly, and the more enthusiastic officers pounded the table in assent.
‘Quiet in there. I can’t hear myself losing money,’ yelled a voice from outside the tent. They banged harder and cheered at that, and it took a while for the noise to subside.
‘Oh, so does a lower number denote seniority?’ Hanley felt he was making some headway, and was surprised by the expressions of universal dismay that he had only just realised something so obvious. ‘Does that mean we shall be in the centre?’ There wasgeneral and still incredulous amusement.
‘In a larger brigade that would be true.’ Truscott raised his voice to carry over the noise. ‘But since we have only the Eighty-second with us, then our station is on the left. You see, it really is so very simple. Every company, every regiment and every brigade has its natural place. And then every one of us has his post within the company. We are threads within a much larger web.’
‘Very poetic,’ said Pringle. ‘I have a suspicion you read books.’
‘How about bricks in a wall, like the Spartans?’ proposed Williams.
‘Now you are confusing the man, he was much happier as a thread.’
‘Bloody grenadiers,’ swore Truscott wearily. ‘At least he should know what is going on now.’
Hanley raised his head. ‘So what precisely is a howitzer?’ Groans came from all around the table.
‘He’s dead, sir,’ said the one-eyed sergeant, massaging his knuckles.
Denilov had been paying little attention to the last few minutes of the interrogation, but a quick look confirmed that Varandas had died at last.
‘Old bastard was tougher than he looked.’ There was the faintest hint of respect in the sergeant’s voice. Neither he nor any of his soldiers was as tall as their officer, but they were all broad shouldered and well used to hard toil. They had begun by simply beating the old man, and then the interpreter Roberto translated the count’s questions, while the soldiers took turns to pound his face, ribs and stomach if the old man did not answer satisfactorily. For some time Varandas had stubbornly pleaded ignorance, until the pain finally grew too much and he began to moan the answers. Roberto licked his lips as he watched, first flinching at the blows, and later smiling as he enjoyed being on the side of men capable of unleashing such violence.
‘It does not matter. I have learned all that is necessary.’ That had happened a while ago, but it seemed reasonable to keep up the questoning, just in case there was something extra he might learn. Denilov gave a dismissive gesture and the sergeant ordered two of his jaegers to carry the corpse outside. They took it into the garden of the cottage and tossed it into a large dung heap. Then they shovelled more of the waste to cover the body, complaining as each spadefull unleashed new waves of stench from the manure.
‘You have done well, Roberto,’ said Denilov in French.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The small man touched his forehead respectfully. As usual he was crouching, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His skin was sallow, his face pockmarked, and his eyes never stopped moving and never looked at anyone directly. The Russian officer made him nervous at the best of times and the brutal questioning of the steward had only added to his fear, but it had also increased his greed. He had been well paid so far, and there was the promise of more.
Denilov had hired him in an inn in Lisbon just a week ago. It had taken almost a month for the count to locate Varandas, for he had moved cautiously. Then a few more days had been needed before he was ready to go looking for him. The arrival of the British was a happy coincidence, for the confusion of a war would make it easier to go about his task. Who would notice a few more deaths, or quibble over lost treasure when rival armies were campaigning, looting as they went? The British Army’s arrival would have pleased the old general, but Denilov had no doubt that it would fail. Not that it mattered, for he was so close now to finding the duke’s hidden wealth. Varandas had finally revealed that he had arranged to conceal a chest full of the duke’s property near Obidos. A local priest, trusted by the duke himself as well as his steward, had made the final arrangements. Now all they had to do was find the man and persuade him to talk.
‘Do you know this place?’ Denilov asked the interpreter.
‘Obidos? Yes, sir, yes. I think, yes,’ stammered Roberto. ‘To the north, near the sea.’ Once the servant of a French merchant, he had been caught stealing from his employer and dismissed. Since then he had become a petty thief in the back streets of Lisbon. Hewas useful because he spoke French, and few Portuguese spoke anything other than their own tongue. Denilov doubted he had travelled much outside the city, and suspected that his knowledge of the village he was seeking was vague at best. It did not matter. If he took them to the area, then they should find it without too much trouble.
‘There was a woman here, I think. Yes, a woman, not long ago.’ Roberto’s expression was lascivious. ‘The old man have some fun, eh? Not too old for that.’
Denilov had already noted that there were two sets of plates laid out on the table with the remains of a breakfast, while the bedclothes looked more disturbed than was likely if Varandas had slept alone. There were no women’s clothes, and no signs of anyone else living in the cottage. Perhaps the steward summoned some whore from the nearest village, but Denilov doubted it and suspected Maria. So she had not given up. He had had little entertainment in the last weeks, and the idea of encountering her again was a pleasant one. Denilov smiled wickedly, making the nervous interpreter cringe, and the count could not resist laughing. Roberto looked confused, and then joined in the laughter, hoping to reassure his disturbing employer of his loyalty.
‘Pity she not still here, sir,’ he said with a leer. Denilov ignored him. If Maria had been here earlier today then she had taken a long time to find Varandas. Perhaps she had truly not known where he was, although obviously she had been able to track him down in the end. She was only just ahead of him, but he and his men should be able to move more quickly. Perhaps the girl had enlisted some men to help her, although it was unlikely she knew that he had also begun his own search. They would need to proceed carefully, but Denilov had planned to do that anyway, and could rely on his sergeant to keep the soldiers alert. Yet they could not afford to be too slow.
They left the cottage and headed north, always keeping one scout some distance in the lead and another keeping watch behind them. The countryside seemed unusually empty, and they saw almost no one. People were nervous of the two armies, and few travelled abroad unless they had no other choice. Once they saw half a dozen men in the distance and there was a glint from the sun striking metal, which suggested weapons. That night they camped in a small hollow, and did not light a fire in case it attracted attention. Several large bonfires were visible, and Denilov suspected that these had been lit by gatherings of militiamen and other enthusiastic volunteers, hovering around the countryside in the hope of ambushing isolated Frenchmen.
The next day their luck changed barely half an hour after they had begun to move. The night’s cold had not yet burned off, and they were glad of the warmth of their drab greatcoats. The jaeger leading the file suddenly raised his hand to tell them to stop. They halted, each man scanning the scrubby bushes covering the sides of the little valley. The sergeant was just going forward to ask the soldier what he had seen when men erupted from the hillsides around them. There were at least forty. Many had pikes or pitchforks, but a few had traces of uniform and muskets or pistols. Instinctively the soldiers cocked their muskets and levelled them ready to fire, pointing the muzzles at the nearest peasants.
‘Stop!’ barked Denilov to his men. ‘Lower your firelocks.’ The jaegers obeyed, gently moving to point the muzzles at the ground, but none of them released his grip on the trigger. Roberto’s eyes darted around, and the sergeant could see that he would break and run at the slightest opportunity. He whispered a threat, and although the sallow-faced man did not understand Russian he understood the intent and started nodding and smiling fervently in an effort to reassure him.
Then Denilov called out something in a language the sergeant did not understand. His tone was friendly, and the peasants looked doubtful. A man who seemed to be their leader took a few steps nearer and asked something in Portuguese. The count tried again, but neither man understood the other. Then Denilov spoke to Roberto in French.
‘Tell him I am an English officer and we are English soldiers, their allies come to fight against the common enemy and liberate their country.’
There was a rapid exchange in Portuguese. ‘He asks for proof,’ whispered Roberto.
‘Open your coats,’ said the count calmly, speaking in their own language to his soldiers. He unbuttoned his own greatcoat and pulled it back to show them what he meant. Then Denilov switched back to French. ‘Tell him he can see that we wear green jackets. We are elite English soldiers. Like your own caçadores. Hunters who hunt Frenchmen.’ The uniform of the Guard Jaeger was different in cut and shade to that of the British riflemen, but the colour was all that really mattered. It was not French blue.
It took a while, but Denilov was confident and friendly, praising the Portuguese leader for the skill and obvious courage of his men. He offered the man a drink from his flask, and solemnly pronounced a toast to the two kingdoms of Portugal and England and their staunch alliance. One of the peasants guided them three mils to a dirt track which he assured them would lead to Obidos.
‘Tomorrow, maybe next day,’ translated Roberto. ‘Or day after, he think.’ Denilov wondered how widely many of these men ever travelled. He did not ask about the priest. That could wait until they were nearer.