Williams pulled himself up on to the wall when he heard the second muffled explosion. Dobson grabbed his legs and dragged the volunteer back with all his strength. The two men fell, locked together, but the older man’s strength was greater. They rolled and Dobson was left on top. One hand clamped tight across Williams’ mouth.
‘Quiet, you stupid bastard,’ he hissed. Williams struggled and suddenly he felt the cold touch of a blade on his throat. Somehow Dobson had drawn a knife without letting go of his grip. For a moment the image of Redman’s corpse flashed through the volunteer’s mind.
‘Quiet and let the buggers think they’ve won.’ Dobson spoke softly as if reassuring a child. ‘We can’t help them at the moment. If we rush in we’ll just die as well.’ Williams stopped struggling. The veteran waited for a moment and then took the knife and then the hand away.
‘What if they are being killed now?’ Hamish managed to keep his voice low.
‘Then there ain’t a goddamned thing we can do about it. It’s not about dying, Pug. It’s about winning. So now we wait and keep quiet and let them think the danger has gone.’
‘What about the two Portuguese?’
‘Forget ’em. We can’t talk t devils anyway. They’re just children. If they run then they don’t matter and if they come back and fight on their own then they get killed.’ The veteran spoke brutally. ‘Now we wait.’
*
The three British officers kneeled on the floor with their hands tied behind their back. Hanley was in agony as their captors had torn off his sling and bent his wounded arm back in spite of his hisses of pain. Mata was in a worse state; stabbed in the right arm, stomach and thigh, he lay on the stone floor of the farm’s main room. When they had been brought into the room, Maria had dragged herself free of the Russian soldier who held her, and run to help him. She tore her scarf into strips and bound up the young officer’s leg and arm. The Russians let her, and watched as the girl searched for something to bandage the much bigger wound to his belly. Denilov had gone to post two of his men as sentries. His sergeant was dead, killed by Truscott’s lucky shot, but the latter had not yet had time to take in the thought that he had actually killed for the first time. The Russian soldiers were puzzled by the death, for the one-eyed NCO had seemed indestructible. They were not disconcerted. Death was part of a soldier’s lot, and they were all still breathing, which was the main thing.
The room contained little. There was a small round table, two stools and an elderly rocking chair. Candles and an oil lamp on the table gave some illumination, but there was no fire in the grand fireplace.
Maria looked around, but there was no cloth or other material to act as bandage. The girl shrugged and reached back to lift up the tail of her tight jacket. Very deliberately, but without looking at anyone, she unhooked her skirt and eased it slowly downwards. The two Russian soldiers watched appreciatively. One even permitted himself a wicked smile. The Englishmen also watched.
As the girl lowered her skirt she leaned forward, her long black hair hanging down around her face. Her petticoat was white and seemed very bright in the flickering light. It was also short, falling only a little past her knees, and as Maria bent over, its laced edge rose up at the back and showed her stockinged legs and some of the bare skin above them.
Pringle was about to comment when he decided that it was better not to break the silence. Then he noticed something glinting next to Mata’s foot. It was a fragment from one of the grenades, presumably caught on the wounded man’s clothing or kicked in here accidentally.
Maria stepped out of her skirt and dropped it in front of Mata. It covered the jagged shard of the grenade. The Russians watched every motion as she knelt down and took the skirt and with a fierce effort ripped it along the seam, and then tore the pieces again. Mata winced as she raised him to bind the cloth around his stomach, but then managed to apologise and thank her.
Pringle noticed that the piece of metal had vanished when the girl stood up and walked over to the three kneeling Englishmen. One of the Russians barked an order, but Maria gestured at Hanley and touched her own arm to show that she wanted only to look at the wound. Then she turned her back on the guard and crouched down to tie another strip of her ruined skirt as a fresh dressing on the wound.
‘Come a bit forward,’ she said, and Hanley obeyed, shuffling towards her on his knees. Then Maria stepped back, and walked around behind him to see better. As she passed behind Pringle she dropped the piece of grenade casing into the palm of his hand. He felt the sharp metal cut his skin as he tried to shift it and twist with his fingers so that the edge was against the rope binding hiswrists.
The door opened and the two Russian soldiers instantly took on more alert postures as Denilov came in. He glanced around the room.
‘A little obvious, even for you, Maria,’ he said suavely. Then he spat a fierce rebuke at his men. Guessing that something was going on, he paced behind the kneeling British officers. It was chance, for he had not seen anything, but when he was next to Pringle, Denilov suddenly slammed his fist into the side of the Englishman’s neck just above his jacket collar.
The pain was searing as Pringle was knocked over on his side, gasping for breath. The little shard of metal dropped on the ground. Denilov noticed it, shook his head, and kicked the fragment off into the corner of the room.
‘How very tiresome,’ he said as he walked towards the fireplace, and then he slapped Maria hard across the cheek. A trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth, but the Russian count caught her as she fell and flung her forward against the carved stone fireplace. Truscott and Hanley shouted in protest, until one of the guards clubbed each of them in turn with the butt of his musket. All three Englishmen lay on their sides, struggling to get up.
‘Come Maria, you know that you will have to tell me sooner or later. Open the hiding place.’ Denilov slapped her again, this time on the other cheek, knocking her down as she tried to get up. ‘I am losing patience. You will show me in the end. How much do I have to hurt you and these others before that happens?’
The tall Russian aristocrat looked around the room. ‘As you wish.’ He nodded to one of his men, who promptly kicked Mata in the belly. The former student hissed in agony, but somehow managed to stop himself from yelling out.
‘Very brave.’ Denilov’s tone was mocking. He nodded again to his man. This time the soldier jabbed down with the butt of his musket against the wounded man’s thigh and then ground the weapon over the wound.
Mata screamed in agony.
Williams staggered from the weight of Dobson standing on his shoulders. Both men were tall, but they were trying to open a window some ten feet above the ground. Lacking a watch, the volunteer did not know how much time had passed since the grenades had gone off. It seemed like an hour, but was maybe only half that. They had seen no sign of Mata’s remaining two men.
Dobson had led him in a wide circuit to come at the farmhouse from the lee of the barn. That meant they had only a short stretch of open ground to cover, and the veteran reckoned that the enemy would anyway be watching only the approaches to the doorway. Now the old soldier’s boots pressed down hard as Dobson used all his considerable strength to prise open the shutters. Williams felt him sway backwards, as he fought for balance when the left-hand one finally snapped its catch and swung outwards and back.
The burden slackened and Williams looked up to see that Dobson had grabbed the window ledge with one hand and was pulling himself up. Both men had left their packs, shakos, canteens and haversacks back behind the wall. They kept only their ammunition pouches. Dobson disappeared into the room and then a moment later emerged again and reached downwards. Williams passed up the old soldier’s musket and then his own. Both had their bayonets already fixed. Dobson quickly took off the two musket slings and tied them together. That gave them a cord a good six feet in length. The veteran looped one arm around a beam and held the sling in his other hand, letting it hang from the window.
Wilms took a few paces back and then ran at the wall, leaping upwards and grabbing at the dangling musket sling. He caught it with his right hand, but nearly lost hold when he slammed against the wall, and only just clung on. A moment later his left hand also found the sling and he began to pull himself up. Hamish had never been much good at climbing, had always watched baffled as others seemed to shoot up the cables like monkeys, but somehow it seemed easier on this night. He managed to push out with his feet and then almost walk up the wall.
Then the shots came. First there was one, and then two in reply from the front of the house. There were shouts, and after a flare of panic Williams realised that it had nothing to do with their own efforts at breaking in. Whoever it was – and he hoped it was Mata’s men and not a French patrol – then they would keep the Russians busy.
When he neared the window, Williams’ boots slipped on the stone and he slid hard against the wall. Dobson cursed as the sudden weight yanked at the slings, but then saw that the volunteer had his elbows on the window ledge. The veteran let go of the sling and instead grabbed Williams’ hand. Gasping with effort, Hamish pulled himself into the room. It was long, running the length of the entire floor, and was probably in normal times a storeroom and sleeping quarters for the labourers on the farm. Even in the moonlight, Williams could see that it was now empty save for a few rags.
‘You’re getting fat, Pug,’ whispered Dobson with a grin.
There was another shot from outside, answered by one that seemed to come from the floor below. They took their muskets and walked as stealthily as they could to the far end of the room, where a staircase led downwards. Williams led the way, and no matter how lightly he trod each step produced what seemed like thunderous moans from the wood.
When the shooting started, Denilov sent one of his men to the front of the house to see what was happening. Then he went back to his task. Maria had ignored him at first. Then she had cursed him as they repeatedly hit the wounded Mata, whose screams grew fainter with each blow. Then she had sobbed and begged him for mercy.
Denilov continued to ask the same question over and over again. In the end Mata passed out and could not be revived. Maria continued to weep and to plead.
The Russian officer drew his double-barrelled pistol and pointed it at the girl. Then, as if on a whim, he turned and walked towards the three British officers. Truscott had somehow managed to get back up on his knees, so Denilov pointed the pistol at his forehead.
‘It is up to you, my dear,’ he said to the girl.
The first Russian ran on to Williams’ bayonet. The volunteer was advancing down into the corridor when the man rushed around a corner, his own firelock held across his body. The bayonet slid easily between the man’s ribs and there was only a short intake of breath before he was dead. Dobson pushed past as Williams struggled to free the blade. In the end he let the body drop and then put his foot on the man and finally dragged it out.
Dobson was by an open door when there was a shot from inside the room. For a moment a soldier was illuminated by the flame as he fired out of the window. Then Dobson saw little apart from the bright red glow seared into his vision. He squinted and stalked the man, as the Russian mechanically loaded his musket. A musket ball fired from outside whipped past the soldier’s head and instinctively he flinched. As his head moved he caught sight of the veteran. The Russian turned, his ramrod still in the muzzle of his musket, just as Dobson stamped his foot forward and lunged. The man flung his firelock up in a wild defensive sweep which succeeded only in knocking the redcoat’s bayonet higher than he had aimed it. The point drove into the Russian’s throat. He choked, blood jetting out on to his chest. His musket was now on the floor and both hands went up to clutch at the blade. Dobson ripped the blade free and then stabbed again, driving deep into the man’s belly. The Russian writhed for a moment, gurgling horribly, before he finally went still.
Williams was behind him in the doorway, and Dobson came back to join him. They went out into the corridor and could see light coming from under a door. Then there was a woman’s scream. Dobson barged Williams out of the way and flung himself at the door, which splintered and collapsed. The light inside was very bright after the dark corridors and Dobson blinked as he stumbled and fell into the room. A Russian soldier lunged at him with his bayonet, and the veteran rolled to avoid the attack, losing his own musket in the process.
As Williams came through the door, Denilov aimed his pistol at him. Maria flung herself at him, jogging his arm so that the first shot smacked into the wall next to the door. Dobson dodged another lunge from the Russian, and then Pringle kicked at the man’s shins. The soldier staggered and Dobson sprang at him, grabbing his knees and knocking him down. The two men wrestled on the floor.
Denilov struggled free of the girl and then managed to slam his pistol against the side of her head. The second barrel discharged in the process, and Maria felt the ball flick her hair as it passed and flattened itself against the stone of the fireplace.
Williams came towards him, bayonet at the ready, but took care to avoid treading on Mata. Denilov dropped his useless pistol and had enough time to draw his sword. He raised the blade in a salute and a challenge.
‘Just a common soldier,’ he sneered.
‘I am a gentleman, sir,’ said Williams. Then he raised his musket to his shoulder. Denilov was no more than two yards away and there was just time for surprise and fear to register on his face before Williams shot him through the body. Powder smoke filled the room as the noise of the shot echoed off the stone walls.
Denilov gasped something in his own language and dropped to his knees. Then he slumped forward. Blood pooled darkly around his body.
Dobson swore as the Russian soldier bit his shoulder, then head-butted the man and pummelled him as he reeled from the blow. Using his greater weight, he held the man down with only one hand and with the other unscrewed the Russian’s bayonet from the musket that lay near by. It was awkward, but eventually he freed it and stabbed the man repeatedly until he lay still.
‘There’s one more,’ warned Truscott, and at the same moment the door to the kitchen was forced open. The last Russian soldier saw Dobson stabbing his comrade and aimed his musket. Williams ran towards him, and without thinking threw his musket and bayonet at the man as if it was a spear. It flew awkwardly, but made the Russian swing back his own weapon to parry the clumsy missile.
Williams was still too far away to reach him as the man pointed the muzzle of his musket at him. He shut his eyes. The shot was deafening, but to his astonishment Williams felt no blow. When he looked the Russian was stretched out on the kitchen floor, moaning. Mata’s two men had come into the house when the Russian at the window had stopped firing. The first one in was no more than fifteen, and had never thought of anything beyond his studieseatedlfew months earlier. Yet he did not hesitate as he entered the room and saw the dark-uniformed man poised to fire. He shot first and much to his astonishment hit the target.
Mata was badly hurt. He could not walk or ride, but the thin-faced student must have been tougher than he looked because he had not died. His men were not so fortunate. When they found the bodies of the two who had only been wounded by the grenade, they found that their throats had been cut. The fifteen-year-old promptly did the same to the wounded Russian and no one acted quickly enough to stop him. Nor did any of them truly blame him.
All the dead were dragged out. Maria cleaned Hanley’s wound and did an even better job of bandaging it with the last remnants of her skirt. They lifted Mata as gently as they could into a bedroom and laid him on a bed. Before he let them do this he had watched as the girl ran her hands over the carved animals decorating the fireplace. She reached behind the head of a bull and with some effort pushed at a metal catch, which sprang open a panel. Inside was a small chest, the key still in the lock. She got Williams to lift it out and lay it on the table before she turned the key and opened it. The gold glistened red in the candlelight. There were hundreds of coins – not a fortune perhaps, but still more money than Williams had ever seen in his life. There was also a bag, which the girl took. She untied the top and slipped her hand inside to check the contents, but did not show them to anyone else.
It was nearly half past two in the morning by Pringle’s watch and Truscott’s piece made it even later than that. They all needed to return to the battalion and their proper duties, promising to come back with a surgeon as soon as they could. Mata’s men would stay with him, as would Maria and the money.
‘He will be cared for by Cleopatra,’ she had announced. A bruise was spreading across her cheek, but Maria looked both assured and determined. Billy Pringle also thought she looked damned attractive, especially as she still lacked a skirt.
Maria noticed where his glance had strayed and smiled, catching his eye when he looked up.
‘I suppose we could not wait half an hour?’ he asked Truscott hopefully.
‘My old schoolmaster used to say that you could only eat cakes if you had brought enough for everyone,’ replied the lieutenant.
‘I knew there was a good reason why I always hated teachers. However, Bills isn’t keen on cakes and poor Hanley is wounded and must be careful.’
‘Still leaves me. Save your strength.’ He led his friend away to join Hanley and Williams by the pile of their packs and other equipment. ‘All ready?’ he asked.
‘Just waiting for Dob,’ said Williams. ‘Said he had to go back for something.’ The veteran appeared a moment later. He was carrying a long bundle wrapped in rags and strapped to his slung musket, and had his hands clasped together.
‘Beg pardon, sirs, but I reckon we’ve earned this.’ Dobson’s tone was assured. ‘Hold out your hands, Mr Truscott, sir.’ The lieutenant did as he was told, and a moment later there was a jingle of coins falling on to his palms. ‘Better take Mr Hanley’s share as well, sir,’ said Dobson as he turned next to Pringle. ‘Him still being a bit Nelson.’
‘Where did you get this?’ Truscott could feel the coins in his hands. There must have been at least a dozen.
‘From that Russian bugger, sir. There was a bag of it in his pouch. Arrogant bastard hadn’t evenidden it.’ The veteran’s tone was contemptuous. ‘He don’t need ’em any more.’ Dobson reached Williams. ‘Come on, Pug. Reckon you’ll be needing this soon. They’re gold. Officers need a proper uniform. Makes it easier for the enemy to shoot at them.’
‘I’m not an officer yet, Dob.’ It was odd to be handling a dead man’s money, but Dobson’s manner did not permit a refusal. None of them was a rich man, and taking spoils from the enemy was as old as war itself. The only one who ventured any concern was Pringle. His gratitude to Maria had grown abundantly when she had slipped a note to him just before they left, whispering to him that the man named would be able to find her if Pringle came to Lisbon in a month’s time. Billy Pringle relished the thought of that reward. To take money in addition seemed excessive.
‘I’m not sure we should take this.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ said Truscott sharply. ‘You’ve got more out of this than the rest of us.’
‘Do you mean . . . ?’ began Hanley wonderingly, before Truscott cut in.
‘I mean nothing,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Dobson. It is generous of you to share.’
The old soldier simply nodded.
Hanley looked at Pringle and let out a short laugh. Williams looked on uncomprehendingly.
‘We must get back. I think there will be a battle soon,’ said Truscott.
‘You know,’ said Pringle, ‘I had almost forgotten about the French in the midst of our private little war.’
No one bothered to reply. Truscott was rubbing his wrists as they slowly came back to life. Hanley’s arm was paining him, and Pringle’s neck began throbbing from Denilov’s blow to it. Williams was puzzled again by how quickly the intensity of violence faded and the memories began to seem unreal. Dobson, for whom none of this was new, quickly cleared his mind as he always did on a march, walking in that steady rhythm that eats up the miles.
They walked in silence. Fatigue was catching up with them, but they knew that they would get little or no sleep that night. There was a dull satisfaction that this time they had won, but that only went a small way to easing the aching muscles in their tired legs. Hopefully it would be another quiet day of routine. On the way back they ran into a patrol of the 20th Light Dragoons led by a sergeant whose accent proclaimed him to be German.
‘More bloody foreigners,’ muttered Dobson under his breath. It took a while to convince the suspicious NCO of their identity, but fortunately the officer they were taken to remembered Truscott from the dinner in England. They were escorted back, reaching the 106th’s camp just after four.