All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Read online

  With thanks to Gareth Glover, whose labours in the archives keep providing so much great material for these stories

  ALL IN SCARLET UNIFORM

  Adrian Goldsworthy

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Cast of Characters

  About the Author

  By Adrian Goldsworthy

  More on W&N

  Copyright

  A bold fusilier came marching back through Rochester

  Off for the wars in a far country,

  And he sang as he marched

  Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

  ‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’

  Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?

  Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?

  And he sang as he marched

  Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

  ‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’

  The King he has ordered new troops onto the continent,

  To strike a last blow at the enemy.

  And if you would be a soldier,

  All in scarlet uniform,

  Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.

  Take the King’s shilling! Take the King’s shilling!

  Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.

  And he sang as he marched

  Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

  ‘Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.’

  ‘Not I,’ said the butcher, ‘Nor I,’ said the baker

  Most of the rest with them did agree

  To be paid with the powder and

  The rattle of the cannonball

  Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.

  Wages for soldiers! Wages for soldiers!

  Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me

  To be paid with the powder and

  The rattle of the cannonball

  Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.

  ‘Now I,’ said the young man, ‘have oft endured the parish queue

  There is no wages or employment for me

  Salvation or danger

  That’ll be my destiny

  To be a soldier for Wellington and me!’

  To be a soldier! To be a soldier!

  To be a soldier for Wellington and me!

  Salvation or danger

  That’ll be my destiny

  To be a soldier for Wellington and me!

  Now twenty recruits came marching back through Rochester

  Off to the wars in a far country

  And they sang as they marched

  Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

  ‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’

  Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?

  Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?

  And he sang as he marched

  Through the crowded streets of Rochester,

  ‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’

  …

  This is one version of a song dating back at least to the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the words were ‘Malboro and me’. It was sung to a traditional Scottish tune called ‘Oh Bonnie Wood O’ Craigielee’ and is now better known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

  1

  Pringle clasped his hands tightly behind his back and tried hard not to shiver. He did not want to die on this bleak October morning, but he was a captain in His Britannic Majesty King George’s 106th Regiment of Foot, and as an officer he must never show agitation or the faintest hint of fear. Often the show of courage was more important than any order he could give, for confidence was almost as rapidly contagious as fear, and it did not matter if it was an act.

  Over a year ago Billy Pringle had helped throw the French out of Portugal, then been chased through the mountains on that grim march to Corunna. This summer he had come through the carnage at Talavera when they had fought the French to a standstill. There always seemed to be more French, and they never gave in easily. He took a musket ball at Talavera, which slashed a cut across his belly, but in spite of a bout of fever he had pulled through and all that was left was a pale scar. So many had fallen or been forever maimed on those two days in July that he counted himself lucky to have got away with little more than a scratch. The slightest shift in the Frenchman’s aim and he would not be standing in this field beside the river and wondering whether he would live to see the sun set. The thought was chilling, and it felt as if his very flesh was shrinking in a desperate effort to make him small and safe.

  It was damned cold, while the persistent drizzle speckled the lenses of his glasses and made his shirt cling tightly to his body. With an effort, Billy Pringle stood up straight and kept from shivering, maintaining the act. He knew it mattered. Now that he had seen war in all its confusion, horror and brutal simplicity he understood that the pretence was important. Men watched each other, and most of all the men watched their officers. The veterans knew that it was all a sham. Officers and men alike pretended unconcern and somehow became brave, so that otherwise sane men did what seemed insane and battles were won. It also meant that ‘sane’ men would choose to face death, acting a part to impress others or themselves. It was almost a shame that the death and mutilation were so dreadfully real.

  ‘Major Tilney is concerned about the weather,’ said Captain Truscott, who had returned from consulting with a Light Dragoon officer, and now jerked Pringle from the thoughts that kept his mind away from the grim reality of this place. ‘His principal does not wish an unfair advantage, and is willing to postpone the affair.’

  Truscott was nervous, although only a close friend like Pringle would have spotted the signs. His fellow captain was a precise man, as punctilious in his duties as in his private affairs. His left sleeve, empty since he had lost an arm at Vimeiro, offered the readiest of reminders that this was no act. Every few minutes Truscott unconsciously reached up and rubbed the buttons on its cuff. The rest of the time his right hand kept clenching and uncurling. Captain Truscott did not care for this business, but was determined to perform his role as second properly. Thinfaced and always inclined to frown, the injury had left him drawn. Yet now Billy recognised a deeper concern in his friend’s features.

  ‘Tell him …’ Pringle’s voice cracked so he paused for a moment, took a long breath, coughed, and then continued steadily. ‘That is to say, thank him for his concern, but please assure him that there is no inconvenience. I can see well enough without my spectacles, should the rain become worse.’ Pringle was tempted to add that he had marched and fought through rain, sleet and snow last winter, while Tilney and his fellow light dragoon were snug in Englan
d, before deciding that there had been enough insults. More importantly, Truscott would not approve of such levity, and so once again Pringle acted a part and made himself speak with appropriate gravity.

  ‘You are sure?’ Again the simple fact that the question was asked betrayed Truscott’s doubts about the whole business.

  ‘Certain,’ said Pringle, his voice steady.

  Truscott looked at him for a moment and then gave the slightest of nods. Without any more words, he turned and marched over to speak to Major Tilney.

  ‘You’re a bloody fool, Billy,’ said Hanley, who remained beside him.

  ‘Thank you, I am obliged for such a kind sentiment.’

  This time Pringle could not help grinning, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. Truscott would not approve, but Hanley cared little for convention. A man who had seen his dreams of becoming a great artist shattered, Lieutenant Hanley was forced to join the army because he had had no other choice. He cared little for convention and seemed baffled by most ideas of honour, but he had fought beside Pringle and gradually adapted to life in the regiment. More recently he had shown a talent for intrigue and gathering information about the enemy, and Billy suspected that his friend was more naturally spy than soldier.

  ‘Delay matters,’ urged Lieutenant Hanley, tugging his heavy boat-cloak more tightly around his neck. ‘That way Williams can sort out this mess himself.’ Like all the others in the little field the lieutenant was dressed in civilian clothes, but he was the only one who nevertheless did not obviously look like a soldier. Hanley was a handsome man, his skin tanned by the years spent in Spain before the war. He was a shade taller than Pringle, and more than a year of campaigning left him looking fit and strong, but he was still generally dishevelled and inclined to slouch.

  Pringle shook his head. ‘Too late for that. A blow was struck.’

  ‘Yes, by you, in fact!’ Hanley’s smile faded when he saw his friend’s hard look.

  The last days were a confused blur of searching for an errant girl and then a light dragoon officer. It was little more than a month since his detachment had returned to England from Portugal, and Pringle’s initial euphoria at coming home had rapidly faded. He was alive, but found peaceful England duller than his dreams. Billy Pringle began drinking once again, as heavily as ever he had done before the regiment went off to war. The responsibilities and shortages of campaigning had made it easier to be sober. Pringle chafed at idleness, far more than the others, and so the sudden flight of their friend Williams’ sister gave him a purpose and he had embraced it like a lover. Williams, Truscott, Hanley and Pringle had all gone hunting for the girl.

  The trail proved easy to follow, and led them separately towards Cheltenham, but it was Pringle who arrived first, spoke to her, and decided to act. He should probably have waited, and might have done so if he had not felt so alive for the first time in weeks. Billy took Miss Williams with him and realised that he was drinking far less, although with hindsight it was probably still more than was wise in the circumstances. Lieutenant Garland of the 14th Light Dragoons was hardly in a better state when Pringle confronted him. Billy thought that he spoke calmly and with courtesy, but suddenly Garland was yelling and then damned Pringle as a liar. The light dragoon was flailing his arms in agitation, and when Billy thought that the man was aiming a blow his instincts took over, only the blocked swing turned into a punch which rocked the smaller dragoon back on his heels. Major Tilney and several other cavalrymen were all there to witness it. A gentleman could not simply strike another without consequences, but nor could he call another man a liar, and so it was Pringle who challenged in defence of his honour. Truscott arrived later that evening, and he had negotiated the business by meeting Tilney several times during the next day. No apology was forthcoming and the whole thing rapidly assumed an inevitability.

  ‘It is my affair now.’ Pringle managed a thin smile. ‘Or would you have me meekly submit to a caning at the hands of that schoolboy?’

  Garland was not yet nineteen, his cheeks shaded with wispy hair as he desperately sought to emulate the luxuriant side-whiskers of older light dragoons like the major. The lad clearly idolised Tilney, and Pringle suspected the latter had played a prominent role both in insisting on the duel and in the original affair. The two cavalrymen had met Kitty Williams and her older sister Anne at Bath, where the girls were acting as companions to the elderly Mrs Waters. Pringle only knew a little of what had followed from Anne’s modest account. Flirtation led to an understanding, and repeated excuses for clandestine meetings where Kitty was unaccompanied, and after the sisters’ departure there was secret correspondence, aided by Mrs Waters – that ‘silly, wicked woman’, the girls’ mother had said sharply. Then just a week ago Kitty Williams had sneaked away from her home and vanished, leaving a note to say that she was going to seek true happiness and would soon have splendid news. By the time Pringle found her that dream had died, for she was red-eyed from long weeping and almost at the end of her meagre funds. As he coaxed the story from the girl, Billy guessed that Anne’s suspicion was right, and that there was a deeper reason why Kitty Williams feared to remain a spinster.

  ‘It would not do,’ said Pringle after a long pause. ‘Besides which, Bills would kill the little cuss.’

  Hanley frowned. ‘No great loss to anyone, I suspect. And yet do you not plan to do just that in a moment?’

  ‘I might.’ Pringle spoke slowly as if mulling the matter over, but in his heart he was sure. ‘But I will more likely merely nick him or miss altogether. With Williams it would be a certainty. Bills is a bad man when it comes to fighting.’

  Hamish Williams was taller than both Hanley and Pringle, who were themselves big men. His mother was a widow, the family lacking funds and influence, and so, when her son determined to be a soldier, he had joined the 106th as a volunteer, carrying a musket in the ranks. A gentleman volunteer lived with the officers and served with the soldiers, waiting to perform some act of valour sufficient to win him a commission. Williams managed this feat in Portugal in ’08, survived unscathed and then later won promotion to lieutenant.

  Pringle had seen Williams fight, and heard tell of other deeds he had not witnessed. Shy, awkward in society and pious, Hamish Williams was an unlikely friend, but had become a very close one to the other three. Billy had two older brothers, and was fond of them both, but since they had followed their father and grandfather and gone to sea at a young age he could not claim to know them as well as he knew his friends in the 106th. His own poor eyesight had kept him out of the Navy, and after Oxford even his already disappointed father had to admit that Billy was unsuited to the Church. Pringle decided to become a soldier, and now he found it hard to imagine another life.

  He felt that he was a more than decent officer, and after four battles and twice as many skirmishes he was experienced and considered himself to be capable. Even so, he had to admit that Williams had taken to battle more naturally than any of them, and indeed seemed almost at home in the chaos. Williams was a very good officer, but he also killed readily and with considerable fluency, and Pringle was beginning to understand how rare a thing this was. Billy doubted that he had ever taken any man’s life, although it was hard to be sure. More than a few times he had fired his pistol into the chaos and smoke and perhaps one of the balls had struck a mortal blow, but more probably it had not and he preferred to believe this. Williams fought with a skilful savagery that was almost chilling.

  ‘Then let him slaughter Garland,’ suggested Hanley.

  ‘And how would that help Miss Williams?’

  ‘Avenge the slur on her good name by righteous punishment.’ Hanley’s disdain for honour was obvious. ‘I can remember you helping me to lie like an Irish horse-trader when we needed to stop Bills from meeting Redman.’

  Pringle chuckled at the memory. ‘Dear God, that seems like an age ago.’

  ‘It would not offend me to be called a liar.’

  ‘Well, my dear friend, with all du
e respect, you are a liar,’ said Pringle.

  ‘Yes, and a damned good one. So what has prompted such a change on your part?’ asked Hanley, who expected the world to be open to reason.

  ‘Ask me after it is over.’

  ‘You may not be here to ask!’ Hanley was studying his friend closely and his face changed, suggesting sudden enlightenment. ‘Oh,’ he said after a moment, ‘there is something else. Do I take it that Miss Williams is in pressing need of a husband?’ Hanley’s natural cynicism matched Pringle’s view of human nature, but in this case he had a particular sympathy for he was the child of an illicit liaison. Neither of his parents had wanted anything to do with their bastard, although to be fair his late father had provided an allowance, and so he had been raised as best she could by his grandmother. For all his disdain for convention, Hanley felt the stigma deeply, and had no great wish to have it inflicted on another child. ‘In that case, try not to kill him too much!’

  ‘Gentlemen, you may take post!’ Truscott’s voice carried across the clearing.

  ‘Good luck, Billy,’ whispered Hanley as his friend strode towards the tent peg marking his position. Earlier on Truscott had paced out the distance and the elegant Tilney had driven the pegs into the damp earth, and then looked at the traces of mud on his gloves in evident distaste.