Send Me Safely Back Again (Napoleonic War 3) Read online

  ‘Good fellow,’ said the man in brown. ‘Here is your dollar.’ He tossed the coin down.

  The man who called himself O’Donnell whipped out his sword in an instant. ‘And here’s the true payment of a traitor.’ He lunged from beside the young soldier, skewering his throat so that blood jetted down on to the front of his off-white waistcoat.

  A French grenadier marching on the edge of the column raised his musket and cocked the weapon, aiming at O’Donnell. The two riders shouted at him to hold his fire.

  ‘That was murder,’ said the man in blue. ‘If I give the word then the private will shoot you.’

  O’Donnell shrugged, but after freeing his sword he lowered it. ‘That was discipline,’ he said.

  ‘Barbarian.’ The Spaniard in brown was shaking his head. ‘So speaks the old Spain.’

  ‘Lower your musket, grenadier,’ ordered the Frenchman in blue, his gaze never leaving the captured officer. ‘Who are you, Sir?’

  ‘Major O’Donnell of the Irlanda Regiment.’ Several regiments of men descended from Catholic refugees from Ireland fought in the Spanish Army.

  ‘Be grateful that your king is merciful.’ The Spaniard raised his voice. ‘His Most Catholic Majesty King Joseph comes to sweep away the corruption and savagery of the old Bourbons and their creatures. Have you forgotten the Prince of Peace and how he lowered Spain to the dust? The King brings the light of justice as well as the sword of retribution.

  ‘I tell you that one day you will all shout his praises. And on that day you will be free men living in a glorious and strong Spain!’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ The French officer had noticed Hanley in his torn red jacket and the GR plate on his sword belt. Before the grenadier could answer Hanley stepped forward.

  ‘My name is William Hanley and I am a British officer, and demand to be treated as such.’ After coming back to Spain it was an effort to find the French rather than Spanish words. He suspected Pringle or Williams would have made the speech more confidently.

  ‘Are you indeed? Well, you don’t look much.’ The French officer seemed more amused than anything else. His Spanish colleague saw an opportunity.

  ‘Is that why you fight?’ he almost screamed at the prisoners. ‘For the gold of Protestant England? For the heretics who steal our lands? Tell me, where are the dead Englishmen today? They spend the blood of Spain for their own ends, and you are fools enough to let them.’

  His rage seemed to be sated for the moment, and his tone became one of gentle reason. ‘Join the army of King Joseph. Fight as free men for yourselves, your families and a better Spain. Any officer or man who wishes to enlist may speak to one of the guards. You could soon be free, earning pay and serving your country.’

  There was no flood of volunteers, but the man did not seem especially disappointed. As he resumed his pleading, the French officer ordered the sergeant in charge of the guards to find a horse for Hanley. ‘The marshal will want to see you,’ he explained.

  As Hanley rode his third mount of the day the whole situation felt bizarrely unreal. It was almost amusing to think that his being taken off no doubt confirmed the suspicions of his fellow prisoners.

  They saw a group of staff officers up ahead, but before they reached them came a clatter of hoofs and harness and they were joined by Lasalle and his ADCs. The staff officers were gaudy, but outshone by their leader. Up close Hanley saw the gold lace on the green pelisse, and the immense baggy red trousers. The hussar general was not an especially big man, but he was an extremely handsome one and exuded a raw power and restless energy. He seemed delighted to meet the captive Englishman, especially since the man was civilised enough to speak French. Again Hanley was oddly reminded of their meetings with Spanish officers earlier in the day.

  ‘Well, my friend, it has been our day rather than yours, I think,’ said the hussar. ‘Even so it is a joy to meet a brave enemy. I’d offer you my hand, but I am still carrying my sabre.’ He winked. ‘It never does any harm to show a marshal a bit of blood and gore!’

  Hanley liked him instantly, and that seemed absurd, for the same man had only a few hours before led a charge which slaughtered thousands of his allies. As he puzzled with the thought, they reached the marshal and his staff. A succession of French soldiers tossed captured standards at the commander’s feet. Most were the big white flags with the royal crest or ragged red cross carried by Spanish infantry, but a few were odd creations of the volunteer units, their dramatic slogans of victory or death now having an ironic touch.

  ‘Thirteen!’ he called in cheerful greeting to his light cavalry general. ‘And they tell me over a score of cannon!’

  ‘Himself will be pleased, then,’ said Lasalle with great non-chalance, and raised his bloody sabre in salute, prompting just the surprise and admiration he had anticipated.

  ‘Orders have arrived, my dear Antoine, from Himself no less. He wants you with him in Austria.’

  ‘Good, there is little glory in this damned country.’

  ‘Except today.’ The marshal obviously liked his general.

  ‘Yes, and a few others. I’ll be happier giving the kaiserliks a good kicking. That’s a clean war.’

  Marshal Victor, the Duke of Belluno, wished that he too was going back to the great battles fought under the Emperor’s eye, but could not confess such a sentiment. ‘Have we a count of prisoners?’ he asked an aide instead.

  ‘One thousand at least, probably two thousand when they have all come in.’

  ‘We killed four or five times as many,’ said Lasalle as if speaking of a day’s hunting. ‘My boys were in a right mood because of that ambush at Miajadas. Oh, by the way, you can add one Englishman to the tally of prisoners. He’s tall, so you can count him as two if you like!’

  Hanley was ushered forward.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Hanley,’ said Lasalle.

  ‘Well, even though enemies there is no reason we cannot be courteous. It is good to meet you, and even better surrounded by the spoils of victory.’ The marshal had traces of a once strong accent, which Hanley could not quite place. ‘I am sorry if that appears discourteous. Haven’t fought you English since Toulon back in ’93. Chased you away then as well.’

  ‘We keep coming back, though,’ Hanley replied, surprised at his own nerve, but it was difficult not to like these men. For many years he had admired all things French and thrilled at the thought of the Revolution and the new society it brought. The marshal was obviously a man of humble origins, and yet here he was a duke and the leader of a great army. Lasalle was a nobleman, but in the Revolutionary days that was a hindrance – sometimes a death sentence – rather than a blessing. These men had got where they were through talent, and that seemed just. It was a pity those talents were for war and destruction, but Hanley, the penniless, unwanted bastard son of a banker, wanted a world where merit counted for more than anything else.

  There was much for the marshal and senior officers to do, and Hanley quickly found himself on the fringes of things, waiting for someone to remember his existence. A wild thought of grabbing one of the horses and galloping to freedom came and went almost as swiftly. He did not even know in which direction the Spanish Army had gone. It was odd to think that he was so warmly received by his enemies and obviously distrusted by his allies.

  Then there was Velarde. Hanley was still trying to understand what the man wanted. He was almost sure that it had been the Spanish major who tipped him from his horse, but that made no sense. Why would the Spaniard want him dead? Or did he want him captured?

  ‘Ah, Hanley, I thought it was you as soon as you were brought in, and then they said your name. How are you, my friend?’ The speaker was a short and plump man who nevertheless looked elegant in his French-style white jacket with its green front, collar and cuffs. He wore a cocked hat with a tall white and red plume, but then he plucked it off his head in greeting and the setting sun shone off his almost bald head.

  ‘Espinosa!’ said Hanley, and for some reaso
n was less astonished than he felt he ought to be. For the second time in the same day, his old life in Madrid reached out once more to claim him.

  6

  ‘Your shading is too heavy, as ever.’

  Hanley did not bother to turn around. ‘You always mix your colours too brightly. And your nymphs look fat and drunk.’

  ‘The best kind,’ said José-Maria Espinosa. ‘Bacchus would approve.’ He leaned closer, looking over Hanley’s shoulder as the Englishman sat cross-legged beside the wall of the bridge and sketched.

  ‘Did no one ever tell you that it is the height of bad manners to watch an artist at work?’ Hanley still did not look back.

  ‘Genius grants considerable licence.’

  ‘You must remember this day, Chasseur Lebeque,’ said Hanley to the French light infantryman who was acting as his guard this afternoon. ‘For it seems we are in the presence of genius.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll write and tell my mother all about it.’ Lebeque had taken off his shoes and gaiters and was sitting on the parapet, with his legs dangling over the swollen waters of the Guadiana. He had bent a piece of wire into a hook, tied it to a string and lowered the line into the river.

  ‘Caught anything yet?’ asked Hanley.

  ‘No, thank God. I hate fish.’ Lebeque was a conscript, making his best of the army. This afternoon was dull, but at least that meant no one was making him work. The lad had told Hanley that he was eighteen. With his small body and smooth, olive-skinned face he looked much younger. ‘That’s why I like to catch the little sods, just to teach ’em.’

  Espinosa’s French was as good or better than Hanley’s, but he ignored the exchange and continued to speak in Spanish. He gestured at the sketch of the marching regiments. ‘I am surprised you haven’t turned them into legionaries.’

  Hanley was sketching the columns of French soldiers marching across the long Roman bridge into Merida. As they came on to the crossing sergeants bellowed at the men to straighten their shoulders and march to the beat of the drums and look like the Emperor’s finest when they stepped into the town. In truth he had wondered about turning the billowing greatcoats the men wore into the cloaks of Augustus’s soldiers.

  ‘Might just as well record the new conqueror as the old,’ said Hanley, and for the first time he turned to look at Espinosa. It was three days after the battle and the Spaniard no longer wore uniform. Instead he was all in black, save for the white silk stockings and the brass buckles on his shoes. There had always been something very neat and controlled about José-Maria Espinosa.

  ‘You look like a lawyer,’ said the Englishman. ‘I was not aware that such a profession encouraged genius.’ Espinosa had dabbled in many things in the years in Madrid. He painted a little, wrote verse and satirical plays, but always talked more than he produced. Hanley mainly remembered the man’s acidic wit.

  ‘Genius flourishes by its very nature, wherever it chooses,’ the Spaniard replied airily. ‘But no, Sotero is the lawyer. He goes around telling everyone of the wonders of our new king.’ Hanley wondered whether Sotero was the man he had seen trying to persuade the prisoners to join King Joseph’s army.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I spread enlightenment in a dark world.’

  ‘That must keep you busy,’ replied Hanley, going back to his sketch. The infantry regiment had passed and a long line of artillery caissons was following. He worked in silence for five minutes, knowing that every stroke he made had become clumsy because he was being observed.

  ‘I believe your calculations are wrong,’ said Espinosa at last.

  Hanley had written several columns of numbers on the open top right corner of the page, beginning with ‘60 arches’. Then, after a few rough guesses on the length of the bridge, he had begun noting down the number of each French regiment to pass by, their strength, and the number of cannon following them. He was not sure whether he would ever find such information useful, but it had made him feel as if he was doing something. His French captors had shown no interest in him during the last few days, and he had not seen Espinosa since their brief meeting on the evening of the battle. Hanley was given a good deal of freedom, but had the strange sense of waiting for something without knowing what it was.

  ‘I believe the three arches near the centre are medieval,’ he said.

  Espinosa took off his round hat and passed a hand over the smooth top of his head. ‘Crude work,’ he said. ‘So very obvious.’

  ‘Well, I am not a genius.’

  ‘You hear him, soldier?’ said Espinosa, switching for the first time to French. ‘It seems our friend is not a great artist after all.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, sir,’ replied Lebeque, staring fixedly down at the river. A month ago he had seen the body of a friend sawn in half by peasants and was not inclined to like any Spaniard. Nor was he that keen on civilians, much as he longed to be one himself.

  ‘You spoke of enlightenment?’ Hanley sensed the discomfort of the light infantryman, and liked the cheery young fellow enough to continue speaking Spanish.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ said Espinosa. ‘The knowledge of science and the wisdom of philosophy. Joseph-Napoleon brings all of these things to a new and better Spain. He is a learned and intelligent man, gentler of soul than his brother. I am sure that you will like him.’

  ‘Well, should he care to call on me when I am returned to my prison cell . . .’ In truth Hanley was billeted in a modest and clean room near the ruins of the old Moorish citadel in the town.

  ‘No need. You are coming with me to Madrid.’

  Hanley said nothing, although he could not conceal his surprise.

  ‘Are you not going to ask why?’ asked Espinosa.

  ‘A prisoner is not entitled to such questions.’

  ‘Asking questions is the beginning of wisdom. Have you really become so much the soldier to forget that and merely submit to orders?’

  Hanley shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps you are confident that the King simply wants a mediocre artist brought to him?’ Espinosa laughed at his own joke. ‘This really is a compliment. We have need of clever men, men of reason and letters to build a new Spain and a new world.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The forces of progress. Or did you think I mocked Godoy and the Bourbons, and yet had nothing better to offer?’

  ‘You prefer the invaders?’ Hanley stared at Espinosa’s face, struggling to know how much the man genuinely believed.

  ‘I prefer what is right. I prefer a state when knowledge triumphs over ignorance, and where ability counts for more than family or inherited wealth. And I can remember you speaking of such things with fire in your eye.’

  ‘And no doubt wine in my belly,’ said Hanley a little wearily. ‘I said many things.’ Ideas had always thrilled him, but had rarely imposed any fixed beliefs or great consistency. ‘But then I had not just seen thousands of my countrymen cut down.’

  ‘More than once I have heard you say that the truly enlightened man knows no country, only the truth and the lust for making a better world.’ The words sounded treacherously familiar, and Hanley still liked the sound of them, even if he had never worried too much about their meaning.

  ‘Look at that,’ Espinosa continued, and he waved his arm at the walls of Merida. ‘Eighteen hundred years ago the Emperor Augustus settled his veteran soldiers here as farmers and they took local women as their wives. They built a bridge that we still walk on today and which will no doubt still be here when all the ones made in the last fifty years have crumbled into ruin.

  ‘What was here before the Romans? Would you prefer Viriathus to the Caesars? Yes, the Romans came as conquerors and killed many. Many more Spaniards joined them. They became Romans, they lived in fine houses and read Virgil and Homer. There were senators from Spain, and eventually even emperors!’

  ‘Both of whom showed a marked preference for boys rather than women,’ said Hanley. He was used to the immense pride so many Spaniards took in the great and ‘Spanis
h’ emperors Trajan and Hadrian. The pair’s embarrassing homosexuality was rarely mentioned.

  Espinosa ignored the provocation, and the way he continued made Hanley wonder whether the speech was rehearsed rather than genuine. The Englishman felt like a student listening to one of his duller teachers drone on.

  ‘Bonaparte is making a new Rome,’ declared Espinosa. ‘You cannot win when you fight him, any more than you could resist the consuls of Rome or the Caesars. The French have beaten the world. Can Spain hope to hold out against the power of the united world? Can Portugal? The English will make peace or watch as their power dwindles. To fight against the French is hopeless.’

  Espinosa’s enthusiasm had raised the pitch of his voice until he was almost shouting over the trundling wheels, creaking harness and echoing hoofs of the passing artillery. ‘Yet you can join them and share in the great new civilisation being built. That is the path of progress. That is the chance for a man to be judged and rewarded according to his merit!’

  For a moment Espinosa switched back to French. ‘Return to your fishing, soldier.’ Lebeque had been staring open mouthed.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The light infantryman turned back to the river, for he had been long enough a soldier to know when to mind his own business.

  ‘Do you honestly believe all that?’ asked Hanley, genuinely curious, and as always unsure what to say after someone had made so passionate an outburst.

  ‘I believe the truth, and I do my best to see it,’ said Espinosa. ‘But tell me, now that you are a soldier, do you risk your life for King George and all the milords in London? Men you have so often scorned?’

  Hanley did not really know. He had become a soldier because there seemed no alternative apart from utter penury. Once a soldier there did not seem any choice other than to fight whenever he was told to fight.

  ‘I fight to free Spain.’ That was true enough, although he guessed that he would have behaved no differently if the 106th had been sent somewhere else. He suspected that what mattered most to him now was his friends.