Send Me Safely Back Again (19 page)

‘Good day, gentlemen.’ The dragoon spoke slow, heavily accented English. ‘Your position is hopeless. If you stay here you will die one by one. I call on you to surrender.’

‘We could cut our way out,’ said Pringle in purely conventional defiance.

‘You would die on our sabres. But we both know you will not leave that.’ The French officer pointed at the carriage.

‘Would I not?’

There was no answer.

‘What are your terms?’ Pringle had not noticed Wickham come up beside him.

‘Honourable surrender. That and nothing more. You are scarcely in a position to bargain.’

‘We could give you the coach,’ said Pringle. Wickham started, obviously surprised by such an offer.

‘We will take that now or later,’ said the dragoon. ‘It is simply a matter of whether you wish to be prisoners or die.’

‘We will take plenty of your men with us.’

The Frenchman shrugged as if that was a small matter. ‘You will still die.’ He turned his horse away. ‘Ten minutes, gentlemen, until we open fire once again.’

‘Cocky rascal, don’t you think,’ said Pringle softly to Wickham.

‘I fear we must consider his offer.’ Wickham spoke as quietly. ‘We have done all that honour demands. No one would blame us . . .’

‘I would,’ said Pringle. ‘We are not beaten yet. If we can last until nightfall then we may break out.’

‘It would mean leaving the coach, and how would La Doña Margarita keep up?’

‘We should carry her if necessary. Her coach would no doubt be a loss, but surely not too terrible for so great a family. Or she could remain and rely on French protection.’

‘The coach is important.’ Wickham dropped his voice to be only just audible. ‘A considerable sum of gold is carried in a hidden compartment, intended for the use of Sir Robert Wilson.’

Pringle had guessed as much, as had Williams and no doubt Dobson. It was almost a disappointment to have the mystery finally revealed. ‘Then let us trust he is deeply concerned about its safety.’

Billy Pringle was sure they were being used as the bait in a trap, which meant that they were probably not supposed to be left to die and lose the gold. Hanley was there with the French, and in some way he could not fathom he was equally convinced his friend was part of the wider deceit.

‘If we hold long enough, then help will come.’

‘I am senior here,’ said Wickham, almost as if the idea were a new one.

‘You are, and you are a gallant officer with a fine reputation,’ lied Pringle. ‘There is a good chance that today you will add to it.’ The fellow would, too, the captain thought, for he had powerful friends and the knack of presenting his own actions in the most favourable of lights.

Pringle retained the feeling that Wickham somehow felt uninvolved with the rest of them.

‘We’ll show these French rogues!’ the major called out to the men. A handful gave a limp cheer.

On time the French skirmishers resumed shooting at the little square. Over half of them fired at once and it seemed a miracle that no one was hit in the dense mass of men. The slower, steady shots, where more care was taken over aim, proved deadly. A grenadier was struck in the cheek by a ball which smashed two of his teeth. He screamed horribly until dragged back from the line. The arrival of the lady made him stop, as if he did not want to seem weak in front of her. Ramón cleaned and bound the wound.

A few minutes later another man standing in almost the same spot was hit in the throat. As he was pulled back behind the line, Williams forced his way to stand in the gap.

‘Do you see him?’ he asked.

‘Next to that hat.’ Dobson nodded at a chasseur’s shako just visible in the long grass some fifty yards away. ‘Reckon he’s to the right, down in a dip. Do you mark him, Hope?’

‘The two of you and Rafferty fire at the mark as soon as he pops up for his next shot,’ said Williams.

Pringle kept glancing back, hoping that he would not see his friend pitched back on the ground.

‘I can see him moving,’ said Dobson quietly. Williams saw a slight twitching in the grass that could as easily have been the wind.

Then he saw a man’s head and there was a flame and then an eruption of smoke from the spot before he could call out, but he ducked his head. A ball plucked the air inches above him.

Three muskets fired almost together and flicked the long grass around the thinning puff of smoke. There was no cry, no sign of any success, but Williams waited a good ten minutes that seemed like an hour and no shot came from the same spot.

‘Good shooting, lads,’ he said, and felt able to return to his station at the rear of the company.

‘That’s a clever trick, Bills,’ said Pringle. ‘I am sure it must work at least one time out of ten.’

‘As often as that! Cannot say I enjoyed it.’

The coach was scarred again and again.

‘Remember MacAndrews telling us about how people fire high,’ said Williams. Pringle was pleased to see that mention of the major’s name did not prompt melancholy thoughts of his daughter.

‘Wish the old fellow was with us now – ideally with the rest of the battalion!’

‘Amen to that.’

An hour dragged on for an age, so that Billy Pringle began to wonder whether his watch had stopped. Two more men were wounded, one so badly that it was likely he would last no more than a few hours.

The French made several rushes, and once instead of a feint the chasseurs clapped their spurs against their horses’ sides and flew at the corner held by Three Company. Lieutenant Hopwood timed the volley well, tumbling a man from the saddle and knocking down a horse. The French came on, but the square was solid and the horses baulked at the row of bayonets held steadily by the front rank. They stopped and no amount of urging could get them to move on. By the time the redcoats had almost reloaded the chasseurs had peeled away. The skirmishers resumed fire immediately.

Wickham stood beside the carriage most of the time. The vehicle seemed to draw the shots, but none came near him, and Pringle wondered whether the man felt he was sheltered from at least one side.

Sunset was well over two hours away. Pringle was not sure
they could last, but there was nothing he could do and it was simply a case of standing and suffering. If French reserves arrived then that would be it. He wondered whether there was any basis for his hope that Wilson might arrive to save them. Hanley was still there up on the hill with the senior officers and it was so odd to think of his friend watching them die.

Pringle wondered about breaking open the hidden chest and putting as many of the coins into each man’s pack as they could readily carry. It would not do. They would be hard enough put to it to break out even if unencumbered. All they could do was wait – or surrender? The men’s spirit was good, still amazingly so, but he wondered how many more would drop before darkness fell.

More shots, and a grenadier was grazed across the forehead. He winced in pain, but there was no real harm done and he was soon back in the line, his head bandaged. Ramón seemed to have no shortage of bandages.

A ball glanced against the metal rail on the back of the carriage and deflected down, thudding into the belly of La Doña Margarita. Pringle happened to be looking at the lady and saw it in one horrible moment, watched as there was a puff of white from the material of her dress almost in the centre of her stomach. She clamped a hand to the spot, fear in her eyes, feeling for the wound, but made no sound. Ramón rushed to her side, dropping the wine bottle he had raised to the lips of a wounded man. Wickham was looking the other way and did not notice.

The lady held up her hand to stop the servant from assisting her. There was no blood on fingers or palm. She stood up straight, brushed some white fluff off her dress, and continued as if nothing had happened.

La Doña Margarita was evidently not with child after all. That explained Wickham’s conduct if not the need for such subterfuge.

Another great cheer from the French and they came on against all four corners of the square simultaneously. Pringle was needed, and dismissed the deception for the moment.

‘Wait for the order,’ he called. ‘Second and third ranks, present!’

The chasseurs pressed on, going straight from a walk into a canter, the men rising in the stirrups, arm up and wrist turned so that their sabre points thrust forward.

This was no feint, and the mere threat of presented muskets was not enough to halt them. A trumpet called and behind them the main reserves began to walk forward.

Pringle tried to judge the distance.

‘Wait for the order!’ They were fifty yards away, then forty and now thirty.

Pringle made himself hold his breath for two heartbeats.

‘Fire!’

It was the largest volley they had fired since the first, as over seventy muskets flamed almost as one.

‘Steady, lads!’ he said in the stunned silence that followed. Men and horses were down. One chasseur was flung from his dying horse and landed just a few paces from the front rank. A horse rode across the rear face of the square, its side a sheet of blood and a lumpen bag of forage bouncing from the back of the saddle.

The reserves pressed on.

‘Steady, lads!’ That was Hopwood’s voice.

‘We’re holding them, boys!’ That was Williams.

A few of the skirmishers still dared to fire past their own comrades milling around the square and a carbine ball smacked into the forehead of a redcoat, who slumped down with a sigh just beside Pringle.

‘
Vive l’Empereur
!’ The French raised their familiar chant and the trumpet sounded the charge.

‘Hold ’em!’ shouted Pringle. ‘Keep your bayonets ready for when they lift their skirts.’

Men grinned. This time there was no volley, and it was just a question of looking so solid that the horses would not plunge to destruction on the steel-tipped line.

The French came on, coming from the left and right, each formation two ranks of twenty-five men. The dragoon officer
led one, and Pringle wished someone was loaded so that at least they could shoot that arrogant swine.

‘Steady, lads,’ he said. ‘Steady.’

‘Should we not fire?’ whispered Wickham anxiously, and Pringle wondered at the man’s ignorance, and then had a wild idea.

‘Third rank, present!’

A few men hesitated before bringing empty firelocks up to their shoulders.

Perhaps the threat helped. The chasseurs reached the debris of the first wave and horses slowed as they tried to avoid wounded and dead riders and mounts scattered on the ground. The volley had brought down almost a dozen of each.

The lines were ragged now, and made worse by survivors of the first attack standing their horses and staring dumbly or screaming abuse at the square. Horses saw a wall of red edged by gleaming rows of sharp spikes and those that could veered to left or right to go around. Others stopped.

There were horsemen all around the square. They were so close that Pringle could see every detail of their uniforms and faces. One chasseur was surprisingly plump and red faced as he cursed the redcoats. The man’s sabre hung from his wrist strap and he levelled a pistol. The muzzle seemed big and Pringle was sure it was pointing directly at him. He saw the hammer slam down and spark, but nothing happened.

Pringle let his breath out.

‘Hold ’em, lads,’ he said. ‘They can’t harm us.’

A loud explosion came from behind, and Pringle glanced back over his shoulder to see Ramón on the roof of the carriage, the blunderbuss in his hand.

The dragoon officer went past the side of the square, flailing with his long sword, but unable to reach the redcoats.

‘Good job there are no lancers,’ said Pringle to the major, who was standing beside them, his face heavily flushed and his knuckle white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Men armed with lances had a longer reach than muskets and bayonets.

Wickham looked uncomprehendingly at him, and Pringle did not bother to explain.

A French trumpeter was sounding the same notes over and over again and Pringle guessed it must be the recall. Some of the chasseurs went reluctantly. A few fired pistols. More hurled abuse, and the fat trooper flung his pistol.

‘Bastard!’ yelled a grenadier who was hit on the shoulder by the awkwardly tumbling missile.

Men laughed.

‘Third rank reload!’ Williams gave the order and Hopwood, Hatch and Sergeant Probert repeated it to the other faces of the square.

‘Well done, boys.’ Pringle’s throat was parched and his voice cracked as he called to the men. ‘They shall not break us. They are only Frenchies after all!’

‘Nearly as bad as Welshmen,’ came an Irish voice from the ranks of the grenadiers, and Williams laughed with the rest.

‘Steady, lads!’ added Wickham, and Pringle thought that the major had never made any effort to understand the men.

Pringle felt a gentle touch on his arm, and there was the Spanish lady offering him a bottle of wine.

‘Thank you,’ he said with a broad smile, ‘but it is better kept for the wounded.’ He noticed Wickham dabbing a handkerchief against his lips. Pringle had lost the energy to think much about the major’s conduct, and for the moment did not care to ponder about the lady, and whether her nobility was as much a fraud as her pregnancy.