Next month I am very proud to be a part of the Malvern Festival of Military History which takes place from 5-7 October.
The festival sees a host of top writers in the field of military history visit Malvern for the Festival of Military History. Taking place in the grounds of Severn End, Hanley Castle, this is Britain’s only literary festival dedicated solely to military history. It looks at fiction and non-fiction, ranging from Agincourt to modern day Afghanistan, and covering warfare on land, at sea and in the air.
Top speakers include Lord Paddy Ashdown on Hitler, Sir Max Hastings on Vietnam, Damien Lewis on The SAS, Nicholas Shakespeare and Andrew Roberts on Churchill and Adam Zamoyski on Napoleon.
Top military historians in their fields also debate key issues in important battles and wars through the ages in a series of panels. These include Agincourt, The English Civil Wars, The Royal Navy, Waterloo, 19th Century Colonial Wars, World War One, World War Two and Post-1945 wars and insurgencies.
I will be part of a panel of novelists discussing the challenges of writing fiction based on historical events and characters. On the panel alongside me will be Adrian Goldsworthy, Tom Williams, David Donachie and Iain Gale, all fantastic authors. All the talks and panels will be followed by book signings and an opportunity for the audience to interact with the authors.
This top-class literary entertainment is supplemented by an exhibition of war art in the Festival exhibit hall. Attendees can browse these during breaks in the programme and while taking their refreshment from the range of food and drink outlets.
The evenings see the attention turn to musical entertainment. On Friday night the New Scorpion Band perform a set of traditional folk tunes from the 18th and 19th Century. Familiar songs such as Spanish Ladies and Over the Hills and Far Away will get your feet tapping! Saturday is the turn of the RAFA Concert Orchestra who will play a selection of war movie themes including The Dam Busters, The Great Escape and Saving Private Ryan.
This spectacular event is not to be missed by anyone interested in the history of warfare. Full details and booking options can be found here. The advanced booking discount ends on 7th September so book now for what looks to be a spectacular event.
Remember to watch out for the fifth book in the Peninsular War Saga, due on 30th November. An Untrustworthy Army tells the story of the 110th during the Salamanca campaign.
An Irregular Regiment : arriving back at the Lines of Torres Vedras, the hero of the Peninsular War Saga, Major Paul van Daan, is learning to adapt to a wife who sees herself as more than a drawing room ornament or the mother of his children…
The lines had been created from two ridges of hills by local labour working under the supervision of Fletcher and his engineers. Closed earthworks with a series of small redoubts holding 3-6 guns and 200-300 men, were sited along the high ground of each ridge. Buildings, olive groves and vineyards had been destroyed, denying any cover to an attacking force. Rivers and streams had been dammed to flood the ground below the hills and sections of hillside had been cut or blasted away to leave small but sheer precipices. Ravines and gullies were blocked by entanglements. As she rode beside Paul, listening to him explaining the work that had been done, Anne was amazed at Wellington’s achievement. “We’ll wait behind the lines,” Paul said. “The fortifications are manned by the Portuguese militia, some Spanish and a few British gunners and marines. Wellington has set up a communication system using semaphore, which is extraordinary. He’s got a proper system based on that bastard Popham’s marine vocabulary but there’s a simpler system in place that the locals can use in case the navy pulls out.” Anne regarded him blankly. “Popham? Semaphore? This is a side of you I know nothing about.” Paul stared at her and then laughed. “Well I learned some in the navy as a boy,” he said. “And a little more during the Copenhagen campaign. Which, as you know, did not go well for me. Popham is an arsehole but he’s clever and the system works. I actually find it quite interesting. We can mobilise troops faster than Massena will believe, and the roads the engineers have created mean we can move up and down the lines to where we’re needed very fast. And Wellington has scorched the terrain for miles outside. The French are very good at living off the land, but I think he’s got them beaten this time. It just depends on how long it takes them to realise it.” He smiled at her. “And then we wait, and collect reinforcements and supplies and train our army. Next year we’ll be ready for another advance.” Anne nodded. She was watching him. “What is it, Paul?” Paul glanced at her, surprised. Since his conversation with Johnny during the retreat he had found himself studying Anne at odd moments, imagining her as he had known her in Yorkshire. She had always seemed to him much older than her years but now that he had been reminded of her youth he found himself wondering if he had rushed her into this marriage. He had wanted her so badly for so long that when Robert Carlyon had died he had not thought twice about their future together but now he was suddenly anxious that he had not given her enough time. He had not realised that any of this was evident to Anne. “How do you always know?” he asked curiously. “Your voice. Your face. Something has been bothering you for a few days.” “Nan – do I expect too much of you?” Anne stared at him for a long time. Eventually she said: “Carl or Johnny? Actually it could be any of them, but they’re the two most likely to say it to you. The rest just think it.” Paul burst out laughing. “Johnny,” he said. “He noticed you were upset that day in the village. Hearing what they’d done with the girls and at the murder of the villagers. He pointed out that I’d never have let Rowena hear that story. And he was right, I wouldn’t.” “Paul, I can’t comment on your marriage to Rowena. I only know what I want. Right from the start you have refused to treat me like an idiot or a child, which is how most men treat most women. It is probably a big part of why I love you so much. But that must be difficult because sometimes it means I will get upset, or frightened. And you can’t protect me from that.” “Johnny reminded me how young you were,” Paul said quietly, reaching for her hand. “And as I heard myself say it, I realised that he might have a point. That at twenty you should be thinking about parties and fashion and jewellery and all the things that I should be able to give you. I’m taking you on a tour of redoubts and blockhouses instead of riding in the row and introducing you to George Brummell and the Prince of Wales.” Anne began to laugh. “Should I like either of them?” “I think you’d like George, I do myself. Not so sure about Prinny. Although he’d definitely like you. Now that I think about it, you’re probably safer out here with Wellington, who actually does know how to behave although he wishes he didn’t. But seriously…” “Paul, seriously, what is this about?” “I never asked you,” Paul said abruptly. “About any of this. I walked into the villa and I carried you to bed and five days later you’re my wife and in an army camp up to your ankles in mud with no prospect of a normal life, and I never once asked you if that was all right.” “Did you ever ask Rowena?” “No. She was pregnant and completely desperate. I took her to Naples deliberately so that she could have Francis away from home. By the time we came back the gossips had forgotten to add up dates and there was no scandal. I never asked her because she had no bloody choice, I’d already had what I wanted out of her, she could hardly say no. And that was unbelievably selfish of me. I meant to do things so differently with you. But I didn’t, did I? By the time we got married I’d already created such a bloody scandal with you that you didn’t have much more choice than Rowena did.” “And that has been bothering you for days hasn’t it?” Anne was smiling. “Yes. We laughed about it at the time, but I don’t think I even asked you to marry me properly. I just took what I wanted. Again.” “Oh love, stop it.” Anne seemed to realise suddenly that he was genuinely upset. “I am going to kick Captain Wheeler for this.” “It’s not his fault, Nan. It just made me look at this differently. I’ve been so happy. And so completely wrapped up in myself. And that’s what I do. I met you in Yorkshire, and…” “Paul, stop. What is it you think you should have said to me back in Lisbon?” “I should have asked you to marry me. I should have told you that I know I am not offering you even a part of what you should have, and that the life is hard and painful and often very sad. There are risks and dangers and you’ll see and hear things that will stay with you all your life. I should have told you how much I love you and that if you wanted you could stay in Lisbon or even go back to England, and I’d still marry you. I should have told you that if I have to choose between this life and you, I choose you. And I should have left you time to make up your mind.” Anne put her arms about him. “Yes, Major,” she said quietly. “My answer is still yes. And I’m not going either to Lisbon or to England unless that is where you are going too. I love you, and I love this life. I love your regiment no matter how foul mouthed and filthy they are, and I even love Captain Wheeler although I feel sorely tempted to throw him off Bussaco Ridge the next time he does this to you. I am exactly where I want to be. With you. If you show any signs of trying to shelter me in the way you did with Rowena, you are going to find yourself in serious trouble. And how can I doubt what you’d give up for me when you’d have given up your career if you’d fought that duel with Robert?” “Nan…” “I love you, Paul. The way you are. I am not going back to England to sew cushion covers and dance at the hunt ball. Since I’ve been out here I’ve discovered there is a lot more to me than that. I’d like to find out what else I’m capable of. And I want to be with you. So please, stop listening to your officers trying to tell you that you’re doing this wrong, because you’re not. Being married to any one of them would drive me mad. And drive them even madder.” Paul looked down into the dark eyes. He could remember his immense happiness during their hasty wedding, but somehow this felt more significant, as though what they were saying now, mattered more than the ritualised words of the marriage service. This was the conversation he had never found a way to have with Rowena and he realised its absence had got in the way of his feelings for her. “If that ever changes, you need to tell me.” Anne’s dark eyes were steady on his. “It isn’t all one way, Paul. I know I’m unconventional. Some of that isn’t going to change. But if I am making your life hard…” “You’re not.” “I might. Without ever meaning to. And if I am, you need to tell me so. No silent anger or resentment. That isn’t the way we are going to do things.” Paul nodded, his eyes on her face. “What did I take on when I married you?” he said softly. “Just me. I’m not easy, Paul.” “I know. But somehow I don’t seem to find you difficult at all.” “Prove it,” Anne said unexpectedly, and he laughed suddenly and reached for her, scooping her up into his arms. “You don’t have to tell me twice, lass,” he said, his mood suddenly soaring again. “Good thing they’ve not manned this fort yet, it’s nice and sheltered in there.” Anne was laughing too. “Serve you right if a company of Portuguese militia marches in while you’re busy,” she said. Paul bent his head to kiss her. “I’ll take the chance,” he said.
206 years ago today, Lord Wellington’s Anglo-Portuguese army won a stunning victory at the battle of Salamanca.In honour of the anniversary, I wanted to share a short excerpt from the first chapter of my next book. An Untrustworthy Army is the fifth book in the Peninsular War Saga and follows Colonel Paul van Daan and the third brigade of the light division into Spain…
It had been hot for two weeks, a blistering heat which had battered down on the Anglo-Portuguese army as they sat on the edge of the city of Salamanca, setting up a ferocious artillery fire which was designed to pound the city, a major French supply depot, into submission. The French had converted four convents into temporary fortresses and had settled initially to wait for reinforcements. Lord Wellington’s guns were neither numerous enough or powerful enough to subdue the fortifications, but he had more than enough men to blockade the city and with no reinforcements forthcoming, the French had surrendered. “Thank God for that, we do not need another Badajoz,” Colonel Johnny Wheeler commented to his second-in-command, as they took their places in the triumphal procession into the city. “Pretty place, this, and at least they’ve the sense to appear welcoming, whatever they might actually think.” Major Gervase Clevedon glanced at him with a grin. “Won’t stop a few wine shops losing half their stock tonight,” he said. “But if they’ve any sense at all the taverns will do a good trade. The brothels certainly will, I’m not expecting many of my lads to be around camp tonight unless they’re on sentry duty. I’ve told them I want half in and half out, they’ve drawn lots as to who goes first. If the first lot don’t come back in the morning, I think I can rely on the second lot to go and get them.” Wheeler was laughing. “Gervase, what happened to us? We used to be such correct young officers, I swear to God I once had a man flogged for drinking on duty.” “They still don’t drink on duty, sir, he’d kick them into the river. And I for one wouldn’t go back. We were a regiment of outsiders, the 110th, new-fangled and pretty much laughed at by half the army back in India. Some good lads, mind, but no identity to speak of. As for the 112th it was in so much disgrace when it came back from the Indies most people thought it was going to be disbanded.” Wheeler ran his eyes over the neat ranks of the 112th. “I know. Look at them now, up here with the light division’s finest. Jesus, it’s hot. I wish they’d get going.” Clevedon was beginning to laugh. “I think you might find,” he said cautiously, “that the victory parade is being held up, while Colonel van Daan’s wife’s maid locates her missing hat.” Wheeler broke into laughter as a pretty brown haired woman in a sprigged muslin gown sped past them carrying a fetching straw hat trimmed with silk flowers. “Get a move on, Teresa, we’re dying of heat stroke out here,” he called. Teresa Carter looked back over her shoulder, laughing. “I do not know why he bothers, she will have lost it before they get into the Cathedral,” she said. At the head of the 110th, Colonel Paul van Daan took the hat from Teresa with a smile of thanks and turned to his wife. “Put it on,” he said in tones of considerable patience. “Keep it on, I am not having you with sunstroke. Or I will spoil Lord Wellington’s lovely parade by tipping you off that horse into the river.” “I’m not sure I’d mind that just at the moment, it might be cooler,” his wife said, tying on the hat at a particularly fetching angle. “Jenson, would you ride up and tell Lord Wellington thank you for waiting? The colonel has a mania about my hats, I cannot tell you what a bore it is.” Paul’s orderly grinned and spurred his horse forward. Much of the army was settled in sprawling cantonments on the edge of Salamanca, but several regiments had been selected to form part of the parade into the city. This would lead to a Te Deum in the Cathedral and the Plaza Mayor would be illuminated during the evening while Lord Wellington and his officers were entertained by the Spanish grandees of the city to a civic banquet and fireworks. “You would think,” Paul’s wife commented, drawing up beside him, “that the Spanish would have had enough of fireworks given that the French seem to have blown up entire sections of their city to build fortifications. Since being with the army I have found that things exploding in the sky have taken on a whole new meaning for me.”
I wrote a Peek into the Future, which is the imaginary obituary of Paul van Daan recently for a guest blog but ended up using something else. I enjoyed it and wanted to share it with my readers, although I found it surprisingly painful writing about the death of one of my all time favourite characters.
The post takes the form of a letter from one of Paul’s grandsons to another who is currently serving overseas…
Letter from Captain Michael van Daan to Lieutenant James Manson, India, 1866
You must already have heard the sad news officially, but I wanted to write to you myself about Grandfather’s death. It has been a few weeks now but most of us are still finding it hard to believe he is gone. I enclose a cutting of his obituary from the Times which is very flattering about his long and distinguished career.
The Times regretfully announces the death of General Sir Paul van Daan, Colonel-in-Chief of the 110th Light Infantry and Governor of the Craufurd Officer Training College. Sir Paul died peacefully at his home in Leicestershire after a short illness. He was eighty-five.
Sir Paul’s long and distinguished career began in 1802 when he joined the 110th foot as ensign and then lieutenant. He fought with great courage at the Battle of Assaye the following year and was promoted to captain by General Wellesley and then to major in 1806.
Sir Paul is best known for his service during the long years of the war against Bonaparte. He served in Naples and Sicily and then in Denmark but came to prominence in the Peninsula under the late Duke of Wellington. He fought at Rolica and Vimeiro and at the famous victory at the Douro his men had the honour of being the first to cross the river. He was wounded at Talavera but remained in Portugal and was promoted to colonel-in-charge of the regiment in 1810.
From 1811, Sir Paul commanded the third brigade of the famous Light Division. Further battle honours include Bussaco, Sabugal, Fuentes de Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Alba de Tormes, Vitoria, the Pyrenees, Bidassoa, the Nivelle and Toulouse along with many minor actions. He was wounded several times but his sense of duty always took him back into the field. He was known to be a close friend and confidant to the late Duke, who placed him in charge of a division at Waterloo.
At the close of the war, Sir Paul remained with the Army of Occupation in France. His later career took him to Africa and India. When he retired from active service, he took charge of the newly established Craufurd College for the training of light infantry officers, a foundation which he helped to set up, and of which he remained a dedicated patron until his death. He was an active supporter of many charities and served on various boards and committees pertaining to the armed forces. He was well known for his vocal opinions on the need for army reform, in particular with regard to conditions of service and the abolition of flogging.
Sir Paul is survived by his devoted wife, Anne, six children and eleven grandchildren. Two sons and four grandsons followed him into the army.
The funeral will be held at the regimental chapel in Melton on Friday next, and there will be a memorial service in London later this year, date to be announced. Her Majesty the Queen sent a personal message of sympathy to the grieving widow.
You will be glad to hear that he was not ill for long, a winter cold which turned quickly to bronchitis. He died with Grandmamma beside him which is exactly what he wanted.
I must tell you of the funeral which was so well attended there was not room in the church for them all. You would not have thought it a time for laughter, but laugh we did. Lady Denny was there, draped in so much black you’d have thought her the widow, and came up to our party afterwards to speak to Grandmamma. She went on and on about my Grandfather’s virtues and then at the end she spoke of the Duke in the most familiar way, as though she had known him personally.
“It must console you, dear Lady van Daan, to think that such two good friends are reunited at last,” she said, in such a syrupy voice. My grandmother looked at her very hard for a moment.
“Dear Lady Denny, it doesn’t console me in the least,” she said finally. “By now, if they’ve met up, I rather imagine they are yelling at each other about the abolition of flogging. They haven’t seen each other for fourteen years, they have a lot of arguing time to catch up on. I think I may delay my own demise for a few years until they are over it.”
Somewhere in the middle of disgracing myself laughing at a funeral, I’d swear I could hear him laughing too…
Write soon, cousin. I miss you.
For anybody wanting to read the story of Paul and Anne van Daan and the 110th infantry from the beginning, the first four books are available on Amazon kindle
I’ve spent some time over the past week or two reading accounts of late eighteenth and early nineteenth century courts martial for my next book, An Unwilling Alliance. A surprising number of them came to absolutely nothing and the novelist in me desperately wants to know the full story behind how they came about. Were charges brought maliciously? Commanding officer didn’t like the look on your face? Got off because you were really good at hiding the evidence? Or because you were really good at your job and nobody wants to lose you? So many possibilities, I’m going to have to be forcibly restrained from court martialling half my characters now, it sounds like so much fun…
Surgeon James Dalzell of the 32nd in 1800 is my favourite so far, though. He got into it in an Assembly Room (probably drunk or fancied the same girl in my opinion) with his commanding officer Major James Wentworth Mansergh and made use of “unwarrantable and most offensive language” by telling him “the said Major Mansergh that he was a damned rascal and a Scoundrel and no Gentleman and threatening to pull him by the nose and afterwards on the same night repeating the same language raising his hand in a threatening manner and again threatening to pull him, the said Major Mansergh, by the nose.”
Surgeon Dalzell seems not to have actually been arrested for this until six months later and on that occasion he really kicked off and informed Major Mansergh in the presence of soldiers of the 32nd in the barrack yard that “his command was a damned rascally one to the prejudice of good Order and Military Discipline.”
Clearly something had ticked Surgeon Dalzell off beyond the telling and if there was a man on that court martial with a straight face by that point, he was a better man than I am. A brief search has revealed that to threaten to “pull a man’s nose” was considered an insult likely to lead to a duel in the ante-bellum South and when I need another distraction I am going to download that article in full as I want to find out the origin of that one. Certainly it is clear that Surgeon Dalzell and Major Mansergh were not going to be exchanging Christmas gifts.
But the plot thickens even further. Enter Captain William Davis who was also court-martialled in 1800. Captain Davis was also charged with using disrespectful and improper language to Major Mansergh in the barrack yard on the same evening that Surgeon Dalzell hit the proverbial roof. While no nose pulling appears to have been involved here, Captain Davis followed the major, attempted forcibly to stop him and called him “a damned Rascal and a Scoundrel and at the same time raising his hand in a threatening manner to the prejudice of good Order and Military Discipline.”
Now there is clearly a bit of a theme here, and it looks as though the court was able to spot it. Surgeon Dalzell, interestingly was acquitted of the charges of nose-threatening and general name-calling. The court made mention of something that Mansergh said about the surgeon in a conversation with Captain Davis that evening in the barrack yard which had caused Dalzell to lose his temper. Although he was acquitted, he was instructed to make an apology to Major Mansergh for improper language and conduct. The wording of the apology is very specific – I’m guessing all Dalzell had to do was read it out and the matter was over. Clearly the court felt that whatever had happened, Dalzell was provoked.
Captain Davis wasn’t quite so lucky and I wonder if that was because of his rank. Certainly given that he went for his commanding officer in front of the enlisted men on the parade ground, he was very unlikely to get away with it. Captain Davis was found guilty and suspended without rank or pay for the term of two years. Even so, the court expressed some sympathy for Davis, pointing out that his treatment by Mansergh, while it can’t justify his actions, certainly mitigated his sentence. Presumably without it, he might have been cashiered.
The editor has very kindly provided footnotes of what happened to the principals in the various cases and that’s where it becomes interesting. Captain Davis sold out the following month, presumably unable or unwilling to live without pay or rank for the next two years. Surgeon Dalzell must have taken his medicine and made his stilted apology to Major Mansergh because he remained in the army and was appointed Surgeon to the Forces in Ireland in 1804. Clearly he managed to control his temper better in the future.
Major Mansergh was not the subject of the court martial but that did not stop the court from expressing its opinion that his conduct appeared “highly reprehensible, in not having supported his command with more propriety and energy”. What else was said off the record, or by Mansergh’s own commanding officers is not recorded, but Major Mansergh sold out the following month and did not return to military service. Somehow I have a feeling there might have been a celebration in the mess at some point…
Until I started looking in to military discipline in more detail, I think I had assumed that a court martial was seen as a disgrace and the end of an officer’s career but clearly that is not the case. In both the army and the navy, officers were court-martialled, acquitted or received minor punishments and went on to do very well. Captain Bligh of the Bounty survived no less than three courts martial during his career.
Court martial seems to have been a valid way of seeking an enquiry into an incident. An officer censured for some error would often ask for a court martial to clear his name; a good example of this would be Lt-Colonel Charles Bevan after the fiasco at Almeida in 1811 whose request for a court martial was denied, a fact which contributed to his suicide.
The other fact about a court martial which came as a surprise to me was that the King looked at all trial records and had the right to override either the verdict or the punishment. I was aware through research into the Peninsular War that the commander-in-chief had the right to commute sentences on men convicted of local offences but it appears that it was not uncommon for the King to completely overturn the decision of the General Court Martial, either in deciding to declare a verdict of not guilty, or simply to announce that he no longer required the services of the officers involved.
In matters of military discipline in the 18th and 19th century there must always have been a lot of leeway depending on individual circumstances. An officer committing an offence needed to be charged by a senior officer and there must have been many occasions where a good officer got away with an informal reprimand simply because he was good at his job and valued. Equally there would have been senior officers with a bee in their bonnet about particular issues for example Admiral Gambier was known to be an evangelical Christian and used to fine his officers for bad language. Commanders confident in their relationships with their officers will have used different methods of management, saving court martial for extreme cases in the same way that a good manager rarely uses the formal disciplinary process. There are always variations from the strict letter of the law.
And that’s probably a good thing for one of the officers of the 110th infantry…
Beginning in 1802, the Peninsular War Saga tells the story of the men and women of the 110th Infantry during the wars against Napoleon, and in particular the story of Paul van Daan who joins the regiment as a young officer and rises through the ranks in Wellington’s army.
A second linked series, about a Manx naval officer, begins with An Unwilling Alliance, due to be published in April 2018 and tells the story of Captain Hugh Kelly of HMS Iris, Major Paul van Daan of the 110th infantry and the Copenhagen campaign of 1807.
It is 1802, and two new officers arrive at the Leicestershire barracks of the 110th infantry just in time to go to India. Sergeant Michael O’Reilly and Lieutenant Johnny Wheeler have seen officers come and go and are ready to be unimpressed. Neither of them have come across an officer like Lieutenant Paul van Daan.
Arrogant, ambitious and talented, Paul van Daan is a man who inspires loyalty, admiration and hatred in equal measure. His unconventional approach to army life is about to change the 110th into a regiment like no other.
The novel follows Paul’s progress through the ranks of the 110th from the bloody field of Assaye into Portugal and Spain as Sir Arthur Wellesley takes command of the Anglo-Portuguese forces against Napoleon. There are many women in Paul’s life but only two who touch his heart.
Rowena Summers, a shy young governess who brings him peace, stability and lasting affection.
Anne Carlyon, the wife of a fellow officer who changes everything Paul has ever believed about women.
As Europe explodes into war, an unforgettable love story unfolds which spans the continent and the years of the Peninsular War and changes the lives of everyone it touches.
It is 1810 and Major Paul van Daan and the 110th prepare to meet the French on the ridge of Bussaco in Portugal. Back on the battlefield only two weeks after his scandalous marriage to the young widow of Captain Robert Carlyon, Paul is ready for the challenge of the invading French army.
But after a successful battle, Lord Wellington has another posting for his most unorthodox officer and Paul and Anne find themselves back in Lisbon dealing with a whole new set of challenges with army supplies, new recruits and a young officer who seems to represent everything Paul despises in the army’s views on discipline and punishment. Anne is getting used to life as the wife of a newly promoted regimental colonel as two other women join the regiment under very different circumstances. And an old adversary appears in the shape of Captain Vincent Longford whose resentment at serving under Paul is as strong as ever.
It’s a relief to return to the field but Paul finds himself serving under the worst General in the army in a situation which could endanger his career, his regiment and his life. Given a brief by Wellington which requires Paul to use tact and diplomacy as well as his formidable fighting skills, it’s hardly surprising that the army is waiting for Wellington’s most headstrong colonel to fail dismally at last…
Lord Wellington has led his army to the Spanish border where the French occupy their last stronghold in Portugal at Almeida. As the two armies face each other in the village of Fuentes de Onoro, Colonel Paul van Daan is becoming accustomed to his new responsibilities in command of a brigade and managing the resentment of other officers at his promotion over older and longer serving men. His young wife is carrying their first child and showing no signs of allowing her delicate situation to get in the way of her normal activities. And if that was not enough, Paul encounters a French colonel during the days of the battle who seems to have taken their rivalry personally, with potentially lethal consequences for the 110th and the rest of the third brigade of the light division.
In the freezing January of 1812, Lord Wellington pushes his army on to the fortress town of Ciudad Rodrigo and a bloody siege with tragic consequences. Colonel Paul van Daan and his wife Anne have a baby son and in the aftermath of the storming, take a brief trip to Lisbon to allow Paul’s family to take little William back to England. With his career flourishing and his marriage happy, Paul has never felt so secure. But his world is shattered when his young wife is taken prisoner by a French colonel with a personal grudge against Paul. As Wellington’s army begins the siege of Badajoz, the other great Spanish border fortress, his scouts and agents conduct a frantic search for the colonel’s wife. Meanwhile Anne van Daan is in the worst danger of her life and needs to call on all her considerable resources to survive, with no idea if help is on the way.
An Untrustworthy Army (Book 5 of the Peninsular War Saga: June – November 1812)
Back with her husband and his brigade, Anne van Daan is beginning to recover from her ordeal at the hands of Colonel Dupres as Lord Wellington marches his army into Spain and up to Salamanca. In a spectacularly successful action, Wellington drives the French back although not without some damage to the Third Brigade of the Light Division. Still recovering from their losses at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz earlier in the year, the Light Division remains in Madrid while Wellington lays siege to Burgos. But the end of the campaigning season is not going as well for the Allied army and triumph turns to an undignified and dangerous retreat. At a time when the discipline of Wellington’s army seems to have broken down, will Colonel van Daan’s legendary brigade manage to hold together and get themselves back to safety? (To be published in July 2018)
An Unrelenting Enmity (Book 6 of the Peninsular War Saga: December 1812 – April 1813)
Wellington’s army is in winter quarters, licking it’s wounds after the retreat from Burgos. In the 110th and the rest of the Third Brigade, however, morale is high. Anne van Daan has successfully given birth to her second child and there is time for a trip to Lisbon to see the rest of the children. Things take a turn for the worse when a new commander is appointed to the 115th serving under Paul, a man who represents everything that Wellington’s most unconventional brigade commander despises. In addition, the new Major has a history with Sergeant Jamie Hammond which looks likely to set off a major explosion in the 110th. (To be published in December 2018)
An Uncivilised Storming (Book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga: May- October 1813)
Lord Wellington leads his army into northern Spain. With a better supply train and a new determination the Anglo-Portuguese army are about to make a push to cross the Pyrenees and invade France. Wellington’s army, including Colonel Paul van Daan and the Third Brigade of the Light Division face the French at Vitoria win a comprehensive victory. There follows an exhausting series of battles as Marshal Soult tries desperately to rally his forces and push the English back. Weary of battle, Paul is appalled when he arrives in time to witness the sacking of San Sebastian by the Allied troops, an atrocity which makes him question his place in the British army. (To be published in April 2019)
An Inexorable Invasion (Book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga: October 1813 – February 1814)
Wellington’s army is invading France. After almost five years of advancing and retreating across Portugal and Spain, Colonel Paul van Daan and his brigade are about to set foot on French soil, the first time many of them have ever done so. At the battles of the Bidassoa and the Nivelle, the men of the light division are at the forefront of the action as Wellington ruthlessly presses home his advantage. But behind the scenes, the European powers are negotiating for Bonaparte’s abdication and the end of hostilities and the disappearance of Sir Henry Grainger, British diplomat and intelligence agent sends Captain Michael O’Reilly and Sergeant Jamie Hammond with a small force into hostile country on a mission which could lead to peace – or cost them their lives. (To be published in August 2019)
An Improbable Abdication (Book 9 of the Peninsular War Saga: March 1814 – January 1815)
Wellington’s army is in France, marching inexorably towards victory. An inconclusive engagement at Toulouse is cut unexpectedly short when the news comes in that Napoleon Bonaparte has abdicated and that France has surrendered. With war finally over, Colonel Paul van Daan and his battered and exhausted men are bound for England and a round of celebrations and gaiety which Colonel van Daan could do without. While the crowned heads of Europe are feted in London, honours and promotions abound and Anne and Paul find themselves learning how to live a normal life again with their children around them. The light division is broken up with it’s various regiments sent to other duties and Lord Wellington, now a Duke, is despatched to Vienna to represent Britain in the complex peace negotiations which threaten to try his patience almost as much as Marshal Massena. But the early months of 1815 bring shocking news… (To be published in December 2019)
An Unmerciful Engagement (Book 10 of the Peninsular War Saga: Waterloo 1815)
For Paul and Anne van Daan, domestic bliss has been interrupted long before they had grown used to it. Bonaparte is loose and with the light division disbanded and many of it’s crack regiments dispersed to other theatres of war around the globe, Wellington needs to pull together an army from the allied nations of Europe. His Peninsular army no longer exists but he still has Paul van Daan and the 110th. Promoted to General, Paul is on his way to Brussels and to a battle far worse than anything he has yet experienced. (To be published in June 2020)
An Amicable Occupation (Book 11 of the Peninsular War Saga: 1815 – 1818 the Army of Occupation)
With the horrors of Waterloo behind him, Paul van Daan is in France commanding a division of the Army of Occupation under Wellington. It is a whole new experience for the officers and men of the 110th, learning to live beside the men they fought against for six long and painful years.
A Civil Insurrection (Book 12 of the Peninsular War Saga: Yorkshire 1819)
Back in England finally, the 110th have settled back into barracks and are enjoying a rare spell of peace when trouble in the industrial towns of the North sends them to Thorndale, Anne’s home city where her father and other mill owners are under threat from what looks like a revival of the Luddite movement. After many years of fighting the French the men of the 110th are faced with a new challenge which might see them pitted against their own countrymen. (To be published in December 2020)
Welcome to 2018 at Writing with Labradors. It’s New Year’s Day on the Isle of Man, and it’s raining, windy and freezing cold. In some ways this is a relief because if it had been a nice day I would have felt obliged to go out for a walk and I don’t feel like it.
It’s been a very different and very busy Christmas this year, with Richard’s family with us for the whole of the holidays, and then entertaining friends to dinner last night. I’ve had no time to write, research or do anything else and in some ways that’s been quite hard.
I think it has probably done me good, however. Time away from the current book has given me the chance to think through what I’d like to do with it and I feel a lot clearer about where it is going. I’m very happy with the few chapters I’ve written and research is going well so I’m looking forward to getting on with it. I think my head may have needed the break.
It’s made me think a bit more about how I schedule my writing time going forward. I’m very privileged that I don’t have to hold down a full time job at the same time as writing, but I do have a very busy life with a family, my dogs, a big house to maintain and accounts and admin to be done for Richard’s business. I’m aware that it’s very easy to let things slide when I’m in the middle of a book, but I realise that I need to be better organised both with the various tasks through the day and with time off to relax.
This year I’ve edited and published seven existing novels, with all the associated marketing and publicity, I’ve written an eighth book from scratch and published it and I’ve started a ninth. I’ve handed my Irish dance school over to my two lovely teachers to run, I’ve supported son and daughter through GCSEs and AS levels, my old fella Toby through an operation at the age of 13 and I’ve had a major foot operation myself. I’ve toured the battlefields of Spain and Portugal where some of my books are set and I went to Berlin, Killarney, London, Hertfordshire, Nottingham, Manchester and Liverpool. I lost a very dear old family friend and went to his funeral. And I’ve gained some amazing new friends, some of whom I’ve not even met yet, although I’m hoping to this year. I’ve set up a website and an author page, joined Twitter and Instagram and I genuinely feel I can now call myself an author, something I had doubts about in one of my first posts on this website.
It has been an amazing year and I’m so grateful for all the help and support I’ve received. I’ve not won any awards, although I’ve had one or two reviews which have felt like getting an Oscar. Still, I’d like to do the thank you speech, because it’s the end of my first year as a published author and I owe so many people thanks for that.
I’m starting with the man I married, who has been absolutely incredible throughout this. He set up my website and taught me how to use it, and has always been there to answer any questions about technology. He spent hours designing the new covers for the Peninsular War Saga and he also took the photographs which are gorgeous. He drove me through Spain and Portugal, scrambled over battlefields and listened to me endlessly lecturing with more patience than I could have imagined. He has celebrated my good reviews and sympathised over the bad ones. He’s been completely amazing this year – thank you, Richard. You are the best.
My son is studying for A levels at home and shares the study with me. That’s not always easy, as during research I tend to spread out from my desk into the surrounding area, onto his table and onto the floor. He has become expert at negotiating his way through piles of history books. He is also a brilliant cook and will unfailingly provide dinner at the point when it becomes obvious I am too far gone in the nineteenth century to have remembered that we need to eat. Thanks, Jon.
My daughter is my fellow historian and brings me joy every day. She mocks my devotion to Lord Wellington ruthlessly, puts up with my stories, lets me whinge to her and makes me laugh all the time. She drags me away from my desk to go for hot chocolate and to watch the sun go down, watches cheesy TV with me, helps me put up the Christmas decorations and corrects my fashion sense. Thank you, bambino.
There are so many other people I should thank. Heather, for always being there and for offering to proof-read; Sheri McGathy for my great book covers; Suzy and Sarah for their support and encouragement.
Then there are the many, many people online who have helped me with research queries, answered beginners questions about publishing and shared my sense of the ridiculous more than I could have believed possible. There are a few of you out there but I’m singling out Jacqueline Reiter, Kristine Hughes Patrone and Catherine Curzon in particular. I’m hoping to meet you all in person in 2018 and to share many more hours of Wellington and Chatham on Twitter, Archduke Charles dressed as a penguin and the mysterious purpose of Lady Greville’s dodgy hat. A special mention also goes to M. J. Logue who writes the brilliant Uncivil War series, and who is my online partner-in-crime in considering new ways for the mavericks of the army to annoy those in charge and laughing out loud at how funny we find ourselves.
The new book is called An Unwilling Alliance and is the first book to be set partly on the Isle of Man, where I live. The hero, a Royal Navy captain by the name of Hugh Kelly is a Manxman who joined the navy at sixteen and has returned to the island after Trafalgar with enough prize money to buy an estate, invest in local business and find himself a wife while his new ship is being refitted. It’s a tight timescale, but Hugh is used to getting things his own way and is expecting no trouble with Roseen Crellin, the daughter of his new business partner. Her father approves, she is from the right background and the fact that she’s very pretty is something of a bonus. It hasn’t occurred to Hugh that the lady might not see things the same way…
The title obviously refers to the somewhat rocky start to Hugh and Roseen’s relationship, but it has other meanings as well. The book moves on to the 1807 British campaign in Denmark and the bombardment of Copenhagen, in which Captain Kelly is involved. The Danes were unwilling to accept British terms for the surrender of their fleet to avoid it falling into the hands of the French and as an alliance proved impossible, the British resorted to force.
In addition, there was something of an unwilling alliance between the two branches of the British armed forces taking part in the Copenhagen campaign. There is a history of difficulties between the Army and the Navy during this period, and given that the Danish campaign required the two to work together, there is an interesting conflict over the best way to conduct the campaign.
The naval commander during this campaign was Admiral James Gambier while the army was commanded by Lord Cathcart. While Captain Hugh Kelly served under Gambier in the British fleet, a division of the army under Cathcart was commanded by Sir Arthur Wellesley and Brigadier General Stewart and consisted of battalions from the 43rd, 52nd, 95th and 92nd – the nucleus of the future Light Division, the elite troops of Wellington’s Peninsular army. In An Unconventional Officer, we learn that the expedition is to be joined by the first battalion of the 110th infantry under the command of the newly promoted Major Paul van Daan and An Unwilling Alliance looks at the campaign from both the army and naval perspective, filling in part of Paul’s story which is not covered in the series.
I am hoping that the book will be published at the beginning of April 2018 and it will be followed by book 5 of the Peninsular War Saga, An Untrustworthy Army, covering the Salamanca campaign and the retreat from Burgos some time in the summer. After that I will either get on with the sequel to A Respectable Woman which follows the lives of the children of Kit and Philippa Clevedon or the third book in the Light Division series, set after Waterloo.
We’re hoping to go back to Portugal and Spain this year for further photography and battlefield mayhem. I’ve got some new ideas for the website and will be publishing several more short stories through the year. My first research trip is in a couple of weeks time when I’ll be visiting Portsmouth and the Victory, the National Maritime Museum and possibly the Imperial War Museum if I don’t run out of time. And the Tower of London for no reason at all apart from the fact that Wellington used to enjoy bossing people around there.
My final thanks go to the real stars of Writing with Labradors. Toby, my old fella, is thirteen now and survived a major operation this year far better than I did. Joey is eleven and needs to lose some weight. They are my friends, my babies and my constant companions and I can’t imagine life without either of them although I know that day is going to come. Thank you to my dogs who are with me all the time I’m working and who make every day happier.
Happy New Year to all my family, friends, readers and supporters. Looking forward to 2018.
In Iceland there is a tradition of giving books to each other on Christmas Eve and then spending the evening reading which is known as the Jolabokaflod, or “Christmas Book Flood,” as the majority of books in Iceland are sold between September and December in preparation for Christmas giving.
At this time of year, most households in Iceland receive an annual free book catalog of new publications called the Bokatidindi. Icelanders pore over the new releases and choose which ones they want to buy.
The small Nordic island, with a population of only 329,000 people, is extraordinarily literary. They love to read and write. According to a BBC article, “The country has more writers, more books published and more books read, per head, than anywhere else in the world. One in ten Icelanders will publish a book.
There is more value placed on hardback and paperback books than in other parts of the world where e-books have grown in popularity. In Iceland most people read, and the book industry is based on many people buying several books each year rather than a few people buying a lot of books. The vast majority of books are bought at Christmas time, and that is when most books are published.
The idea of families and friends gathering together to read before the fire on Christmas Eve is a winter tradition which appeals to me. Like the Icelanders, I love physical books although I both read and publish e-books – sometimes they are just more convenient. Still, the Jolabokaflod would work with any kind of book.
They are also easier to give away, and this year I want to celebrate my own version of the Jolabokaflod with my readers, by giving away the e-book versions of some of my books on kindle for two days, on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. It is two years since I first made the decision to independently publish my historical novels, and it has gone better than I ever expected. This is my way of saying thank you to all my readers and hello to any new readers out there.
Visit my Amazon page to download the following books free, tomorrow and the following day:
A Respectable Woman – The daughter of a nineteenth century missionary is torn between love and propriety
A Marcher Lord – Divided loyalties on the Anglo-Scottish borders in Tudor times
A Regimental Christmas is a short story based in Lisbon during the winter of 1810-11 while Wellington’s army occupied the Lines of Torres Vedras against Massena’s French army and the Portuguese civilians who had fled behind the lines suffered and starved in the cause of scorching the land and driving the French out. For readers of the Peninsular War Saga, this fits into book two, An Irregular Regiment, while Paul and Anne are based in Lisbon for the winter.
A Regimental Christmas
After two weeks of miserably damp weather, two days before Christmas dawned exceptionally bright, with wispy clouds decorating a brilliant blue sky. It was cold, not with the freezing weather of England but certainly much colder than was usual for Portugal, and as Colonel Paul van Daan watched his wife emerge from the officers’ block to watch early drill, he could see her breath in the chill air.
There were twelve companies on the parade ground. To the fore, neatly turned out and moving through the drill with immaculate timing was the light company of the 110th infantry under the temporary command of Lieutenant Michael O’Reilly. At the sight of Anne, the Irishman saluted but did not pause in his work. Anne stood watching, shivering slightly, and Paul looked around and saw one of her maids just coming out of the block.
“Captain Corrigan, take over, please,” he said. “Keren, do me a favour and get my wife’s cloak, would you? She’s going to freeze out here like this.”
“Yes, sir.” Anne’s maid disappeared into the block and Paul took his wife’s hands between his.
“Gloves?” he enquired and Anne laughed.
“I do own some.”
“In order to work, they need to be on your hands. You’re hopeless, Nan.”
“I am.” Anne was watching the drill. “They’re looking better,” she commented.
Colonel van Daan turned, running an experienced eye over the companies. In addition to his light company there was a company of new recruits, recently arrived from the second battalion, eight companies of the 112th infantry which had been in complete disarray when they arrived in Lisbon and the seventh and eighth company of the 110th who were serving directly under him for the first time.
“Better,” he admitted. “They still need some work.”
Anne laughed, accepting her cloak from her maid with a smile of thanks. “Paul, they are never going to be good enough for you.”
“They will when they look as good as my light company, girl of my heart. What are your plans for the day?”
“Breakfast. Then I’m riding into Lisbon with Caroline, I’ve some last minute shopping to do. After that…”
“Take an escort.”
“Keren and Teresa are coming with us, Paul. I…”
“Take an escort. Don’t look at me like that, Nan. I know Lisbon is usually very safe. But just at the moment there are refugees dying in the streets. It’s not a good place to be.”
Anne looked at him soberly. “I know,” she said. “I hate it, Paul. Those poor people.”
Paul nodded, without speaking. Retreating south after his victory at Bussaco, Lord Wellington had instructed the Portuguese population to go with him, leaving the land scorched so that Marshal Massena’s French army would have nothing to live on. The success of this had been very mixed. Some people had refused to go, believing they would be able to hide from the advancing French troops. Others had fled as instructed, crowding behind Wellington’s defensive Lines of Torres Vedras, but too many of them had left food hidden, hoping to be able to find it when they were finally able to return to their farms and villages. The French had become experts in discovering caches and it had enabled them to remain outside the lines for far longer than Wellington had thought possible.
Paul had expected to remain with his battalion up at the lines or possibly outside them patrolling the border along with General Robert Craufurd’s light division. His battalion was still there under the temporary and very competent command of Captain Johnny Wheeler and Captain Carl Swanson but in the aftermath of Bussaco, Lord Wellington had given Paul the glad news of his promotion to colonel in charge of the 110th, a command that Paul had wanted, but not expected to achieve so young.
He had also given him a temporary posting for winter quarters which had been less welcome. In preparation for the next campaigning season, Wellington wanted to ensure that his army was properly supplied with sufficient transport and instead of protecting the border with Craufurd, Paul found himself in Lisbon struggling with requisitions and orders and the knotty problem of the 112th infantry, a battalion which had been sent out under two very young and inexperienced officers. The 112th had proved a bigger headache than the commissariat and the quartermaster’s department combined. Many of them were ill with fever after their time in the Indies, discipline and training were appalling and there were only two officers to staff eight companies. At times during the past few months, buried in paperwork and working insane hours to try to prepare the 112th for combat, Paul had contemplated shooting his chief.
Paul looked over at his wife, who was watching drill. They had been married now for less than six months although he had known her for two years before that, but this would be their first Christmas as a married couple. He was aware of a sense of guilt about his dead wife along with a sense of pure joy at spending the season with Anne. Christmas on campaign often passed without more than a passing acknowledgement but this year was different. They were away from the war zone and there was time to enjoy the season. And he was with Anne.
“Is there anything I need to do, bonny lass? I’ve a feeling this is the easiest Christmas since I joined the army.”
Anne turned, smiling. “You’re all right, Colonel. Get on with training. Just remember we have this ball at Dom Alfonso’s tonight.”
“I’m trying to forget,” Paul said and she laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
Paul moved back towards his men, aware of covert smiles from some of them. There were men of his light company who had been with him since he had first joined eight years ago and they had followed the difficult progress of his love affair with the lovely young wife of Captain Robert Carlyon with considerable sympathy. Anne was not the only officer’s wife to have accompanied her husband to war, and not the only one to have found herself stranded in the middle of a difficult retreat, but in Paul’s experience she was the only one to have made herself quite so beloved by the enlisted men. She had marched with his wounded and his light company through the difficult weeks of the retreat from Talavera and by the time she had been returned to her undeserving spouse in Lisbon, the 110th had adopted her as their own.
A voice from the far side of the training ground interrupted his thoughts. “Sergeant Williams! Get them back into line, we’ll do that again, I’ve seen a flock of sheep with more precision! Move it, you slovenly bastards, unless you want to spend the rest of Christmas practicing short order drills out here with me!”
Paul grinned and moved to stand beside Lieutenant O’Reilly of the light company. “Mr Manson’s in good voice this morning,” he said softly.
“Mr Manson isn’t giving that lot an inch,” O’Reilly said, equally quietly. “It’s working, too, they’re looking bloody good. In fact, I might give them an outside chance against our seventh and eighth companies just now.”
Paul glanced over at the seventh. “Where’s Longford?” he asked.
“No idea, sir. Still in bed?”
“Even he’s not that stupid.” Paul raised his voice. “Mr Fenwick, where’s Captain Longford?”
“He’s in Lisbon, sir. Was invited to dinner with the captain of the Berwick. He sent a message just now with apologies, he was taken ill but will be back later.”
“Just in time to accompany his wife to this ball and with no time to do any bloody work!” Paul snapped. “All right, Mr Fenwick, carry on. See if you can run that again a bit faster, will you? The French are surprisingly quick you’ll find.”
“Yes, sir,” Fenwick said woodenly. He moved back to his company, yelling an order and Paul went back to O’Reilly who was grinning.
“He does not like to be told,” he said.
“No, he doesn’t. But he’s getting better. He’s a very good officer, it’s not his fault he’s been stuck with Longford all these years. He knows they’re not as good as they should be and it pisses him off, but he’s a worker.”
“Unlike his captain. You should leave him in charge of barracks tonight, serve him right.”
“It would. It wouldn’t be fair on Caroline, though and she can hardly attend without him. I’m leaving Sergeant Carter in charge of barracks. I know officially there ought to be a duty officer, but sod it, it’s Christmas and the French aren’t going to invade. If there’s a crisis, Carter knows where to find us.”
Paul had hired a carriage for his wife’s use while they were in Lisbon, although she seldom used it other than to attend evening parties. The local Portuguese grandees were very hospitable to the English officers in Lisbon. There were not many of them; most of Wellington’s troops were up at the lines, but there were a number of officers of the quartermaster’s department based in Lisbon along with a collection who were recovering from illness or injury. In addition, there was a battalion of one of the Borders regiments who had recently arrived to replace their existing battalion, and a dozen or more officers who had been granted leave during winter quarters.
Dom Alfonso’s house was in the upper part of Lisbon, not far from the villa which Paul rented, an elegant white building with graceful arched windows and a red tiled roof. Dona Juana had opened up the whole of the ground floor, with an orchestra playing in the largest salon for dancing and drinks and refreshments set out in several other rooms. For Anne’s sake, Paul had invited Captain Vincent Longford and his wife to accompany them in the carriage. His dislike of Longford did not extend to the man’s wife. Although she had only been with them for a few weeks, Paul liked what he had seen of Caroline Longford and he knew that his wife was enjoying her company. Anne did not make friends easily among the officers’ wives, many of whom tended to look down their noses at her unconventionality and to whisper behind their hands about past scandals, but if Caroline Longford had heard any of the gossip she gave no sign of it.
Paul glanced at his wife as they entered the brilliantly lit rooms to be greeted by their hostess. Anne was dressed in white, trimmed with black embroidery and a black sash. The gown was not new but the trimming was and he wondered whose idea it had been and who had done the embroidery, which was very effective. It was definitely not Anne, who regarded household sewing and fine embroidery with equal disdain. She wore her dark hair in smooth coils on her head pinned with one white silk rose and Paul was aware of male heads turning as they made their way into the room.
He led her first onto the dance floor, enjoying dancing with her, remembering the first time he had done so at her coming out ball in Yorkshire more than three years ago. She had been seventeen and he had been on temporary secondment to the 115th Yorkshire, a man already married with two young children, who should not have been flirting with the lovely daughter of Sir Matthew Howard. He met her eyes and she smiled at him.
“You’re a good dancer, Colonel.”
“So are you, Mrs van Daan. I can feel them watching me here. Once I let you go, I am not going to get anywhere near you for the rest of the evening.”
“Better make the most of me now then, Colonel.”
He grinned and raised her hand to his lips. “You look very lovely, lass, I can’t say I blame them.”
The music ended and he surrendered her to his officers and went to join Captain Corrigan, watching as she danced her way through the evening. He danced with Caroline Longford and with several Portuguese ladies and reclaimed his wife finally as the supper bell rang, neatly removing her from three disappointed ensigns of the Royal Marines.
“They’ll be crying into their wine,” he said, leading her to a table. “Wait there, I’ll get you some food. And if I find anybody else sitting there when I get back I’m going to challenge him.”
“You’re so dramatic, Paul,” his wife said, arranging her skirts elegantly. Paul collected food and champagne and seated himself opposite her.
“Caroline is proving very popular,” Anne said, watching her friend who was seated at a table surrounded by a collection of young officers who were falling over themselves to provide her with supper.
“She is. I don’t see her husband fighting them off, mind. It’ll serve him right if she finds herself some pretty young officer of the line who will treat her properly.”
“I quite agree,” Anne said serenely, tucking in to cold chicken. “After all, I did.”
Paul choked on his wine. “Are you calling me pretty?” he demanded.
Anne put her head on one side and surveyed him thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” she said. “But you’re definitely easy on the eye, Colonel, especially in dress uniform.”
Paul was laughing. “Make the most of it, girl of my heart, in a few weeks’ time you’ll have forgotten I was ever this clean.”
“Clean,” Anne said thoughtfully. “Now that reminds me of something.”
“What?” Paul asked, faintly suspicious and his wife gave him a smile sweet enough to chill him.
“Nothing you need to worry about, love. Do you still have that meeting in the morning with the Lisbon Council?”
“I do. I’m trying to get them to set up a more organised system for supplying the refugees. There is food coming in from England but it’s not getting to where it’s needed.”
She was smiling, sipping her champagne. “It’s not really your problem, Colonel.”
“No. And in a few weeks’ time I’ll have to leave it alone. But at the moment…”
He broke off, slightly sheepishly and she laughed. “Well I’m busy tomorrow. But if you want me to come to a meeting with you after Christmas, Paul, let me know.”
“I wonder what they would say?” he asked.
“Oh they’d be appalled. A woman applying herself to men’s business? Shocking. But that won’t stop me if you’d let me.”
Paul studied her for a moment. He was thinking of his gentle sister-in-law, Patience, who was rearing his children and taking care of his father and brother and who had probably never once stepped out of her domestic sphere. Anne’s willingness to become involved had surprised him when she had first arrived in Portugal with her first husband but he had become accustomed to it by now.
“Yes, why not?” he said. “You’ll shock the hell out of them, but that might do them some good. Come and dance with me, if you’re finished. I’ve just remembered how much I love you.”
They left under a soft new moon. Paul handed both women into the carriage and climbed in. The streets were very dark and quiet under a midnight hush, and he reached for his wife’s hand in the folds of her cape and held it, feeling very content. There had been times when he had railed against Lord Wellington for sending him on this posting, so far from what action there was, but tonight he felt a sense of gratitude to his commander for giving him this first Christmas with Anne beside him. He knew that the idea would not have occurred to his chief, who had thought only of the job he wanted done, but it had given Paul a brief spell of normality with his new wife before the war overtook them again.
There was a squeal of carriage brakes, and the vehicle lurched suddenly as one of the two horses reared up, whinnying in fright. Paul caught Caroline Longford who had been thrown forward and would have ended up on the floor. His own wife had managed to steady herself without aid.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Captain Longford demanded. “Sorry, ma’am, forgot myself.”
“Don’t worry about it, Captain. Paul…”
“I’ll see,” Paul said, his hand already on the carriage door. He jumped down onto the cobbled street and saw his coachman, lantern in hand, peering into the darkness. “What happened, Jose?”
“Your pardon, Colonel. Are the ladies injured?”
“No, they’re fine. What is it?”
“Beggars, sir.” Jose waved his whip in the direction of a huddled form by the side of the road. “Stupid fool almost got herself killed. Be off with you!”
The form shifted and began to move, hunched and shapeless in the darkness, and Paul hesitated, torn between a desire to find out if the woman was hurt and the wish to get his wife away from a dark street where anybody might be lurking. Lisbon was generally very safe, but he was not naive enough to believe that some of the refugees might not be desperate enough to snatch what they could. As he dithered, a sound emerged from the woman, a keening wail of distress. The woman spoke quickly, trying to quiet the noise, and behind him Paul heard the carriage door open.
“Paul, what was that?”
“I’ll find out. Get back inside, Nan.”
She had already jumped down and the lantern light picked out the gleam of pearls at her neck. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Nan, get back in the damned carriage, I’m not armed and you’re wearing a small fortune around your neck and in your ears. I’ll…”
His wife shot him a look which he could only partially see in the darkness. He suspected he should be grateful for that. “That was a child’s cry,” she said, and turned to the woman. “Wait,” she called, in Portuguese. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”
The woman turned. Paul could see nothing of her in the enveloping cloak apart from a flash of white face and enormous frightened eyes. His wife moved forward quickly and Paul bit back his urge to yell at her and followed.
“I am sorry, Senora,” the woman whispered. Anne had reached her and Paul saw her kneel down on the cobbles.
“Your children?” she asked.
“My sister and brother,” the woman said. Her voice was hoarse, but Paul realised that she was younger than he had first realised. “We are not hurt. Your coachman was quick…”
“Let me see her,” Anne said, gently but firmly, and the woman allowed her to draw the folds of the cloak back. “She’s ill.”
“Not fever, Senora, I promise you. Just hungry.”
Anne placed her hand on the forehead of the child in her arms, and then reached down and took one of the hands of the boy. He was probably five or six, Paul guessed, thin and shivering in a ragged jacket and bare feet. He wondered suddenly how tall his own son had grown now and felt unexpectedly sick at the thought that Francis might be the same age as this skeletal child.
“I’m not leaving them here,” Anne said.
There was a challenge in her voice. Paul heard it and felt himself smile.
“No. But lass, we can’t be sure there’s no sickness here, it’s rife in the refugee camps and I’m fairly sure that’s where these have come from.”
“I’m not afraid of fever, Paul, I’m never ill.”
“I know you’re not, but Caroline might be.”
“Then I’ll walk back with them.”
“You bloody won’t. God knows who could be lurking in some of these alleyways.” Paul looked around, and saw Caroline Longford looking out of the window. “Ma’am, don’t get out. Look, I’ll stay with them. Longford, get the ladies back to barracks, will you, and send the carriage back for me, it’s only ten minutes away.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Anne said.
Paul wanted to protest, but even a short time living with Anne had taught him the meaning of that particular tone of voice. He sighed.
“Get Caroline home, Longford,” he said. “Jose, come back as quickly as you can.”
It was silent in the dark street once the carriage had rattled away. Paul looked round at his wife. The woman had sat down on the cobbles. She was shivering violently, whether from cold or fear or some other cause that Paul could not see, he had no idea. Anne crouched beside the boy.
“What is your name?” she asked.
The child’s teeth were chattering. Paul saw Anne reach for the clasp of her cape and stopped her with a gentle hand.
“That gown wasn’t designed for a night under the stars, bonny lass. Here.”
He took off his red coat and draped it around the boy who looked up at him from startled dark eyes. Paul smiled slightly and crouched beside Anne.
“How old are you, Alfredo?” he asked in careful Portuguese.
“I have a son a little younger than you. And your sister?”
“Maria is two. Francisca is fifteen.”
He was startled, realising that the older girl was no more than a child herself. His wife was bending over the smallest child, talking gently to her sister, and after a moment the girl relinquished the child into Anne’s arms. Paul watched as she shifted the burden onto her shoulder, wrapping the velvet cape around her. He suspected that all three of them were filthy and probably crawling with lice but he had observed before how little such matters seemed to bother his wife. Something about the sight of her, murmuring softly to the child, touched his heart and he wondered if he might one day watch her with their own child in her arms. She had been married to her first husband for two years and had never conceived, while Paul had three older children, but there was no reason to suppose that she could not.
The sound of carriage wheels interrupted his thoughts and he rose and turned to the boy. “That sounds like our transport. Up you come, lad.”
He scooped the boy up and lifted him into the carriage then helped Anne and the older girl to climb in. They were silent on the short drive back to barracks.
Both his wife’s maids awaited their arrival having clearly been warned by Caroline Longford. Paul stepped back and watched as she gave instructions for the care and accommodation of the refugees. He knew that she would not relax until she had made sure that they were settled, so he took himself up to their rooms and poured a brandy, stoking up the fire. She joined him around half an hour later, looking tired, and he observed that the white of her gown was muddy from kneeling in the street. She saw his gaze and looked down, then up again, smiling ruefully.
“It might come out.”
“I don’t care if it doesn’t, love. Come to bed, you look completely shattered.”
“I am. No early bugle, thank God.”
Anne slept later than usual the following day and joined him as he was finishing breakfast. She was dressed in one of the plain dark gowns she wore when working in the hospital and had the abstracted air of a woman with plans for the day. Paul, his mind on the approaching meeting, kissed her and left, riding the short distance into Lisbon at an easy pace. The air was warmer than it had been and it was a pleasant ride along roads lined with trees.
The meeting was less pleasant. Paul was quietly seething by mid-afternoon when he set off to ride back to the barracks. He knew that he needed to step back and let it go. It had not been part of his brief from Wellington to get involved with the problem of Lisbon’s refugees and back with his regiment he would have no time or opportunity for further involvement but seeing the misery every time he rode into town made it impossible for him to ignore.
Riding through the archway which led into the Sir John Moore barracks, Paul reined in, aware of unexpected activity. He sat his horse, looking around him, and the sight drove the refugees from his mind.
On the far side of the yard, two men were seated on upturned crates, while a barber worked on each of them with scissors and razor, bowls of soapy water beside them. One, he recognised as Garner from the light company who had been a barber before joining up; the other was young and dark and probably Portuguese from one of the shops in town. A queue of men stood patiently waiting, and Paul was astonished to realise that each one of them had damp hair and the air of men who had recently bathed.
Further around he saw Charlton, one of several cobblers in his ranks, working industriously at his last. Outside one of the barracks blocks, somebody had set up two long tables and there were piles of new kit laid out. Behind it sat Corporal Hammond of his light company with Captain Corrigan, his temporary quartermaster beside him, checking off a list as Sergeant Carter and Sergeant Williams inspected the kit of each man queueing up. These were the men who had already been washed and shorn and Paul, staring at them in complete astonishment, realised that he had probably never seen his men this clean all at the same time.
“You’re back nice and early, sir,” a voice said beside him, and Paul turned to see Private Jenson, his orderly, limping towards him. “Shall I take him for you?”
Paul dismounted, unable to take his eyes from the neat lines. “Jenson, what in God’s name is going on?” he demanded.
“Annual bath and kit replenishment, apparently, sir.”
“Is that…I mean does that happen? I don’t seem to remember it happening before.”
“No, sir, nor do I. But then you weren’t married to Mrs van Daan before. She lined them up the minute you were out of here and had the officers and NCOs march them down to the river to bathe. They bloody hated it, it was freezing, but who’s going to argue with her? Nearly done now, sir, these are the last few.”
Paul could feel himself beginning to smile. “What a bloody brilliant idea,” he said softly.
“Yes, sir. Women and children too. She’s bought half a dozen bolts of material from the warehouse in town for new clothing for them. A couple of them were crying like babies.”
“I suspect they’ll be busy sewing for the next week or two. Christ, they’ll wonder what’s happened when we get back to Pere Negro. I wonder if she’ll try and do this to my entire regiment next year.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her, sir,” Jenson said placidly. “Corporal Hammond is keeping a record of what gets taken from the stores…”
“Good. Do me a favour and make sure the lads know it doesn’t come out of their pay. I’ll make up the difference as a Christmas gift. Although if they’ve lost half of it by Easter I will bleed the bastards dry for it!”
Jenson laughed. “Yes, sir. I’ll get him rubbed down and bring up hot water for you in a bit.”
“Thanks, Jenson.” Paul looked around. “Freddie?”
“I was going to save this until tomorrow, but actually I’d rather do it now when it’s just us.”
He put his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a small item which he handed to Jenson. “There’s a bottle of rum from my wife as well. This is from me. Happy Christmas, Corporal.”
Jenson looked down at the cloth in his hand and then up. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Go and find your wife before she gets any more bright ideas. Mind you, barracks will smell better than normal this Christmas.”
The weather had turned again the following morning. Paul awoke early as usual, and slid quietly from the bed so as not to disturb Anne. He went through to their sitting room to dress and then went to the window and was surprised in the early light to find the rosy glow of sunrise falling over a world turned white with a rare frost. Lisbon could get cold at times but he had never seen it this bad and it made him smile, thinking of Christmas at home. He missed his children at moments like this, and thinking of his last Christmas with them, when snow had fallen in Dublin, he missed suddenly, with an ache of loss, his pretty gentle first wife, Rowena, who had died giving birth to her namesake. She had worn a fur trimmed cape that cold December and he had walked to church holding her hand and thought how lucky he was. Going to the door of the bedroom he looked at Anne, asleep in a tangle of long limbs and black hair and wondered how one man could be that fortunate twice.
He went down to the mess and stood still in the doorway, looking about him in some surprise.
“You’re up early, sir. Merry Christmas.”
Paul turned with a smile at his mess sergeant who was approaching with a mug of tea. “Merry Christmas, George. Who did all this?”
George Kelly looked around at the greenery which decked the long dining room and grinned. “Mr Manson and Mr Grey with a few of the lads did it yesterday after dinner, sir.”
“I’d a feeling they were up to something. How are our guests, any idea?”
“Doing well, sir. Not much wrong with them apart from half starved. Mrs van Daan went shopping for clothes for the children and she’s found a dress for the lassie. She’s settled them in the infirmary for now, sir, she said it would be warmer.”
Paul nodded and set off across the frosty parade ground and between several of the barracks blocks to the infirmary. He found Teresa, his wife’s Spanish maid already there and she was accompanied, to his surprise, by Sergeant Carter of his light company.
“Morning, sir. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Danny. What the devil are you doing up at this hour? Even I’m not calling early drill on Christmas morning.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, sir. Came down to see if Teresa needed any help. We thought our refugees might like to come and have breakfast with the lads, sir.”
Paul surveyed the refugees in some amusement. All three of them had clearly been bathed. The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a rough woollen jacket which was a little too big for him and black slippers which looked a fairly good fit. His younger sister was dressed in an embroidered linen dress like those sold in the markets in Lisbon with a warm woollen shawl about her shoulders. She was seated on the lap of the older girl who wore a plain dark gown which Paul suspected was one of Anne’s winter dresses.
Paul looked at the older girl and summoned his Portuguese, wishing that he had studied harder or had Anne’s easy ability to pick up languages.
“It is Francisca, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Your lady was so kind. The children were starving.”
He could see, in the cold light of morning, that she had been starving herself. Her wrists were stick thin and the bones on her face were too prominent, her face gaunt. For all that, it was a face of some distinction, her hair newly washed, falling in red gold waves over the blue wool of the shawl Anne had found for her. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green and she was small and delicately made. He rather thought, that with a few weeks of good food and enough rest, she might prove to be a very pretty girl.
“You’re safe,” he said quietly. “We’ll take care of you now, and when you’re all well enough we’ll make sure you’ve somewhere to stay and some work to keep you. Where are you from?”
“Coimbra, sir, a farm about six miles from the town.”
“And your parents?”
“My mother died when Maria was born. My father and another sister died this winter. We had no food, sir, and they got sick.”
“I am sorry,” Paul said gently. “Rest and keep warm. We will take care of you.”
His wife joined him in the mess for breakfast, dressed warmly in green velvet, and he kissed her. “Merry Christmas, bonny lass.”
“Our first,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of Rowena, today, we had Christmas dinner with you last year. Are you all right, Paul?”
He thought how like her it was. “I’ve been thinking of her too,” he admitted. “I can’t believe it was only a year ago. And I can’t believe how good it feels to be here with you and how bad I feel that she’s not with me. Very confusing.”
Anne took his hand. “I miss her too,” she said gently. “But she’d have wanted this, Paul.”
“I know she would. Come and eat, love.”
They ate and then she went to speak to his officers to wish them happy Christmas. Paul sat for a while, watching her move along the table and thought how easily she had fitted into his life and that of his regiment.
She stopped beside Lieutenant Manson, talking to him, and Paul saw him smile. Manson did not smile enough. After a difficult start in the regiment, he had begun to settle down and had seemed much happier but the arrival of Captain Longford had caused him to withdraw back into his shell. Longford was unpopular with all the officers of the 110th but he had taken a particular dislike to Manson and Paul was very aware that he took every opportunity to make the boy’s life difficult. Glancing over at Longford, Paul smiled at the expression on his face. Anne’s obvious liking for his youngest officer did not help matters; Longford was patently jealous.
With no English church nearby, Paul had managed to find a German minister who had agreed to give a Christmas service in English. He had not made attendance compulsory for his men but he was faintly touched when they crowded into the empty barrack block where he had planned to hold the service. Eventually Anne went to speak to Mr Gruber and his wife and some time was spent moving the proceedings out onto the parade ground where all the men could attend. There was little organised religion in Wellington’s army, but Paul supposed that on this one day the familiar ritual reminded some of them of home.
Christmas dinner was served in the mess with a good deal of wine and a lot of hilarity. Over in the barracks the men would be eating their own meal, followed by dancing and probably a good deal more drinking through the evening. It was good to be able to let them celebrate for once, without having to worry too much about sentries and the possibility of attack.
Aware that he was neglecting his social duties, Paul turned with a smile to Caroline Longford who was seated beside him, but realised she was looking beyond him down the room and he followed her gaze and saw, to his considerable surprise, Sergeant Carter in the doorway. He got up.
Paul moved forward. “All right, Sergeant.” He looked over at Anne. “Carry on,” he said, and she nodded. Paul went out into the hallway.
“What’s going on, Carter. Don’t tell me the French have been sighted?”
“Not that I know of, sir. If they’ve made it past our lads and the light division, I’ll be very surprised.”
“Sir – it’s the lassie. The girl you brought in from town.”
Paul shook his head to clear it of the wine he had drunk. “Francisca? What is it, Carter, is she ill?”
“No, sir. We brought them through to the barracks, sir – for dinner. The women are in there with us eating. Didn’t want to leave them alone. Didn’t realise straight away – we’ve all had a few drinks, sir.”
“You and me both, Carter. It’s bloody Christmas. What’s happened?”
“She’d gone, sir. Maggie Bennett offered to settle the little one with her boy, they were both exhausted. The lad has taken a liking to Private Terry, following him around. So none of us noticed for a while. When we realised, Hammond took off after her. He was worried, like. Didn’t think she’d abandon the children. Easy enough to follow her tracks, it’s been raining again.”
“Did he find her?”
“Yes, sir. Not just her, though.” Carter took a deep breath. “She’d made off with some food. Not that much – Christ, nothing we can’t spare. There’s a camp, sir, just across the river. No idea they were there. We always use the widest part for water and bathing. We were all down there yesterday, they must have heard us freezing our arses off in that water…a refugee camp, sir. She was taking them food, it’s where she came from.”
Paul stood looking at him. “How many?”
“About thirty or so. Men women, about eight or nine children. Looking at the state of them, I’d say they’ve lost a few.”
“Starvation, sir. And cold. They’ve tried to make shelters out of blankets. Sitting huddled together under the trees, shivering, soaked. Waiting to die, I reckon.”
Paul took a deep breath. His mind was suddenly clear, as if he were about to go into battle. “Do you think they can walk, Sergeant?”
“Not the old ones, sir.”
“All right. You have enough sober men to hitch up a couple of wagons and get them up here.”
“We’ll sober them up, sir.”
“Do it. We’ll find blankets for them from the stores. This Christmas is going to cost me a bloody fortune. I’ll get my wife to organise opening up one of the empty barracks blocks and we’ll put a couple of braziers in there to warm it up.”
He turned back into the room and saw Anne coming towards him, her eyebrows raised. “What is it?”
“Bit of a refugee crisis, love.”
He explained quickly and then left her to it, hearing her issuing crisp instructions to his junior officers. Going outside he found his men pulling out two of the supply wagons, clumsy in places from too much wine and food. Turning, he found Jenson leading out Rufus and his own horse.
“Thought you might want to ride down and see for yourself, sir.”
“I do. Thank you, Jenson.”
It was less than ten minutes ride down to the camp, splashing through the ford and up a slope, slippery with soaked vegetation, to the pitiful enclave under the trees. Paul dismounted and moved forward, finding the girl crouching beside an elderly woman with iron grey straggling hair, her black skirts soaked and her body shivering violently.
Paul looked at her. “Did you go into town to try to find food for her?”
“To earn it if I could.”
He understood with sharp distress. “The children.”
“I can’t leave them here; they might wander off. She isn’t well enough. Alfredo will look after Maria while I…it doesn’t take long.”
“I wish you’d told us, lass,” he said. “Come on, let’s get her up. The wagons can make it to the top of the bank but we’ll have to get them up there.”
He carried the old woman up the slippery bank, appalled at how light she was in his arms and then returned to help some of the others up. They were silent and bewildered, blank eyed and gaunt, no longer trusting in the goodwill of others and Paul was silently furious, fighting back tears as he lifted emaciated bodies up to his men on the wagons and then rode ahead of them back to the barracks where his wife waited in the doorway of an empty block with towels and blankets and the calm practicality which always seemed to him to be at war with the delicate beauty which would have made her the toast of London had she cared to return there.
They carried the remains of the Christmas feast from both barracks and officers mess and the refugees received roast pork and duck and George Kelly’s pudding as if they had never seen such riches. Paul watched his wife supervising to ensure that they only ate a little at a time.
She sat, finally, on the bunk beside one of the men, a white haired man who could have been forty or eighty; it was hard to tell from his gaunt face.
“Senora, we are so grateful.”
“Hush. You’re safe and we’ll make sure you’re warm and fed. Rest tonight, you’ve nothing more to care about. Tomorrow I’ll tend to any sickness.”
“God has sent you to us, Senora.”
Anne smiled and to Paul’s amusement, lifted the gaunt hand and kissed it. “It’s Christmas,” she said. “Perhaps he sent you to us.”
She joined him finally as the officers and men congregated around the fires which had been lit on the parade ground. Private Flanagan was tuning his fiddle, and Paul took his wife’s hand. “All right, bonny lass?”
“Yes. I hope they’ll be all right. I’m a bit worried about one or two of the older ones, but we’ll see in a few days if they improve with food and warmth. Oh Paul, they were ten minutes away from us and we didn’t know it.”
“I know. Christ, what a bloody mess. I hope Wellington has got this right.”
“Paul, he’s doing the best he can. We all are.”
The music began, an Irish jig, and Paul watched, holding her hand as his men and their women began to dance. It warmed them in the cold night air, and shortly he saw Michael O’Reilly approaching.
“Ma’am, are you too tired…?”
“No, but she’s dancing with me first. Piss off and find yourself a pretty Portuguese lass, I notice a few of them from the village have turned up. Dance with me, girl of my heart.”
“You put it so nicely, Colonel.”
He took her hand and drew her into the circle by the firelight. “Best make the most of this, lass. God only knows where we’ll be this time next year.”
He left the thought unfinished, but she picked it up as he had known she would. “And who will have survived the year? Make sure you do, will you, Paul? I’ve got very attached.”
“So have I, bonny lass. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Colonel,” Anne said, and in a swirl of black hair, she spun away from him and was caught up in the dance and the firelight and the temporary joy of the cold Christmas night.
The Battle of Bussaco takes place at the beginning of book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga, An Irregular Regiment. Lord Wellington had organised a retreat back to the Lines of Torres Vedras, the series of defences he had built to protect Lisbon from the invading French. He was not in a position to push the French back at this point, so the battle was more of a delaying tactic, but it was very successful and made an important point to Massena. It was also an opportunity for Wellington to try out the newly reorganised Portuguese army in battle and he was very happy with their performance. In the book, Major Paul van Daan is newly married to his second wife and back on the battlefield without time for a honeymoon…
Paul could hear them now, the steady drum beat of the approaching columns. He turned to O’Reilly. “They’re coming,” he said, and raised his voice softly. “110th at the ready!” “Ready, sir,” Wheeler called back, and the order was passed along the lines. There was no bugle call on this occasion. Craufurd wanted the presence of such a large force to come as a shock to the French. Michael checked his rifle and looked over his shoulder. “Nice and steady boys,” he said. “No need to be heroic here, the bastards have no idea they’re about to walk into us. Wait for my word, now.” “Light company ready, Sergeant?” “Ready as they’ll ever be, sir.” Paul moved along the ranks his eyes checking for potential problems. They could hear the marching of the French coming closer through the mist and he saw the green jackets of the 95th further up beginning to move forward in skirmish formation. He nodded to Michael. “Corporal Carter,” Michael called. “Yes, Sergeant.” “Will your lads pay particular attention to not letting the Major get himself killed today? You know how clumsy he is, and if I have to take him down to the hospital with a hole in him, his wife is likely to be after us with a scalpel.” Paul looked back, startled, and then began to laugh. “Corporal Carter!” “Sir.” “Let the lads know there’ll be extra grog for the man who shoots Sergeant O’Reilly for me today. Make it look like an accident.” There was a muted rumble of laughter. “Do it now for you if you like, sir!” one of the sharpshooters called. “No need for extra grog, be my pleasure!” “You’d better hope the French get you today, Scofield, you cheeky bastard!” the sergeant said, laughing. “Ready now boys.” “Get going,” Paul said, and Captain Swanson called the order and led his men forward. They watched as the skirmishers moved over the ridge, taking down individual Frenchmen with accurate rifle fire. It took some time. Paul grinned as he realised that his light company were getting carried away with their feinted attack and were actually pushing the French column back. He imagined that Craufurd was cursing them for delaying the French advance. He could not sound a retreat without alerting the French to his position so he settled down to wait for Carl and O’Reilly to pull them back. Eventually he saw them moving back up the ridge, saw Carter and young Hammond laughing, having just received an earful from their exasperated sergeant. The rifles of the light division were already back up the ridge and the French came on, causing the English gunners to limber up and pull back. Still they waited. The French came closer, pressing on, thinking that on this part of the ridge at least they had the English on the run. They could only see the thin line of the 43rd. Craufurd held his nerve. The leading column was within twenty-five yards of the crest, and Paul could see the individual faces of each Frenchman when he heard Black Bob yell. “52nd and 110th – avenge Moore!” It was an emotive cry. There were men of both regiments who had seen Sir John Moore fall at Corunna and he had been beloved of the men he commanded. Paul had done his early training under Moore and had always believed him to be one of the best commanders of light infantry in the army. “Fire!” Paul roared, and along the line the 52nd and the 110th rose and fired a staggering volley of rifle and musket fire at point blank range into the enemy. No man at the front of the columns was left standing. Along the line his men were reloading, as the shocked Frenchmen reeled, and then steadied and clambered over the bodies of their comrades and ran into a second devastating volley. Some of his riflemen fell back to reload and manage a third, but the rest fixed bayonets and Paul drew his sword. In the roar of the musket fire and the screams of wounded and dying men, Paul moved his lines steadily forward. He had deliberately allowed the experienced men of the 110th to bear the brunt of the first attack and seeing that they were holding their own without difficulty he ran back to his two Portuguese battalions leaving Johnny to lead the 110th on. These were raw inexperienced troops but he was hopeful that with him at their head they would stand. He was not disappointed. As the musket fire tapered off, the men were fighting with bayonets and swords, and he led his Portuguese into the fray. With the example of the 110th already cutting their way through the French lines, they did not hesitate, and before long the French advance had halted and the whole line was wavering. Paul’s men found time to reload again, and as another barrage of fire crashed into them the French began to run. Some of the Portuguese chased after them, and Paul bellowed to stop them. Without being able to see what was happening all along the ridge he would not risk them charging through French lines and being cut off and hacked to pieces. A small party of horsemen approached from the north. “Nice work, Major van Daan,” Lord Wellington said. “Our allies are looking good today.” “Our allies are looking bloody brilliant, sir,” Paul said. He was delighted with the performance of his Portuguese, and he could sense the high spirits of the troops. They had worked hard and trained well, but nothing improved morale as well as a successful action. “Think you can make them even better, Major?” Wellington asked quietly, and Paul looked up sharply. “Given some time, definitely, sir.” “I’ll bear that in mind. They’ll remain under your command for the time being until we have a chance to talk.” “Yes, sir.” Wellington looked along the line to where Craufurd was approaching. “General Craufurd. Superb work, sir. Couldn’t have gone better. I think that will more or less do it for the day. They might rattle away at us a bit, but they’ve got the point. Well done, sir.” Craufurd’s face lightened slightly. “Thank you, sir. Good tactics.” He glanced at Paul, and his mouth twitched into what was almost a smile. “Well done, Major van Daan.” “Thank you, sir.” Wellington smiled as he watched Craufurd move back down the lines. “Nicely handled, Major. Your diplomatic skills have improved since India.” “I hope so, sir. I was an arrogant young bastard then.” “You still are, Major. You just hide it better. Hold the line and be ready in case I need you elsewhere, you’re the fastest battalion I have. But I think we’re mostly done.” “Yes, sir. We’ll keep picking them off as we see them. Good shooting practice for the lads.” Paul raised his voice. “Carter! O’Reilly still alive, is he? Why? Get on with it, lad, haven’t got all day!” “You’re a murdering bastard, so you are, sir!” an Irish voice called, and Michael emerged through the smoke which hung like a pall over the battlefield and realised that Wellington was listening with great interest. “Oh sorry, sir, didn’t know you were here. Major van Daan is just trying to talk the lads into shooting me, sir.” Wellington gave one of his alarming cracks of laughter. “Is he? Well I’d better get out of here then in case he decides to set them on me! Hope you survive the day, Sergeant.” “Thank you, sir, appreciate your support,” Michael said. He watched as the general rode off up the line. “Peterson is down, sir, shot through the shoulder. I’ve sent him up to the back to get treated. Can’t have him lying around to trip over if they come again. No other casualties.” “Good. Carl, do you know how the other brigades are doing?” “All good I think. They’d no idea we had so many men. Brilliant tactics.” “Aye, Hookey knows his work. They don’t know they’re beaten yet, but they are. Let’s keep it up, nice and steady. If it’s French, shoot it.” He looked at Michael and grinned. “Or Irish and wearing sergeant’s stripes.” “Very funny. If I get caught in the crossfire you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face, so you will.” “Stay alive, Michael. If I get you killed, she’ll murder me. She likes you, you’re always on her side if we fight.” “We’re all on her side, sir, in case you’d not realised. She’s prettier than you. And possibly a better soldier too, now that I’ve seen her in a fight.” Paul laughed. “She fights dirtier than you do, Sergeant.” “Good. I hope she shoots you on sight.”
(From An Irregular Regiment: Book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga by Lynn Bryant)