Sir Harry Smith is one of my favourite characters from the Peninsular War, up there with Lord Wellington and General Robert Craufurd. A relatively humble doctor’s son from Cambridgeshire, he rose to the heights of his profession on sheer merit and a good deal of personality, retained the friendship and admiration of the Duke of Wellington, defying the accepted belief that Wellington only favoured aristocratic and well-born officers, and married the love of his life in the shadow of the bloody siege of Badajoz. He is one of the most colourful characters of his day, and his autobiography, along with that of Kincaid, his close friend in the 95th are two of the liveliest and most readable accounts of Wellington’s campaigns. Harry Smith has a more personal significance for me, as he was the historical figure who first sparked my enthusiasm for the Peninsular War and is the inspiration, although not the model, for Colonel Paul van Daan of the 110th light infantry.
Henry George Wakelyn Smith was born in 1787, the son of a surgeon in Whittlesey, Cambridgeshire, and was commissioned into the army in 1805 and promoted to lieutenant in the 95th Rifles a few months later. He first saw active service in South America during the British invasions of 1806-07 and distinguished himself at the Battle of Montevideo.
In 1808 the young Harry Smith joined the forces under Sir John Moore invading Spain. The expedition, begun with high hopes, ended in a disastrous retreat over 200 miles of mountain paths in winter. Men, women and children died by the roadside, but Smith made it back to Corunna and the battle which left Moore dead on the field. A brief period of recovery in England restored Smith to health and his next voyage to Portugal was as part of General Robert Craufurd’s light brigade, later to become the celebrated light division. Harry Smith’s Peninsular War had begun in earnest.
Smith served with the 95th throughout the war, from 1808 to end Battle of Toulouse in 1814, and he served with considerable distinction. In 1810 he was appointed to ADC to Colonel Beckwith, with whom he clearly enjoyed an excellent relationship. In February 1812 he was promoted captain and he filled a succession of staff posts within the light division.
In April, Wellington’s army successfully stormed Badajoz and the army sacked the city, turning into a drunken mob whom even their own officers could not control for several days. Looting, murder and rape were committed openly and many citizens, especially women, fled from the town to take refuge at the British lines, hoping that the officers would protect them. One such lady, whose home had been destroyed, brought her younger sister with her, a girl of fourteen newly returned from a convent education. Juana Maria de Los Dolores de Leon appears to have shaken off the restrictions of her upbringing very quickly. Within a few days she was the wife of Captain Harry Smith and remained by his side for the rest of the war.
Harry Smith volunteered to serve in the United States, fighting at the Battle of Bladensburg and witnessing the burning of the capitol in Washington, an act which appalled Smith and some of the other Peninsula veterans, who compared it unfavourably to “the Duke’s humane warfare in the south of France.” He returned to Europe in time to serve as a brigade major at Waterloo and remained with the army during the occupation of France, acting as Mayor of Cambrai in Picardy. His close relationship with Wellington continued; the two men both ran hunting packs and in his autobiography, Smith describes how Wellington arranged to divide up the countryside between the two packs.
When the occupation was over, Smith returned to being divisional ADC in Glasgow for Major-General Reynell who commanded the Western District of Scotland, and it was Reynell’s recommendation that gained him his first colonial appointment as ADC to the Governor of Nova Scotia, Lieutenant-General Sir James Kempt in 1826.
Smith was promoted Major in the army by the end of 1826, but remained unattached to a regiment, and was still unattached when raised to Lieutenant-colonel in July 1830. In 1828 he was sent to the Cape of Good Hope where he commanded a force in the Sixth Xhosa War of 1834-36 and was later appointed as governor of the Province of Queen Adelaide. He was considered an energetic and talented commander who was able to restore confidence among British and Boer residents and had considerable influence over the tribes.
Smith’s attempts to modernise and introduce improvements and benefits to the Xhosa tribes were supported by the high commissioner, Sir Benjamin D’Urban, another peninsular veteran, but his policies were reversed by the ministry in London and he was removed from his command. Both Xhosa and Boers regretted his loss and some historians have suggested that his departure precipitated the Great Trek.
In 1840 Harry Smith was appointed Adjutant-General in India. He fought in the Gwalior campaign of 1843 and the first Anglo-Sikh war of 1845-6, where he was eventually given an independent command and on 28 January 1846 he inflicted a crushing defeat on the Sikhs at Aliwal on the Sutlej. For this victory he was awarded the thanks of Parliament and was the subject of an unusually long tribute from the Duke of Wellington, whose remarks concluded:
“I have read the account of many a battle, but I never read the account of one in which more ability, energy, and experience have been manifested than in this. I know of no one, in which an officer ever showed himself more capable than this officer has, in commanding troops in the field. He brought every description of troops to bear with all arms, in the position in which they were most capable of rendering service; the nicest manoeuvres were performed under the fire of the enemy with the utmost precision, and at the same time, with an energy and gallantry on the part of the troops never surpassed on any occasion whatever in any part of the world. I must say of this officer, that I never have seen any account which manifests more plainly than his does, that he is an officer capable of rendering the most important services and of ultimately being an honour to this country.”
This is probably the greatest tribute the Duke ever bestowed on an officer. Sir Harry Smith was created a baronet and the words “of Aliwal” were appended to the title by the patent. He was promoted to major-general in November 1846.
In 1847 Smith returned to South Africa as Governor of Cape Colony and high commissioner with the local rank of lieutenant-general. The disaffection of the Boers and the local tribes had gone very much the way Smith had prophesied eleven years earlier. Smith’s first campaign was to deal with the Boers in the Orange River Sovereignty and he defeated them at Boomplaats in August 1848.
In December 1850 war broke out with the Xhosa once more and some of the Khoikhoi joined in. Smith did not have enough troops from England but he experienced some success. He has been criticised by modern historians for his conduct during this period. Smith had a tendency towards the dramatic, and some of his demonstrations towards the tribes appear appalling in a modern context, although interestingly do not seem to have been seen that way by Xhosa themselves at the time. His campaign was warmly approved by the Duke of Wellington and other military authorities but Earl Grey, in a dispatch never submitted to the queen, recalled him in 1852 before the Xhosa and Khoikhoi had been completely subdued. Smith protested strongly against the abandonment of the Orange River Sovereignty to the Boers, which happened two years after his departure, and was a firm supporter of the granting of responsible government to Cape Colony.
In 1853 Sir Harry Smith was made General Officer Commanding the Western District in England and was given brevet promotion to lieutenant-general in 1854. He was appointed to the same role in the Northern District in 1856.
Smith died at his home at Eton Place, London, on 12 October 1860. He was buried at St Mary’s, Whittlesey. His wife, Juana, who had accompanied him throughout his life on his various campaigns, died twelve years later and is buried with him. Smith’s autobiography was first published posthumously in 1901.
I first met Harry Smith, not as the enthusiastic junior officer who features as a recurring character in my peninsular war books, but as the victor over the Sikhs at Aliwal and then as a colonial general and administrator in South Africa. There was always something very appealing about Sir Harry Smith and reading between the dry lines of some of the history texts, I had a sense of a huge personality, a man with courage and ideas and a determination to make progress and to do whatever job he was sent to do, to his utmost.
This didn’t always go well. Smith’s enthusiasm as a young officer clearly recommended him to his seniors during his days with the light division and I suspect that his independent thinking worked well under commanders like Robert Craufurd and Sydney Beckwith while it might not always have gone down as well with ministers such as Lord Glenelg in later life.
The slightly surprising thing, is how well Smith seemed to get on with Lord Wellington, a commander with a reputation for disliking initiative in his officers and a man, moreover, who was reputed to prefer his officers to be young men from aristocratic families. Smith failed on both counts and yet it is very obvious that he held Wellington’s favour from the start.
My interest in the older Harry Smith caused me to read his autobiography. I already knew something of the political history of the Napoleonic Wars but my knowledge of the military aspects was restricted to a couple of Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe books which came out at round about the same time. I read, initially one or two more contemporary accounts of the conflict and then began to read some of the standard histories of the period, old and new, and more biographies and autobiographies and I was completely hooked.
When I began to attempt writing my own historical novels, these were initially set in very different periods. The idea of a Peninsular War novel came to me several years later and I baulked at it, probably because by that stage Sharpe had arrived on our TV screens and a host of other writers were tackling the Napoleonic wars both from and army and a naval perspective. It seemed to me at the time, that the stories were being told by others and told well.
The story of Harry and Juana Smith kept coming back to me over the years, however, and I continued to read everything I could get my hands on about the period. I wanted to write, not their story exactly, but the story of another couple who took the same journey as them and lived through the same events. Gradually, over a couple of years of scribbling, Paul and Anne van Daan were born.
Paul van Daan shares Harry Smith’s talent and energy and independent spirit. I chose a different background for him. I wanted something a long way from Cornwell’s Sharpe, since it seemed to me that every novel of that period would be directly compared to those. Sharpe was from the bottom of the heap, an enlisted man scrabbling his way up to an officer’s commission. Harry Smith started higher, respectably middle class but with no money. I moved a step or two up the social scale with my hero, giving him a wealthy background but a very mixed pedigree and an early stint below decks in the Royal Navy to make him comfortable with his enlisted men. The point of Sharpe is that he struggles to fit in anywhere; I wanted a hero who could fit in everywhere. Paul’s fight is not against the army establishment it is against his own nature; quick-tempered, hot-headed and impulsive; the early books are about Paul growing up.
Anne’s background has little in common with Juana Smith although like Juana, she takes to life in the army’s tail as if she had been born there. She shares a lot of Juana’s traits; she is attractive, charming and very determined and she has the ability to get on with both officers and enlisted men. Like Juana, she is a favourite of the irascible Lord Wellington. Like Juana, she has a hard-headed practicality which enables her to cope very well with the conditions of an army on the move.
The joy of writing fiction is that it is possible to introduce one’s fictional creations to the characters who inspired them. Colonel Paul van Daan is both older and senior to the young Harry Smith and although they get on well, they also disagree spectacularly on occasion. It has been fun to go back to Smith’s early days and to tell a little of his story alongside my own and it’s good to look back and remember how my own journey through the Peninsular War began with Harry’s autobiography.
Book five of the Peninsular War Saga, An Untrustworthy Army, is due for publication on kindle at the end of November and in paperback in December. The first four books are available on Amazonhere and for a glimpse at an earlier episode in Paul van Daan’s history, try An Unwilling Alliance.
Welcome to the very first guest blog post from yours truly, Joey the Labrador, senior officer here at Writing with Labradors.
I’ve wanted to do one for a while, but the first couple of posts had to come from our senior officer and I was okay to wait my turn. I didn’t expect it to come like this, with Toby gone now and me in charge of Oscar, our young subaltern. Still, it’s time to step up and do the job.
It’s been more than six weeks since we lost Toby and we’re all getting more used to it, though we’ll never stop missing him. At first I used to forget he was gone and wander around looking for him but I’m over that now. Having Oscar has been the best thing ever, I’m never lonely. He’s always close by, sometimes a bit closer than I need him to be, to be honest. I know I loved old Toby, he was my best mate all my life, but I’m pretty sure I never used to sit on him. Still, although I tell him off from time to time, I secretly quite like Oscar wanting to be that close to me.
Life goes on and there are always changes. Jon-human has started work now and isn’t around studying all the time so there have been some changes in the study. The big table has gone and we’ve got a very comfy sofa and armchair instead which makes it much more homely. Personally I still like my bed best, just behind her chair, so she has to ask me to move if she wants to get up for a cup of tea, but Oscar loves the sofa and we’re very settled in there all day when she’s writing. The extra space means that there’s a lot more space for playing as well. She gets very aggy when we make too much noise in there, but I know she likes it really, she’s soft in the head when it comes to us labradors.
The writing is going very well, apparently. The new book is doing well. It’s my favourite, An Unwilling Alliance, since a chunk of it is set right here on the Isle of Man and talks about the places she takes us for walks. Mind, there’s not enough dogs in it. Toby used to complain about that and he was right, although she promises that Craufurd the Puppy features very regularly in the next one which is out in a couple of months. She’s also planning on introducing a second dog, called Toby at some point, in honour of the old fella. I like that idea, don’t know much about how it’s going to work, I just know that every time she thinks about it, she starts laughing. Madwoman, I’ve always said it.
Meanwhile, she’s been off doing research which means Anya-human is in charge of us. This is great news as she spoils us rotten and even lets us sleep in her bedroom which is normally off-limits. I particularly like it when she sends photos of this to her mother who can do nothing about it because she’s stuck in a castle in some remote part of Spain gibbering about battlefields. Next month she away at the Malvern Festival of Military History, whatever the hell that is. She seems very excited about it. I’m excited because I bet the teen humans have friends over which means illegal pizza, illegal sleeping in the bedrooms and more fuss and attention that I know what to do with. Great news…
Autumn is on its way, and it’s fun teaching Oscar how to chase leaves in the wind. My legs are a lot better now and although I’ve been grumpy about it, I think losing a bit of weight has done me good. I’m getting on a bit, no question, but I want to stick around as long as I can for Oscar and the rest of the family. And having this puppy has definitely made me feel a lot younger again. He’s a lot of fun, although between you and me, I’m not really sure he’s all that bright. A bit like Toby, who was the best friend in the world, but not much between his ears other than daylight. Sometimes I see him in Oscar…
Writing with Labradors is back on track and I think our senior officer would be proud of us. Sitting out on the porch on sunny days, I look at his statue and I’m very glad to have known him. One day Oscar will sit here thinking of me like this, but it’s great to know the tradition is going to carry on through him.
She probably wants me to mention that there is another book coming out soon, An Untrustworthy Army, which is book 5 in the Peninsular War Saga. Most importantly it features at least one dog. I recommend you read it on that basis alone.
In the meantime, I’ve just realised the time. Must be lunchtime by now…
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.
The Battle of Vimeiro took place on this day in 1808 when the British under General Sir Arthur Wellesley defeated the French under Major-General Junot near the village of Vimeiro in Portugal.
Four days earlier, Wellesley had defeated the French at the Battle of Rolica. Wellesley knew that his command of the army was temporary; he was seen as too junior a general to have overall command and he had been informed that more senior commanders were on their way. Sir Harry Burrard arrived during the battle and Sir Hew Dalrymple arrived soon after while Sir John Moore landed in time to take command of the British forces and lead them into Spain.
Nevertheless it was Wellesley who was in command when the army was attacked by Junot After Rolica, Wellesley had taken up a position near the village of Vimeiro, deploying his forces to hold the village and several ridges to the west which protected the landing point at Maceira Bay. Wellesley had hoped to march on Lisbon once his reinforcements had landed. He had eight infantry brigades, around two hundred and forty light cavalry and two thousand Portuguese troops, outnumbering Junot by around six thousand men.
Junot’s first move was to attempt to outflank the British by taking an unoccupied ridge to the north-east of the village. Wellesley’s men held Vimeiro and the western ridge, but he moved quickly to take the ridge ahead of Junot. Junot sent reinforcements to join the battle on the flank but made the decision to launch an attack on the village without waiting to see the outcome of his outflanking manoeuvre.
The first attack was made by Thomieres brigade who marched on the British position in column, with skirmishers and artillery in support. The British countered with four companies of riflemen from the 60th and 95th and their attack was so successful that the French skirmishers were pushed back, leaving the main French column facing the 50th regiment. At 100 yards the British opened fire while several companies began moving in towards the French flanks. The French reeled under the lethal musketry of the British infantry and were unable to deploy into line. They fled, leaving three cannons to be captured.
Shortly afterwards, Charlot’s brigade attacked Anstruther’s brigade which was hidden behind a crest and before they could deploy from column into line were struck in the flank by a second battalion which sent them fleeing in disorder from the deadly volleys. Junot sent in his grenadier reserve which was initially pushed back. Two battalions to the right managed to enter Vimeiro but were driven out by a British counterattack and then routed in flight by the light dragoons. The cavalry appear to have become carried away by their success and charged out of control, straight into the French cavalry division. They retreated to the loss of Colonel Taylor and approximately a quarter of his men.
Solignac led the French attack on the northeastern ridge, this time in a three column formation. Once again they left it too late to deploy into line and were shattered by British musket volleys and fled. Brenier’s brigade, coming up with four battalions, had some success against two British battalions who appeared unprepared after their success against Solignac. However the French were stopped by the firepower of the 29th and the two remaining battalions rallied to join them in pushing Brenier’s men back.
By the end of the battle, Sir Arthur Wellesley’s command had been superseded by Sir Harry Burrard. Burrard did not interfere with Wellesley’s conduct of the battle, but once it was done, he stepped in to prevent Wellesley pursuing the French retreat, apparently believing that Junot had troops in reserve.
Vimeiro was a welcome triumph for the British but the aftermath was a disaster. Junot offered complete surrender and was probably astonished at the terms offered by Sir Hew Dalrymple. Under the Convention of Cintra, the defeated army was transported back to France by the British navy, complete with guns, equipment and the loot it had stolen from Portugal. The Convention caused an outcry in Britain and all three generals were recalled to face an official enquiry.
Wellesley had wanted to fight on. He had signed the preliminary Armistice under orders but took no part in negotiating the Convention and did not sign it. Dalrymple appeared keen to lay the blame onto Wellesley but at the enquiry, which was held in the Great Hall at the Royal Hospital, Chelsea in November and December of 1808 all three generals were officially cleared. Wellesley, however, was returned to duty in Portugal where the British had suffered the loss of Sir John Moore at Corunna; neither Burrard or Dalrymple were given active commands again.
The battle of Vimeiro gave hope to the people of Lisbon and should have been a sharp reminder to the French that they were not invincible. Wellesley, up until this point, had been known mainly for his achievements in India and some years later Napoleon was to use the term “sepoy general” to belittle the importance of that experience. Rolica and Vimeiro, however, brought Wellesley very firmly onto the European stage and when the dust from the convention of Cintra had settled, Sir John Moore was dead and Burrard and Dalrymple were no longer considered suitable for command. The sepoy general was given his opportunity and on his return to Portugal in 1809 he was quick to prove himself worthy of it with a swift and decisive victory at Oporto.
In the Peninsular War saga, Paul van Daan is present at the battle of Vimeiro but the battle itself does not feature in An Unconventional Officer; if I’d included every battle in depth it would have been longer than the Bible. It’s an interesting battle, though, with a lot of features which have become very familiar to me as I follow Wellesley and his army through the long years of the war in Portugal and Spain. Reading about it once again on the anniversary, I find myself wondering if this early time in Portugal is something I’d like to revisit at a later stage.
The next book in the Peninsular War Saga is due for publication on 30th November 2018. It will be followed by the second book in the Manxman series the following year, which follows Captain Hugh Kelly RN through the Walcheren campaign of 1809.
The arrival of Oscar has changed everything at Blogging with Labradors.
I can’t believe it’s been nine months since my last guest post. High time the labradors got a say again, and a lot has happened during that time.
You’ll be glad to hear I recovered very well from my foot operation last year. In fact, despite all the humans’ very personal remarks about how old I was, I recovered a lot quicker than she did from hers. We quite enjoyed it, Joey and I, she was trapped on the sofa for weeks with not much to do apart from make a fuss of us and call for tea every now and then.
It’s been a good ten months at writing with labradors. She’s now published her ninth book, An Unwilling Alliance, which is partly set on the Isle of Man and gives very good descriptions of a lot of the places I used to go when I was a bit younger. Quite liked the bit where the heroine fell down Peel Hill, I must say, it happened to me in my youth and it’s very long way to roll…
Still, life has been good, the sun has been shining a lot which is good for my arthritis and the younger humans have been doing something called exams, which seems to involve sitting around looking at books, papers and little white cards. The important thing for me is it keeps them in the house and making a fuss of us labradors. Things were bimbling along nicely I thought, until a few weeks ago when she goes off for one of her periodic trips on the boat. She usually comes back with a bag of candles from Ikea and eighty-five more books about the Duke of Wellington, but not this time! No. This time, she turns up with THIS!
So there we go. Meet Oscar, my new little brother and the latest member of the Writing with Labradors staff. I must admit, when I first saw what she’d got, I was pretty unimpressed. I mean she has two perfectly good labradors already. A bit old and creaky in places, and Joey seriously needs to lose a few pounds, but we’ve still got what it takes. Why does she want another one?
Joey took to Oscar a lot quicker than I did. I mean, I didn’t dislike him, but he’s a bit noisy and a bit full of it, and like all kids, he doesn’t know when to stop. I had to tell him off a fair bit in the first week or two, and I certainly wasn’t sharing my bed with him or my sofa or having him lounging all over me like Joey does. I always knew that yellow lab was soft in the head.
All the same, I’m starting to get used to him. It’s sort of fun having a youngster around. To start with, I just watched when Joey played with him in the garden. I’ve not seen Joey move that fast for years, I didn’t know the old fatso still had it in him. But it reminded me of the old days when we used to play together like that. And after they’ve finished playing, we all have a sit down together and it feels sort of right, somehow. Like he belongs here.
Still, I wasn’t planning to get involved. But we’ve been outside a lot lately with the weather being so great. They sounded as though they were having so much fun. And one morning I just couldn’t stop myself. Silly old fool at my age, and I’ll feel it in the morning, but by gum it was good fun.
So here we are. Three of us now, not two, and life has got a bit more exciting. There’s a lot of responsibility with having a youngster to take care of. We’ve had to teach him about the beach and the park and the glens. Eventually we’ll have to teach him to swim. I’ve not really been in the water for a couple of years, but I got in with Oscar down at Groudle the other day and I must say I’d forgotten how much I loved it.
2018 is going to be a good year for Writing with Labradors. Welcome to the pack, Oscar. One day maybe she’ll let you do a post of your very own…
An Unwilling Allianceis the new book, due out in April 2018 and tells the story of Captain Hugh Kelly RN who returns to the Isle of Man after fifteen years away with a few months leave and a small fortune in prize money to find himself a sensible Manx wife.
Roseen Crellin is twenty-one and determined to resist her father’s efforts to find her a husband. Still dreaming of the young English soldier who sailed away and broke her heart, she has no intention of encouraging Captain Kelly’s courtship and certainly no intention of developing a liking for the man.
Major Paul van Daan is newly promoted and just back from Ireland, sailing with his battalion to Copenhagen under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Paul’s courage and talent are unquestionable but his ability to manage the minefield of army politics has some way to go, and in a joint operation with the navy there are many ways for a man of Paul’s temperament to get things wrong.
Hugh joins Admiral Gambier’s fleet, trying to forget the girl he left behind him while Roseen’s unhappiness leads to a rash escapade that risks both her reputation and her life. As Britain hovers on the brink of war with neutral Denmark and the diplomats and politicians negotiate to keep the Danish fleet out of Bonaparte’s hands, a more personal drama plays out on the decks of the Royal Navy and in the lines of Lord Cathcart’s army as an impulsive action puts Paul’s future in the army at risk. Hugh Kelly finds himself torn between his duty to the service and a reluctant admiration for the young army officer willing to gamble his career on an act of charity.
An Unwilling Alliance is set on the Isle of Man and in Denmark in 1806-7. For readers of the Peninsular War Saga, the action takes place during the first book, An Unconventional Officer and introduces Captain Hugh Kelly RN of HMS Iris who is from the Isle of Man. In the following excerpt, Hugh’s courtship of Roseen is finally looking hopeful…
St Michael’s Isle was the northern most point of the Langness Peninsula. Roseen remembered her father telling her that it used to be detached at high tide, a true island, but the causeway had been built in the middle of the previous century to link it permanently. It was formed of rocky slate, it’s acidic soil limiting the plants that could grow there, and it was inhabited now mainly by sea birds of all kinds, wheeling overhead with their hoarse cries and occasionally swooping down into the choppy sea which crashed onto the rocky shores of the island. It was a place of peace and great beauty but it was not quiet. Roseen had grown up loving the sound of the sea and had always longed to live close enough to it to hear it through her open bedroom window at night. They dismounted and Hugh led both horses to the old chapel and tethered them to a rusty iron gate which had been put up to prevent people going into the chapel which was disused, roofless and probably dangerous. He turned back to Roseen and held out his hand and she smiled and took it. She was becoming accustomed to Captain Kelly’s assumption that she could not make her own way across rough ground, or indeed, up a flight of stairs, without his assistance. Privately, Roseen suspected his chivalry was an excuse to hold her hand, but she had no intention of asking him. He was likely to tell her the truth. He was also likely to stop doing it if he thought it annoyed her, and Roseen realised with some surprise that she did not want him to. There were two buildings on the island. The tiny ruined chapel dated back to Celtic and Norse times and had long been abandoned, home now only to nesting birds and rabbits. The second was a circular fort, built originally under Henry VIII as part of a major coastal defensive system. It had a wall walk at the top and supported eight cannons. It had fallen into disuse for many years but was re-fortified in 1640 by James, 7th Earl of Derby, a strong royalist, against the ships of Oliver Cromwell during the English Civil War. The fort was renamed Derby Fort and the Earl’s initials along with a date of 1645 could still be seen engraved above the fort door. Hugh paused to look at them and Roseen came to stand beside him. “It’s small but it looks very solid,” she said. “Aye, it is. Not that it was likely to be stormed by land, but with the other battery on the far side at Ronaldsway I wouldn’t enjoy sailing into Derbyhaven Bay under fire from two sides.” “That one is more recent, isn’t it?” Hugh nodded, pointing across the bay to the small battery. “At the end of the seventeenth century, I believe. I don’t know what condition that one’s in, not really looked closely, but I’ll bet they’ve done some work on it recently. They use this one as a lighthouse as well, don’t they?” Roseen nodded. “Yes, for the herring fleet. When you’re out on the boats you can see it for miles, it’s an excellent location…” She broke off realising what she had just said. Hugh did not respond immediately. He was looking out to sea at a small fleet of boats outlined against the bright sky in the distance and Roseen wondered if he had heard her and sought frantically for a change of subject. After a moment he looked round and smiled. “Don’t look so horrified, Miss Crellin, you already told me, don’t you remember? When we were touring the house.” “I’d forgotten,” Roseen admitted. “I don’t do it now. My father was worried it might cause people to think ill of me.” “I think it was fine when you were a lass and your brother was with you. But your father is probably right that you had to stop. People will make something of nothing with a girl’s good name.” “Does it bother you?” Roseen asked, and then could have bitten her tongue. The question implied a far closer relationship than she was willing to admit at this stage. At the same time, she really wanted to know the answer.” “No, I can’t see any harm in it,” Hugh said simply. “Although if you were my daughter and looking to find a good husband I’d probably feel it was my duty to ensure that the busybodies didn’t find an excuse to gossip. Luckily they’re not here, so it’s none of their business.” A voice startled both of them, a hail from the ramparts of the fort. A figure in a red coat was visible, musket in hands, looking down at them. “Who goes there, sir?” he called. “Captain Hugh Kelly of the Iris. Jesus, fella, you frightened the wits out of me, I’d no idea the place was occupied.” The sergeant of fencibles grinned in a manner that suggested he was well aware of the effect of his unexpected shout. “Sorry, sir. Just half a dozen of us on guard duty. They’re keeping it manned now as a lookout. I wondered if you wanted to bring the lady in for a look around, since you’re here?” Hugh looked at Roseen. “Would you like to, Miss Crellin?” “Yes, thank you. I’ve been here so often, but never inside.” There was little to see inside. Most of the stone flags had long gone or were broken and grass had taken their place. There were the remains of a free standing building, too damaged to guess it’s original purpose, although the sergeant and six soldiers of the fencibles had turned it into a makeshift camp site with a small fire lit. Roseen imagined this was not a popular duty but the men seemed to have made the best of it. Two of them manned the battlements while the others rose and saluted Hugh with commendable speed as he approached. It was odd to see him accepting and returning the salute as his due. It was not how Roseen saw him and she wondered suddenly how different he was aboard his ship with hundreds of men under his command. In recesses in the wall to the north and north-west, six cannons covered the entrance to the bay and Roseen listened with some amusement to Hugh’s questions about the guns, their origin, their age and their maintenance. The sergeant answered as best he could but it was very clear that Hugh knew a good deal more than he did about the guns. They inspected the lighthouse placement which was probably the most useful aspect of the fort, and when their visit was ended she saw Hugh speaking quietly to the sergeant, before slipping him what was clearly a vail. The smartness of the sergeant’s salute suggested that it was a generous one. Riding back towards Castletown and then on to Malew and the Top House for dinner, Hugh was quiet and Roseen thought about that and realised that she was very comfortable with his silence. She studied him as they rode and wondered what he was thinking about. “Miss Crellin?” She realised, in some confusion, that she had been staring at him and blushed. “Oh – I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” “No, it wasn’t. You were probably wondering if I was still alive, I’ve been sitting here like a stuffed owl for a quarter of an hour and there’s no excuse for it. My manners are terrible, it’s my job to entertain you.” “No, it isn’t. That makes you sound rather like a performing monkey.” Hugh choked with laughter. “Is that better or worse than a stuffed owl?” “I am not sure. Probably I would choose the owl. Half the officers in Castletown are definitely more like the monkey and it is tiresome. I was just wondering what you were thinking about but it is none of my business.” “It is if I choose to make it so, lass. And it is so boring I’m embarrassed. I was thinking about guns, wondering about placement on the Iris and whether I could get my hands on a couple of 68 pounder carronades. They’d be unusual on a ship of her size, but I’ve seen how useful they can be. But this is not the time…” “What are the usual guns on a ship like the Iris?” Roseen asked, cutting off his apology. She had never really thought much about naval gunnery but she liked hearing Hugh talk about his profession. He did so rarely but it was different to the posturing of the young army officers she had met. There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice when he talked about the Iris which lent interest to the subject. “She’s a 74 gun third rater, which means two gun decks. Beautifully built and very fast; she was taken from the French and although I hate to say it, they build faster ships than we do, although we’ve got very good at copying their designs. She carries twenty-eight 32 pounders on her gundeck, twenty-eight 18 pounders on her upperdeck, four 12 pounders and ten 32 pounder carronades on her quarterdeck, two 12-pounders and two 32 pounder carronades on her forecastle, and six 18 pounder carronades on her poop deck. The carronades are short-range guns, they smash the enemy ship to bits. Up on the forecastle they can make a big difference in a close fight, Victory had two at Trafalgar. I am trying to work out who owes me a favour or two. And I am astonished that your eyes are not glazing over with boredom. I am actually boring myself.”
With Valentine’s Day coming up next week, I thought I’d post an extra freebie. An Impossible Attachment is a short story about a French prisoner-of-war in Portugal in 1812. It’s a story in its own right although those of you who have read the Peninsular War Saga and in particular A Redoubtable Citadel, will recognise at least one of the characters and some of the background. Please feel free to share it.
Happy Valentine’s Day Everybody…
British Prison Camp, Near Santarem, Portugal, 1812
He first became aware of the smell.
Second-Lieutenant Damien Cavel had served now for fourteen years since his conscription at eighteen and he was entirely accustomed to the filthy conditions of living in an army camp. Raised in a comfortable farmhouse close to Cambrai he had loathed the army at the start but had become accustomed and then attached and had finally embraced his profession with the enthusiasm of a boy who had never wanted the legal career set out for him by his parents. He had learned to adjust to his circumstances in whatever billet was available and living in close proximity with the men of his various companies he had ceased to notice the everyday smell of sweat and unwashed clothing. But the stench of the British army prison camp on the edge of the Tagus surpassed everything.
He had been taken, along with most of his company, on the field of Arapiles outside Salamanca, a battle which had happened for many of the French so quickly that they were bewildered. A bitter disappointment to Damien Cavel, newly promoted after years as a sergeant. It was the second time in a year that he had been a prisoner of the British but the experience was very different. The first occasion had ended in him being sent back to his army with a letter of warm recommendation from the English colonel whose wife he had saved and another from Lord Wellington. It had led to his promotion and Damien was only just beginning to savour his new responsibilities in a company of the line before Salamanca left him wounded and then captured for a second time. This time there was no hope of repatriation and he was sent, thrown around in a wagon because of his injuries, to this holding camp north of Lisbon, waiting for transportation to England.
He remembered nothing of the ensuing weeks, tossing and turning with pain, burning with fever and lying in cramped, damp conditions in a disused grain store. Around him men died and were removed and replaced by others. Damien lived although he suspected, when he was finally conscious, that there had been moments when he wished he had not. Around him men groaned in pain or muttered with fever and there was an overpowering stench of excrement and stale urine and decaying flesh. It made him want to gag.
“This one’s awake over here, sir,” a voice said, a harsh English voice belonging to an orderly in shabby uniform with blood staining the front of his shirt. Footsteps sounded and then a man knelt beside Damien.
“Welcome back,” the man said. “I thought we’d lost you.”
Damien tried to speak and nothing came out. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. The doctor, a tired looking man with thinning hair and red-rimmed blue eyes reached out and felt his forehead.
“Fever’s gone,” he said. “Shelby, bring him some water.”
The orderly approached with a cup and the doctor held it while Damien drank, draining the cup. The blue eyes were studying him.
“Do you speak any English?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” Damien said. English had been compulsory at the good school his father had sent him to before the war, when his parents had hoped for a career in the law, possibly leading to government service. He had practised when he was able through the years of the war, speaking to English prisoners and occasionally to other soldiers during days of informal truce. He remembered such a moment at Talavera when he had talked across the stream to men filling their water bottles. But the biggest improvement had come when his company, escorting a supply column up towards Badajoz, had captured the young wife of an English colonel and he had walked beside her for more than two weeks. There were aspects of that time that Damien could not bear to remember, but the girl herself would never leave him. Her French needed no practice, she was fluent, but she had taken it upon herself to improve his English. It had been a distraction from the horror of her ordeal.
“Good,” the English doctor said. “My French is terrible. I’ll leave you here for now…is it Lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Cavel,” Damien said. “My coat?”
“If you had one, it’s gone,” the doctor said. “Let me have a look at that wound. It was infected but we used maggots and it seems to have done the job.”
Damien lay back and the doctor drew back the thin army blanket and carefully peeled the dressing from a long wound across his midriff. The doctor pressed gently and Damien winced and looked down. He was slightly shocked at the length of the gash, red raw and untidily stitched but there was no smell of decay although Damien wondered if he would have been able to smell it anyway in this foul atmosphere.
“My arm?” he asked, aware of the pain.
“Shoulder wound. Very deep, you’ll have a weakness there for a while. Perhaps always. You use your right or left hand?”
“You’re lucky then. Cavalry sabre, I’d guess, cut you down and then slashed you across the stomach. Ought to have killed you but he didn’t bend low enough. I think you’ll mend. I’ll get them to give you some food and plenty of water, you need rest.”
“Prison transport,” the doctor said in matter-of-fact tones. “Back to England and then if you’ll give your parole you’ll be treated as an officer and a gentleman. Better than most of these lads.”
“Thank you,” Damien said. “Do you know how long?”
“Couple of weeks, maybe. Once the transports have arrived they’ll probably take you by barge down river. You’ll be well enough by then. Eat and get some rest.”
“Thank you,” Damien said again. “May I know your name?”
“Dr Bishop. I’ll send someone up with some food.”
Two weeks was long in the prison hospital. More men died. Others were moved, once they were deemed well enough, to the two barns which housed the bulk of the prisoners. Damien had no idea how much time had passed while he had been ill and was astonished to find that two months had passed since he had fallen at Salamanca and autumn had arrived. Already the days were cooler and once he was well enough to step outside and take the air he could see that the land was turning greener after the heat of the summer months. Vineyards were ripe and heavy with the new harvest, the peasants were busy in the olive groves and the prisoners’ bland and boring diet was supplemented a little with local chestnuts, almonds and walnuts along with oranges and apples.
He was moved away from the fetid hospital into a small house, set aside for the officers, and given a new coat, presumably taken from a dead man and a shabby cloak against the colder evenings. His fellow officers, all bearing the same faint sense of depression, played cards and drank wine when it was available and speculated on their chance of exchange, on conditions in England and on when, if ever, they might see their wives and families again.
Transports arrived and the transport board sent an escort of Portuguese militia to take the prisoners by river on wide, flat bottomed barges to join the ships. Damien went to find Dr Bishop to thank him again and the Englishman saluted and then offered his hand.
“Good luck, Lieutenant Cavel, I hope it’s a smooth voyage and an easy imprisonment.”
“You have been very kind, Doctor. Thank you.” Damien looked out the door at the weather. “I do not think it will be a pleasant trip on the river.”
“No, I’m afraid not. Probably fast though with the rain we’ve had for the past few days, the river is very high.”
It took time to load the prisoners into the boats and standing shivering on the banks watching the laborious process, Damien wondered how many of them would be ill again before they reached the transports. He had no hat, it had been lost on the battlefield, probably looted with his coat and he pulled the thin cloak around him and waited his turn. There were five hundred officers and men, some from Salamanca and others brought in from smaller skirmishes or just picked up in small parties. The Portuguese militia watched them carefully. There was none of the laughter or banter or small kindnesses that the British medical staff had shown and Damien understood why. These men had lived under French occupation, had watched their homes burn, their food stolen and far too often their women raped. They had no sense of kinship with the French troops and he wondered if the small contingent of British infantrymen were there to guard the prisoners or to protect them.
Huddled finally in the barge, Damien looked back as the current swirled them out with the crew steering a course to follow those already gone. The rain was so heavy it was difficult to see the shore or indeed the other boats and he peered through the curtain of water.
“Bloody country,” Captain Bisset said beside him. “Either it rains or it’s baking, there’s no halfway. Perhaps England will be better.”
“Have you ever been?” Damien asked.
“I have,” an older man said. “Spent some time there as a boy. I liked it but the food was terrible.”
“It can’t be any worse than here,” Bisset said and there was laughter. A Portuguese oarsman turned to glare at them and then looked back quickly at a shout from the pilot. Damien understood no Portuguese and had never troubled to learn although he could make himself understood in Spanish.
They were moving quickly on the current, the shore no longer visible, and Damien hoped that there would be a chance to dry out before they were herded aboard the prison transports. Ahead of him he could hear Lieutenant Giroux coughing and he wondered if the man would make it to England alive.
The crash happened without any warning, the barge spinning in a sudden surge of water and hitting an object at great speed. Damien had no idea what it was but there was an ominous crack of splitting wood, and a yell and then water rushed up towards him. The barge had broken across the centre with both sides tilting crazily into the water and he could hear the cries of terror and pain of the men around him as they were pulled in to the grey torrent of the water.
Damien struggled out of the cloak, stood up on the edge of the wooden plank seat, peered through the water and then dived. Something struck his arm hard as he hit the cold water, sending a jolt of pain through the already injured limb but he made himself ignore it and struck out strongly. If he did not get away from the smashed wreckage of the barge quickly he was at risk of being pulled under either by the huge chunks of wood being tossed around in the water or by one of the men, struggling for their lives in the midst. He saw, as he struggled past, what looked like the shape of an enormous tree trunk in the centre of the chaos and he supposed it had come down in the storm and been carried along in the fast current.
They were screaming some of them, helpless in the maelstrom of swirling grey water, broken barge and thrashing arms and legs. Damien did not look back; he could do nothing to help them. Some of them might survive if they could swim or were lucky enough to be able to catch hold of a makeshift float. Already he could hear shouts from the barge behind following up, it’s crew trying desperately to avoid either striking the wreck and being wrecked themselves or hitting the men floundering in the water. Above them the rain continued to fall and Damien swam, following the current at an angle towards the shore.
He had learned to swim as a boy, through long summers with his grandparents on their farm. A river had wound its way across their land and every year one or two venturesome children were lost to drowning. His grandfather had been determined it should not happen to him and by the time he joined the army he was a powerful swimmer. It was not easy in this torrent, weighed down by his clothing, but if he stopped to try to remove his jacket or his boots he was afraid it would be too late. So he relied on the strength lent to him by sheer desperation to keep himself afloat and fought his way towards the shore.
He was thrown, finally, in a muddy swirl onto a stony bank. Steep sides rose above him and Damien, who could never remember feeling more exhausted in his life, dragged himself up and crawled on hands and knees up the bank. Finally, the rain seemed to be easing a little and was more of a fine mist although visibility was terrible. More than anything he wanted to lie down and give in but he knew that if the water rose again he was at risk of drowning while he was unconscious. He used bushes, trees and rocks to scramble up the bank, feeling his way, his hands cut and bleeding on sharp edges and thorns. And then he was there, muddy grass under him but solid ground, and he collapsed and lay still.
Damien awoke some time later. The rain had stopped but the land was covered by a thick fog. There was no sound now but the quiet rush of the river below. He was soaked and shivering so much he could hardly stand, and he pushed himself up, conscious of a terrifying weakness. Whatever had happened to the men in the water had long passed, the sky was darkening through the mist and it was evening. If he lay where he was he would probably be dead of cold by morning.
Stumbling like a drunken man he began to make his way inland. He had no idea where he was or how far from the British army camp but he was unlikely to be able to find his way back there in this weather. He needed shelter; warmth was unlikely in this appalling weather but even a dry barn would be better than this. Food would help but he could not go to some farmhouse and beg for help. The French were so hated here that he was more likely to get his throat cut than a place by the fire.
Damien thought that he must have been staggering for about twenty minutes although it was impossible to be sure, he had lost all sense of time, when he saw the light. It was dim, glowing yellow through the haze. He paused, trying to clear his head which was throbbing. Approaching the farm was a huge risk, but if he could remain undetected he might be able to steal some food and find shelter in an outbuilding. With rest he would be able to think more clearly and decide what to do next.
Close up, he could see a small house, whitewashed with a slate roof, crouching in the midst of a muddy farmyard. There were several buildings nearby, a barn and what looked like a henhouse. Damien moved forward very cautiously. No sensible householder would be out in this weather and night was falling rapidly, but he was suspicious of every sound.
He was almost at the door of the dark barn when disaster struck. Unsteady on his feet and in the darkness he had failed to see the long wooden shape of a broken hoe until he stepped on it. His feet shot from under him and he uttered a cry, quickly cut off but too loud in the darkness.
It could have been heard in the house and with a lamp lit there was clearly someone at home. Damien scrambled to his feet and made for the nearest building, a brick built structure which proved to be a tool shed. He ducked inside and stood very still, peering out through the broken door as the door to the house opened and a figure stood silhouetted against the light.
“Cristiano, is that you?” a voice called and a shock ran through him as he realised that the voice was that of a woman and that bizarrely it was speaking English. “Cristiano? Maria?”
There was silence in the enveloping fog and Damien’s brain, numbed by cold and pain, sprang suddenly into life. The voice was tremulous and afraid and he knew suddenly, with complete certainty that this woman was alone here. He stood very still, listening. Nobody replied. She was calling for people she knew but they were not coming and the silence made her afraid.
It changed everything. Inside the cottage was light and probably warmth and food. It was still a risk. The unknown Cristiano and Maria might be close at hand, but once he was inside with this lone female it would be easier to deal with attack. Damien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady his shaking limbs and find some strength. Then he stepped out of the shed and ran to the door of the house.
She had seen his movement and she was very quick, closing the door with a faint sound of alarm. But desperation lent him strength and speed and he had his foot in the door before she managed it. She wrestled with it briefly and Damien shoved hard. The woman fell back with a cry of pain and he was inside, slamming the door behind him. There was a wooden bar which would not hold off an army but might well keep Cristiano and Maria out for a while and Damien pushed it into place and turned, leaning his back against the door to keep himself upright and surveyed the candlelit room and his prisoner who was scrambling to her feet, her eyes on his face.
It was a shock to find that she was younger than he had expected, probably in her twenties, dressed in black. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, long and straight and a bright red gold. Her eyes were cat green with flecks of gold in them, wide with terror, and her skin was pale with a dusting of freckles.
“Who are you?” she asked, but he could see her eyes on the soaked blue of his jacket and she knew the answer. “What are you doing here?”
“Seeking shelter,” Damien said. “Are you alone?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. No. My husband is upstairs asleep but he has a pistol. And my servants are close by…”
It was a brave try and he applauded her but the expression in her eyes showed it a lie and Damien pushed himself off the door.
“You lie to me and I will cut your throat,” he said quietly. “I am a French prisoner – escaped, I suppose – and I am in need of food and warmth. Do as you are told and I will not touch you. Try to get help and I will and you will not enjoy it. Which is it to be, Mademoiselle?”
She did not seem to be able to speak for a moment but she nodded. Damien gave a faint smile, trying to hide his relief. He was reasonably sure if he had tried to attack her she could have fought him off with ease and probably killed him.
“Are you alone?” he asked again.
“Yes.” She had found her voice.
“No husband or servants?”
She shook her head. “No. The farmer and his wife went to Lisbon, to market. They were going to stay with her sister. I thought when I heard you…”
“And the husband?”
“Is dead,” she said, and this time he knew she spoke the truth. The black velvet of her gown, trimmed at the hem and neckline with silver grey embroidery made it obvious. It might also explain the mystery of a young Englishwoman alone in Portugal.
“Anybody else?” he asked.
“No. Truthfully.” The girl’s eyes were studying him. Suddenly she said:
“You are ill.”
Damien nodded. “Yes. I have been wounded and then tonight in the river…”
He broke off and stood regarding her for a moment. Then she moved.
“Sit down, I will build up the fire.”
She moved to the fireplace, reaching for a stack of wood on the hearth and Damien moved to a wooden bench and sat down closing his eyes. He realised he was shaking violently with reaction; partly relief at being inside in the warmth and the dry and partly a sense of shame at having threatened a frightened woman. He knew that many of his countrymen would have seen it as a gift to find a young and attractive female alone in the cottage. Damien wished he could reassure her that she was safe.
The new heat from the fire reached him. He heard her move across the room and opened his eyes, turning. “Where are you going?”
She regarded him. “There is wine in the kitchen. And some food.”
“I will come with you.”
“You do not look as though you will make it that far…is it Captain?”
“Lieutenant Damien Cavel, Madame.”
She nodded then indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “You were right, I’m alone,” she said. “In the dark and in this weather – where would I go? May I trust you?”
“Yes,” Damien said. “Madame, I am sorry. I am desperate…”
She nodded. “Wait there.”
He sat quietly, his eyes closed, savouring the warmth of the fire. She seemed to take a long time and he wondered if, after all, she had fled. He had no idea if there was a horse on the premises but suddenly he found it hard to care.
He opened his eyes, startled, and realised that he had fallen asleep. She stood before him, holding out not, as he had expected, a plate of food but instead a bundle of clothing.
“My husband’s. You will make yourself ill if you sit around in those clothes. I will be in the kitchen. It is warm there, there is food.”
“Madame…” Damien was appalled. “I cannot use these…”
“He has no use for them now.”
She left and Damien shook out the clothing. He stripped off his soaked clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor and pulled on the shirt and trousers feeling almost childish pleasure in the sense of clean dry clothing. His boots were still soaked and after a moment’s consideration he set them before the fire and draped his wet clothing over the chair then ran his hands through his dark hair and padded through to the back of the house in bare feet.
It was a typical farm kitchen, wooden beams with bundles of herbs drying, a huge fireplace with spit and a brace holding an iron pot over the flames and a long wooden table with benches either side. Damien paused and the woman turned and indicated the table.
“Sit,” she said.
He obeyed and she spooned stew into a bowl and brought it to him. There was bread and a crock of butter and it smelled good; better than anything he had eaten since he had been captured at Salamanca. He tried not to snatch at the food but he was too hungry to be delicate. The woman watched him eat and then brought a bottle to the table and poured wine into a glass.
When the edge was taken off his hunger, Damien looked up. “Will you sit?” he asked. “I feel like a boor eating and drinking while you stand.”
She moved forward and collected a second glass, poured wine and sat. “I thought you were going to cut my throat,” she said, and Damien found a smile, to his surprise.
“I was not very convincing,” he said apologetically and was astonished when she laughed.
“You were. I was very frightened for a while. I may be wrong, Lieutenant, but you do not look like a man who is going to hurt me. But I do not understand how you are here.”
Damien studied the distinctive face. “I also, Madame,” he said. “Because you are English, are you not?”
The woman sipped the wine, watching him finish his meal. “I am. My name is Wentworth. Elizabeth Wentworth. I came out to see my husband. He was an officer, a Captain. Wounded at Badajoz. He died four weeks ago of his wounds. It took a long time.”
Damien was filled with immense sadness. “I am so sorry, Madame. To come so far. But forgive me, surely you did not travel alone?”
“I had nobody to come with me,” the girl said. “His commanding officer wrote to me. He was very ill, too badly hurt to be moved far. They do not usually keep officers in the hospital you know, alongside the men. He was billeted at this farm and Maria – the farmer’s wife – had been caring for him. I came to nurse him but it was only a few weeks…”
Damien set down his spoon and pushed the bowl away. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That was so good.”
The green eyes studied him. “I have told you why I am here. You said you are an escaped prisoner?”
Damien smiled tiredly. “By accident,” he said. “It is not a very exciting story.”
“Tell me anyway,” Elizabeth Wentworth said.
Damien did so, beginning briefly with his wounding and capture at Salamanca. She listened quietly, the green-gold eyes on his face as he told it.
When it was done he sat silent and exhausted, sipping his wine. Eventually she said:
“What will you do now?”
“I do not know,” Damien admitted. “I could find my way back to the prison camp. Some of the men must have survived the river, they were probably taken there. Another wait for transports to England. Or I could try to make my way north to find the French army again. Hundreds of miles through country where my army is hated and the partisans wish to kill me – probably very slowly. And I have no news – I do not even know where we are. The British won at Arapiles – they may have taken Madrid by now.”
“A fool’s errand,” the woman said.
“The farmer and his wife…?”
“They will want you gone,” Mrs Wentworth said. “They hate the French. But they took their harvest to market. I am not expecting them back for a week at least.”
Damien was silent, studying her. “You should not be here alone, Madame,” he said finally, quietly. “It is too far from the town. While your husband lived, I understand. But now, you should find accommodation in Lisbon until you can…”
“I have no money for accommodation in Lisbon, Lieutenant,” the woman said, and suddenly she looked very young and very tired. “What I had, I spent on the journey and caring for Charles. The army will arrange my passage home when there are transports – they will send an escort, they have said. This is cheaper than a room in Lisbon.”
“And when you reach England?”
“I have an aunt I can stay with for a while. I have been living with her while Charles was out here. Eventually, I am told there will be a small pension. I thought I might seek a position as a governess or companion.”
“Your parents? Or his? Can they not…”
“My parents died some years ago. Charles married me against his parents’ wishes, they have never accepted me. It sounds far worse than it is, Lieutenant Cavel, I shall not starve. But when Maria said I might remain here until I have passage home it seemed to make sense.”
“Until this evening when you might have been raped and murdered by an escaped French prisoner!” Damien said. He felt angry that she should have been placed in that position. “One might think this commanding officer of whom you speak would have…”
“He knows nothing of it, sir. The regiment is in the field with Lord Wellington, I have not written of my small troubles and I shall not; I’m not a beggar. He has written to Horse Guards about my pension and has assured me he will see that it is paid. Beyond that, I am not his concern.” The surprising green eyes softened slightly. “But don’t think that I do not realise I have been lucky this evening. Are you all right, you are shivering again?”
He had been aware of it for a while, reached for the wine and drank more. “A fever. I was ill for some weeks, have been better, but I think the soaking….”
Cautiously he tried to move his left arm and realised that it was agony to do so. Elizabeth Wentworth got up.
“You are in pain,” she said. “Come, I’ll show you where you may sleep.”
“Madame, I can sleep here.”
She did not reply, merely picked up a candle and waited. Damien rose and followed her. The stairs of the small farmhouse were narrow and dark and he had to stoop his tall frame to avoid hitting his head. She did not have the same problem, she was small and slight and he thought suddenly of that other delicate-looking Englishwoman who had proved to have the strength of a lioness and found himself smiling.
There were two rooms above and she pushed open one of the doors. “This is where Maria and Cristiano sleep. They will know nothing about this. Go.”
It was a bedframe, roughly made from local oak, with straps supporting a straw filled mattress and blankets and pillows neatly folded so that the bed could air. Damien stared at it, trying to remember the last time he had slept in a bed. He turned to see her setting the candle on a wooden chest.
“I know the French are taught to live off the land and these people – and I – are your enemies,” she said. “Please don’t steal from them. There is enough food and when you are ready to go you may take what you like from my husband’s clothing, he has no need of it now and he was much of a height with you. Rest and if you need me I am sleeping in the next room.”
Damien was studying the pale face in the candlelight. “You are not my enemy and I do not know anything of these people. Thank you, Madame. I hope I will be better tomorrow. You have probably saved my life tonight.”
She gave a very slight smile. “You have definitely spared mine, sir.”
She turned to go and Damien moved to the bed. A blanket in his hand, he turned.
“Do you miss him very much?”
Elizabeth Wentworth stood framed in the crooked doorframe. “No,” she said, surprising him. “Although I could only admit that to a complete stranger such as yourself. How can I miss a man I barely knew? I was seventeen when we eloped and I had known him for two months then. He was handsome and dashing and I thought I loved him. He was also about to join his regiment to sail to Portugal with Sir John Moore. I was settled in lodgings and I waved him off proudly. That was four years ago. I have not seen him since. He wrote me a total of ten letters during that time. He sent me money occasionally but not enough, I have survived teaching music and drawing and running errands for wealthy widows. And on the occasional gift from my poor aunt who can ill afford it herself. His family do not receive me and would not even lend me money to travel here when I had word that he was so badly wounded. And when I arrived to nurse him, he was delirious and barely recognised me. He was also riddled with the pox, so I imagine that he had not missed me either.”
“Oh no,” Damien said softly, his own misery forgotten. “Oh cherie, I am so sorry. To come so far and for that. He did not deserve you.”
His compassion seemed to startle her. “You don’t know me, Lieutenant. How do you know what I deserve?”
Farm of Cristiano and Maria Guedes, Portugal, 1812
The bedrooms were cold compared to the heat of the rooms below. Elizabeth went down to bank the kitchen fire and extinguish lamps and candles, taking one up to the tiny box room which she had occupied since coming to Santarem. She removed the black mourning gown and took off her stays then wrapped a thick robe around her and got into the narrow bed. Four weeks ago Charles had breathed his last in this bed and she had stripped and washed the linen herself, not wanting to make more work for Maria who had been kind enough already. She sensed that they wanted her gone once her husband had been buried but they were too good to say so. Their trip to Lisbon had been a regular necessity to sell the produce of the small farm but she suspected they would remain with their family for as long as they could. She had been told that a passage would be available for her within the month and the Lisbon quartermaster would send one of his men with a cart to escort her to the ship with her small trunk.
Elizabeth had not liked being left alone at the farm, but it had also been a relief. She had grown up in the country and had willingly agreed to feed the few animals and take care of the house. It was the least she could do to repay their kindness since their last farmhand had left to join the Portuguese army eight months ago and there was no other help locally. Feeding the goats and milk cow and chickens occupied little of her time. She wrote letters, one to her aunt accepting her generous offer of a bed in her own small house until she might make other arrangements and another to Charles Wentworth’s family, telling them of his death and his burial. They would probably not respond but Elizabeth would have known she had done the right thing.
There was a small sum of money, raised through auctioning Captain Wentworth’s personal possessions, and a one-armed Major of the cavalry had ridden out to give her the money. She had seen his eyes brighten at finding the widow young and personable and she suspected that if she had given him the slightest encouragement he would have ridden out again but she did not. Four years of marriage to a soldier had convinced Elizabeth that if she did ever marry again it would not be to a man in a red coat.
She wondered if the French officer was married. Once the initial terror had eased, she had found nothing threatening in the tall, slender dark haired man with steady grey eyes. Any fear of him harming her had vanished very quickly. Four years alone had accustomed Elizabeth to all manner of impertinences from men who very clearly believed that a woman whose husband had been away for so long must welcome their attentions and she had grown very good at sensing danger. She sensed no threat from the exhausted Frenchman with the surprisingly good grasp of English and in practical terms his presence here for a few days might keep her safe. It was improper for her to be staying in a deserted cottage unchaperoned with him sleeping in the next room but since nobody would ever know of it, it could hardly hurt her reputation.
She slept finally, waking as the dawn filtered through the badly fitting shutters at the small window and rose to dress. The black velvet gown was the only mourning she possessed, saved from the death of her mother several years earlier and she would not wear it about the farm. Instead she donned the practical green wool and the sturdy boots and bundled her hair up into a knot then went down to build up the fire in the kitchen before going outside into a fresh dry dawn with the promise of a sunny day to begin the chores of the farm.
When she came back inside later, hungry and ready for breakfast she was faintly surprised not to see the French officer already down. She had moved his jacket and boots into the kitchen to dry properly and bundled up the soaked, filthy linen to be laundered. Now she took off her cloak and went up to her room. There was a box under the bed which contained the remains of her husband’s clothing and she unpacked it, piling it up neatly folded. She had not given the clothing to be sold with the rest of Charles’ effects. It had little value and she had thought she might give it to Cristiano when she left as thanks for his hospitality. Now she carried the small pile, a couple of shirts, some underclothing, woollen stockings and a spare pair of serviceable grey trousers to the other door and knocked.
There was no reply. Elizabeth knocked again and then pushed the door open very cautiously.
“Lieutenant Cavel? Are you awake? I have brought…”
The sight of him on the bed froze the words. He had thrown off the blankets in the night and lay uncovered still dressed in the shirt and trousers she had given him. They were soaked with sweat and his face was flushed and burning. He did not appear conscious and Elizabeth dropped the clothing onto the chest and ran forward.
“Oh lord,” she said, feeling the burning damp of his forehead. “Lieutenant? Mr Cavel, can you hear me?”
The eyes opened, staring at her in confusion and he spoke in French. Elizabeth spoke enough of the language to be able to teach children the basics but his rapid words made no sense to her. It did not matter. He was ill and it was clear that after four weeks of exhausting nursing, she was going to have to go through the process again. She felt a stab of resentment at the thought and then she sighed and turned to find the discarded bedclothes. She could hardly leave him like this.
The routine was familiar by now and resigned, she fell quickly into the pattern of caring for a fever patient; washing him, changing the bed sheets, changing his clothing and patiently spooning water and other liquids between his dry cracked lips. The fever burned fiercely for three days and Elizabeth wondered if, like Charles, he had already been weakened too much by his wounds and his previous illness to survive. But unlike Charles he was clearly a fit and healthy man in all other ways and on the fourth day he slept more easily, his body no longer racked by violent shivering and his brow cool and dry.
Elizabeth sat beside the bed, watching him. Like this he appeared younger than she had first thought, probably no more than thirty or so although his contained manner had made him seem older. She was twenty-two herself and had been told often that she seemed older than her years, which was less flattering to a woman than a man. Once again she wondered if he had a wife waiting for him back in France. She suspected that the answer was yes, there had been a name he had mentioned more than once in his fevered ramblings and she hoped that Anne, whoever she was, appreciated this unassuming man.
He awoke properly late into the evening. Elizabeth had brought the lamp from the kitchen into his room and settled herself to mend one of the shirts she had washed. She was wrapped in her shawl; the heat from the kitchen barely filtered up to the bedrooms. Seeing him stir she looked up and into bewildered grey eyes.
“Madame Wentworth. What in God’s name are you doing here?”
Elizabeth smiled and got up, putting down her sewing. “You’re awake. That’s good. And you have also remembered your English which is even better because you have made me realise how rusty my French has become these past days. Wait there, I will bring you a warm drink now that you can taste it properly.”
She left him and when she returned he had managed to pull himself into a sitting position. Elizabeth handed him the cup of milk with honey and a little brandy and watched him sip it.
“This is very good, thank you. My throat is so dry. How long have I been ill?”
“This is the fourth day.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I’ve been here four days? I need to leave tomorrow, the farmer and his wife are going to be back…”
“No, they are not,” Elizabeth said calmly. “I received a message from Maria yesterday to tell me they will be at least another week. Her sister has just given birth and they are staying to help and for the baptism. Senor Dias, who has a farm eight miles further up river stopped by on his way back from Lisbon to tell me.”
“Leaving you here alone?”
“I think they are making the most of a holiday. They farm this place alone, you know, they must seldom have the opportunity to leave it because of the animals. All their farmhands left to join the army or the militia. I suppose that with the harvest brought in and taken to market there is little to do here. And I am happy to help them, they were very good to me when Charles was dying. In a few weeks I shall be gone but I will always remember how kind to me the people of Portugal were. Do you feel able to eat some broth?”
“Thank you. I am not sure they would be so kind if they knew you were harbouring an escaped French prisoner.”
“They have no need to know. And you have no need to leave until you are a little stronger. I’ll bring the broth.”
She returned with it and found him holding the half mended shirt. “You are mending my clothes.”
“It was badly torn.”
“And you have also changed them. I was not wearing this nightshirt when I got into bed that night.”
Elizabeth flushed slightly and dropped her eyes. “I could not leave you as you were, you were shivering. I am sorry…”
“Do not apologise, Madame, you have probably saved my life. Again. I am sorry to have been such a charge on you. I will leave as soon as I am able.”
“You have been less trouble than my husband, sir. Are you…do you have a wife at home?”
He smiled. “No. I was young when I joined, have been in the army all my adult life. No time to marry.”
“I wondered. There was a name you mentioned when you were ill. Who is Anne?”
She saw his eyes flicker in surprise. “Anne? Oh. I must have been dreaming, I suppose.”
“An old love or a current sweetheart?” Elizabeth said lightly, teasing, but he did not smile, shook his head as if trying to clear it.
“Neither. A woman I liked very much.”
“I am sorry, I have no right to pry.”
“No, it is not that. I am ashamed to tell you the story; it reflects so badly on some of my countrymen. But then you must know, I am sure, if you have talked to your hosts, that the French are hated for a reason.”
Elizabeth nodded, studying him. She wondered if she wanted to know. After a moment he said:
“I was still a sergeant, posted to a troop escorting supplies. Dull and often dangerous but essential. We had a new commander – a colonel of cavalry, Colonel Dupres. It was odd for a man of his rank to be given such a lowly posting and we all assumed it was a punishment of some kind.”
“And was it?”
“Yes. He had behaved very rashly, more than once, putting his men at risk without need because he felt some sense of rivalry with an English colonel of light infantry. They had clashed several times on the field and Dupres had lost and men had died. During the months I served under him I came to loathe him. He was a thief, looting houses and churches. He was a brute to local people in Portugal and Spain. Not just taking food and supplies; we all do that. But he would kill for sport and torture for fun. And he was a rapist. Any local girl he came across.”
“Oh no,” Elizabeth said softly.
“He was in command and many of the men followed him willingly. War makes beasts of so many, Madame. But there was a skirmish with a group of Spanish partisans and a small English escort, taking supplies up from Lisbon. We captured the English and killed many of the Spanish. The others fled. There was a woman with them – a young Englishwoman. She gave him her name, thinking she would be released as an officer’s wife. She was married to the colonel he hated.”
Elizabeth watched the shuttered expression on his face and wished she had not asked. “You don’t have to tell me any more.”
Damien gave a tight smile. “You will have guessed, I imagine. He slaughtered the remains of her escort in front of her and he took her with us on the march. For two weeks I watched him brutalise her. You do not want the details. Some of us tried to help her as much as we could and tried desperately to think of a way to get her free.”
“Did he kill her?” Elizabeth whispered. She was cold with horror, her own vulnerability out here suddenly real all over again. He shook his head.
“No, although eventually I think he would have. He was…he became obsessed with her. Would not release her. But the partisans had taken word back to the Allied lines and we were attacked one night by half a battalion of light infantry. They went through our men as if we were raw recruits. Dupres survived the battle but her husband challenged him when he realised what had been done to her and killed him.”
“Is that how you were taken prisoner?”
“No. She spoke for us, my captain and I, to Lord Wellington. The rest were sent to be transported but we were released to go back to the French lines with a letter of thanks and recommendation for what we had done for her. I was promoted and so was he. Then I fought at a battle just outside Salamanca and was wounded and taken again.”
“I am sorry, Lieutenant. Was she all right?”
He gave a little smile. “I think so. Hard for any woman to endure what she did, but she was unusual. And so was he. I have seen many men in love before but I do not think I have ever seen a man so enamoured as he. I hope they did well. I have seen death and horror. And rape, since many of our troops see nothing wrong with it. But that stayed with me. I got to know her and I don’t think I could ever close my eyes to it again after that.”
He had finished the broth almost without noticing it and she took the bowl from him gently. “I think you are a good man, Lieutenant. Try to sleep again now. No need to dream horrors about her, she sounds very well taken care of. But you have reminded me of how lucky I have been. Goodnight.”
Elizabeth was surprised at how quickly the Frenchman seemed to recover from his fever. He was up within two days, moving slowly around the house, washing himself and dressing and doing what he could to help her. After four days he was outside with her in the crisp autumn air, carrying the feed bucket and hunting for eggs. She found, to her surprise, that she enjoyed the company. He did not talk a great deal but his silences were restful and she felt comfortable with them.
During the evenings they would sit in the kitchen to save lighting two fires and she finished mending his clothing and watched, with some surprise, as he expertly patched the soles of his boots. She quickly realised that life on a farm was as familiar to him as it was to her, and he began, without asking, to effect small repairs about the place as if he, like her, felt a sense of obligation to the absent farmer and his wife whose hospitality was keeping him warm and fed.
He did not speak again of leaving and at the end of another week, Elizabeth felt the need to raise it. Autumn would soon move into winter and the farmer and his wife would return. She was daily expecting a message about her own passage home and was somewhat shocked to realise how little she wanted to go.
They had finished their evening meal and he got up to wash the pottery bowls and stack them to dry. Elizabeth was amused at the action. She suspected that Charles would never have thought to do it; he had remained a gentleman by instinct, waiting for a servant to clear up after him. His occasional letters had been full of grumbles about the lack of good orderlies and servants. Her own years of near poverty had taught her to manage most things alone, with a local woman coming in daily to do the heavy cleaning and she was an excellent cook.
“You cook very well, Madame, I am being ruined for army fare,” the Frenchman said, echoing her thoughts. Elizabeth smiled.
“I enjoy cooking. Lieutenant Cavel, have you decided yet what you are going to do? I do not mean to hurry you, but…”
Damien collected a bottle of wine and seated himself again. He poured for both of them. “I am telling myself that my work around the farm will make up for my free use of my unwilling host’s wine cellar,” he said. “It is very good; does he make it himself?”
“It is made in the village. They all contribute the grapes and share out the wine. Is this not what you call living off the land, Lieutenant?”
“It is too comfortable for that,” Damien said, laughing. “And in answer to your question, Madame, yes, I have decided. I am going to make my way back over the river and east towards Cadiz. I have no idea where I’ll find Marshal Soult’s army – or if I will – but I think it is the best choice.”
“Or you could surrender and go to England,” Elizabeth said suddenly. She had not meant to say it, but his words conjured up the reality; hundreds of miles of lonely marching without a weapon or an ally, through hostile countryside with no sure knowledge of where he might find his compatriots. “If the partisans catch you, they’ll kill you. And even the British might shoot you as a spy. It is a mad idea, Lieutenant, and I do not want you to do it!”
He smiled then, one of his rare broad smiles which made his face that of a boy again. “Madame, I am sorry. But I am a French soldier – I have been for fourteen years – and it is my duty to get myself back and fight for my emperor. As your husband would have done if he could. But thank you for your concern.”
Elizabeth got up. She was fighting back tears. “You will get yourself killed!” she said furiously, walking over to the fire. “And I do not want to know about it! Go if you must. I will remain here until Cristiano and Maria return and then…”
She heard him move and did not look around. Unexpectedly she felt his hands on her shoulders. “Stop it,” he said firmly. “I am not leaving until I am sure they are back. Or until a man in a red coat arrives to take you to the ship. I am not leaving you alone here.”
“It is not your problem, Lieutenant.”
“My name is Damien, cherie. We probably only have another few days here and nobody will hear you use it. Please.”
Elizabeth turned into his arms. “Did she teach you your English?” she asked, fighting the completely irrational sense of jealousy.
Damien laughed. “I already knew some, but she taught me a lot more. I think it helped to take the mind off the pain. Do not look so cross, Elizabeth Wentworth. She would be very happy to see me practising it on you. May I kiss you?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks were wet with tears. She reached up to cup his face with one hand and found that it too was damp. “I do wish you would,” she said.
They spoke little afterwards, having said all that they could. There was no way that she could persuade him and she understood it. If he were a man to take the safe and easy way, he would not be the man he was.
Damien had not meant it to end this way although he quickly realised, with rueful tenderness that on this occasion it was not going to be his decision alone. She moved around the room as she always did at the end of the evening, blowing out candles with housewifely care as he banked the fire and checked the door and shutters. It was a still, cold night and he followed her up the stairs and was startled as she turned not left into her own little room but right into the main bedroom where he had been sleeping. She set the candle down on the chest and turned to him, the green-gold of her eyes bright on his.
“We have so little time left,” she said. “And this may be all we ever have. I am not wasting it on propriety and morality.”
Damien looked at her for a long time. “And if you bear a child?” he asked.
“Then I will tell them it was my husband’s. A last and joyous gift. Nobody but I need know that he could not have done so.”
It quashed the last of his scruples although he was amused, as he moved to take her into his arms, to realise that she had thought of that well before this moment. He had been neatly ambushed by an English force and not for the first time. On this occasion there was no thought of fighting back and he let her draw him to the bed, into her arms and into joy without a moment of regret.
They lived the next three days in each other’s arms, leaving the bedroom only to eat and to perform the necessary chores of living. If this was to be all they had, he understood her need to savour it, simply to hold him. They talked, when they were not making love, telling details of their lives and families, of their history. He whispered endearments to her in French and taught her their meaning and she made him laugh when she used them back to him. They slept little, waking wrapped together in the big bed, not feeling the cold of approaching winter in each other’s arms. It was as though they had known each other for many years; as though these past weeks had been just the culmination of a growing attachment instead of the madness it really was. He had not wanted to fall in love with her and he had prayed that she would not fall in love with him; it could bring only pain to both of them, but it was far too late for such careful common sense.
Halfway through the third day he awoke to an unfamiliar sound and realised suddenly that it was the approach of a horse. He was abruptly alert again after days of simple happiness but she was quicker even than he, scrambling out of bed, wrapping a blanket about her and running to the window.
“Is it the farmer back?”
“No, it is Major Callen. I imagine with news of the transport. Stay here.”
She scrambled into her black dress, frantically combing out her hair and then went down to open the door with the red gold mass loose about her shoulders. Damien dressed quickly and quietly, hoping that the major was not a perceptive man. His love looked very different to the thin, sad widow he had encountered three weeks ago on a foggy evening.
When he was dressed he moved quietly to the door. Both voices were clearly audible in the tiny cottage.
“We’ll send a gig, ma’am, can borrow it from the commissariat, easier to bring your boxes that way.”
“I don’t have much, Major, but thank you, it is kind.”
“Won’t be until the day after tomorrow but it’ll give you plenty of time to make the transport. It’s a fast boat, sailing into Portsmouth, and there will be two other ladies on board, wives going home, so you’ll have female company. Once you’re there, I understand a carriage has been arranged to take you to your family.”
“My aunt lives in Winchester, sir, it’s not that far. Did you arrange this?”
“No, ma’am. Although I would have. I understand it was your husband’s brigade commander. He has also been on about your pension, hurrying them along.”
“In the middle of a campaign that is so good of him, Major.”
“He’ll have had some time, ma’am. Light division have been in Madrid for a couple of months, I understand. And he’s got a good reputation for taking care of his officers and men.”
“I am grateful. I’ll write to him when I am home to thank him. Major, thank you. I am a little worried about the farm – I’ve been taking care of the animals while the farmer is in Lisbon.”
“No need, ma’am. I’ll leave one of my lads here until they get back. Don’t worry, he’ll behave himself.”
“Thank you. I’ll make sure I’m ready.”
Damien was amused, through his sadness, at the major’s evident reluctance to leave. He did so finally and when the horse was out of sight, Damien put on his boots and went downstairs. She turned to look at him and he saw that she was crying.
“Oh ma mie. Come here.”
She flew into his arms and he held her close, murmuring endearments as she cried. There was little that either of them could say that had not already been said.
He moved through the next day like a ghost, helping her to pack and making sure the farm was secure and the animals in good condition. She had his clothing neatly washed and mended and had fashioned a bag out of old flour sacks for him to carry spares and food, slung across his back like a satchel. It was surprisingly effective and probably more comfortable than the worn out pack he had been used to.
They spent the night wakeful in each other’s arms and he thought, holding her close after making love, that if he never saw her again this moment would stay with him forever; the moment he knew without the slightest doubt that he loved her.
“Your aunt lives in Winchester, does she not?”
“Yes. I will probably look for lodgings nearby. She is the only family I have.”
“What is her direction?”
She twisted her head to look at him. “Her direction? She lives close to the Cathedral; my uncle was a cleric there. I can give you details…but why, Damien?”
Damien kissed her very gently. “I may not survive this war,” he said. “I may not even survive the next month. But if I do…one day I would like to come back to you, cherie. If you think…?”
Her mouth stopped his, the kiss leaving him breathless. “Yes,” she said. “I know it will probably never happen. But Damien – I won’t stop hoping. If I have a child…what were your parents’ names?”
“My father was Damien also. My mother was Colette.”
“Thank you. Both very good names.”
He wondered if this much heartache had ever killed a man and then laughed at his own melodrama. It was not like him and no man had ever died of a broken heart. But he had never realised before how much it hurt. “I love you,” he said, very softly.
“I love you too, Damien Cavel. Never forget it, will you?”
“Never. Take care of yourself, Elizabeth Wentworth. And our child, if there is one. If I live, I will see you again one day.”
He left early, not wanting to risk being caught by the arrival of her military escort. She remained upstairs, watching him from the bedroom window. At the edge of the big barn, on his way down towards the river and the ford, he turned and saw her standing there, already dressed in her mourning black. She looked beautiful in it, the warm colour of her hair framing her pale face. This far away he could not see her tears but he knew they were there, reached up to touch his own wet cheeks. Then he turned and walked on into the bright sunlit morning.
Freneida, Portugal, January 1813
Colonel Paul van Daan gave a theatrical groan as his orderly limped into the room and deposited a large pile of mail onto the table. “Take them away!” he ordered. “I spend half my bloody time either reading or replying to letters, none of which is helping us win this war. I need a secretary!”
His wife looked up from the small table on the far side of the room where she was running through a list of medical supplies and fixed him with an arctic glare. “I beg your pardon?”
Paul grinned. “Sorry, love, I know you’re better than any clerk. But honestly, look at this lot.”
Anne van Daan got up, stepped around the basket where her newest child dozed in a patch of winter sunlight like a well-fed cat, and went to sort through the pile. “Major Breakspear can deal with half of these,” she said. “This is from your father, hopefully giving us a date for his arrival. Those are for some of the other officers – Jenson, can you drop them over please. And this…I’ve no idea.”
Her blank tone made him look up again. “For me?”
“For me,” Anne said. He watched as she opened the somewhat grubby folded sheet. There was another letter enclosed, folded and sealed. Anne scanned the missive and the expression on her face made him smile.
“Well clearly that’s not just another delay in the uniform order,” he said. “What is it, love?”
Anne looked up. “It is from Damien Cavel,” she said blankly.
Paul raised his eyebrows. “Cavel? Sergeant Cavel?”
“Captain Cavel apparently. Currently serving in Marshal Soult’s army although he doesn’t say where.”
“Well he wouldn’t, would he?” Paul said. “May I see? Is it personal?”
“Not to me,” Anne said. She handed him the letter, looking down at the other one in her hand. “He is asking me to convey this letter to an Englishwoman living in Winchester.”
Paul read the letter twice and then looked at Anne. “He says he wants her to know that he is safe. A love affair?”
“I’m guessing so although don’t ask me how! Paul, what in God’s name are we going to do?”
Paul met her eyes and shook his head regretfully. “We can’t, bonny lass, although I’d like to. You know how grateful I am for what he and his captain did for you last year. But we’ve no idea what this contains. I’m sorry, but it’s for the intelligence service.”
Anne studied him for a long time. “All right,” she said finally. “Give it to George Scovell. He can do what he likes with any information in it, but we can trust him to be discreet about it; we can’t have this poor woman’s name shared with half the army.”
“If Cavel has been as careful in her letter as he is in this one there won’t be anything useful anyway. But this could be some kind of cipher, George will have to see it.”
“Will you take it up to him or shall I?”
“I’ll do it; I need to ride over to see Lord Wellington later anyway. Where’s Manson?”
“Practicing dry firing with the light company I think.”
“He can come with me.”
Paul made to tuck the letter into his pocket and his wife said:
“Will you do something for me, Paul?”
Paul studied her with some misgiving. “What?”
“Leave that on the desk and go and find Leo yourself, will you?”
“Nan. You can’t…”
“I’m not going to copy it directly. I’m going to see what it says and write to her myself.”
“You think this is genuine?”
“Yes,” Anne said. “I know Damien Cavel, Paul. He’s not an intelligencer, he doesn’t have the temperament any more than you do. If he’s managed to get a letter to me about this girl it’s because it means everything to him. And I owe him my life.”
After a moment, Paul nodded. “You’ve got half an hour. Seal it again properly, will you?”
His wife smiled sweetly. “Do you think I would not?”
“No. You do have the temperament to be an intelligencer. Oh – what’s the girl’s name, it doesn’t say it here?”
“Wentworth. Mrs Elizabeth Wentworth, a Winchester address.”
Paul blinked in surprise. “Wentworth. I know who that is. She’s the widow of Captain Charles Wentworth – he used to be with the 43rd but transferred over to the 112th just before Fuentes d’Onoro. He was badly wounded at Badajoz, sent back to Lisbon but died of his wounds. I didn’t know him that well but I’d heard his widow came out to nurse him. I wrote a few letters, chased up her pension and helped with transport home.”
“Pretty?” Anne asked. Paul laughed.
“No idea, bonny lass, I’ve never set eyes on her. It rather sounds as though Cavel has, though. She’s a real person and she was definitely out here which makes this unlikely romance a bit more plausible. Get it done and I know nothing about it.”
He left the room and stood outside for a moment, then looked back in. She had unsealed the second letter and was reading it. He saw her lips curve in a smile and he found himself smiling as well. After a moment she sat down, reached for her pen and drew a sheet of paper towards her to send the good tidings to a woman she did not know.
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.
Writing with labradors has undergone a few changes this week which will hopefully make the site easier to follow.
One new feature is thefreebies pagewhich now includes the first chapter of all seven published books. It also includes the first chapter of book 4 of the Peninsular War Saga. A Redoubtable Citadel comes out next month and takes Paul van Daan and the 110th through the horror of Ciudad Rodrigo Badajoz and puts Anne in the worst peril of her adventurous life. Read chapter one here.
A Redoubtable Citadel
In addition to the sample chapters, I intend to upload a few other freebies as I go along so watch this space for more Writing with Labradors updates and improvements.
I’m also intending to introduce a separate travel section for those of you who are interested in history and might be considering visiting some of the areas depicted in the books.
Thanks to all of you who are following both this site and the Facebook page, reading the books and taking the time to review and rate them on Amazon and Goodreads.
If you want regular updates, articles and information on history, travel, book reviews and a few freebies thrown in, you can now join the e-mail list here.