A Regimental Christmas: a Peninsular War Saga Christmas Story

A Regimental Christmas is a short story based in Lisbon during the winter of 1810-11 while Wellington’s army occupied the Lines of Torres Vedras against Massena’s French army and the Portuguese civilians who had fled behind the lines suffered and starved in the cause of scorching the land and driving the French out.  For readers of the Peninsular War Saga, this fits into book two, An Irregular Regiment, while Paul and Anne are based in Lisbon for the winter.

A Regimental Christmas

After two weeks of miserably damp weather, two days before Christmas dawned exceptionally bright, with wispy clouds decorating a brilliant blue sky.  It was cold, not with the freezing weather of England but certainly much colder than was usual for Portugal, and as Colonel Paul van Daan watched his wife emerge from the officers’ block to watch early drill, he could see her breath in the chill air.

There were twelve companies on the parade ground.  To the fore, neatly turned out and moving through the drill with immaculate timing was the light company of the 110th infantry under the temporary command of Lieutenant Michael O’Reilly.  At the sight of Anne, the Irishman saluted but did not pause in his work.  Anne stood watching, shivering slightly, and Paul looked around and saw one of her maids just coming out of the block.

“Captain Corrigan, take over, please,” he said.  “Keren, do me a favour and get my wife’s cloak, would you?  She’s going to freeze out here like this.”

“Yes, sir.”  Anne’s maid disappeared into the block and Paul took his wife’s hands between his. 

“Gloves?” he enquired and Anne laughed.

“I do own some.”

“In order to work, they need to be on your hands.  You’re hopeless, Nan.”

“I am.”  Anne was watching the drill.  “They’re looking better,” she commented.

Colonel van Daan turned, running an experienced eye over the companies.  In addition to his light company there was a company of new recruits, recently arrived from the second battalion, eight companies of the 112th infantry which had been in complete disarray when they arrived in Lisbon and the seventh and eighth company of the 110th who were serving directly under him for the first time.

“Better,” he admitted.  “They still need some work.”

Anne laughed, accepting her cloak from her maid with a smile of thanks.  “Paul, they are never going to be good enough for you.”

“They will when they look as good as my light company, girl of my heart.  What are your plans for the day?”

“Breakfast.  Then I’m riding into Lisbon with Caroline, I’ve some last minute shopping to do.  After that…”

“Take an escort.”

“Keren and Teresa are coming with us, Paul.  I…”

“Take an escort.  Don’t look at me like that, Nan.  I know Lisbon is usually very safe.  But just at the moment there are refugees dying in the streets.  It’s not a good place to be.”

Anne looked at him soberly.  “I know,” she said.  “I hate it, Paul.  Those poor people.”

Paul nodded, without speaking.  Retreating south after his victory at Bussaco, Lord Wellington had instructed the Portuguese population to go with him, leaving the land scorched so that Marshal Massena’s French army would have nothing to live on.  The success of this had been very mixed.  Some people had refused to go, believing they would be able to hide from the advancing French troops.  Others had fled as instructed, crowding behind Wellington’s defensive Lines of Torres Vedras, but too many of them had left food hidden, hoping to be able to find it when they were finally able to return to their farms and villages.  The French had become experts in discovering caches and it had enabled them to remain outside the lines for far longer than Wellington had thought possible.

Paul had expected to remain with his battalion up at the lines or possibly outside them patrolling the border along with General Robert Craufurd’s light division.  His battalion was still there under the temporary and very competent command of Captain Johnny Wheeler and Captain Carl Swanson but in the aftermath of Bussaco, Lord Wellington had given Paul the glad news of his promotion to colonel in charge of the 110th, a command that Paul had wanted, but not expected to achieve so young.

He had also given him a temporary posting for winter quarters which had been less welcome.  In preparation for the next campaigning season, Wellington wanted to ensure that his army was properly supplied with sufficient transport and instead of protecting the border with Craufurd, Paul found himself in Lisbon struggling with requisitions and orders and the knotty problem of the 112th infantry, a battalion which had been sent out under two very young and inexperienced officers.  The 112th had proved a bigger headache than the commissariat and the quartermaster’s department combined.  Many of them were ill with fever after their time in the Indies, discipline and training were appalling and there were only two officers to staff eight companies.  At times during the past few months, buried in paperwork and working insane hours to try to prepare the 112th for combat, Paul had contemplated shooting his chief.

Paul looked over at his wife, who was watching drill.  They had been married now for less than six months although he had known her for two years before that, but this would be their first Christmas as a married couple.  He was aware of a sense of guilt about his dead wife along with a sense of pure joy at spending the season with Anne.  Christmas on campaign often passed without more than a passing acknowledgement but this year was different.  They were away from the war zone and there was time to enjoy the season.  And he was with Anne.

“Is there anything I need to do, bonny lass?  I’ve a feeling this is the easiest Christmas since I joined the army.”

Anne turned, smiling.  “You’re all right, Colonel.  Get on with training.  Just remember we have this ball at Dom Alfonso’s tonight.”

“I’m trying to forget,” Paul said and she laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

Paul moved back towards his men, aware of covert smiles from some of them.  There were men of his light company who had been with him since he had first joined eight years ago and they had followed the difficult progress of his love affair with the lovely young wife of Captain Robert Carlyon with considerable sympathy.  Anne was not the only officer’s wife to have accompanied her husband to war, and not the only one to have found herself stranded in the middle of a difficult retreat, but in Paul’s experience she was the only one to have made herself quite so beloved by the enlisted men.  She had marched with his wounded and his light company through the difficult weeks of the retreat from Talavera and by the time she had been returned to her undeserving spouse in Lisbon, the 110th had adopted her as their own. 

A voice from the far side of the training ground interrupted his thoughts.  “Sergeant Williams!  Get them back into line, we’ll do that again, I’ve seen a flock of sheep with more precision!  Move it, you slovenly bastards, unless you want to spend the rest of Christmas practicing short order drills out here with me!”

Paul grinned and moved to stand beside Lieutenant O’Reilly of the light company.  “Mr Manson’s in good voice this morning,” he said softly.

“Mr Manson isn’t giving that lot an inch,” O’Reilly said, equally quietly.  “It’s working, too, they’re looking bloody good.  In fact, I might give them an outside chance against our seventh and eighth companies just now.”

Paul glanced over at the seventh.  “Where’s Longford?” he asked.

“No idea, sir.  Still in bed?”

“Even he’s not that stupid.”  Paul raised his voice.  “Mr Fenwick, where’s Captain Longford?”

“He’s in Lisbon, sir.  Was invited to dinner with the captain of the Berwick.  He sent a message just now with apologies, he was taken ill but will be back later.”

“Just in time to accompany his wife to this ball and with no time to do any bloody work!” Paul snapped.  “All right, Mr Fenwick, carry on.  See if you can run that again a bit faster, will you?  The French are surprisingly quick you’ll find.”

“Yes, sir,” Fenwick said woodenly.  He moved back to his company, yelling an order and Paul went back to O’Reilly who was grinning.

“He does not like to be told,” he said.

“No, he doesn’t.  But he’s getting better.  He’s a very good officer, it’s not his fault he’s been stuck with Longford all these years.  He knows they’re not as good as they should be and it pisses him off, but he’s a worker.”

“Unlike his captain.  You should leave him in charge of barracks tonight, serve him right.”

“It would.  It wouldn’t be fair on Caroline, though and she can hardly attend without him.  I’m leaving Sergeant Carter in charge of barracks.  I know officially there ought to be a duty officer, but sod it, it’s Christmas and the French aren’t going to invade.  If there’s a crisis, Carter knows where to find us.”

Paul had hired a carriage for his wife’s use while they were in Lisbon, although she seldom used it other than to attend evening parties.  The local Portuguese grandees were very hospitable to the English officers in Lisbon.  There were not many of them; most of Wellington’s troops were up at the lines, but there were a number of officers of the quartermaster’s department based in Lisbon along with a collection who were recovering from illness or injury.  In addition, there was a battalion of one of the Borders regiments who had recently arrived to replace their existing battalion, and a dozen or more officers who had been granted leave during winter quarters.

Dom Alfonso’s house was in the upper part of Lisbon, not far from the villa which Paul rented, an elegant white building with graceful arched windows and a red tiled roof.  Dona Juana had opened up the whole of the ground floor, with an orchestra playing in the largest salon for dancing and drinks and refreshments set out in several other rooms.  For Anne’s sake, Paul had invited Captain Vincent Longford and his wife to accompany them in the carriage.  His dislike of Longford did not extend to the man’s wife.  Although she had only been with them for a few weeks, Paul liked what he had seen of Caroline Longford and he knew that his wife was enjoying her company.  Anne did not make friends easily among the officers’ wives, many of whom tended to look down their noses at her unconventionality and to whisper behind their hands about past scandals, but if Caroline Longford had heard any of the gossip she gave no sign of it.

Paul glanced at his wife as they entered the brilliantly lit rooms to be greeted by their hostess.  Anne was dressed in white, trimmed with black embroidery and a black sash.  The gown was not new but the trimming was and he wondered whose idea it had been and who had done the embroidery, which was very effective.  It was definitely not Anne, who regarded household sewing and fine embroidery with equal disdain.  She wore her dark hair in smooth coils on her head pinned with one white silk rose and Paul was aware of male heads turning as they made their way into the room.

He led her first onto the dance floor, enjoying dancing with her, remembering the first time he had done so at her coming out ball in Yorkshire more than three years ago.  She had been seventeen and he had been on temporary secondment to the 115th Yorkshire, a man already married with two young children, who should not have been flirting with the lovely daughter of Sir Matthew Howard.  He met her eyes and she smiled at him.

“You’re a good dancer, Colonel.”

“So are you, Mrs van Daan.  I can feel them watching me here.  Once I let you go, I am not going to get anywhere near you for the rest of the evening.”

“Better make the most of me now then, Colonel.”

He grinned and raised her hand to his lips.  “You look very lovely, lass, I can’t say I blame them.”

The music ended and he surrendered her to his officers and went to join Captain Corrigan, watching as she danced her way through the evening.  He danced with Caroline Longford and with several Portuguese ladies and reclaimed his wife finally as the supper bell rang, neatly removing her from three disappointed ensigns of the Royal Marines.

“They’ll be crying into their wine,” he said, leading her to a table.  “Wait there, I’ll get you some food.  And if I find anybody else sitting there when I get back I’m going to challenge him.”

“You’re so dramatic, Paul,” his wife said, arranging her skirts elegantly.  Paul collected food and champagne and seated himself opposite her.

“Caroline is proving very popular,” Anne said, watching her friend who was seated at a table surrounded by a collection of young officers who were falling over themselves to provide her with supper.

“She is.  I don’t see her husband fighting them off, mind.  It’ll serve him right if she finds herself some pretty young officer of the line who will treat her properly.”

“I quite agree,” Anne said serenely, tucking in to cold chicken.  “After all, I did.”

Paul choked on his wine.  “Are you calling me pretty?” he demanded.  

Anne put her head on one side and surveyed him thoughtfully.  “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” she said.  “But you’re definitely easy on the eye, Colonel, especially in dress uniform.”

Paul was laughing.  “Make the most of it, girl of my heart, in a few weeks’ time you’ll have forgotten I was ever this clean.”

“Clean,” Anne said thoughtfully.  “Now that reminds me of something.”

“What?” Paul asked, faintly suspicious and his wife gave him a smile sweet enough to chill him.

“Nothing you need to worry about, love.  Do you still have that meeting in the morning with the Lisbon Council?”

“I do.  I’m trying to get them to set up a more organised system for supplying the refugees.  There is food coming in from England but it’s not getting to where it’s needed.”

She was smiling, sipping her champagne.  “It’s not really your problem, Colonel.”

“No.  And in a few weeks’ time I’ll have to leave it alone.  But at the moment…”

He broke off, slightly sheepishly and she laughed.  “Well I’m busy tomorrow.  But if you want me to come to a meeting with you after Christmas, Paul, let me know.”

“I wonder what they would say?” he asked.

“Oh they’d be appalled.  A woman applying herself to men’s business?  Shocking.  But that won’t stop me if you’d let me.”

Paul studied her for a moment.  He was thinking of his gentle sister-in-law, Patience, who was rearing his children and taking care of his father and brother and who had probably never once stepped out of her domestic sphere.  Anne’s willingness to become involved had surprised him when she had first arrived in Portugal with her first husband but he had become accustomed to it by now.

“Yes, why not?” he said.  “You’ll shock the hell out of them, but that might do them some good.  Come and dance with me, if you’re finished.  I’ve just remembered how much I love you.”

They left under a soft new moon.  Paul handed both women into the carriage and climbed in.  The streets were very dark and quiet under a midnight hush, and he reached for his wife’s hand in the folds of her cape and held it, feeling very content.  There had been times when he had railed against Lord Wellington for sending him on this posting, so far from what action there was, but tonight he felt a sense of gratitude to his commander for giving him this first Christmas with Anne beside him.  He knew that the idea would not have occurred to his chief, who had thought only of the job he wanted done, but it had given Paul a brief spell of normality with his new wife before the war overtook them again.

There was a squeal of carriage brakes, and the vehicle lurched suddenly as one of the two horses reared up, whinnying in fright.  Paul caught Caroline Longford who had been thrown forward and would have ended up on the floor.  His own wife had managed to steady herself without aid.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Captain Longford demanded.  “Sorry, ma’am, forgot myself.”

“Don’t worry about it, Captain.  Paul…”

“I’ll see,” Paul said, his hand already on the carriage door.  He jumped down onto the cobbled street and saw his coachman, lantern in hand, peering into the darkness.  “What happened, Jose?”

“Your pardon, Colonel.  Are the ladies injured?”

“No, they’re fine.  What is it?”

“Beggars, sir.”  Jose waved his whip in the direction of a huddled form by the side of the road.  “Stupid fool almost got herself killed.  Be off with you!”

The form shifted and began to move, hunched and shapeless in the darkness, and Paul hesitated, torn between a desire to find out if the woman was hurt and the wish to get his wife away from a dark street where anybody might be lurking.  Lisbon was generally very safe, but he was not naive enough to believe that some of the refugees might not be desperate enough to snatch what they could.  As he dithered, a sound emerged from the woman, a keening wail of distress.  The woman spoke quickly, trying to quiet the noise, and behind him Paul heard the carriage door open.

“Paul, what was that?”

“I’ll find out.  Get back inside, Nan.”

She had already jumped down and the lantern light picked out the gleam of pearls at her neck.  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

“Nan, get back in the damned carriage, I’m not armed and you’re wearing a small fortune around your neck and in your ears.  I’ll…”

His wife shot him a look which he could only partially see in the darkness.  He suspected he should be grateful for that.  “That was a child’s cry,” she said, and turned to the woman.  “Wait,” she called, in Portuguese.  “Are you hurt?  Let me see.”

The woman turned.  Paul could see nothing of her in the enveloping cloak apart from a flash of white face and enormous frightened eyes.  His wife moved forward quickly and Paul bit back his urge to yell at her and followed. 

“I am sorry, Senora,” the woman whispered.  Anne had reached her and Paul saw her kneel down on the cobbles. 

“Your children?” she asked.

“My sister and brother,” the woman said.  Her voice was hoarse, but Paul realised that she was younger than he had first realised.  “We are not hurt.  Your coachman was quick…”

“Let me see her,” Anne said, gently but firmly, and the woman allowed her to draw the folds of the cloak back.  “She’s ill.”

“Not fever, Senora, I promise you.  Just hungry.”

Anne placed her hand on the forehead of the child in her arms, and then reached down and took one of the hands of the boy.  He was probably five or six, Paul guessed, thin and shivering in a ragged jacket and bare feet.  He wondered suddenly how tall his own son had grown now and felt unexpectedly sick at the thought that Francis might be the same age as this skeletal child.

“I’m not leaving them here,” Anne said.

There was a challenge in her voice.  Paul heard it and felt himself smile.

“No.  But lass, we can’t be sure there’s no sickness here, it’s rife in the refugee camps and I’m fairly sure that’s where these have come from.”

“I’m not afraid of fever, Paul, I’m never ill.”

“I know you’re not, but Caroline might be.”

“Then I’ll walk back with them.”

“You bloody won’t.  God knows who could be lurking in some of these alleyways.”  Paul looked around, and saw Caroline Longford looking out of the window.  “Ma’am, don’t get out.  Look, I’ll stay with them.  Longford, get the ladies back to barracks, will you, and send the carriage back for me, it’s only ten minutes away.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Anne said.

Paul wanted to protest, but even a short time living with Anne had taught him the meaning of that particular tone of voice.  He sighed. 

“Get Caroline home, Longford,” he said.  “Jose, come back as quickly as you can.”

It was silent in the dark street once the carriage had rattled away.  Paul looked round at his wife.  The woman had sat down on the cobbles.  She was shivering violently, whether from cold or fear or some other cause that Paul could not see, he had no idea.  Anne crouched beside the boy.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Alfredo, Senora.” 

The child’s teeth were chattering.  Paul saw Anne reach for the clasp of her cape and stopped her with a gentle hand. 

“That gown wasn’t designed for a night under the stars, bonny lass.  Here.”

He took off his red coat and draped it around the boy who looked up at him from startled dark eyes.  Paul smiled slightly and crouched beside Anne.

“How old are you, Alfredo?” he asked in careful Portuguese.

“Seven, Senor.”

“I have a son a little younger than you.  And your sister?”

“Maria is two.  Francisca is fifteen.”

He was startled, realising that the older girl was no more than a child herself.  His wife was bending over the smallest child, talking gently to her sister, and after a moment the girl relinquished the child into Anne’s arms.  Paul watched as she shifted the burden onto her shoulder, wrapping the velvet cape around her.  He suspected that all three of them were filthy and probably crawling with lice but he had observed before how little such matters seemed to bother his wife.  Something about the sight of her, murmuring softly to the child, touched his heart and he wondered if he might one day watch her with their own child in her arms.  She had been married to her first husband for two years and had never conceived, while Paul had three older children, but there was no reason to suppose that she could not.

The sound of carriage wheels interrupted his thoughts and he rose and turned to the boy.  “That sounds like our transport.  Up you come, lad.”

He scooped the boy up and lifted him into the carriage then helped Anne and the older girl to climb in.  They were silent on the short drive back to barracks. 

Both his wife’s maids awaited their arrival having clearly been warned by Caroline Longford.  Paul stepped back and watched as she gave instructions for the care and accommodation of the refugees.  He knew that she would not relax until she had made sure that they were settled, so he took himself up to their rooms and poured a brandy, stoking up the fire.  She joined him around half an hour later, looking tired, and he observed that the white of her gown was muddy from kneeling in the street.  She saw his gaze and looked down, then up again, smiling ruefully.

“It might come out.”

“I don’t care if it doesn’t, love.  Come to bed, you look completely shattered.”

“I am.  No early bugle, thank God.”

Anne slept later than usual the following day and joined him as he was finishing breakfast.  She was dressed in one of the plain dark gowns she wore when working in the hospital and had the abstracted air of a woman with plans for the day.  Paul, his mind on the approaching meeting, kissed her and left, riding the short distance into Lisbon at an easy pace.  The air was warmer than it had been and it was a pleasant ride along roads lined with trees.

The meeting was less pleasant.  Paul was quietly seething by mid-afternoon when he set off to ride back to the barracks.  He knew that he needed to step back and let it go.  It had not been part of his brief from Wellington to get involved with the problem of Lisbon’s refugees and back with his regiment he would have no time or opportunity for further involvement but seeing the misery every time he rode into town made it impossible for him to ignore.

Riding through the archway which led into the Sir John Moore barracks, Paul reined in, aware of unexpected activity.  He sat his horse, looking around him, and the sight drove the refugees from his mind.

On the far side of the yard, two men were seated on upturned crates, while a barber worked on each of them with scissors and razor, bowls of soapy water beside them.  One, he recognised as Garner from the light company who had been a barber before joining up; the other was young and dark and probably Portuguese from one of the shops in town.  A queue of men stood patiently waiting, and Paul was astonished to realise that each one of them had damp hair and the air of men who had recently bathed. 

Further around he saw Charlton, one of several cobblers in his ranks, working industriously at his last.  Outside one of the barracks blocks, somebody had set up two long tables and there were piles of new kit laid out.  Behind it sat Corporal Hammond of his light company with Captain Corrigan, his temporary quartermaster beside him, checking off a list as Sergeant Carter and Sergeant Williams inspected the kit of each man queueing up.  These were the men who had already been washed and shorn and Paul, staring at them in complete astonishment, realised that he had probably never seen his men this clean all at the same time.

“You’re back nice and early, sir,” a voice said beside him, and Paul turned to see Private Jenson, his orderly, limping towards him.  “Shall I take him for you?”

Paul dismounted, unable to take his eyes from the neat lines.  “Jenson, what in God’s name is going on?” he demanded.

“Annual bath and kit replenishment, apparently, sir.”

“Is that…I mean does that happen?  I don’t seem to remember it happening before.”

“No, sir, nor do I.  But then you weren’t married to Mrs van Daan before.  She lined them up the minute you were out of here and had the officers and NCOs march them down to the river to bathe.  They bloody hated it, it was freezing, but who’s going to argue with her?  Nearly done now, sir, these are the last few.”

Paul could feel himself beginning to smile.  “What a bloody brilliant idea,” he said softly.

“Yes, sir.  Women and children too.  She’s bought half a dozen bolts of material from the warehouse in town for new clothing for them.  A couple of them were crying like babies.”

“I suspect they’ll be busy sewing for the next week or two.  Christ, they’ll wonder what’s happened when we get back to Pere Negro.  I wonder if she’ll try and do this to my entire regiment next year.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her, sir,” Jenson said placidly.  “Corporal Hammond is keeping a record of what gets taken from the stores…”

“Good.  Do me a favour and make sure the lads know it doesn’t come out of their pay.  I’ll make up the difference as a Christmas gift.  Although if they’ve lost half of it by Easter I will bleed the bastards dry for it!”

Jenson laughed.  “Yes, sir.  I’ll get him rubbed down and bring up hot water for you in a bit.”

“Thanks, Jenson.”  Paul looked around.  “Freddie?”

“Sir?”

“I was going to save this until tomorrow, but actually I’d rather do it now when it’s just us.”

He put his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a small item which he handed to Jenson.  “There’s a bottle of rum from my wife as well.  This is from me.  Happy Christmas, Corporal.”

Jenson looked down at the cloth in his hand and then up.  “Thank you, sir,” he said.  “Go and find your wife before she gets any more bright ideas.  Mind you, barracks will smell better than normal this Christmas.”

The weather had turned again the following morning.  Paul awoke early as usual, and slid quietly from the bed so as not to disturb Anne.  He went through to their sitting room to dress and then went to the window and was surprised in the early light to find the rosy glow of sunrise falling over a world turned white with a rare frost.  Lisbon could get cold at times but he had never seen it this bad and it made him smile, thinking of Christmas at home.  He missed his children at moments like this, and thinking of his last Christmas with them, when snow had fallen in Dublin, he missed suddenly, with an ache of loss, his pretty gentle first wife, Rowena, who had died giving birth to her namesake.  She had worn a fur trimmed cape that cold December and he had walked to church holding her hand and thought how lucky he was.  Going to the door of the bedroom he looked at Anne, asleep in a tangle of long limbs and black hair and wondered how one man could be that fortunate twice.

He went down to the mess and stood still in the doorway, looking about him in some surprise.

“You’re up early, sir.  Merry Christmas.”

Paul turned with a smile at his mess sergeant who was approaching with a mug of tea.  “Merry Christmas, George.  Who did all this?”

George Kelly looked around at the greenery which decked the long dining room and grinned.  “Mr Manson and Mr Grey with a few of the lads did it yesterday after dinner, sir.”

“I’d a feeling they were up to something.  How are our guests, any idea?”

“Doing well, sir.  Not much wrong with them apart from half starved.  Mrs van Daan went shopping for clothes for the children and she’s found a dress for the lassie.  She’s settled them in the infirmary for now, sir, she said it would be warmer.”

Paul nodded and set off across the frosty parade ground and between several of the barracks blocks to the infirmary.  He found Teresa, his wife’s Spanish maid already there and she was accompanied, to his surprise, by Sergeant Carter of his light company.

“Morning, sir.  Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Danny.  What the devil are you doing up at this hour?  Even I’m not calling early drill on Christmas morning.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, sir.  Came down to see if Teresa needed any help. We thought our refugees might like to come and have breakfast with the lads, sir.”

Paul surveyed the refugees in some amusement.  All three of them had clearly been bathed.  The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a rough woollen jacket which was a little too big for him and black slippers which looked a fairly good fit.  His younger sister was dressed in an embroidered linen dress like those sold in the markets in Lisbon with a warm woollen shawl about her shoulders.  She was seated on the lap of the older girl who wore a plain dark gown which Paul suspected was one of Anne’s winter dresses.

Paul looked at the older girl and summoned his Portuguese, wishing that he had studied harder or had Anne’s easy ability to pick up languages.

“It is Francisca, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you.  Your lady was so kind.  The children were starving.”

He could see, in the cold light of morning, that she had been starving herself.  Her wrists were stick thin and the bones on her face were too prominent, her face gaunt.  For all that, it was a face of some distinction, her hair newly washed, falling in red gold waves over the blue wool of the shawl Anne had found for her.  Her eyes were an unusual shade of green and she was small and delicately made.  He rather thought, that with a few weeks of good food and enough rest, she might prove to be a very pretty girl.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly.  “We’ll take care of you now, and when you’re all well enough we’ll make sure you’ve somewhere to stay and some work to keep you.  Where are you from?”

“Coimbra, sir, a farm about six miles from the town.”

“And your parents?”

“My mother died when Maria was born.  My father and another sister died this winter.  We had no food, sir, and they got sick.”

“I am sorry,” Paul said gently.  “Rest and keep warm.  We will take care of you.”

His wife joined him in the mess for breakfast, dressed warmly in green velvet, and he kissed her.  “Merry Christmas, bonny lass.”

“Our first,” she said.  “I’ve been thinking of Rowena, today, we had Christmas dinner with you last year.  Are you all right, Paul?”

He thought how like her it was.  “I’ve been thinking of her too,” he admitted.  “I can’t believe it was only a year ago.  And I can’t believe how good it feels to be here with you and how bad I feel that she’s not with me.  Very confusing.”

Anne took his hand.  “I miss her too,” she said gently.  “But she’d have wanted this, Paul.”

“I know she would.  Come and eat, love.”

They ate and then she went to speak to his officers to wish them happy Christmas.  Paul sat for a while, watching her move along the table and thought how easily she had fitted into his life and that of his regiment.

She stopped beside Lieutenant Manson, talking to him, and Paul saw him smile.  Manson did not smile enough.  After a difficult start in the regiment, he had begun to settle down and had seemed much happier but the arrival of Captain Longford had caused him to withdraw back into his shell.  Longford was unpopular with all the officers of the 110th but he had taken a particular dislike to Manson and Paul was very aware that he took every opportunity to make the boy’s life difficult.  Glancing over at Longford, Paul smiled at the expression on his face.  Anne’s obvious liking for his youngest officer did not help matters; Longford was patently jealous. 

With no English church nearby, Paul had managed to find a German minister who had agreed to give a Christmas service in English.  He had not made attendance compulsory for his men but he was faintly touched when they crowded into the empty barrack block where he had planned to hold the service.  Eventually Anne went to speak to Mr Gruber and his wife and some time was spent moving the proceedings out onto the parade ground where all the men could attend.  There was little organised religion in Wellington’s army, but Paul supposed that on this one day the familiar ritual reminded some of them of home. 

Christmas dinner was served in the mess with a good deal of wine and a lot of hilarity.  Over in the barracks the men would be eating their own meal, followed by dancing and probably a good deal more drinking through the evening.  It was good to be able to let them celebrate for once, without having to worry too much about sentries and the possibility of attack.

Aware that he was neglecting his social duties, Paul turned with a smile to Caroline Longford who was seated beside him, but realised she was looking beyond him down the room and he followed her gaze and saw, to his considerable surprise, Sergeant Carter in the doorway.  He got up.

“Carter?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Paul moved forward.  “All right, Sergeant.” He looked over at Anne.  “Carry on,” he said, and she nodded.  Paul went out into the hallway.

“What’s going on, Carter.  Don’t tell me the French have been sighted?”

“Not that I know of, sir.  If they’ve made it past our lads and the light division, I’ll be very surprised.”

“Well?”

“Sir – it’s the lassie.  The girl you brought in from town.”

Paul shook his head to clear it of the wine he had drunk.  “Francisca?  What is it, Carter, is she ill?”

“No, sir.  We brought them through to the barracks, sir – for dinner.  The women are in there with us eating.  Didn’t want to leave them alone.  Didn’t realise straight away – we’ve all had a few drinks, sir.”

“You and me both, Carter.  It’s bloody Christmas.  What’s happened?”

“She’d gone, sir.  Maggie Bennett offered to settle the little one with her boy, they were both exhausted.  The lad has taken a liking to Private Terry, following him around.  So none of us noticed for a while.  When we realised, Hammond took off after her.  He was worried, like.  Didn’t think she’d abandon the children.  Easy enough to follow her tracks, it’s been raining again.”

“Did he find her?”

“Yes, sir.  Not just her, though.”  Carter took a deep breath.  “She’d made off with some food.  Not that much – Christ, nothing we can’t spare.  There’s a camp, sir, just across the river.  No idea they were there.  We always use the widest part for water and bathing.  We were all down there yesterday, they must have heard us freezing our arses off in that water…a refugee camp, sir.  She was taking them food, it’s where she came from.”

Paul stood looking at him.  “How many?”

“About thirty or so.  Men women, about eight or nine children.  Looking at the state of them, I’d say they’ve lost a few.”

“Fever?”

“Starvation, sir.  And cold.  They’ve tried to make shelters out of blankets.  Sitting huddled together under the trees, shivering, soaked.  Waiting to die, I reckon.”

Paul took a deep breath.  His mind was suddenly clear, as if he were about to go into battle.  “Do you think they can walk, Sergeant?”

“Not the old ones, sir.”

“All right.  You have enough sober men to hitch up a couple of wagons and get them up here.”

“We’ll sober them up, sir.”

“Do it.  We’ll find blankets for them from the stores.  This Christmas is going to cost me a bloody fortune.  I’ll get my wife to organise opening up one of the empty barracks blocks and we’ll put a couple of braziers in there to warm it up.”

He turned back into the room and saw Anne coming towards him, her eyebrows raised.  “What is it?”

“Bit of a refugee crisis, love.”

He explained quickly and then left her to it, hearing her issuing crisp instructions to his junior officers.  Going outside he found his men pulling out two of the supply wagons, clumsy in places from too much wine and food.  Turning, he found Jenson leading out Rufus and his own horse.

“Thought you might want to ride down and see for yourself, sir.”

“I do.  Thank you, Jenson.”

It was less than ten minutes ride down to the camp, splashing through the ford and up a slope, slippery with soaked vegetation, to the pitiful enclave under the trees.  Paul dismounted and moved forward, finding the girl crouching beside an elderly woman with iron grey straggling hair, her black skirts soaked and her body shivering violently.

“My grandmother.”

Paul looked at her.  “Did you go into town to try to find food for her?”

“To earn it if I could.”

He understood with sharp distress.  “The children.”

“I can’t leave them here; they might wander off.  She isn’t well enough.  Alfredo will look after Maria while I…it doesn’t take long.”

“I wish you’d told us, lass,” he said.  “Come on, let’s get her up.  The wagons can make it to the top of the bank but we’ll have to get them up there.”

He carried the old woman up the slippery bank, appalled at how light she was in his arms and then returned to help some of the others up.  They were silent and bewildered, blank eyed and gaunt, no longer trusting in the goodwill of others and Paul was silently furious, fighting back tears as he lifted emaciated bodies up to his men on the wagons and then rode ahead of them back to the barracks where his wife waited in the doorway of an empty block with towels and blankets and the calm practicality which always seemed to him to be at war with the delicate beauty which would have made her the toast of London had she cared to return there.

They carried the remains of the Christmas feast from both barracks and officers mess and the refugees received roast pork and duck and George Kelly’s pudding as if they had never seen such riches.  Paul watched his wife supervising to ensure that they only ate a little at a time.

She sat, finally, on the bunk beside one of the men, a white haired man who could have been forty or eighty; it was hard to tell from his gaunt face.

“Senora, we are so grateful.”

“Hush.  You’re safe and we’ll make sure you’re warm and fed.  Rest tonight, you’ve nothing more to care about.  Tomorrow I’ll tend to any sickness.”

“God has sent you to us, Senora.”

Anne smiled and to Paul’s amusement, lifted the gaunt hand and kissed it.  “It’s Christmas,” she said.  “Perhaps he sent you to us.”

She joined him finally as the officers and men congregated around the fires which had been lit on the parade ground.  Private Flanagan was tuning his fiddle, and Paul took his wife’s hand.  “All right, bonny lass?”

“Yes.  I hope they’ll be all right.  I’m a bit worried about one or two of the older ones, but we’ll see in a few days if they improve with food and warmth.  Oh Paul, they were ten minutes away from us and we didn’t know it.”

“I know.  Christ, what a bloody mess.  I hope Wellington has got this right.”

“Paul, he’s doing the best he can.  We all are.”

The music began, an Irish jig, and Paul watched, holding her hand as his men and their women began to dance.  It warmed them in the cold night air, and shortly he saw Michael O’Reilly approaching.

“Ma’am, are you too tired…?”

“No, but she’s dancing with me first.  Piss off and find yourself a pretty Portuguese lass, I notice a few of them from the village have turned up.  Dance with me, girl of my heart.”

“You put it so nicely, Colonel.”

He took her hand and drew her into the circle by the firelight.  “Best make the most of this, lass.  God only knows where we’ll be this time next year.”

He left the thought unfinished, but she picked it up as he had known she would.  “And who will have survived the year?  Make sure you do, will you, Paul?  I’ve got very attached.”

“So have I, bonny lass.  Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Colonel,” Anne said, and in a swirl of black hair, she spun away from him and was caught up in the dance and the firelight and the temporary joy of the cold Christmas night.

An Irregular Regiment
Book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga

Lisbon, 1809 – an excerpt from An Unconventional Officer

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s army
Book 1 in the Peninsular War Saga

Lisbon, 1809

Riding down from the villa he arrived through the arched gate of the barracks. The place was teeming with men. Two companies were executing a tight drill in squares on the parade ground, and Paul reined in to admire their work. They were almost as good as his men, and he nodded approval to a grinning captain as he rode on past. In the distance he could hear the clicks of muskets as a company of infantry practiced dry firing out at the range. And ahead of him there was a tangle of wagons as two Portuguese carters delivering food and bedding locked wheels and began to shout loudly at each other, gesticulating wildly.
An English voice bellowed at the two men and Paul grinned, recognising the dulcet cockney tones of Private Danny Carter, formerly of the rifles and now permanently part of his light company. Like Paul’s other skirmishers from the rifles Carter flatly refused to change uniform and Paul did not try to make them. He still wore the white armband that Carter’s men had given him after his first battle, and he retained an immense fondness for the independent, obstreperous riflemen.
Carter’s voice rose above the two Portuguese.
“Jesus bloody Christ if ever I saw such a pig’s ear! Stop whipping the horses you silly bugger and hold still or you’ll have the winter feed for the officers’ horses used as carpet for the bloody Connaught rangers to dance on!” Carter had run to the centre to try to disentangle the two locked wheels.
Paul stopped to admire the chaos, but before he could ride forward to intervene there was a peal of laughter and a woman’s voice called out to Carter. “You’re making a worse mull of it than they are! Hold still and I’ll come down and help!”
She had called from an upstairs window of the officer’s block and Paul would have recognised her voice anywhere. In a moment she had arrived through the door and went quickly to the head of one of the frightened horses.
“Here, ma’am, you’re going to get hurt!” Carter said in a panic, worried, Paul knew, about whether he could somehow be held responsible for the injury to some officer’s mad wife. But the girl took the bridle of the frightened beast and spoke quietly to him. The carter lifted his whip and she held up an imperious hand to stop him.
“Stop that! It will frighten him. Stop and wait!”
The sense of her words if not the content was clear and the driver lowered his whip. Anne beckoned to Carter. “Come here and hold him. Gently, now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Carter had clearly just seen the girl properly for the first time, and Paul did not blame him for the expression on his face. She wore a white shirt, like a man’s, open at the throat, and a dark riding skirt, which emphasised the small waist and gentle curve of her hip. She had obviously run down without finishing her toilette because her hair was still loose about her shoulders and Paul remembered the feel of it under his hands and felt a stab of longing.
Carter took the bridle and Anne went to the other horse. Talking soothingly to him, she carefully backed him up, and Carter led the other horse to one side, separating the carts. The two drivers both burst into voluble thanks in Portuguese and Anne smiled at them impartially. One of them, the younger of the two, took a flower from the buttonhole of his dark jacket and leaned down to give it to Anne.
“Obrigada, señor,” Anne said, and the carter, who had the benefit of knowing that he would be gone before the lady’s husband reappeared, placed his fingers to his lips and blew her a dramatic kiss before driving off.
Anne stood twirling the flower between long elegant fingers. The other driver moved away and Private Carter came forward uncertainly.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Anne turned to look at him. Then she pointed at the retreating carter. “It’s all very well scattering flowers around to passing females,” she said, “but if he doesn’t improve his driving skills the next person he comes across is likely to be a fat choleric colonel with a riding crop and a bad attitude.” She tapped the flower onto Carter’s chest to emphasise her point and turned at the sound of an approaching horse. Shading her eyes against the sun she looked up at Paul. “And I notice that you kept well out of reach until the work was done.”
Paul was conscious of poor Carter, unable to take his eyes from the vivid laughing face. He swung down from Rufus. “I was admiring your technique,” he said.
“With the horses or the drivers?” Anne enquired going to Rufus’ head. “Hello, boy, how are you again?”
“Both,” Paul said. “Rufus is pleased to see you. He knows a woman who keeps carrot tops in her pocket.”
“He’s out of luck, I left my jacket upstairs,” Anne said. “How are you, Paul?”
“You know I do think we may have to find you a billet out of the barracks,” Paul said. “Now that I have seen you in action, I realise that it is a matter of keeping my men safe. Close your mouth, Carter.”
“Yes, sir,” Carter said. “You know the lady, sir?”
“To my cost. This is Mrs Anne Carlyon. Lieutenant Carlyon is on Sir Arthur Wellesley’s staff. I met Mrs Carlyon on my trip to Yorkshire last year. At the time she was still choosing between her many suitors.”
“Welcome to Portugal, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Private Carter. You have much better manners than your commanding officer.”
“We’ve tried to teach him, ma’am.”
Anne shot him a startled glance and then burst out laughing. She had heard Paul talking with affection about his men, but she had not fully realised the level of informality that reigned within the light company.
“Keep trying, Carter, he may improve,” she said.
“I have come with messages from Rowena. Is it possible that you could stop flirting with the enlisted men and invite me in for a drink?”
“Unchaperoned?” Anne looked up at him from under long lashes. “Is that the right thing to do here? I need Rowena to tell me how to behave.”
“You actually do,” Paul said, laughing. “Robert has all my sympathy. He is never going to be able to control you.”
“And what makes you think you’d do any better?” Anne said lightly.
“I’d never make the attempt; I know my limitations.” Paul was very aware of Carter’s interested regard.
“Excuse me, sir, but this has just come for you.”
Paul turned at the melodious Irish tones of his sergeant. “Good morning, Sergeant O’Reilly. Thank you. Carter, would you take Rufus to the stables and deliver him to the groom, who should have been here to take him if he were not probably flirting with the cook’s daughter.”
“How do you know the cook has a pretty daughter, sir?”
“I notice these things,” Paul said, scanning the message quickly. “This is an invitation to something that I have no intention of attending. Lose it, Sergeant.”
“Just as you say, sir.” Michael O’Reilly had noticed Anne. He gave her a friendly nod, and then looked again, and hard. Carter had moved away with the horse, still watching Anne. Paul glanced from one to another.
“I think perhaps introductions are in order,” he said. “Sergeant…”
“Sir, the lady may not wish to be introduced to an NCO,” Michael said warningly. At times he found himself wondering if his commanding officer had ever been taught the rules of society. But the girl with the lovely dark eyes was smiling. Paul smiled back at her and continued as though Michael had not spoken.
“Sergeant O’Reilly, this is Mrs Anne Carlyon, who is married to Lieutenant Robert Carlyon on Sir Arthur’s staff. Nan, this is Michael O’Reilly, my sergeant, without whom the light company would not function. Michael is here to remind me of my duty, and Nan is here to flirt with Danny Carter and two Portuguese drivers.”
Michael was looking at the girl’s face. He remembered her as he had last seen her, a gallant little figure in a blue cloak who refused to cry. He wondered if she had any idea who he was. And then she smiled again, a smile of warmth and recognition and genuine interest and to his complete astonishment held out her hand. “I remember you,” she said. “I saw you in the carriage that morning in Thorndale.”
Michael felt a jolt of surprise, not at her recollection but at her willingness to acknowledge it.
“You’ve a good memory for a passing face, ma’am.”
Paul looked at her. “I didn’t know you’d seen him,” he said quietly. “Nan…”
“Don’t look so worried, Paul. If you trust him, then so do I. I am glad to have met you properly, though, Sergeant. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Michael was studying her. He was very aware of her startling beauty, but there was something more about this girl that he found immensely appealing. Her frank acknowledgment of her relationship with his commanding officer was both surprising and impressive and he glanced at Paul and was shocked at the unguarded expression on his face. It was clear that the passage of time and her marriage had not affected Major van Daan’s feelings about Anne Carlyon.
“It’s good to meet you too, ma’am,” he said gently. “I’ll be getting on.” Michael looked at his commanding officer. “Are you coming, sir?”
“Yes, I’ll be with you in a moment.” Paul turned back to Anne. “Are you attending this ghastly reception this evening?”
She nodded. “Yes. Was that the invitation that you were just trying to get your sergeant to lose?”
“It was. But if you’ll be there, I’ll come. We’re only going to be here for a week or so. Wellesley wants to take Oporto back and he’s in a hurry. I don’t know if he’ll want Robert with us or if he’ll leave him here, but I’m concerned about you living in barracks without him here.”
“You mean without you here,” Anne said.
“Yes, I do.” Paul ran his eyes over her with a rueful smile. “Look at you. Poor Carter nearly passed out when he got a good eyeful, and he won’t be the only one. I don’t know how much your husband cares. I only know how much I do. I’ll talk to you later, I have to go.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and turned to catch up with his sergeant. Neither of them spoke for a while. They walked up towards the training field. Finally Paul said:
“If you’ve anything to say, Michael, better get it over with now.”
“Yes, sir. Something of a surprise, and that’s for sure. Did you know she was coming?”
“No. They were on their way to the Cape and Hookey intercepted them. He needed a good administrator. And Carlyon is one, whatever else he is. She, of course, thought we’d gone to South America.”
“And what about your wife, sir?”
“She’s met my wife already, Sergeant,” Paul said with grim humour. “They like each other.”
“God love you, sir, only you could get yourself into this one! Does anybody but me…?”
“No. I’ve told nobody and I won’t. She was a lass I met in Yorkshire and now she’s Carlyon’s wife and Rowena’s friend. That’s all.”
“Well, you’d better get bloody better at it than that, then, sir, because you just looked at her as though she’s a gift you never expected to get.”
“She is,” Paul said quietly.
Michael turned to study his commander’s face. Paul had an unusually expressive countenance and Michael had learned to read him very well. It made for an effective working relationship and an easy friendship which his sergeant had come to take for granted but he had never seen his friend like this.
“Jesus Christ, Paul, how in God’s name after sleeping with half the women in England did you come to fall in love with a girl that young and that out of reach?” he said softly. “I swear to God I thought you immune.”
“So did I,” Paul said. He glanced sideways at his sergeant. “I never intended it, Michael, but I’ve never met a woman remotely like her. I know what you see, lad, and that’s what the rest of the army are going to see as they trip over their own feet every time she walks past. But I’m telling you, there’s a lot more to this girl than the way she looks.”
Michael could not help smiling. “I get that, sir. But you need to be careful, not just for Rowena’s sake but for hers too, she’s newly married and very young and you know what the headquarters gossips are like with a reputation.”
“Michael, she’s here, when I never expected to see her again. And I will get better at it, and I’m not going to hurt Rowena. But don’t ask me to lie to you and pretend that I’m not bloody happy. Because I am. And next week I’m going to fight the French, which believe it or not is what I came here for.”

(From An Unconventional Officer, Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga by Lynn Bryant)

“Absolutely brilliant. For 40 years I’ve been fascinated by this period of history, and have read everything I could get my hands on, history, biography, memoirs and fiction. This series is the best fiction I’ve ever read – fantastically well researched and historically accurate, with wonderfully drawn characters and relationships. They give a brilliant idea of what war was like then, as well as a moving love story and brilliant relationships between the male characters.” 5 out of 5 * on Amazon.co.uk

Regency Romance – A Regrettable Reputation – an excerpt

A Regrettable Reputation (Book Two of the Light Division Romances)
A novel of Regency Yorkshire

A Regrettable Reputation is a love story, set in Yorkshire in the year after the Battle of Waterloo.  The Duke of Wellington is still in France with the Army of Occupation, and at home it is a time of change, of the Industrial Revolution and of social upheaval, especially in the textile towns of the north which are rapidly growing into cities.

Nicholas Witham is a former officer of light infantry, seriously wounded at Waterloo, who has found employment as a land agent managing the Yorkshire estate of Lord Ashberry.  Into his peaceful, well-ordered life comes Camilla Dorne, a woebegone heiress whose elopement ended in disaster and disgrace and who has been sent away from London with her reputation in tatters.  Before long the very respectable Mr Witham realises that Camilla is not at all what he might have expected, while Camilla begins to realise that the loss of her reputation might not be the disaster she had thought.

A Regrettable Reputation is the first of the Light Division romances, a series which follows the fortunes of some of the officers and men of the Light Division beyond Waterloo.  It features several characters from the Peninsular War Saga.  The second book in the series, The Reluctant Debutante, is also available on Amazon in kindle and paperback.

The hiring fair and market took place on a the Horse Fair which was a large field just to the east of the market square. There was a full market in the town as local farmers and traders took advantage of the increased business, and it spread along the high street and spilled out onto the field. The town was packed with people from all walks of life and Nicholas wondered for a moment if he had been wise to bring the girl. He drove down to the Red Lion and handed over his curricle to the grooms, glancing at her face. She was looking around, bright eyed and interested and he remembered that she had spent much of her life in the crowds and noise of London and was unlikely to be overawed by a country fair.
He helped her down and turned to Taggart to give him his instructions then offered his arm to the girl. They strolled into the throng, pausing occasionally to look at a stall.
“We’ll walk down to Mr Arnold’s place of business, if you don’t mind. I shouldn’t be with him longer than half an hour, his maid can give you tea while you wait,” Nicholas said. “After that we can go over to the hiring fair and see what we can find and then we can do our shopping. Is there anything you particularly need?”
She shook her head, smiling. “No indeed. It’s just such a joy to be out in the world again. Thank you for this, Mr Witham, I had not realised how much I had missed it.”
Nicholas smiled. “You’re too young to be a hermit,” he said. “We should, however, be prepared for a little curiosity. Should we meet an acquaintance I propose to introduce you as a guest staying at the hall. Nobody will ask more than that, no matter how curious they are.”
“Don’t you mind?”
Nicholas laughed. “Curiosity? Not really. I spent so long in the army which is a surprisingly closed community, especially in the Peninsula. We all knew far too much of each others business, it was impossible not to. Sometimes it could be exasperating, but it certainly inures one to gossip and busybodies.”
“I am not sure I am ever going to become accustomed to being the object of that kind of attention,” Camilla said. “But I should not complain; I did it to myself.”
Nicholas glanced sideways at her. She seemed perfectly composed but he could sense the unhappiness behind her calm exterior. “It isn’t my place to say so, Miss Dorne. I know so little of the circumstances and it is not my business. But if something of the kind happened to one of my sisters I would be asking a lot of questions about my mother’s chaperonage of them. You may have made a mistake but at your age that is to be expected. There are several other people who should share in the blame.”
Camilla looked up at him quickly, a blush staining her cheek. “Thank you. You are so kind to me.”
“It isn’t difficult. Here we are.”
The lawyer’s office was situated in a tall Georgian building with long windows and colonnades outside. A maid admitted them and led them upstairs where Mr Arnold himself came to greet them. He was a bewhiskered gentleman in his fifties with a friendly smile and he shook Nicholas’ hand and regarded Camilla with polite surprise.
“Mr Arnold, may I introduce you to Miss Dorne? She is a guest at the hall, recovering from an indisposition with the help of good country air and Yorkshire food. She has accompanied me today as she is in need of a new abigail. I was wondering if your housekeeper could give her some tea while we conduct our business.”
“Indeed she shall. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dorne. I am sorry to hear that you have been unwell, but a stay in the country is just the thing, you’ll be feeling yourself in no time. I shall ring for Mrs Cobb. Will you be at Ashberry long?”
“I am unsure,” Camilla said. “Thank you, you are very good.”
“No trouble at all for such a pretty young lady. Are you fit for company yet? You must tell me you are, I insist upon it. We’ve a small party planned for Tuesday next, nothing formal, just a few friends. I’ve a daughter you know, recently married, can’t be much older than you. I was going to invite Mr Witham here, but we should be very happy if you would join us.”
Camilla coloured. “That is so kind, sir, but I should not wish to trouble you. As yet I have no duenna with me since I have not been going into company…”
“Nonsense!” Mr Arnold said robustly. “That sort of stuff may be important in London but we aren’t so formal here. My wife will happily act as chaperone for the evening, and Witham here can bring you in the carriage with your maid. There now, it’s all settled.”
Seated in Mr Arnold’s office, Nicholas moved quickly on to business and the lawyer did not object. The matters were not complex and did not take long. When they were concluded, Arnold rose and went to pour sherry.
“It’s going well up there,” he said, handing Nicholas a glass. “I wonder if Lord Ashberry has any idea how much money you’re saving him since you took over. You’re a good manager, lad.”
Nicholas smiled and raised his glass. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps it’s due to living on an officers pay for so long.”
Arnold laughed. “Well I hope he realises what a good bargain he made, taking you on. And now he’s got you nursemaiding a young lady of doubtful virtue.”
Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “You know?”
“Aye. His lordship wrote to me. Thought I should be aware.”
“Then I’m surprised you issued that invitation, sir. I won’t have her embarrassed.”
“Don’t you know me better than that, lad? It’s a disgrace, sending a chit of that age to live alone. Good idea, the story about an illness? Yours?”
“Yes. I had to come up with something. And she wasn’t well when she got here so it’s partly true.”
“Well people are going to gossip, lad. But it will be worse if she hides herself away. I’ve no objection to meeting the girl. Everyone deserves a second chance. And somebody will give her one; there’s a tidy portion when she’s twenty five and a nice little estate in Surrey, I’m told.”
“You seem to know more about it than I do, sir.”
“She might suit you.”
Nicholas felt himself flush. “Is that what you think of me, sir? That I’d take advantage of a vulnerable girl in her position for money?”
“No, lad. But Sir Edward Penrose is lucky you’re not. Like I said, it’s a disgrace, sending that child here alone. He knows nothing about you, could have been another ne’er -do-well like Seymour.”
“Is that what he was?”
“So I’m told. Militia officer, no money, some minor branch of an old Wiltshire family. You know the full story?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. Do I want to?”
“Perhaps you should and the girl can’t tell you. He’d been after her for months but rumour has it she wasn’t as easy as he thought. In the end he approached her stepfather and got the flea in his ear that he deserved. He’d got a reputation, not the first heiress he’d dangled after.”
“I imagine not. I doubt that his first choice would have been to wait seven years for her to come into her fortune.”
“No. Although I think once she’s married the Trustees have some freedom to grant an allowance, perhaps even the right to live at her house. Not sure about the arrangements. Anyhow, once Penrose had forbidden him to speak to her at all it must have got easier to persuade her I suppose. She agreed to an elopement. They set off for the border. Penrose followed them.”
“And caught up with them. Fortunate, I suppose.”
“Wasn’t it? Except that luck wasn’t involved. That bastard Seymour had sent a message telling him where to find them. Penrose arrived to find him in bed with her. Walked in on them in an inn bedroom.”
“Oh no,” Nicholas said softly.
“Aye. Poor lass. It was staged, of course, to push up the price. He wanted money to go away and leave her alone. Couldn’t wait for the trust to be up, he’d debts. Penrose didn’t want to pay. They negotiated and eventually came to a price. He bought Seymour a decent commission in a cavalry regiment and paid his debts, gave him a bit extra. Seymour took the lot and then spread the story all round London, including details of how they’d been discovered. Sheer spite because he didn’t get what he’d asked for.”
“Dear God. And then he sent her up here without even an abigail to keep her company? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“A fair few things, I’m told. Penrose has two daughters he’s keen to establish well, and if rumour is true he’s got his eye on a pretty little widow of his own with a nice fortune. He inherited from his second wife but not as much as he’d hoped, most of it is in trust for the girl. I suppose he wanted to disassociate himself and his girls as quickly as possible.”
“Yes. Well if I were his pretty widow it would make me take a very long hard look at how he treats a vulnerable woman. Useful information in making her choice, I’d say.”
Arnold laughed and refilled the two glasses. “You’ve taken a liking to her, haven’t you, lad?”
“I suppose I have,” Nicholas admitted. “I hardly know the girl but I like what I’ve seen of her. She’s coped very well, considering. Seems willing to make the best of a bad situation. She’s started working with Taggart on some of our promising youngsters, she’s a capital horsewoman and has excellent hands. And she doesn’t mope or complain although I think she has a right to. I think a girl with her attitude deserves something better.”
“You think Penrose should have paid him what he asked? Is that what you’d have done?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. I’d have beaten the living shit out of him for daring to put his hands on my daughter and made sure he knew I’d do it again if he opened his mouth about it. But don’t ask me, sir, I’m an army man, we always resort to violence.”
Arnold laughed aloud. “Might have been better for the girl. It’s odd. I look at you and I see a well brought up lad with good manners and a nice attitude and I can’t for the life of me imagine you killing anybody.”
“Can’t you?” Nicholas drained his glass and got up. “Well I have, sir. Hope never to have to do it again, but I’m not sure I’d see the likes of Seymour as a great loss to the world. It’s a shame he’s in the dragoons. I’d like to see him serving under my old commander for a week or two.”
“No longer?”
“Oh he wouldn’t last any longer, the general would have killed him. Thank you for this. Are you sure I’m all right to bring her next week?”
“Of course you are. Get her a respectable abigail. And I’ll give some thought to how we manage to make it look as though she has a duenna. Good thing you’re at the Dower House but it’s still not ideal. Go and find her and take her shopping.”
Nicholas found Camilla in conversation with Mrs Cobb, the housekeeper. He had noticed before that she had very easy manners with the servants and with the exception of Mrs Hogan, the staff at Ashberry Hall had taken her to their hearts. Even the grooms had nothing but good to say about Miss Dorne. Nicholas offered her his arm with a smile.
“Come along, let’s walk down to the fair.”
The hiring fair was new to Camilla. She had heard about them, but growing up in London was more accustomed to staff arriving through the employment agencies which were springing up around the city. She looked around with interest at the different groups of people, men and women, who had come looking for work. The various types of labourers and servants stood together, wearing or carrying some item which would indicate their particular trade or skill. Shepherds used bunches of wool, housemaids a sprig of broom, milkmaids carried a milking stool.
“What are the ones wearing the ribbons on their coats?” she asked.
“They’ve already been hired. Come on, I said I’d meet Taggart over by the western bridge.”

(From A Regrettable Reputation by Lynn Bryant)

Jervaulx Abbey, Yorkshire

An Unwilling Alliance – coming in 2018

Castle Rushen
Castle Rushen, on the Isle of Man

When Hugh Kelly left Mann aged 16 he expected never to return. His parents were both dead, the family farm repossessed and the navy seemed like a good option for a penniless lad with big ambitions and no prospects. Fourteen years later he returns as a Trafalgar veteran with a healthy amount of prize money and his own command in refit at Yarmouth. He is in search of land and a home and a wife to look after them when he goes back to sea.
Roseen Crellin is determined not to give in to her father’s efforts to find her a good husband. The man she wanted has sailed away and she has no interest in a marriage to a man who sees her a convenience rather than a woman.
It seems a courtship with little future but fate intervenes unexpectedly and as Hugh sets sail to join the Royal Navy on it’s way to Copenhagen he is forced to reassess his feelings towards the girl he had not bothered to get to know, while Roseen discovers a world beyond the hills and glens of her island home and a side to herself she had never known existed.
An Unwilling Alliance is the first of my books to be set partly on the Isle of Man where I live.  It is also the first set in the very different world of the Royal Navy.  I’ve been wanted to do a Manx setting for a long time, but since I write historical novels I needed to find the right time period.  I have considered, and am still considering, a novel set in the English Civil War but I haven’t studied that period since University and it will be a lot of work.

In the end I decided to stick with my current period, helped by reading the story of Captain John Quilliam, the Manxman who served with Nelson aboard the Victory.  This is not his story but there are parallels between his progress and that of Captain Hugh Kelly, and like Quilliam, Kelly comes home to his island with his pockets well-lined with prize money and in search of a home and a wife.

I hope that An Unwilling Alliance will be published early in 2018 and will be followed by An Untrustworthy Army, book five in the Peninsular War Saga.

Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz – an Excerpt from A Redoubtable Citadel

The storming of the two great Spanish border citadels of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz were the first step in Wellington’s campaign of 1812.  It was essential for him to hold these fortresses, known as the keys to Spain and he pushed his army to it’s limits in order to capture them, with huge loss of life and appalling loss of discipline.

 

This is not good for the men of the third brigade of the light division because if there is one thing their unpredictable Colonel hates the most it’s storming a fortress and he is very prepared to let everybody know about it…

A Redoubtable Citadel is the fourth book in the popular Peninsular War Saga, telling the story of Paul and Anne van Daan and the officers and men of the 110th light infantry through the bloody campaigns of 1812.

It was early evening and already the skies were growing darker. All day the guns had fired, a deafening bombardment of the city walls which left men with their ears ringing even after the noise had stopped but it was becoming quieter now, with longer gaps between shots and the volunteers of the 88th Connaught Rangers stood immobile, so quiet that it was possible to hear the breathing of the next man as they waited for the order to begin the assault. They were all volunteers, this band of men, forming the Forlorn Hope, the first men over the breaches. Survival would bring glory and in some cases promotion but survival was very unlikely.
Sergeant Nathaniel Higgins was not one of the volunteers but they were his men and he ran an experienced eye over them and approved their steadiness. At the front of the line were two officers, also volunteers and neither of them from the 88th. The older of the two was a dark eyed captain of thirty-five and Higgins had been told that he was up on a charge of killing a fellow officer on a duel. Disgrace was his only future and he was probably lucky to have been offered this chance to lead these men to death or glory. The younger was no more than a lad, probably twenty, an ensign and too young for this. He was pale and sweating, but seemed calmer than Higgins would have expected, and he wondered what had driven the lad to this desperate end. Debt or a woman, Higgins supposed. Sometimes the young fools did not seem to realise what they were doing when they volunteered for this or how unlikely they were to survive. They saw it as the road to glory and quick promotion. Looking at this boy, Higgins was fairly sure he knew exactly what he was doing. Intelligent grey eyes were studying the walls.
Reaching into his coat Higgins took out his battered flask and drank, then touched the boy on the arm and offered him the rum. The young officer took it and drank with an attempt at a smile, handed it back.
“You all right, sir?” Higgins said, and the boy nodded, his eyes still on the fading bulk of the citadel of Ciudad Rodrigo, looming up in the falling darkness.
A sound broke through the silence and Higgins jumped. It was a shout, a bellow so loud that every man of the Forlorn Hope also jumped and turned, peering through the darkness. A tall figure was striding from the waiting lines towards them and he did not appear to be in the least concerned at the stir he was causing.
“Oh bloody hell,” the young ensign said, and he sounded, Higgins thought, suddenly more terrified than he had seemed to be of going over the wall.
“Mr Jackman. Am I seeing things or are you actually standing there with the Connaught Rangers when you should be back in line with your men?”
The tall figure resolved itself into an officer, fair haired and hatless with a long legged stride. Close up Higgins was aware of a pair of startling deep blue eyes which were fixed with ominous intensity on the young ensign. Jackman snapped to attention and saluted, and Higgins did the same realising that the man wore a colonel’s insignia on his red coat.
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Don’t give me ‘yes, sir’ you bloody idiot! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Volunteered, sir. Sorry, thought you’d know. Sergeant said commanding officers would be informed…”
“I was informed, that’s why I’m bloody well here chasing after you when I ought to be back there putting the fear of God into my lads! What made you think you had the right to volunteer for this suicidal piece of lunacy without my permission? Get your kit and get your arse back to your company before I kick you so hard you’ll scale that breach without your feet touching the ground!”
Higgins cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Colonel. But the lad is right. He’s entitled…”
“Not when he’s nineteen and being a bloody imbecile he isn’t!” the colonel said. He looked at Higgins. “You going over there, Sergeant?”
“Not with this lot, sir. With my men afterwards.”
“Good man.” Suddenly the colonel smiled. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself before, we’ve not met. Colonel Paul van Daan, 110th.”
Higgins stood to attention and saluted. The extraordinary scene was suddenly much clearer; he had heard of Colonel van Daan who had been given command of the newly formed third brigade of the light division. There were many legends in the army, most of whom, in Higgins opinion, fell woefully short of their reputations but he was already beginning to see why men spoke of Paul van Daan with something bordering on awe. The colonel looked at the captain commanding the troop.
“Name and regiment?”
“Captain James Harker, sir, of the 9th.”
“Ah. I rather see why you’re here.” Van Daan studied him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t on that disciplinary board. I hope you make it, Captain. If you do, come and see me, would you? I’ve heard good things about you and you might feel that a change of scene would do you good if you get to carry on in the army. I’m always short of good officers.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Van Daan’s blue eyes shifted back to Ensign Jackman. “Captain Manson has informed me that you are in debt, Mr Jackman.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cards?”
“Yes, sir. In pretty deep. Can’t pay. Debts of honour, sir.”
Paul van Daan studied him. “To whom? Don’t tell me any of my officers are fleecing their juniors, I’ll skin them alive!”
“No, sir. I owe most of it to an officer of the Highlanders, a major. Got into a game up at the headquarters mess…”
“Mr Jackman, when you were offered the chance to serve in my regiment, did anybody give you any information about my rules on gambling?”
Jackman’s face was visibly scarlet even through the darkness. “Yes, sir. Not to gamble above our means and never with a senior officer. Sorry, sir. But it’s not in the army regulations.”
“Fuck the army regulations, most of them are bollocks anyway, you’re in the 110th and the only regulations that matter are the ones I tell you matter! And it serves you right for going to the headquarters mess anyway, the food’s dreadful and the wine is worse. No wonder Wellington never goes near it. I will deal with the major who thinks it is a good idea to flout my rules and gamble with my juniors at a later date. If he is extremely lucky he’ll get his head blown off before I catch up with him!”
Higgins gave a choke of laughter. “They’re in reserve sir, won’t be engaged today.”
“He bloody will when I get hold of him! Captain Harker, can you manage without this young fool? Despite his evident idiocy in matters of finance, he’s a surprisingly useful officer and I’d like him to go over with his men.”
Harker was smiling. “Gladly, sir.”
“Good. Jackman, if it becomes necessary I will settle your blasted debts of honour myself and you can pay me back gradually. And if I ever see you near a card table for anything greater than a penny a point I am going to shoot you in the head and display your bloody body as a warning to others. Now piss off back to your company and be thankful that I don’t have time to kick the shit out of you as you richly deserve! Move!”

(From A Redoubtable Citadel by Lynn Bryant)

Battle of Fuentes de Onoro- an excerpt from An Uncommon Campaign; book 3 of the Peninsular War Saga

An Uncommon Campaign, 110th at the Battle of Fuentes d'Onoro
An Uncommon Campaign, 110th at the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro

The Battle of Fuentes de Onoro took place in May 1811 on the border between Portugal and Spain as Lord Wellington led his army to invest the fortress of Almeida.  Much of the action took place in the narrow streets of the village, with brutal and bloody hand to hand fighting.  The battle is at the heart of An Uncommon Campaign.

Wellington admitted himself once the battle was over that it had been a near-miss.  He had extended his line along a ridge above the village with the intention of keeping his potential line of retreat back to Lisbon open, but on this occasion he over-extended himself and the newly formed seventh division found itself stranded out on his right, under huge pressure from the French.  Massena was desperate for a win, knowing that his difficulties over the past year had left him unpopular with his Emperor and victory for Wellington was by no means certain.

His right was saved by the light division.  General Robert Craufurd had been on leave in England for several months and Wellington’s crack troops had been under the leadership of the disastrous Sir William Erskine who had made a number of atrocious mistakes.  After Sabugal, Wellington moved Erskine over to the fifth division and Craufurd arrived back with his men on the battlefield on the eve of the battle and proceeded to show the army how it was done by performing an outrageously perfect fighting retreat over several miles of open country under constant attack in order to rescue the beleaguered seventh division and shift Wellington’s line to something more defensible.

In the novel, the final square in this retreat was commanded by Colonel Paul van Daan of the 110th who encounters a French cavalry colonel whom he had met a few days earlier during skirmishing out on the road towards the village…

 

Thatcher had wheeled his horsemen again and was bringing them round to take a pass back at the guns which Dupres had ordered up against the 110th. Even at a distance, Paul could hear him calling his cavalrymen into line and he felt a surge of sheer horror as he realised.
“Jesus Christ, he’s going to cut them off! The rest of his men are behind that outcrop!”
He ran towards Nero and swung himself into the saddle yelling, but the Allied cavalry had already begun to gallop towards the guns, sabres ready. The gunners were limbering up and preparing to move, and Paul saw Dupres swing around and give a signal. To the rear of Thatcher’s small troop, a mass of French cavalry appeared, and Dupres galloped his men forward, trapping Thatcher’s men neatly between the rocky ridge and the solid lines of the 110th. They were vastly outnumbered, and half of Dupres’ men were armed with lances. Paul felt his guts twist in horror. The only possible help he could give would involve opening his square and once it was broken, the French would be in and his men would be slaughtered.
Paul swung around. “Carter, four ranks. Hold square, but back three ranks loaded and ready. Take out every one of them you can.”
Thatcher had realised his danger, but there was no option but to carry on. He raised his sword and pulled out at the head of his men, thundering down towards Dupres and his cavalry. Paul slid from Nero’s back and ran to the side of his square nearest to the approaching cavalry. He placed a hand on the shoulders of the nearest men.
“On my word,” he said softly. “Open up.”
He saw Carl look over, appalled, but he did not look back at him. Around him the rifles and muskets had opened fire, and Dupres cavalry were beginning to fall. Paul stood waiting, watching the Allied cavalry approach.
“Now,” he said, and his square parted.
Thatcher saw the move and Paul saw him haul back on the reins with a yell. His horse reared up and he was shouting orders. His troopers wheeled sharply right and rode into the centre of the square, pulling up quickly and shuffling close together to make space. Paul found that he was counting them in as his men continued to pound in three ranks into the approaching French cavalry. The centre of the square was becoming crowded but the horses and men were highly trained and stood very still, leaving space for more. Paul watched, his heart in his mouth as Dupres’ men moved in towards the gap. There were fewer of them, but he knew he had only moments left before they broke into the square. Looking up he saw Thatcher watching, and then the boy looked over at him. There were twenty cavalrymen still outside the square. Thatcher lifted his hand and then wheeled and yelled to his men. Paul watched in sick horror as the men thundered away, galloping on towards Dupres.
“Close it!” he yelled.
The gap closed smoothly, and the rifles and muskets continued to fire. Paul looked over to where Dupres waited and saw the Colonel looking directly back at him. The Frenchman’s face was flushed. He stared at Paul, and Paul looked back. Dupres’ lips curved into a smile and he lifted his sabre and yelled an order, and Thatcher’s men crashed into him, with the other half of the Frenchmen hitting them from behind.
It was short and brutal. Paul’s rifles continued to fire where they they could but the muskets were silenced;  it was impossible to aim at the French without risking hitting the English. It was quickly over, and the English cavalrymen were cut down. Around him, Paul could sense the distress of his men and of the rest of the troop. They had all seen deaths in battle many times, but there was something deliberately cruel about the massacre of twenty men within a few feet of them. Paul could no longer see the young captain, but Thatcher’s horse was loose and galloping off and he stood watching, feeling tears behind his eyes. The French cavalry massed around the English troopers who were on the ground, and then there was a thunderous volley of fire, and Paul looked up and saw that Crauford was up on the ridge and the light division were lined up, rifles at the front, firing volleys down on the French.
Dupres wheeled his horse with a shouted order and the French were on the run, some of them falling as they galloped away, their Colonel at their head. The rifles of the 110th thundered out and the last half dozen of the cavalry fell from their horses as Dupres men rode out of reach. Paul watched, feeling sick and grief-stricken. For a moment, unusually, he felt unable to move or speak. Around him the guns still fired and he moved his eyes to the bodies on the ground.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “We need to get moving, Paul,” Carl said quietly, and Paul stirred and nodded and looked over to the lines.
“Open up,” he said to Carter. “Let the cavalry out first.”
He stood watching as the men filed out, then called his men into line and let his officers lead them up onto the ridge to join the rest of the light division. Further away he was conscious of the French infantry advancing in column but they were too far away to be an immediate concern. As his men moved ahead, Paul broke away and ran to where the bodies of the English cavalry lay.
Captain Thatcher lay on his back and his body had been slashed over and over. Across his throat was a savage cut, which reminded Paul of what had almost happened to Manson. Thatcher’s eyes were open, staring at the sky. Paul reached out and closed his eyes very gently.
“Colonel van Daan!”
He recognised the bellow of General Craufurd from the ridge above. Ignoring it, Paul stooped and lifted the long form of the young captain. He moved forward towards the lines, and saw several of his men break away and come back, ignoring the yells of their general. Carter, Hammond and Dawson came to assist him and they carried Captain Thatcher’s body up the ridge and behind the lines.
At the top Paul stepped back and let his men carry Thatcher to the back. Craufurd came forward.
“Colonel van Daan. That has to have been one of the…”
Paul swung around. “Don’t!” he said softly, and Craufurd stopped.
“Well done, lad,” he said quietly, and Paul shook his head.
“No it wasn’t. I couldn’t save him. I stood there and watched that bastard cut him down and I couldn’t do anything to help him. And he came in to save our arses.”
Craufurd put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I know, Colonel. Nastiest thing I’ve ever seen on the field, they could have taken them prisoner, no need for that. Come on, get back to your men. Nothing more you can do for him now.”
Paul nodded and turned away, making his way over to his lines. His men had taken up position on the edge of the ridge. Mechanically he checked their lines and approved the rocky outcrops behind which they were stationed. He was conscious of his immense pride in them. Their retreat across the plains had been a textbook piece of infantry work and at some point he wanted to tell them so, but his eyes and ears were still full of the tragedy of Thatcher’s pointless death.
Craufurd had moved away and was speaking to one of the Spanish runners, giving him a message to take to Lord Wellington. Paul watched, feeling curiously detached. Craufurd moved away and came back towards him.
“They’ve attacked Fuentes de Onoro again,” he said briefly. “They’ve got the highlanders fighting down there, they’re holding their own. We’re to hold up here, wait and see what those infantry columns do. They might attack, although we’re in a strong position up here.”
“Yes, sir,” Paul said. Craufurd nodded and moved away up towards the first and second brigade to speak to Beckwith and Drummond. Paul turned and looked out over the French columns, three infantry divisions moving into place to threaten the British lines. Silently Paul assessed the distance and the situation and then he turned and yelled an order.
Shock rippled through the first division and light division as the 110th fired. Their first tremendous volley ripped into the first line of French infantry and blew them apart. Craufurd moved forward with an oath.
“What the bloody hell is he doing?” he said furiously.
There was another enormous blast of gunfire and the second French rank exploded. It had taken them that long to realise, incredulously, that the British were not waiting for them to attack. Under shouted orders from their commanders they fell back quickly, dragging some of their wounded with them. Paul stood watching their frantic movements, his face expressionless.
“Major Swanson, Major Clevedon, Colonel Wheeler. You’ve got the range. Any one of them steps within it, I want him dead. See to it.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny said quietly, and watched as his commander walked away and back up to where Craufurd waited with Beckwith and Drummond.
“This could be interesting,” Clevedon said mildly.
“Yes. Bet Craufurd is wishing his holiday had lasted longer,” Carl said with a grin. There was something about the set of his commander’s back which suggested that he was ready to take on General Craufurd and possibly Lord Wellington as well. “All right, Sergeant, you heard what the colonel said. Keep them loaded and if there’s a Frenchman you can hit, he’s dead. The colonel is seriously pissed off with them and I do not want him pissed off with us as well, it’s never pleasant.”
Paul approached Craufurd, saluted silently and waited.
“I did not give permission for your men to open fire, Colonel!” Craufurd said furiously.
“No, sir. I did that.”
“Without orders! What in God’s name is wrong with you, Colonel? You’ve been in command of a brigade for five minutes and you already think you don’t have to follow my commands.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry? What do you mean, sorry? You’re not fucking sorry at all!”
“No, sir. Not at all. Just being polite.”
“Polite?” Craufurd looked as though he might explode. Paul glanced at Beckwith and Drummond then back at his chief.
“Permission to go back to my men, sir?”
“Van Daan, you are an arrogant young bastard without any respect for authority or…”
“Yes, I have, sir. Immense respect for authority, especially your authority. I could point out that you didn’t tell me not to fire those volleys, but you and I both know that would be nit picking! I fired them because I’m fucking angry and I felt like letting them know that they cut down our men like that and I’m going to fucking slaughter them any chance I get! And you know what? I think they got the fucking point! Let’s see how quickly they come forward against my lads again today, shall we? And if Lord Wellington is looking for volunteers to march down to Fuentes de Onoro and kill a few more of them, you just let me know because I’m in the mood! Permission to go back to my men, sir?”
Craufurd studied him for a moment. Unexpectedly he said quietly:
“Go ahead, Colonel.”
“Thank you, sir.”

(From An Uncommon Campaign; Book 3 of the Peninsular War Saga by Lynn Bryant)

Church in Fuentes de Onoro.

For regular updates on this site including history, travel, book reviews and plenty of labradors (and a few freebies thrown in) please join the e-mail list here.

Battle of Bussaco: an excerpt from An Irregular Regiment

An Irregular Regiment
Book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga

The Battle of Bussaco takes place at the beginning of book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga, An Irregular Regiment.  Lord Wellington had organised a retreat back to the Lines of Torres Vedras, the series of defences he had built to protect Lisbon from the invading French.  He was not in a position to push the French back at this point, so the battle was more of a delaying tactic, but it was very successful and made an important point to Massena.  It was also an opportunity for Wellington to try out the newly reorganised Portuguese army in battle and he was very happy with their performance.  In the book, Major Paul van Daan is newly married to his second wife and back on the battlefield without time for a honeymoon…

Paul could hear them now, the steady drum beat of the approaching columns. He turned to O’Reilly.
“They’re coming,” he said, and raised his voice softly. “110th at the ready!”
“Ready, sir,” Wheeler called back, and the order was passed along the lines. There was no bugle call on this occasion. Craufurd wanted the presence of such a large force to come as a shock to the French.
Michael checked his rifle and looked over his shoulder. “Nice and steady boys,” he said. “No need to be heroic here, the bastards have no idea they’re about to walk into us. Wait for my word, now.”
“Light company ready, Sergeant?”
“Ready as they’ll ever be, sir.”
Paul moved along the ranks his eyes checking for potential problems. They could hear the marching of the French coming closer through the mist and he saw the green jackets of the 95th further up beginning to move forward in skirmish formation. He nodded to Michael.
“Corporal Carter,” Michael called.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Will your lads pay particular attention to not letting the Major get himself killed today? You know how clumsy he is, and if I have to take him down to the hospital with a hole in him, his wife is likely to be after us with a scalpel.”
Paul looked back, startled, and then began to laugh. “Corporal Carter!”
“Sir.”
“Let the lads know there’ll be extra grog for the man who shoots Sergeant O’Reilly for me today. Make it look like an accident.”
There was a muted rumble of laughter. “Do it now for you if you like, sir!” one of the sharpshooters called. “No need for extra grog, be my pleasure!”
“You’d better hope the French get you today, Scofield, you cheeky bastard!” the sergeant said, laughing. “Ready now boys.”
“Get going,” Paul said, and Captain Swanson called the order and led his men forward.
They watched as the skirmishers moved over the ridge, taking down individual Frenchmen with accurate rifle fire. It took some time. Paul grinned as he realised that his light company were getting carried away with their feinted attack and were actually pushing the French column back. He imagined that Craufurd was cursing them for delaying the French advance. He could not sound a retreat without alerting the French to his position so he settled down to wait for Carl and O’Reilly to pull them back. Eventually he saw them moving back up the ridge, saw Carter and young Hammond laughing, having just received an earful from their exasperated sergeant. The rifles of the light division were already back up the ridge and the French came on, causing the English gunners to limber up and pull back. Still they waited. The French came closer, pressing on, thinking that on this part of the ridge at least they had the English on the run. They could only see the thin line of the 43rd.
Craufurd held his nerve. The leading column was within twenty-five yards of the crest, and Paul could see the individual faces of each Frenchman when he heard Black Bob yell. “52nd and 110th – avenge Moore!”
It was an emotive cry. There were men of both regiments who had seen Sir John Moore fall at Corunna and he had been beloved of the men he commanded. Paul had done his early training under Moore and had always believed him to be one of the best commanders of light infantry in the army.
“Fire!” Paul roared, and along the line the 52nd and the 110th rose and fired a staggering volley of rifle and musket fire at point blank range into the enemy. No man at the front of the columns was left standing. Along the line his men were reloading, as the shocked Frenchmen reeled, and then steadied and clambered over the bodies of their comrades and ran into a second devastating volley. Some of his riflemen fell back to reload and manage a third, but the rest fixed bayonets and Paul drew his sword.
In the roar of the musket fire and the screams of wounded and dying men, Paul moved his lines steadily forward. He had deliberately allowed the experienced men of the 110th to bear the brunt of the first attack and seeing that they were holding their own without difficulty he ran back to his two Portuguese battalions leaving Johnny to lead the 110th  on. These were raw inexperienced troops but he was hopeful that with him at their head they would stand.
He was not disappointed. As the musket fire tapered off, the men were fighting with bayonets and swords, and he led his Portuguese into the fray. With the example of the 110th already cutting their way through the French lines, they did not hesitate, and before long the French advance had halted and the whole line was wavering. Paul’s men found time to reload again, and as another barrage of fire crashed into them the French began to run. Some of the Portuguese chased after them, and Paul bellowed to stop them. Without being able to see what was happening all along the ridge he would not risk them charging through French lines and being cut off and hacked to pieces.
A small party of horsemen approached from the north. “Nice work, Major van Daan,” Lord Wellington said. “Our allies are looking good today.”
“Our allies are looking bloody brilliant, sir,” Paul said. He was delighted with the performance of his Portuguese, and he could sense the high spirits of the troops. They had worked hard and trained well, but nothing improved morale as well as a successful action.
“Think you can make them even better, Major?” Wellington asked quietly, and Paul looked up sharply.
“Given some time, definitely, sir.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. They’ll remain under your command for the time being until we have a chance to talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wellington looked along the line to where Craufurd was approaching. “General Craufurd. Superb work, sir. Couldn’t have gone better. I think that will more or less do it for the day. They might rattle away at us a bit, but they’ve got the point. Well done, sir.”
Craufurd’s face lightened slightly. “Thank you, sir. Good tactics.” He glanced at Paul, and his mouth twitched into what was almost a smile. “Well done, Major van Daan.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wellington smiled as he watched Craufurd move back down the lines. “Nicely handled, Major. Your diplomatic skills have improved since India.”
“I hope so, sir. I was an arrogant young bastard then.”
“You still are, Major. You just hide it better. Hold the line and be ready in case I need you elsewhere, you’re the fastest battalion I have. But I think we’re mostly done.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll keep picking them off as we see them. Good shooting practice for the lads.” Paul raised his voice. “Carter! O’Reilly still alive, is he? Why? Get on with it, lad, haven’t got all day!”
“You’re a murdering bastard, so you are, sir!” an Irish voice called, and Michael emerged through the smoke which hung like a pall over the battlefield and realised that Wellington was listening with great interest. “Oh sorry, sir, didn’t know you were here. Major van Daan is just trying to talk the lads into shooting me, sir.”
Wellington gave one of his alarming cracks of laughter. “Is he? Well I’d better get out of here then in case he decides to set them on me! Hope you survive the day, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir, appreciate your support,” Michael said. He watched as the general rode off up the line. “Peterson is down, sir, shot through the shoulder. I’ve sent him up to the back to get treated. Can’t have him lying around to trip over if they come again. No other casualties.”
“Good. Carl, do you know how the other brigades are doing?”
“All good I think. They’d no idea we had so many men. Brilliant tactics.”
“Aye, Hookey knows his work. They don’t know they’re beaten yet, but they are. Let’s keep it up, nice and steady. If it’s French, shoot it.” He looked at Michael and grinned. “Or Irish and wearing sergeant’s stripes.”
“Very funny. If I get caught in the crossfire you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face, so you will.”
“Stay alive, Michael. If I get you killed, she’ll murder me. She likes you, you’re always on her side if we fight.”
“We’re all on her side, sir, in case you’d not realised. She’s prettier than you. And possibly a better soldier too, now that I’ve seen her in a fight.”
Paul laughed. “She fights dirtier than you do, Sergeant.”
“Good. I hope she shoots you on sight.”

(From An Irregular Regiment: Book 2 of the Peninsular War Saga by Lynn Bryant)

Monument to the Battle of Bussaco

 

Excerpt from An Unconventional Officer

An Unconventional Officer
Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga

Excerpt from An Unconventional Officer: how to deal with an insult to your wife…

Paul arrived on the parade ground in time for early drill, and he was amused to see that every one of the officers of the 110th were present. He wondered what they were expecting him to do, and what any of them imagined they could do to stop him. Carl approached him as the men marched out.
“How is Rowena?” he asked.
“She’ll be all right. Of course it might take me another two years to get her to attend a social event again. Anybody seen Tyler yet?”
Carl shook his head. “Sleeping it off, I imagine. He made a complete arse of himself, Paul, and he’ll need to apologise. But…”
Paul studied his friend. He was remembering Rowena as she had looked this morning, her fair hair tumbled across the pillow and her eyes still looking slightly swollen from crying so much.
“I certainly think an apology is in order, Carl. I’ll remember to mention that to him.”
Paul walked across the yard to the barracks block. Johnny joined Carl. “I had a feeling this was going too well,” he said.
“Oh bloody hell, this is not looking good!” Carl said. “What in God’s name is he doing?”
Sergeant O’Reilly joined them. “I thought you said he looked fairly calm last night?” he said.
“Sometimes I get things wrong, Sergeant.”
Paul walked into the barracks of the light company. At one end of the room were two waste buckets, not yet emptied into the latrines. Both were full and reeking. He picked one up and went back out into the square. Officers and men of the 110th watched him in frozen horror as he approached the officers’ block.
“Oh no,” Carl said.
“Jesus, he isn’t going to…?” Withers said in awe.
“Do you think Tyler locks his door?” Young said.
“I don’t think it matters whether he does or not,” Johnny said. Paul had disappeared into the block and there was a sudden explosion of sound, echoing around the silent parade ground as Captain Tyler’s door was kicked open, breaking the lock. After a long moment there was a bellow of horrified rage and disgust.
Captain van Daan reappeared carrying the empty waste bucket, which he dropped by the door. He walked over to the pump. A bucket, already full of icy well water, stood beside it. He picked up the bucket and disappeared back into the block, and a second outraged scream followed the first. Paul re-emerged and set the bucket down. Behind him Tyler exploded into the yard in his nightclothes, urine, excrement and cold water streaming off him. He was yelling profanities at Paul’s uninterested back.
“Carl, I’d a note this morning from Wellesley asking me to call. Apparently he’s had news from London. Will you finish drill and inspections? You might want to get a carpenter to fix Mr Tyler’s door for him, tell them to send the bill to me, would you? And get four volunteers to clean up his room; it’s a bit of a mess. Tell them there’s a bottle or two in it for them, and a present for whichever lass has to do the laundry.”
“Yes, sir,” Carl said without expression.
“Thank you.”
“You are not getting away with this, you arrogant bastard!” Tyler yelled.
Paul turned. “You owe my wife an apology, Tyler. I suggest you put it in writing before the end of the day; I don’t want her upset by the sight of you! And you go anywhere near her again or say anything more personal than ‘good day’ to her; I will throw you through a window without bothering to open it first. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
“By God, sir, I’m not letting you get away with this! I’ll see you at dawn, sir!”
“It is fucking dawn, Tyler, and it’s not an hour that you see very often, but I’ll be out here every day at this time, so if you want to go and find a sword or get a pistol and give me the opportunity to make you look like an even bigger twat than you already do, go right ahead, and I’ll just wait here for you! I’m not here to prat around with you, I’m here because I’m ordered to be here, and actually I’m fairly pissed off about it because I’d rather be killing Frenchmen. But if you want to give me a bit of extra practice, you just let me know right now!”
There was complete silence around the parade ground. Into it, Paul said:
“No. I thought not. Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and see the Chief Secretary, and I suggest you get a bath, because I can smell you from here. And don’t forget to write that letter to my wife, or you’ll be woken up tomorrow morning with two buckets of that. Good morning.”
(From An Unconventional Officer by Lynn Bryant, Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga, available on Amazon kindle and in paperback)

The Sharpe Books by Bernard Cornwell- my elephant in the room…

An Uncommon Campaign, 110th at the Battle of Fuentes d'Onoro

In describing the Sharpe books by Bernard Cornwell as my elephant in the room, I’m very definitely not being serious.  These novels are a lot bigger than an elephant.

An Unconventional Officer
Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga

During the course of this year I have independently published the first four books of my Peninsular War Saga on Amazon, and before I did that I was already nervous about them being compared to the Sharpe novels, since those, for most people, are the gold standard of novels describing Wellington’s war in Portugal and Spain in the early nineteenth century.  Authors like C S Forester, Patrick O’Brian, Alexander Kent and Dudley Pope have depicted the navy in impressive detail, and in recent years, Cornwell has been joined by authors such as Adrian Goldsworthy and Iain Gale.  But Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe remains the character that most people remember from popular fiction when they think of the Peninsular War.

In part, of course, this has a lot to do with the classic TV adaptations starring Sean Bean which aired between 1993 and 2008, based loosely on the books.  But Cornwell’s books, with their meticulous research and brilliant battle descriptions are enduringly popular in their own right, and for a new writer, the thought of being compared to a writer who has already done something so extraordinarily well, is extremely daunting and definitely unavoidable.

The first four novels of my Peninsular War Saga were all published between May and September of 2017, but I had been writing them for a number of years.  My original hope was to try to find an agent and go the traditional publishing route, but the responses I received all gave me the same message; there is currently no market for historical novels set in the Peninsular War.  Unless, presumably, they’re written by Bernard Cornwell.  Left with the choice of abandoning the books or going the independent route, I chose the latter and I’m very glad I did.  In less than six months, I’ve sold some books and I’ve had a few reviews, mostly very positive, one or two less so.  I’m currently working on book five and I’m enjoying myself very much.  But good or bad, the reviews tend to mention the S word, and it’s led me to finally stop ignoring it and to stare straight at the elephant.  I’ve received a number of messages and posts asking questions about this, and I thought I’d use those as a basis to face up to my fear of Richard Sharpe…

Did you get the idea for your books from reading or watching Sharpe?

No.

The lead character in my books is called Paul van Daan, and he came into being very early on in my writing career.  I’ve always been obsessed with history, studied at school and then at university.  I’ve always read a lot, especially historical novels, and I started to write my own as a teenager.  They were dreadful and I destroyed them many years ago.

The first full length book I wrote was set in South Africa in the nineteenth century.  It was a period I’d studied and was fascinated by, especially given the political situation at the time with apartheid.  I read everything I could about how South Africa came to be the way it was, and I wrote a novel based around the early conflict between Boer and British which led to the Great Trek.  My leading character was a Boer who had lost family at Blood River, but who for various reasons found himself being educated and raised as an Englishman, with all the ensuing conflict.  The young officer’s name was Paul van Daan.

Over the years I wrote a lot of other stories and novels, most unfinished.  I made a few efforts at getting published, but it became obvious very early on that I was going to get nowhere with my South African novel.  The political climate became increasingly sensitive, and it was obvious that a white, English working class female was not the right person to publish a novel set in nineteenth century South Africa with all it’s complicated racial politics.  Paul and his story were abandoned in favour of other things.

A few years ago, with my children growing up, I decided to give writing another go and I worked on several other projects, while re-reading my earlier efforts.  Most of them were unceremoniously dumped at that point, but something about this novel stayed with me although I had no intention of going back to it. After a lot of thought, I realised that it was the characters that I liked.  Paul van Daan was a soldier, not particularly easy but to me, very appealing.  Carl, Johnny and Michael were all a part of that early book.  So was Anne.  Paul’s first wife was Dutch and was named Renata.  Of all of them, her character probably changed the most.  Renata was something of a mouse, while I really like Rowena.  But I was surprised overall at how happy I was with this little group of people even though I wasn’t that happy at where they were living.  But it occurred to me suddenly that I didn’t need to be wedded to one particular location or time period.

Once I was looking for somewhere to relocate my series, the Napoleonic wars were obvious.  I’d studied them and I’d read about them.  By this stage I had both read and watched Sharpe, and then followed up by a lot of reading of biographies.  In particular I was very attached to Sir Harry Smith who was a major character in the original novel as mentor and friend to the young Paul van Daan.  I’d read his autobiography as background and that played a big part in my decision to attempt the Peninsular war.  I’m rather delighted with the fact that in the novels I’ve published, their relationship is reversed and it’s Paul who is the senior, taking an interest in young Captain Smith’s career…

For a while, I pretended not to think about Sharpe, but it didn’t bother me anyway since I didn’t really think I’d ever get far enough to publish the books.

Is your lead character like Richard Sharpe?

Not much, to be honest.

Richard Sharpe was a lad from a poor background who joined the army and managed, through talent, courage and a lot of luck to get himself an officer’s commission at a time when most commissions were purchased.  He was a good soldier and a good leader but he struggled to fit in because of his background.  Every promotion was a fight for him and he had to be better than all the others to achieve them.

Paul van Daan, in contrast, was born with the proverbial silver spoon.  His father made his money through trade, his mother was English aristocracy and he went to Eton and Oxford.  He’s arrogant, clever and always knows best and he has enough money to buy his way to the top.  If he’d been around after Talavera, he would have been the man Josefina ran off with because he could have afforded her.  Richard Sharpe would have hated him on sight.

Looking a bit closer, however, maybe not.

Paul van Daan has one or two odd things in common with Sharpe.  One of them is a very pretty set of stripes across his back.  Sharpe got his during his early days in the army; Paul got his in the Royal Navy.  After he got thrown out of Eton for a long list of bad behaviour which culminated in him throwing the Greek master into a fountain, his father sent him to sea as a midshipman on one of his trading vessels to make a man of him.  The ship was wrecked and only one lifeboat made it to shore on Antigua where the men were scooped up by a press gang desperate for experienced sailors.  Nobody believed Paul’s story about his wealthy background, or perhaps they just didn’t care that much; they were desperate for men.  At fifteen, Paul fought at the Battle of the Nile under Nelson and earned himself a promotion to petty officer before he managed to get word to his father who secured his release.

Two years below decks gave Paul van Daan a slightly eccentric outlook for a young gentleman which he took into the army with him a few years later.  Sharpe might have hated him on sight, but I’d pretty much guarantee that after their first battle together, they’d have been getting happily drunk together.

What about promotions?

Not much doubt who is going to move faster through the hierarchy given Paul’s money and background.  Sharpe would definitely have been grouchy about that.  Paul is a major at 26 when Sharpe hadn’t even got started properly, and a colonel in his thirties.  Having got there, however, he stays there for a long time.  He’s found his niche, he’s not after more money and he wouldn’t take an administrative posting to move up if you begged him to; Paul likes to fight.  He’ll finally move up again for Waterloo, I suspect, but we’ll see…

And the Chosen Men?

Paul’s friendships aren’t always popular with the army establishment.  He’s on equally good terms with the son of an Earl and his cockney sergeant.  He’s not in the Rifles, but he is a light infantry officer.  After a lot of thought I invented a completely new regiment or two for my books and expanded the light division to accommodate them.

There is an Irish sergeant although he doesn’t resemble Patrick Harper very much since he’s an educated man who joined the ranks to hide after a failed rebellion in Ireland.

And Wellington?  Paul is close to him in a way that Sharpe could never have been.  Partly that’s because of his background; Wellington was a snob.  Almost as important, though, is the fact that Paul has the thickest skin in the British army and doesn’t care how much his chief yells at him, which is probably a pleasant change for Wellington who tended to upset more sensitive souls.  The only things Paul gets upset about are arseholes saying the wrong thing about his wife and any general whose incompetence puts his men at risk.

And what about the women?

Ah yes.  Well, there are a few, in the early days.  Definitely something Paul and Richard Sharpe have in common.  Actually, I think Sharpe was often better behaved about this than Paul.  But then during a thoroughly unpleasant posting to Yorkshire in 1808, Paul meets Anne Howard.  It’s not particularly simple since he’s married and she’s about to be, to a junior officer, but this particular love affair isn’t going to go away.  As for running around with other women once he’s with her, I wouldn’t personally recommend it…

If I liked Sharpe, will I enjoy your books?

I’ve got no idea.  Try one and if you like it, read the others.

A friend who read them suggested a tagline of Sharpe for Girls.  I don’t see it myself, since I know so many women who loved the Sharpe books, but I suspect that one of the biggest differences in style is that although Paul is the main character, once Anne comes on the scene she gets equal treatment a lot of the time.  She isn’t really a girl to be sitting around looking pretty and she spends a fair bit of her time in the surgeons tents covered in gore.  When she’s not doing that, she’s organising the quartermaster and bullying the commissariat, taking time out to flirt outrageously with the commander-in-chief and generally shocking the ladies of headquarters during winter quarters.

Both men and women seem to be reading and enjoying the books.  I’ve recently changed the covers; the first cover was very much a ‘romantic novel’ look and I didn’t think it reflected the books very well.  The new covers have definitely improved sales, and I’ve had a couple of very good reviews from men.

How would you describe the books?

Not as a Sharpe copy.

I can’t describe what I’ve written so I’m going to quote a couple of reviews.

“Absolutely brilliant. For 40 years I’ve been fascinated by this period of history, and have read everything I could my hands on, history, biography, memoirs and fiction. This series is the best fiction I’ve ever read – fantastically well researched and historically accurate, with wonderfully drawn characters and relationships. They give a brilliant idea of what war was like then, as well as a moving love story and brilliant relationships between the male characters. Got to the end of number 3 and luckily the fourth was published one day earlier, now I’m dying for no 5.” 

“What a great series. Loved the characters. Well researched, unputdownable!”

“Good book well written thoroughly researched.”

I’ve had two bad reviews for these books out of a fair few excellent ones.

One of them complains that the book is too like Sharpe and it’s the reason, to be honest, that I’m writing this post, because it made me think about it.  When I write about a particular campaign, my first thought is always, where were my regiment and what was their role in it.  When I read that review, I admit to a bit of a panic.  I couldn’t remember anything about Sharpe’s role in Massena’s 1811 retreat and I was worried that I’d accidentally copied Cornwell’s treatment of that.  I needn’t have worried, Sharpe wasn’t even involved in that campaign, he was off at Barossa.  Just as well actually, he’d have killed Erskine stone dead.  My lad came close.

When I looked again at the review I realised he’d given equally unfavourable reviews to other authors who had written books about this period, some of them well-known.  I’m taking the view that for this particular reviewer, if you’re not Cornwell you shouldn’t be writing about this.  Nothing I can do about that.

The other review was a lot more detailed and it was from a lady who seemed to object to the romance in the novel which she complained was too much of a contrast to the unpleasant descriptions of war.  I couldn’t establish which she wanted more or less of.

The rest of my reviews have been great and I’m so grateful to the people who have read the books, enjoyed them and taken the trouble to write a review.  Even a couple of lines is a big boost.

A few of them mention Sharpe.  Every time I see it, I feel very honoured at being mentioned in the same sentence as Bernard Cornwell, since I’ve been reading and loving his books for twenty years now.  I’m also completely terrified because I don’t want to let people down by not being as good.

During the years I’ve been working on these books I’ve done an unbelievable amount of research.  I’ve learned facts about Wellington’s army that I never thought I’d have reason to know.  I’ve also talked to some great people who are as passionate about the period as I am and that’s one of the things I love most about doing this.

Books one to four of the Peninsular War Saga are available on Amazon on kindle and in paperback.  Book five, which covers the Salamanca and Burgos campaign, will be published next year.  They’re not Richard Sharpe, they’re Paul van Daan.  I hope you enjoy them anyway…

 

 

The Organisation of Wellington’s Peninsular Army

Wellington’s HQ in Pere Negro, the Lines of Torres Vedras
Battle of Bussaco (organisation of Wellington’s Peninsular army)
Battle of Bussaco

The organisation of Wellington’s Peninsular Army can be split into three main areas; ranks of officers and men, the structure of the army and the support services.  Sir Arthur Wellesley arrived in Portugal in 1808 but did not take full command of the army until the following year.  Morale was poor and most officers believed that Wellesley would be lucky to hold Lisbon, let alone the rest of Portugal.  Wellesley himself seems always to have intended a more aggressive policy although he did not necessarily always share his intentions with the politicians in London.  After a resounding success at Oporto and a victory, albeit a difficult one, at Talavera, Wellington embarked on a reorganisation of the army into divisions.

Army Ranks

The ranks listed below show the traditional command structure of the army.  In practice, during the war, commands and ranks were very flexible.  It was not unusual for a Lieutenant to be found commanding a company or a Major in charge of a battalion.  Regiments were often commanded by Lieutenant-colonels if their Regimental Colonel was not in the field. 

Officers acquired their commissions by purchase, and theoretically all promotions were also purchased up to the rank of colonel.  During the war, however, the large number of officers killed meant that many promotions were given without purchase – less than one in five first commissions were purchased.  In some regiments it was possible to advance quite quickly without needing to pay for a commission and a sympathetic regimental colonel could often help talented young officers up the ranks. For more information, historian Robert Griffith has written an excellent post here.

In addition to an officer’s regimental rank, there were also various temporary ranks which could be held, often linked to a particular posting. There is a very good account of these on the Napoleon site here.

It was unusual for NCOs to be given a commission but it did sometimes happen, usually for `acts of specific courage in the field.  Because of the class distinctions of the day – officers were supposed to be ‘gentlemen’ it could be difficult for an enlisted man to fit in once he attained his commission.

The exception to this was in the case of ‘gentlemen volunteers’.  These were men of good birth who could not afford a commission so joined the ranks.  They trained and fought with the enlisted men but messed and socialised with the officers until a commission without purchase became available.

Officers                                                  Command

Ensign/Subaltern

Lieutenant  

Captain                                                   Company

Major                                                       Battalion

Lieutenant-Colonel                                  Battalion

Colonel                                                    Regiment

Brigadier                                                  Brigade

Major General                                          Division

Lieutenant General                                  Corps

General                                                    Army

Field Marshal                                          Theatre of war  

Non Commissioned Officers (NCOs)                                       

Sergeant-Major

Sergeant

Corporal

Chosen Man was occasionally used as an informal award to a promising private soldier, later formalised into the rank of Lance Corporal.

Structure of the Army

The Peninsular Army was structured as shown below.  As with the ranks listed above, there was a lot of variety in numbers and commands.  Most regiments were permanently under strength due to death, injury and sickness so the numbers below are very general and would have varied widely between different regiments and at different stages of the war.  The structure below is that of the infantry; cavalry was organised slightly differently.

Company                  

Each company consisted of around 100 men.  It was commanded by a Captain with two lieutenants and two ensigns.  There were two sergeants per company and three corporals.

Battalion

Each battalion consisted of 10 companies; 8 infantry companies, a company of guards and a light company.  The guards tended to be used for main assaults, they recruited big men and their job was to stand firm.  The light company were skirmishers; fast, agile and smart with the capacity to think independently.

Some battalions also had their own Regimental Sergeant-Major who had overall charge of discipline, although this does not seem to have been an official rank and varied between regiments.

Regiment

Most regiments consisted of two battalions although some had three or more, particularly the Rifles.  It was unusual for both battalions of a regiment to be serving in the same army although it did happen, once again most notably with the Rifles.  Usually the second battalion was either serving elsewhere, or back in barracks providing reinforcements to the first battalion in the field.

Confusingly, both officers and men often referred to their battalion as their regiment so that the two terms can be used interchangeably at times.  Each regiment had a Colonel in Chief who might have been serving in the field but was often more of a figurehead, with the actual command being left to a lieutenant colonel.

Brigade

Two to four regiments / battalions comprised a brigade, which was presided over by a brigade commander.  The actual term Brigadier was not often used.  A brigade commander could be a colonel or lieutenant colonel, usually of one of the regiments included in the brigade.

Division

A division consisted of two to four brigades, usually between 5,000 and 15,000 men with 10,000 being fairly normal.  Divisional commanders could be Major-Generals or Lieutenant-Generals.  Wellington had seven divisions and added an eighth in 1811.  The light division was generally the smallest.

In my Peninsular War saga, Paul van Daan joined the 110th in 1802 at the age of 21.  He was slightly older than most new officers and  joined as an ensign but purchased immediately on to lieutenant.  This practice was not officially allowed, but often happened with men who could afford it if commissions were available and the regimental colonel agreed.

Theoretically, promotions were offered within the regiment in very strict order of rank and length of service. If a man could not afford to purchase the higher rank, it would be offered to the next man in line. Prices of commissions were fixed, but when officers sold their commission on, they often added a premium on to it. These premiums were strictly illegal and very common, and in fashionable regiments could be very high, making those regiments exclusive to wealthy men.

Paul’s first promotion was given in the field and he was fairly young for it although it was not unheard of.  After that his rise was fast; he could afford it and he was talented, but he did not rise as quickly as Wellington had before him.  Wellington was an ensign at 18 and a lieutenant, like Paul, almost immediately afterwards.  He was a Captain at 22, also like Paul but gained his majority at only 24 and was a Colonel by the time he was 27 while Paul was thirty. The 110th infantry, certainly in the early books, is not a fashionable regiment and has very few wealthy officers, which makes it possible for Paul to leapfrog men who could not afford an inflated purchase price, a process described in An Unwilling Alliance when Paul’s purchase of his majority funds the retirement of Colonel Dixon.

Support Services

Regiments and battalions had their own quarter-masters, who were in charge of provisions and supplies for the regiment.  Wellington had a relatively small headquarters staff and worked them hard.  The medical services were under the control of the army medical board in London, and the commissariat which was responsible for supplying the army was also a separate body, a situation which caused a good deal of problems for the commander in chief.

In reality, how each section of the army was run tended to be very much down to local circumstances.  Commanding officers varied considerably in their attitudes to discipline and etiquette, and each regiment developed it’s own customs and traditions within the army regulations.

Army headquarters in London was known as Horse Guards and was situated in Whitehall.

Further Reading

There are a lot of good sites on the internet which go into considerable detail about the organisation of the Peninsular Army.  A very clear account of it is given in Stuart Reid’s Wellington’s Army in the Peninsula published by Osprey which is available on Amazon.

Rory Muir, who is the best biographer of Wellington ever, in my opinion, has co-written an excellent book with three other historians which gives detailed information on how the army was structured, entitled Inside Wellington’s Peninsular Army.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WordPress Appliance - Powered by TurnKey Linux