Hand of the Baptist

Book 4 Preview

Chapter 1

The lost patrol

Estremaduran wilderness

Squinting in the bright morning sunlight, Joshua Lock felt as if he stood too close to a roaring forge blasting skin-scorching flame up its blackened chimney while sweat ran from his body in rivulets. He tore off his Tarleton helmet to wipe his face on the back of a dolman sleeve. “Why is it always us sent to round up lost bloody sheep?”

At his side, Captain the Honourable John Killen chuckled. He dropped the reins on his black thoroughbred’s neck, allowing the horse to stretch its head down towards a clump of unappetising dried grass stalks on the high ridge where they had drawn to a halt. “We have acquired a reputation for success in such endeavours, however undeserved we might consider it.”

Lock stared into the heat haze rising across the plain below, stretching away from a jumble of boulders at the foot of the downslope just ahead. After weeks of unrelenting sunshine, the Spanish countryside lay dust-brown and parched for as far as he could see. “The horses need to drink soon,” he observed, reaching for the wooden canteen hanging behind his left hip. He pulled the bung and tipped the painted wooden drum to his mouth, swallowing just enough of its tepid contents to wash the dust from his mouth. In this unmapped part of the country he had no idea when they might come across a spring where it could be refilled.

“If we cannot find them soon, we shall need to return,” Killen said, uncorking his own canteen. “You have water, Picker?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” The party’s third member stood a little way behind the other two men. Matthew Picker, erstwhile trumpeter of the 20th Light Dragoons when they arrived in Portugal the previous year and latterly Killen’s orderly. “Shouldn’t be too far ahead now, sir, less’n they got lost.”

Lock grunted. “Whose stupid idea was it to send a squadron of Johnnies out on patrol when they don’t know the country? How long ago did the 23rd disembark – a few days?”

Killen cleared his throat. “To be perfectly fair, Josh, we are in much the same predicament.”

“At least we’ve been here a good while,” Lock argued. “You get an idea of the place…”  He slapped his helmet back on and screwed up his eyes to cut the sun’s glare, staring into the distance. “Borrow your spyglass, John?”

Killen dug the small telescope from his sabretache and passed it across, “You see them?”

Extending the instrument’s tubes, Lock concentrated. Then he pointed, “There. About a mile ahead, I reckon.” He handed the spyglass to Killen. “Find that stand of trees, then pull back a little and move left.”

“I cannot…ah, now I see. How on earth did you manage to spot them?”

“Their guidon flapped.” Lock leaned forward in the saddle, eyes almost shut, “Must have been trotting. Mad, in this heat.”

“Naughty of their commander. I understood all cavalry colours were to be left at home depots, by order of the Duke of York.”

“Lucky for us he disobeyed or we might never have found them.” Lock tensed, “Can I borrow your glass again?”

Killen passed the telescope back. “What is it?”

Lock focussed first on the distant light dragoons, then tracked the spyglass right and forward until the woodland appeared, magnified by the small objective, its green-capped cork oaks an oasis of shade in this desert. “Amongst those trees,” he said, passing the instrument back to his captain. The darkened trunks and underbrush masked flashes of what might be a more deadly green. “Unwanted company?”

Killen aimed the glass. “I see nothing.”

“They’re in there, waiting.”

“An ambush? How many, do you think?”

“Can’t tell from here.” Lock considered, “Probably at least a troop if they’re scouting this far ahead of French lines. Maybe they found water. Or they’re just resting in the shade. I wager they can’t believe their good luck – the chance to take a colour.” Lock twisted around in his saddle, “Think a trumpet call will carry that far, Matthew?”

Picker grimaced. “Doubt it, sarge.”

“Might they be Spanish, simply at an early siesta?” Killen suggested.

“They might. Whoever they are, our quarry hasn’t spotted them yet. They’ve no vedettes out! Bloody amateurs.”

“The sun is at our backs. If we were to traverse the slope that way,” Killen pointed, “neither party should see us until we are almost upon them.”

“The sun’s on our bloody heads, you mean.” In his mind’s eye, Lock traced the line of approach Killen suggested. To their right, the ground fell away in a lazy arc, a dry stream bed gouged out by some winter torrent flooding down from the highlands, aimed at the trees.

“I should not be surprised if this fed a spring in the woodland there,” Killen indicated the dusty channel.

At the top, the way was thickly studded with boulders, leg breakers for horses. But as it fell downhill, the watercourse slimmed into a barely visible goat-track path before disappearing into a narrow defile between steep banks as it levelled off.

Lock considered. Vegetation clung to the bank tops, tall enough to hide them from watchers as they moved along the dry ditch. If they galloped the horses too quickly downhill, one could easily miss its footing and fall. Even if all survived the descent and subsequent race to the woodland, they might reach the distant trees exhausted, with no energy left to manoeuvre against enemy cavalry who had rested in the shade: not fast enough and they would arrive too late to give the 23rd warning. He grinned, “We’ll have to move sharpish. French cavalry won’t just wait for us.”

“The horses…”

“You know they’re hard fit, John,” Lock said, “and with any luck we can walk them home.”

Killen led them into the gully, The Tempest skipping around boulders as it half-plunged, half-slid down the steep slope. He gave the horse its head, confident it would not charge off blindly: faster and more nimble than its poorer-bred companions, he did not want to leave them too far behind. The rocks thinned as he reached the goat track, but now he was forced to duck his head as overhanging branches clutched at his uniform.

Hidden from the surrounding plain, they moved unseen by the distant horsemen but trees and bushes shading the gully threw dark shadows, masking obstacles in their path.

Killen slowed. They needed to travel faster, but the risk of a mishap increased with speed: if the French in the woodland had posted vedettes where the gully ended, their attempt at surprise would be for naught. And though he assumed the ditch reached into the woodland it might just as easily peter out beforehand, disappear into a sinkhole or simply come to a dead end. Then they must leave its shelter to be exposed far too soon, out on the plain where they had no cover.

He held them to a trot. There would be time enough to let the horses stretch out into a gallop and if the 23rd found themselves already in trouble by the time he reached them, that was just too bad. He glanced over his shoulder. Picker was several horse-lengths behind but Lock’s Sexton had found keeping up through the rock-strewn gully more difficult, though Killen knew the less agile horse could likely maintain its same relentless, if slower, pace far longer than the other two animals.

The Tempest jinked around another boulder. Foliage overhead was thinning now and Killen watched for a gap where they might scramble up the side, out of the gully. Ahead of him, a section of bank was partially collapsed, clumps of browned turf and bramble tumbled into the ditch where roots had given up their tenuous hold in the scorched soil. It might do. He slowed The Tempest to a walk, allowing the others to catch up. Sexton was blowing hard as the horse always did lately after even moderate exercise. They all suffered from this heat.

Killen looked up. There was enough gap in the foliage for a single horse to force its way through, so he circled The Tempest to the right to give himself a couple of strides run up, dug the fingers of one hand in the horse’s mane and launched it straight at the bank.

The horse accelerated up the slope like the racehorse it was bred to be, bursting through the remains of hedge crowning the lip. Out on the plain, Killen waited for the others to join him, his horse prancing in a tight circle after the momentary excitement. Picker came next, his grey momentarily losing its footing, soil crumbling under its feet as it reached the top, but the trumpeter let his reins slip through his fingers so the horse could stretch out. Then Lock and Sexton, the bay powering its way to the top easily, as if such a task were no great effort.

Killen allowed them only seconds to recover before he turned towards the woodland. French dragoons, he could see them clearly, were already making their way out to form in front of the trees less than a half-mile ahead on the flank of the British column.  He was shocked the 23rd had not noticed them, presumably because every man looked straight ahead, parade ground fashion, focussed only on the file in front. He felt a flush of annoyance and determined he must speak in the strongest terms to whoever was in command. The failure to post vedettes was a basic error which could turn out to be fatal wherever a small force marched across unknown territory, and it seemed no single officer had the foresight to correct it. Men who could not keep their wits about them on the march were simply a liability.

“Matthew, can you blow ‘Gone Away’?”

Picker pulled the trumpet around from its position, strapped diagonally across his back, “I think so, sir.”

“We will trot,” Killen said, keeping a wary eye on the French. Their line was almost complete, the enemy concentrating on their manoeuvre. They had not spotted him. Yet.

Picker put the trumpet to his lips and blew a quick series of doubled notes.

“Again.” Surely at least one officer must have heard and recognised the hunting call. “And again, if you please.”

The third repetition must have caused consternation at the head of the British line because horses stopped, turned in confusion. The 23^rd at last recognised their danger. Killen watched a perfunctory attempt to get the men wheeled to their right, forming a defensive line, of sorts. The enemy must surely have heard Picker, but were either too concerned with their dressing or unsure from which direction the trumpet called.

Then the French charged at the trot.

Killen could not have wished for better. “Draw swords,” he yelled. “Prepare to gallop…gallop march!”

He saw the 23rd‘s sabres clear their scabbards before the French dragoons hit their line. “Matthew, blow the charge!”

As the rising notes blared out, dragoons on the left of the enemy’s line heard Killen’s approach, and in the resulting bewilderment some turned to face the newcomers while others slowed in uncertainty. Seeing their hesitation, men of the 23rd leapt into the attack just as Killen reached the enemy. He slashed his sabre at the nearest Frenchman. The stroke rang against the dragoon’s long, straight blade but Lock appeared on his right and struck at the same man. The Frenchman failed to block the cut, screeching as Lock’s curved sabre bit into his bridle arm.

Killen parried another French sword stroke, deflecting the enemy blade as the dragoon galloped past. The Tempest had sped beyond the 23rd’s fragmented line of slashing men, so now he slowed, turning back to watch as French dragoons wheeled away from stronger resistance than they anticipated. Those on the far right of their line must have seen their comrades pull horses around to face a new threat, but now it appeared there was none and they stood rooted to the spot while the British hacked at their front ranks.

The conflict lasted less than a few minutes before the French wheeled to their right, streaming away northeast with a number of the 23rd in pursuit.

Killen sheathed his sabre. No trumpet call from the British.

Picker was a few horses to his left. “Trumpeter Picker, sound the recall!” General Wellesley would be displeased in the extreme if he lost horses and men to a pointless chase after a beaten enemy when he had taken pains to order them sought out and returned to his army on its long march along the north bank of the River Tagus. Where was this squadron’s commander, to leave his men with no firm direction?

“Again, Matthew!”

The officers had pulled up in a tight group which included the guidon-bearer, a cornet by the look of him. Killen rode across to find himself confronted by a major and lieutenant when, from the apparent lack of professionalism, he expected only subalterns in charge. He halted The Tempest.

“Captain Killen, sir…” Killen had no real idea of his current status at army headquarters, and his regimental title did not seem appropriate. But Lock had crept up on his right and helped in a loud whisper, “…of General Wellesley’s staff.”

“Winterbourne, 23rd. I’m surprised to find you here, captain?”

Thanks would have been more appropriate than interrogation, Killen thought, but instead he said mildly, “The general’s regular outposts lost track of you, major, so we were despatched to fetch you back.” Two could play at quizzes. “Sir Arthur is insistent the army concentrate before proceeding further.”

“And how did you discover us?”

Killen bit his tongue. He wanted to spit back ‘fieldcraft’ at the other man, but before he constructed a polite response, Lock interjected.

“Spotted your guidon, major. So did the Frogs, I should think. Probably the reason they bothered you.”

“That will do, sergeant,” Killen said crossly. “But he is likely correct, major. To risk attacking a similarly sized force their commander had a particular reason, or he would have let you alone.”

“To try his men in combat.”

“Any French officer worth his salt would not be so crass. No, sir, he spied a trophy for the taking, and cheaply. Snatch and run.”

Winterbourne’s gaze slid to Killen’s right, where Lock had dropped his reins on Sexton’s neck and was unconcernedly wiping blood from the edge of his sabre with the oilcloth usually wrapped around his carbine’s flintlock to keep out the damp. It seemed Picker had also taken the hint because he pulled his trumpet to the front and was staring deep into the instrument’s bell.

“I see,” Winterbourne said, “that your interference…may have been advantageous, captain.” He turned to his right, “Sergeant Williams, call the roll. And report what injuries we have.” When he turned back, he was more serious, “You’ve been over here a while, Killen? Then you and I must talk as we return.”

Killen supposed it an apology, of sorts. It must be difficult for a field officer to admit he did not know what he was about, especially in front of his men. It had taken Killen months to understand why small errors of procedure could undermine what appeared the simplest of tasks.

But it was galling he must explain the facts of campaigning to a superior officer.

Cantering back in to report nothing to be seen on the column’s flank, Lock found himself on Winterbourne’s left. Before he had time to draw back, the major spoke.

“I notice you don’t carry a standard longarm, sergeant.”

Lock cursed his neglect in leaving the carbine’s lock unwrapped; the ring-necked cock was easily seen as different from that generally issued. He left the weapon strapped into its bucket, hung down Sexton’s shoulder. No Tom, Dick, nor Johnny-come-lately was getting hands on it without a direct order, officer or not. “Ezekiel Baker’s design, major. I like it better than my old Elliot.”

“I’d thought only the 10th Hussars carried them.”

Lock shrugged in response, and then it came.

Winterbourne held out a hand. “S’il vous plaît, sergent?”

Lock grimaced but obediently unbuckled the gun to hand it across. The 23rd’s major had better not drop it accidentally. He watched Winterbourne turn the carbine over in his hands, eyes wandering over the brass-shod butt. Checking for any regimental stamps which would suggest it stolen, the cheeky bastard.

“Where’d you acquire this, sergeant?”

He noticed Winterbourne did not look at him. Now he would. “Gifted, sir, by my captain.”

Lock smiled as Winterbourne glanced up in surprise, “I beg your pardon?”

Jogging up alongside, Killen answered for his friend. “Quite right, major. Sergeant Lock and I were with Sir John Moore last winter. We…looked out for one another, as comrades ought.” He lifted one leg high over The Tempest’s neck to display his boot, “The sergeant presented me these fine spurs, taken from a French officer, a spy, whom he shot. With a borrowed rifle, oddly enough. It would have been ungentlemanly not to reciprocate.” He lowered his leg, “Lock admired the 10th’s rifled carbines, so I had him one made.”

Winterbourne handed the weapon back without comment.

Touche, Lock thought. It was one French word he knew.

Chapter 2

A deal of mistrust

Barranco de las Pastores, Estremadura

Major Melville Rapton, lately a captain in the 20th Light Dragons but now resplendent in his brand new 10th Hussars uniform, decided this was probably the most dangerous moneymaking scheme he had dreamed up thus far. So many things which could have gone awry had fortunately not, but there was one more danger to face. If this went well, it might prove the answer to his bad luck at the tables. Trading would be his game: pasteboard and dice could go hang.

While he waited on horseback under a sun which seemed to scour the countryside with its blazing heat even at this God-forsaken hour of the morning, Rapton checked his watch. As the rendezvous time came and went, he reflected firstly that Spaniards were the most unreliable of foreigners as far as timekeeping was concerned, and second that they might even now be creeping unseen through the scrubby hills to attempt his assassination, the success of which would immediately void their mutually beneficial arrangement in the peasants’ favour.

He chose this location deliberately, or at least Sergeant Tyloe had. Selected the place with care, as well as recruiting the pair of light infantrymen who accompanied them. Rapton examined their positions again, both armed men hidden high up amongst rocks, one on each side of the road. He could not see them, so he hoped neither would the Spaniards. And he prayed Tyloe had selected his guardians well: they would earn plenty for their trouble, provided they did as ordered rather than staying hidden, safe from the Spaniards’ anger at an unexpected impasse. Rapton worried that any bandits bold enough to rob a British army convoy would be just as happy to kill him instead of delivering the payment they had agreed on, which was why he needed rifle-armed assistants.

His new majority cost his father a fortune, well above the going rate of three thousand, eight hundred and eighty-two pounds, ten shillings – Rapton senior always made a point of emphasising the shillings – but exchanging into a regiment with the Prince of Wales as its colonel proved too good an opportunity to resist for his father, anxious as ever to lever himself another rung upwards on the ladder of cronyism and patronage which ruled his world. And it suited Melville very well: the 20th was due a posting to Sicily, so gossip back at home insisted, and God only knew what sort of filth-ridden backwater that was, even compared with Iberia.

It was all John Slade’s fault he was forced to return to Spain. The brigadier-general he met during General Moore’s ill-fated campaign encouraged his ambition, promising Rapton a position as an aide-de-camp once he exchanged. Given Slade’s party-going reputation and friendship with the Prince, Melville imagined an unending social whirl of foxhunting, balls and assignations with pretty heiresses on the lookout for potential husbands, but now it seemed the Duke of York had overruled his Royal brother’s protestations and Slade was posted back to Iberia, dashing Rapton’s hopes of a hedonistic lifestyle. At least the brigadier’s style of soldiering appealed: advancing cagily to the fray and then allowing his troops forward while holding himself in reserve seemed an eminently sensible approach. It was just a shame he applied a similar principle to his new position, which involved having Melville scout accommodation and potential entertainment before Slade arrived.

As ever, Rapton was short of money, and until his benefactor set foot in Spain was unable to beg expenses elsewhere. His luck at cards never seemed to improve and with so many Englishmen in Portugal, clean whores grew increasingly costly. In that respect it was a pity he lost his wife the previous year, an innocent victim of the army’s horrendous retreat across the frozen mountains of Northern Spain to Corunna, on the coast. Even if she had proved a whore herself, she was at least disease-free, or so he imagined. His father’s incandescent rage at his carelessness, as the old man called it, was simply because it removed Elinor Rapton’s father, a minor knight but still one of the aristocracy, from Rapton senior’s social circle. But with no wife to fund, the consequent reduction in his expenses gave his father one more excuse, Melville thought sourly, to keep him short of money.  

It was Tyloe, of course, ever on the lookout for easy cash and so far frustrated by apparently incorruptible quartermasters and commissary officers, who made the Spanish connection. But for the scheme to work, the sergeant needed his officer’s access to commissariat timetables and routes of march. Rapton had persuaded Sergeant Silas Tyloe to transfer regiment with him, a fairly simple procedure since experienced non-commissioned officers were always in short supply. He and Tyloe had a history, and their loose association worked to Rapton’s satisfaction up to now, at least in monetary terms.

A single, sharp whistle blast made him jump. He heard the horsemen coming before he saw them and checked over his shoulder to ensure Tyloe remained on station just to his rear. Rapton’s silk stock was suddenly throttling. He tugged at it with a forefinger to loosen the damned thing before walking his horse from its hiding place out onto the track.

Eight men rode in a tight group behind their leader. As they came to a halt in what appeared a deliberately dramatic cloud of dust and stones, the man in front, mounted on a horse which seemed to sparkle white in the sunlight, stepped a few paces forward. His men spread out on either side.

“You are the Englishman.”

A damned obvious statement, Rapton thought, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement, “And you, señor?”

“My name is of no consequence.”
Rapton almost laughed. The guerilleros in this country were usually vain of fancy titles, yet this man offered none. “As you wish, señor.” He supposed he had better appear businesslike. “The…goods were to your satisfaction?”                                                                    

The Spaniard grunted non-committally. “You can sell me guns? I have money.”

Rapton expected the question. Spaniards always wanted firearms because the more weapons they held, the greater their prestige amongst peers. “It may be possible, señor.” Given the way muskets and ammunition were guarded during shipping and storage, it would be difficult, if not damned near impossible, Rapton thought. But an outright refusal never helped negotiations. “I…will investigate. Such things can take time.”

The bandit leader nodded as if expecting the answer before glancing both ways at his men. “You are brave to meet face to face with only a single companion,” he motioned towards Tyloe, “or perhaps you are stupid. Shall I kill you both now? Keep goods and gold?”

Rapton felt sweat break out anew beneath his shirt. “You could certainly do that, señor,” he countered, “but why would you kill one who might offer further opportunity to trade? And besides, you would also die.” He paused for effect, “Wilkins! Forester!”

The Spaniard and his men looked up at the pair of red-coated soldiers who appeared high in the rocks on either side of the defile, each with a firelock pointed in their direction. The brigands’ leader flicked his cloak over his shoulder to reveal an iron breastplate, so brightly polished it reflected the sun. French cuirassiers wore such, Rapton heard, so perhaps the Spaniard thought such a garment made him invincible, a Conquistador. But while it might turn a knife or sword blade, such thin metal provided no shield against an aimed ball. It simply meant that in this heat, the wearer roasted before he died.

“Two more, with muskets?” The Spaniard smiled, “You disappoint me, Englishman. You think to kill me at such a distance?”

“No, señor. Not muskets. They have rifles, trained on your heart.”

The Spaniard said nothing. Perhaps he began to realise his gleaming cuirass made him a more inviting target.

“Wilkins! Make ready!”

Rapton saw consternation in the Spaniards’ ranks, the men reaching for pistols. He raised his hands, “A demonstration only, señor. Have no fear.”  At least for the moment, you treacherous bastard.

“You see the branch?” Rapton pointed across to his right, where a stunted tree thrust upwards, struggling for the sky. A single limb pointed to the east like a fingerboard sign, its very tip bare of leaves.

One rifle shot crashed out, its flat report loud across the otherwise silent road. Rapton had Tyloe step out the distance earlier. A hundred and sixty yards, give or take. Nine out of ten musket shots would miss at that distance but the rifle barrel, cut with spiralling grooves to spin the ball, made the weapon far more accurate in the hands of a competent marksman.

The ball struck the branch tip, snapping off its topmost twigs which fluttered to the ground.

Rapton breathed a sigh of relief. The Spaniard loosened a thong tied at the front of his saddle before throwing the leather bag it secured to the ground in front of his horse. It landed with a satisfying thump in the dust.

The nameless Spaniard offered him an icy stare. “You will bring me rifles, Englishman.”

Then he turned his glowing white horse away to gallop off ahead of his companions.

“A good job we had the extra men, sir.” Tyloe wiped his brow on his sleeve.

The sergeant sweated as much as he from the encounter, Rapton realised. “And as well they proved steady, just as you promised, Silas. Now it remains…”

“Oh no, sir, they won’t say nothing.” Tyloe tapped the side of his nose, “Once they was hooked, I told ’em I’d put it about they were anfrancesados if they muttered a word. So they won’t.”

“You’re certain?”

“I told them the story about the last man who crossed you falling off a cliff in Galicia, accidentally on purpose, like.” Tyloe smirked, “I wouldn’t blab if someone threatened me with being stabbed in the back by some Dago. Would you, sir?”

Rapton thought probably not, but Tyloe had best be right if he wanted his cut. To be fair, Silas had never mentioned what happened to that damned sergeant on the retreat to Corunna the previous winter. In his hearing, at least. So he was satisfied Tyloe’s word could be trusted.

Dismounting to retrieve the leather bag, Melville checked it contained coin rather than handfuls of worthless sand or rubble. He would count it later. “Time we got out of this damned heat, sergeant.”

Rapton clambered back on his horse. He desperately needed something stronger to drink than the stale water in his canteen, and now that he had specie he already knew where he might find a clean whore.

Chapter 3

Overdue

Wellesley’s Temporary Headquarters, Oropesa

Major Jonas Hughes marched awkwardly towards Killen as he sprang from The Tempest ahead of the 23rd’s returned patrol. Hughes looked to carry what was not really a heavy limp, but one that if he were a horse would be described by Lock as decidedly unlevel and unfit for service.

While he waited for the major to reach him, Killen loosened his charger’s girths.

“Congratulations, Johnny: another successful search.”

Killen gave a small bow of acknowledgement. “Sergeant Lock’s eyesight to the fore once again.”

“Well, here’s another task for you.” Hughes brandished an order, “We’re missing forty remounts. Should have arrived the day before yesterday.”

“And I suppose they might be anywhere?”

“Oh, we’ve an idea where they should have been, based on the route they were given from Plascencia, so that’s somewhere to begin. Rest your horses overnight unless you think you need fresh animals. No? Then we’re away in the morning.”

“We, sir?” Killen’s interest was piqued.

“I’m coming with you as…an observer, if you like. You’ll command, captain. I’ve borrowed a half-troop of the 14th under Cornet Williamson and a sergeant as our escort.”

“You are…sound enough, major?”

Hughes pulled a face, “You’re getting as damned impertinent as your sergeant.” He wagged a forefinger in Killen’s face, “When your legs have marched and ridden as many leagues as I over the years, you try finding a veterinary who’ll pass you as fit!”

Killen changed the subject, “You believe the convoy met with trouble?”

Hughes lifted his bicorn to scratch at his thinning scalp. “They might just as easily be lost. Common enough in this damned country when most roads are simply tracks in the dirt, as Major Winterbourne found. But the French are close, though reports seem to suggest they’re retreating, God knows why.” He replaced his hat. “And we’ve little idea if the bands of guerilleros infesting the interior are friendly or not, so either could have troubled them. Anyhow, better safe than sorry, eh? We march at three in the morning – it’s too damned hot to leave later.”

“We fell in with a French cavalry patrol,” Killen said. “Around fifty men, I should say.”

Hughes raised his eyebrows. “Where was this?”           

“Eight or nine leagues to the north. Dragoons.”

“I’ll advert Sir Arthur. Which way did they go?”

Killen thought about it. ”Northeast, I should think. But they might have turned in any direction once out of sight, so I had the men who began to pursue recalled, before they were out of earshot.”

“I should damn well hope so.” The major glanced towards the 23rd, “What about them – any injuries? Anything else we should know?”

Killen hesitated.

Hughes moved closer. “Well?”

“They…would benefit from some advice. On how they ought to manoeuvre in the field.”

The major frowned. “Don’t tell me: the Frogs surprised them, I’d warrant? You know Wellesley will expect your account in writing, so I may as well hear it first-hand.”

Killen chose his words carefully. Fault-finding of an officer’s behaviour, particularly by one of inferior rank, was frowned upon, but there was no denying Lock’s criticism of unprofessional soldiering, never mind his own views. He sighed, “No vedettes posted. The French were hidden in a wood on their right and might have flanked the column.”

“Damn it. And?”

“They were a little slow to change front, though I may have been partly to blame…”

Hughes’ look demanded the remainder.

“I had Picker blow the charge as we approached in the hope of confusing the enemy just as they formed.”

Hughes shook his head, “So three of you charged the French flank to distract them? For God’s sake, don’t put that in your report, Johnny – Sir Arthur will have a fit!” He pursed his lips, “What else?”

“Missed their way, sir, as you surmised. That is all.”

Hughes grunted. “I hope the same of our remounts, Johnny, I honestly do. But I’ve had the 14th draw three days’ rations for the men and grain for their mounts,” he warned, “so you’d best do the same.”

Striding back inside the requisitioned house that served as a temporary headquarters in Oropesa, Hughes met Wellesley on his way out. The major halted and turned his back to the wall, giving way.

“All well, Hughes?”

“As can be, sir. They’d run into a patrol of French cavalry.”

Wellesley’s eyes narrowed. “Casualties?”

“None serious, sir. It’ll all be in Killen’s report.”

“I shall expect it on my desk before you depart tomorrow.”

Hughes watched him leave. He must speak with Killen again to make sure the Commander-in-Chief’s order was obeyed, though Johnny knew Sir Arthur’s foibles almost as well as he.

A voice from deep inside, “Jonas, that you?”

Damn it, Hughes thought. Trust Colonel MacAllen to be in the office rather than sniffing out subterfuge or generally making trouble elsewhere. For the life of him, he could not understand why Wellesley kept the man so close, nor what hand the colonel played. “What is it?”

“Come here, man.”
       That was another of the colonel’s annoying habits. Treating him almost like a skivvy, for reasons he could not understand. He never liked the man, even when the three were captains in India: Hughes, MacAllen and Killen…Johnny Killen’s father.

 He stepped into the office.

“Tell me.”

 Hughes considered for a moment. In his view, MacAllen’s only redeeming feature seemed to be an almost grudging regard for John Killen’s welfare, and, frustratingly, he had not yet been able to work out the true reason for such consideration, either. But on that score, he was of a similar mind. “It seems that instead of simply finding our lost cavalry patrol, Killen attacked a troop of French dragoons in the flank, strongly enough that they were disordered.”

“With how many men?”

“Himself, Lock and Picker.” His face creased into a smile, “Remember the Hindus in Mysore? Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, you might say.”

“Christ! I hope Sir Arthur doesn’t find out.”

“I warned Killen not to mention such a thing in writing.”

“Just as well.” MacAllen scratched his forehead. “It might be best if I speak to the 23rd before Sir Arthur reads what Killen says happened. What’s their major’s name?”

“Winterbourne.”

MacAllen scratched a note. “Yes, leave them to me. And I’ll have words with Killen; warn him he needs to be more circumspect in his actions if he’s still determined on Sir Arthur offering promotion.” He glanced up at Hughes, “You know he covets a majority?”

Hughes had thought the young man might be offered that step after his actions in May near Oporto, but then Wellesley effectively trampled over Killen’s hopes. He gave a curt nod.

“Yes, I shall warn him,” MacAllen confirmed. “But if anything, Sergeant Lock is worse. The laddie needs reining in.”

 Good luck with that, Hughes thought.

Lock halted to wait while Picker questioned a nervous traveller, who immediately left the road when the trumpeter advised the two were the vanguard of a whole troop of light dragoons. Despite interrogating the odd Spanish peasant they met as they rode on ahead of the column, none reported having sighted a herd of horses.

According to Major Hughes, the route of march the missing convoy was issued, prepared meticulously with mileages and timings, should have led them this way. But from his and Killen’s experience the previous year, Lock knew maps of the country often left much to be desired, and timings might easily be thrown out of kilter by a single horse casting a shoe.

Picker rejoined him. “He says the village up ahead is called Corchuela, sarge. And there’s a church a little further on, Iglesia San Lucas.”

Lock pulled a face, though he supposed it might be easier to get information in a crowd of villagers than from just one person who might be overawed by the presence of a pair of foreign horsemen. “It’s Sunday,” he said. “We’ll stop at the church. Wait for the service to end. Easier than knocking on doors.”             

The settlement might have been abandoned for all the activity Lock could see when they reached its outskirts, but on a Sabbath he supposed all inhabitants would be expected to attend their local place of worship.

As they rode along what passed for a main street, Lock saw that building a half-mile distant, bright lime-washed walls roofed with clean terracotta tiles in stark contrast to the villagers’ poor cob-walled cottages. From here, the greater part of the church appeared almost new, a grand extension of the lichen-splashed stone original at its side, the whole set back from the road behind what appeared an original boundary wall, un-mortared stones painted with the yellow and grey lichen of centuries. But as they neared, what struck Lock most was the number of horses within the churchyard, each group with a holder at the animals’ heads.

He pulled Sexton to a halt. On the left of the yard, three carriages waited, horses dozing in the sunshine. One stood out, a four-wheeler drawn by a pair, its dusty coachwork embellished with what looked like a coat of arms. The Spanish quality, he thought. The other two were simple country carts. On closer inspection, one stood a mule between the shafts.

“Take a look at the riding horses.” Picker halted alongside and spoke quietly. A group of five stood in the dappled shade of an old olive tree. Others waited quietly inside the boundary wall in ones and twos. “Who takes a firelock to church?”

Lock saw that three of the shaded mounts each had a musket strapped against its saddle on the offside, to hang down behind the rider’s right leg. “Maybe they’re worried about meeting bandits on the way home.”

Picker grunted, “Or they’re the bandits. Even the ungodly go to church.”

They rode on to a gap in the wall which served as a gateway. Close up, Lock saw the boundary wall was incomplete. Where it stretched away to his right, the far end finished in a tumble of rubble and there was a stack of loose, cleaned stones where it looked to be in the process of rebuilding. He was surprised anyone had funds even to effect repairs in a country at war, especially in such a poor-looking parish as this, but perhaps the church was well attended or provided a good enough living to show a profit. Maybe it had lands attached, like some in England, where rents from surrounding fields went directly into the clergyman’s pocket as income.

He dismounted and handed his reins to Picker. “Wait here. I’ll speak to the priest.”

“Sabre, sarge,” Picker reminded.

The scabbarded blade hung at Lock’s hip had become so much a part of him he wore it almost without noticing. He had missed his old sword after his run-in with General Loison at Amarante, and this one was new, drawn from stores at Belem. He hooked the scabbard up to his belt and drew the sabre, tucking it into a cloak strap so it hung down Sexton’s left shoulder.

Lock’s faith in the power of God died young, with his parents. So when the parish rector at Halcombe refused to bury his grandfather based on a slanderous rumour, the slight only hardened his dislike of clergymen. But many priests in this outwardly pious country understood at least a smattering of English, and all kept their ears to the ground. With any luck, whoever ministered to the faithful here would have heard of any other English soldiers passing through, particularly when they were herding forty horses. He could put his distrust on hold for information.

As he walked across the yard, the church door opened and four Spaniards emerged, all dusty-booted to the knees and sweating in thick greatcoats.

“Señors,” Lock began, eyeing them cautiously, but four stony faces ignored him, opening ranks just enough to allow him through, though one man’s shoulder brushed his.

Lock half-turned as they passed. Ordinarily he might have remonstrated with the culprit for the unnecessary contact, but there was little point in starting an argument with men who had no desire to talk. He gave a small shrug and turned back, taking a few strides before grasping the iron ring which latched the heavy door in its frame.

Morning service must have finished. Heads turned as Lock entered: parishioners, a dozen or so, standing around waiting. On his right, two men dressed similarly to those he passed on his way inside stood apart.

Lock wondered about the greatcoats. These men must be sweltering in the heat, but many of this country’s customs baffled him, frustrated as he was by the conduct of many Spaniards he met, considering that Wellesley’s army was supposedly here to help them free their country from the French. Gratitude seemed singularly lacking.

Standing at the chancel, the priest was deep in conversation with another greatcoat-clad Spaniard. Lock was coming to believe they must be local militiamen, despite their surly attitude, so relaxed a little. The congregation edged towards the open door, chatting nervously amongst themselves while giving him a wide berth.

Beyond the left-hand pews, sacking hung draped between rafters and floor the length of the aisle that side, as if building work was still underway. So the new must be an extension of a much older stone building, just as he thought. Lock walked towards it, noticing the Spaniard glance in his direction while still speaking to the priest. He carried on past the Spaniard’s eye-line until he was level with the altar. The crucifix and single candlestick on either side looked silver, he thought, which was unusual. Most country church sets in Portuguese villages on the army’s routes had been carved wood, their precious metal counterparts, if the parish owned any, hidden away from marauding Frenchmen. There was nothing else to see apart from dust and stone chips, so he stopped to wait for the Spaniard to finish his conversation.

The trumpet call was a surprise. Muffled by the church’s thick stone walls it was faint, but distinct: retreat. He turned towards the church door but swung back towards the Spaniard at a movement in the corner of his eye, only to find himself staring down a pistol, drawn from beneath the man’s long coat.

Then two shots sounded outside. The sharp reports were enough to distract the Spaniard and as he, too, glanced towards the church door, Lock took two quick strides between pews and dived behind the sackcloth curtain. A shuttered window let in enough light for him to see a hole in the wall a couple of feet high, where he dropped to his knees to crawl inside. It was deep enough to wriggle out of sight, just before the light outside grew brighter as the Spaniard yanked back the drape.

He was out of sight, but in desperate need of a weapon. The Spaniard was searching; Lock heard boots on the flagstones outside his hiding place as he shrank deeper into the gloom. The slightest sound, even the tiniest scrape of his empty scabbard against the walls, would alert his adversary, whoever he was, and a blindly taken pistol shot inside his bolt hole would not have to be accurate. Any ricochet inside this murky vault might kill or maim.

The footsteps faded slightly. In the mouldy-smelling blackness, Lock felt all around himself as far as he could reach but he was hemmed in, stone to both sides and overhead. There was something on the floor next to his curled body. He touched it with a gloved hand; smooth and straight, like a stick. Fingers moved slowly along until he reached the end, only to find it was not a stick at all but a bone; a leg or arm bone, from its shape, but a club for a desperate man, nonetheless. Now the peculiar smell of dust and decay made sense. He must have crawled inside an old crypt, the tomb of some ancient Spaniard with enough money or influence to have been interred inside the original church walls rather than buried in the yard outside.

Lock reached further forward, expecting to find more bones, a skull even, but instead felt a box. He touched the lid, open but with a loose strap still attached. He tugged off a glove with his teeth to feel inside bare-handed, hoping for something more useful than a skeleton as a weapon. His fingertips touched something hard, and he drew his hand away sharply before checking again. Four bony fingers, but where the wrist should be some sort of fabric covering a hard cylinder. A foot and a half of wood might come in handy as a club because even if he managed to unbuckle his sabre scabbard, it was too long to use as anything but a blunted goad in such a confined space.

Lock tensed as footsteps slowly came back towards where he hid. He gently reached for the long bone. If the pistol muzzle pointed into his refuge he should at least be able to knock it aside so the discharge was diverted. Then there was only the bouncing lead ball to contend with. He held the bone out in front, ready.

A flurry of gunshots sounded outside and his Spanish hunter fled.

Picker waited for the four Spaniards to collect riding horses, but instead, they stopped in the middle of the yard. One pair turned towards the church while the other two faced him over the churchyard wall. Lock had been inside for several minutes, but that was hardly a worry. He would likely have to wait to speak to the priest because parishioners would take priority. They provided his living, after all.

One of the Spaniards facing Picker unbuttoned his coat to reveal a naked sword tucked into a waistband. The trumpeter took the show as a warning, a veiled threat, but one he chose to ignore for the moment. He had no idea why they might consider him an enemy and it could simply be the bravado of one man, secure in a group, but he might need to warn the sergeant. Just in case, he shrugged his shoulders to loosen the trumpet’s strap before pulling the instrument around in front of his body.

Worshippers began to leave the church but loitered close to the doorway as if reluctant to pass through the four-man cordon. Something was wrong here. Picker lifted the trumpet to his lips, blew the retreat, and as the last notes sounded, one of the Spaniards drew a pistol from behind his back.

That was enough. Picker dropped the instrument as he spun his horse to the left and kicked the animal into a canter, haring back towards the village, Lock’s surprised mount trailing in his wake. A pistol ball buzzed harmlessly past, then another. But, as the trumpeter reasoned, a moving target was difficult to hit and he reached the first of the cottages with no one in pursuit.

Killen heard shots in the wind. “Major?”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Hughes said, “but you’re in command, captain.”

Killen nodded. “Mister Williamson!” he called over his shoulder at the 14th’s cornet, “have your men drop forage and post two sentinels. Then follow on, as quick as you like. Sergeant Morgan – twenty men with us! Trot…march!” He hoped whatever trouble lay ahead they would be in time to save Lock and Picker, but from around a bend in the road ahead the trumpeter appeared at a flat-out gallop, Lock’s horse in tow.

Picker hauled on his reins as he got closer, turning the horses neatly to fall in at his captain’s side. “Brigands, sir, at the church!”

Killen glanced at Sexton.

Picker caught his breath, “The sarge’ went inside, sir, and didn’t come out.”

“How many?”

“Eight, ten…not sure. An’ ’bout twenty villagers.”

“Morgan!” Killen shouted, “Be ready to take a section of men away to our right!” This might become awkward. If he tried to trap the bandits at the church with a flanking movement, they might be prepared to use innocent countrymen as hostages. Shields, even. In that case, it made sense to allow the bandits an escape route, even though the idea stuck in his gullet. And showing firearms could put the villagers in more danger.

“Sergeant! Draw…swords!” If there was to be bloodshed, sabres were much the lesser evil in a crowd of innocents.

Lock clambered out of his hiding place and tiptoed to the curtain. He strained his ears before drawing back the sackcloth, but all was quiet, the church empty. A bandit raid, and on a Sunday!

Such a thing made sense in one respect: parishioners wore their best clothes to church and carried coin for collection plates. And from the look of at least one carriage, a wealthy family was at worship. Perhaps the interlopers hoped to take a rich man hostage, for ransom could be an attractive proposition to men such as these, even in wartime.

The church door was unlatched. Lock eased it open a crack so he could see what was going on. As he had thought, the congregation were held at gunpoint, standing in a huddle, looking unsure as to what would come next. On one side, the priest wrung his hands in helpless frustration while the brigand who had pulled a pistol on Lock gave orders. Villagers were prevented from escaping through the open gateway by four men who stood between them and freedom. As far as he could tell there was no sign of Picker nor Sexton, so hopefully the trumpeter had galloped clean away.

One bandit dragged a shawl from a prosperous-looking woman dressed all in black, tossing the garment onto the ground. A much younger, slimmer version stood at her side: mother and daughter, he thought. Other men went amongst the congregation, taking a necklace here, a ring there and tossing them onto the shawl, a poor reward for their efforts and the number of men involved, but perhaps they were desperate enough for the small value to be worth the risk. That made them all the more dangerous.

A trumpet rang out from the direction of the village, causing panic. The man Lock assumed in charge rattled off a string of expletives before snatching up the shawl while others ran for their horses.

Lock waited. Having left his bone club in the crypt, he was still unarmed and as such could achieve little without endangering himself and members of the congregation from a wayward pistol ball. He hoped Killen sensible enough not to charge his dragoons into the crowded churchyard without a care, but he should try to get at least a few innocents out of harm’s way now the bandits had other things on their minds.

Opening the church door wider he slid out, flattening himself against the frame to make as small a target as possible. He hissed at the group in the yard as they began to move, confused by what was going on. One villager turned, and as Lock beckoned frantically the man grabbed another, and a woman alongside him, and the three hurried to the doorway. Others saw them go, and more ran back into the church. Lock left the doorway to give them room as yet more of the congregation realised sanctuary was within reach.

The brigands’ leader was already on his horse when he saw Lock exposed. He drew a pistol from a saddle holster and fired, but Lock saw the danger and the ball smashed into stonework at his back as he dived to one side.

Then Killen’s troop arrived outside. Most of the bandits scrambled into their saddles, three already galloping at the gateway to squirm past the 14th’s despairing sabres. With so many still confined in the churchyard, Lock realised there was little chance of the light dragoons breaching the gateway unless Killen was prepared to risk injury or death to the villagers and knowing his friend, that was unlikely. He ran to where more villagers stood bewildered, grabbing them roughly and herding them back towards the church door.

The bandit leader turned his horse away from the gate, looking for something. A different way out, Lock thought, until he saw the man’s gaze alight on the woman in black and her daughter. Spurring his horse at them, the animal knocked the woman down and while she lay in a heap on the ground he reached down from the saddle to grab the daughter, hauling her up to lie belly down over the front of his saddle. As he turned back towards the gateway, Lock was already sprinting across the churchyard at him. The bandit saw his adversary too late, yanking his horse’s head to one side as Lock hurled himself upwards.

Unbalanced and already burdened with two, Lock’s extra weight proved too much for the horse. As he grabbed the bandit around the waist, trapping his rein arm, his mount toppled sideways to the ground.

The brigand recovered fast but his horse was quicker, struggling to its feet without treading on anyone. Lock scrambled up, but the Spaniard vaulted on board. Instead of making for the crowded gateway, he turned his mount toward the wall, leaping out of the churchyard and away up the road after his men, several of the 14th in pursuit.

Lock checked the girl: not quite unconscious, more stunned. He lifted the veil from her face to reveal an attractive woman, dark-eyed, raven-haired, and not as young as he at first supposed. She reminded him a little of Isabella Carvilho, the Portuguese colonel’s daughter he met the previous year. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocussed. He held up his hand, warning her to stay where she was, but she levered herself onto her elbows, breathing heavily.

“You’ve had a fall, señorita,” he said, hoping she might understand. “Best lie still for a spell.”

Jonas Hughes stalked into the churchyard. It looked as if Lock was tending to the young woman while several other villagers, those not peering nervously from the church doorway, still stared vacantly about them, shocked at their ordeal. He could not blame them, but soldiers must deal with such nasty surprises far more quickly.

He stopped at the woman dressed in black. She was awake but must be bruised, having been knocked off her feet. Hughes knelt beside her and took her hand. A handsome lady and widowed, to judge from her style of dress, though it was difficult to be certain. Spanish ladies often wore black to mass.

Killen had done well enough. Many a young officer would have charged his men into the churchyard, scattering parishioner and brigand alike. Of course, it was no business of Englishmen to intervene in disputes between the Spanish, but Picker had been fired on. In any case, it was their moral responsibility to protect the populace if they were able. The captain’s decision not to flank the church with half his force meant the bandits escaped, but better that than having to deal with accidentally injured or even dead villagers, especially since General Wellesley needed Spanish Army co-operation if he were to do any real damage to the French. On its own, the British force was just too small, separated as it was with some divisions posted to watch for any hostile forces south of the Tagus, while the remainder marched along the river’s north bank in the general direction of Madrid.

Lock was helping the girl to sit up, and several parishioners came forward to assist the black-clad woman. Hughes got back to his feet, wincing as he straightened his knees. Looking around, he saw a semblance of order had returned, the cloak of fear over the churchyard when he arrived now gradually lifting. Brief conversations re-started. Expressions of relief, even thanks, though they were to God rather than the light dragoons.

Hughes beckoned Lock to him for an explanation. Though a surprising assault on a group of Sunday worshippers in a Catholic country, it seemed clear the incident was a random attack which Picker and the sergeant unwittingly interrupted.

“Señor?”

It was the priest, obviously unfamiliar with rank, though the tarnished silver braid of Hughes’ coat should mark him out as an officer, the major’s deeply lined face proof of seniority. He turned towards the man, “Father?”

“I thank you, señor, on behalf of my flock for your…intervention.”

Hughes nodded, “Did you know them, Father? Those intruders?”

The priest gave a theatrical shudder as he shook his head. “More and more there are men who would steal from others to make their living. They disappear into the hills like evil spirits.”

“I understand, father.” Hughes gave an encouraging smile, “I, too, search for men and horses who have vanished, but English soldiers. You’ve not heard of any such, nearby?”

“I am sorry, but no.” The priest spread his arms wide, “We keep to ourselves and pray the war will pass us by.”

Hughes frowned. Hiding behind a rock was fine until the enemy had enough men to surround you.

“I worry for the Dona Angelina,” the priest went on, indicating the black-clad woman, “and her daughter, Amada. They have a league to travel with only an old retainer for company.” He looked across the churchyard in the direction the intruders had taken, “What if those banditos remain close by?”

“I regret I cannot offer an escort.” Hughes watched an older Spaniard climb up to the waiting carriage’s box seat before realising he could provide one, and one in keeping with Wellesley’s current philosophy of cooperation. “A moment, father, if you will.”

The major called Killen over. “We shall see the ladies Nuero safely home.” He dismounted, hitching his chestnut to a ring at the carriage’s rear. A comfortable seat would do no end of good to his aching joints. “Get Lock and Morgan to continue the search with half the men. The rest come with us.”

He opened the carriage door, grasping the frame with the other hand and with one foot on the step, heaved himself inside.