There could be no hesitation. Not when the man he’d chased twice across a continent was trying to escape. Jack came at a run, ducked under the swung blade, thrust at the gut. The man stepped back fast, his weapon arcing down, smashing into Jack’s and nearly dislodging it. Forced to the left, Jack stayed low, sliced his own weapon back across the man’s front, causing another step back, this time into a camp bed. He wobbled – just slightly, just enough – and Jack drove his sword straight into the man’s stomach. He collapsed, fell away with a scream. Something hit Jack, stinging where it struck his head. A plank fell past his eyes and he looked up. Red Hugh McClune had started wriggling through the hole he’d gouged in the roof.
Jack leapt and grabbed his dangling legs. Red Hugh slipped, frantically jerking, then the boot Jack held came off. He fell, landed with a thump that hurt, and watched as the two feet found their purchase again on the beam. Strangely, Jack noticed that the stockinged one had a huge hole, recalling in a flash the Irishman’s always scrupulous attire. He’d sheathed his sword to jump, leapt again, but the man was gone.
‘No,’ screamed Jack. He looked about him and saw Worsley, his face blood-smeared, moving towards him.
‘Hands!’ he yelled.
In a moment, Jack had a foot in Worsley’s palms, two hands on his shoulders, then on his head. The Devonian was strong, raised him swiftly high enough to grab the beam. In a moment he was atop it, in another he’d thrust his head through.
It took several seconds to spot him through the now fast-falling rain. McClune was leaning against the slope of the roof, one hand steadying himself against the earthen wall. He was making his way towards stairs at the barracks’ end which rose to the ramparts above.
Jack pulled himself through, his feet immediately slipping on the slick wooden slats. Then he noticed the Irishman’s second boot near the hole and he jerked his off. It gave him grip and he crabbed his way up to the wall. Once there, he again copied the man he pursued, leaned against the earthen surface with one hand, his feet gaining traction on the wood. He didn’t glance down. A slip, he knew, would have him rolling down the slope to crash onto the combat below, one that continued fiercely, he could hear. Water had soaked powder, so no more shots were fired. The troopers of the 16th were fighting Traherne’s mutineers with musket stock, foot and fist.
He had gained. McClune was now just ten feet ahead, swinging himself onto the stairs, running fast up them. Jack risked looking straight up, though his feet slipped when he did. A head poked out from the roofed bastion above.
‘Stop him!’ Jack shouted up.
The sentry heard an officer yell but saw one of his own running at him. ‘What’s the fuss, Lieutenant?’ Jack heard him say, just as McClune made the ramparts.
‘None at all, lad,’ came the easy reply.
Jack was scrambling again so he did not see the blow but he heard it and the accompanying clatter as the sentry fell. He gained the stairs, ran up, reached the elevation only in time to see knuckles white on the rampart planks and fingers releasing. He stepped to the edge.
The drop was not huge, fifteen feet perhaps, but the earthworks that had been thrown up against the log frontage of the fort were a slope and McClune had tumbled on landing, rolled down. He lay at its base for a moment as if dazed, then, rising, began to stumble towards the river.
There was no time to consider. Jack took the same route: up, over, a moment’s dangling, a release. He landed hard, unable to stop the roll that followed down the slope. Then he staggered in pursuit.
Someone shouted from behind him. A musket cracked, a second, fire directed from the bastion where the powder would be dry. There was no time to turn and tell them to aim at the traitor, not his pursuer. Hunching his shoulders against both rain and ball, he ran on. He passed a red coat in the mud, stripped his own off, aware that McClune was leading him in a strange dance of divestment. But the Irishman was moving away from the ford where a British picket was posted. And if he was going to swim, Jack must be ready to follow.
He crested a last slope and looked down to the figure standing on the edge of the water, peering at it like a heron about to strike. The man must have heard hard breathing, because he turned before Jack could start down the hill.
‘Absolute!’ he said. ‘The sight of you back there was enough to stop my poor auld heart. You’re never going to force me to tax it further with a cold plunge?’
Jack took a step towards him. ‘There’s warmth back at the fort, Hugh.’
A slight smile. ‘I think the warmth you have in mind would be too dearly bought. And not at all guaranteed.’ He sighed. ‘No, I think the water calls – for both of us perhaps. Are you a strong swimmer, lad?’
‘Strong enough.’ Jack was now just ten paces away. ‘Do you wish to wager?’
Something changed in the face, a hardness came. ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he said. Then he turned, plunged in.
Jack ran and dived. When he broke the surface he saw the other head straight before him and he struck out after it. And as he swam he remembered the first time he’d seen Red Hugh McClune, in the even more frigid waters off Rhode Island, a lifetime before.
Something fizzed into the water in front of him, the crack of gunfire coming almost simultaneously. Cursing, he glanced back, but no red coats appeared on that shore. He looked forward and saw a flash, just before a second ball plunged closer and he understood why the Irishman had avoided the ford and made instead to this spot where he had friends concealed. Spanish friends.
Jack took a deep breath, drove himself beneath the surface and angled back towards the bank he’d come from. Another bullet came, passing close enough so that, despite the murk, he could see it. Kicking harder, he found footing on the sloping shelf of the river, cautiously thrust his head up. He was among the reeds and, as he looked back, he could just make out some movement on the far bank. He heard a jingle of harness, the snort of a horse. When his shivering became near uncontrollable, he began to clamber up through the reeds.
– TEN –
Honour, Part Two
The pain was unbearable. It radiated down from the hollows beneath his eyes to spread throughout his entire face. Since they’d taken up their position, silence had been ordered and a sneeze had become a suppressed snort. The quantity of mucus provoked was astonishing, yet no matter how many times Jack dismounted to void it, more swiftly reappeared to drown him. And though Portugal had returned to what Major Gonzalo assured him was its customary October warmth, the clearing of the rain clouds had happened too late to save him. He still felt continually damp, still shivered as he had since his dip in the Tagus two nights before. Burgoyne had even suggested that he should be replaced when the rest of the third troop rode out with the forces sent to surprise the enemy on the hills of Villa Velha. He had done enough, his Colonel reasoned, foiling the mutiny. But when a Spanish deserter had told them that ‘el Irlandes’ was still in their encampment, Jack knew that he could not remain behind.
He watched Captain Crawford riding back just below the ridge line, felt the men stir around him. Their leader was returning from his conference with Colonel Lee, the operation’s commander, and would have their orders.
‘Absolute, Stokey, to me, please. And bring your sergeants,’ the man called softly, descending his horse with the aid of his bat-soldier. His arm was out of its sling but still not quite healed.
They gathered so they could peer over the crest at two hills not more than three hundred yards across a small valley. The Spanish tents were clearly visible in the moonlight. ‘We’re the reserve,’ Crawford said, to at least one audible sigh of relief. Glaring, he continued, ‘The thousand men of the Portuguese Royal Volunteers are to go in first with the bayonet because it is their land that’s been invaded and they’ll stick the poor bloody Dagoes in their tents. They’ll be backed by the two battalions of Grenadiers in a second wave and we’re to follow them in at a walk, to be used as need arises. Questions?’
C
ornet Stokey raised a hand. ‘Will they not see us the moment we move over this crest, sir?’
‘Colonel Lee doesn’t think so. Thinks they are as dozy as the shambles we thrashed at Valencia.’ He pointed. ‘Remember, if they expect an attack it will be from their front, across the ford. They won’t have reckoned on us marching for two days to take ’em in the rear.’ He looked around. ‘Anything else? Absolute?’
He supposed that his raised head and narrowed eyes indicated a question, rather than the sneeze that exploded. ‘No, sir. Excuse me.’
Crawford shook his head in annoyance. ‘Very well, then. Muster the men. Colonel Lee will order a flag waved when he is ready. That is all.’
Jack walked with Puxley back to the troop. ‘Nosebags off,’ he ordered quietly. He could see the same motions taking place all down the line. He took a couple of paces up the slope, till he could just see over the crest. ‘You’re still there, aren’t you, McClune?’ he muttered to himself, staring hard, as if sight could pierce canvas and reveal his quarry. Yet it was prayer as much as comment, for he knew the Irishman could already have slipped away, or might yet in the chaos of combat to come. ‘Bloody reserve,’ he said, sniffing hard. He’d wanted the 16th to charge in first. Not because he wished to stick any poor bloody Dago in his tent. Because he wanted to end this for ever. If he lost him here, who knew when or even if he’d ever come across him again?
A cough came from beside him. ‘Lucky’s ready, sir,’ said Worsley. ‘And the order’s just been passed to stand to the horses.’
‘Good.’ Jack began to move down the slope, then grabbed the younger man’s arm, halting them both. ‘Listen. McClune’s over there.’
‘The traitor? Are you sure, sir?’
Jack nodded, though he wasn’t. ‘If we get a chance to ride for the camp, I might get … separated. For a time. Would you …’ He stopped, seeking the man’s eyes in the moonlight.
‘Get separated, too? Reckon I might. Us West Country boys should be as tight as a Plymouth landlord’s purse-strings, right?’
‘Right.’ Jack smiled, clapped Worsley’s back and went to stand beside his horse. Reaching up to his saddle roll, he checked that the long package he’d wrapped in oilskin was still securely cinched to his saddle.
‘Make ready to mount,’ came the soft call. ‘Mount!’
The first rank was immediately led by Crawford over the ridge. Stokey, as Cornet, brought over the second, with Jack bringing up the rear and last. They assembled in their three ranks, halted and waited. To their right, a narrow defile emerged from the ravine and from this, almost immediately, a column of infantry issued forth. These were the Royal Volunteers, some of the best of the Portuguese infantry. The terrain did not allow much in the way of marching order and it was not their special skill anyway, but they went bravely, eagerly forward, the cheers they would normally have given restrained by the need for surprise. Officers attempted to order the ranks but the column started to spread as the defile opened out onto the slopes of Villa Velha, and soon the most eager of the men were rushing past their futilely gesturing leaders.
‘Here we go,’ muttered Worsley to his right and, almost on his words, there came a cry of warning from up the far hill. A shot followed and, with a universal yell, the fast walk of the infantry became a charge as they rushed upon their foe. The outlying tents were quickly reached and all could see men rushing into them, hear the screams that ensued.
The more ordered formation of the British Grenadiers now emerged from the defile and marched towards the enemy. At the same time, Crawford moved to a position a horse’s length before the centre file of the front rank, raised his unbroken arm and called, ‘Sixteenth will advance one hundred paces. March!’
They had not covered even half the ground when the tumult that had been building ahead soared to a higher pitch. On the southerly hill, as yet unattacked, Jack suddenly noticed a large number of horses and men. Though they were in some disorder yet, several troops of cavalry were being rallied. If they achieved it, the Grenadiers, caught on broken ground between the two hills, would be vulnerable.
Crawford had seen it, too. ‘Halt!’ The Third Troop of the 16th stopped almost as one, slight adjustments being made to dress the ranks. ‘Draw swords …’ Jack did, then looked to check the dressing, could just see the nose of the man next but one. All was well.
‘March!’ came the call, and the troop moved forward. Jack had been schooled in what to do as rank and file leader but doing it was different! He looked at two objects in the distance in line with each other – a flag pole furthest, a bush closer to. He made himself the third point, covered the farther with the nearer and advanced toward it, always keeping that man-once-removed’s nose in the edge of his vision.
This was easy enough in the march. Even the trot he did not find too difficult. But the gallop? It was hard to maintain, required all his concentration. So much so that he had no time to be frightened, barely any to realize that he was in his first true cavalry charge.
To the piercing notes of the bugle and the cry of ‘Charge!’, the 16th swept down the slope and up into the Spanish camp, the hooves as synchronous as the lines were straight, so that it seemed as though only one set of hoofbeats sounded. Their standard of the King’s Cipher streamed before them and suddenly Jack forgot everything: his cold, his dampness, his dreams of vengeance. All were lost in the soft thunder of their approach.
Some of the rallying Spaniards had pistols and several were fired. The horse to Jack’s right slewed toward him, slipped, and he needed to pull Lucky’s head sharp away to avoid the tumble. But he had fifty paces to redress into his line, to lower his head down beside his mount’s, to reach forward with his sword. Not at a standing man as at Valencia de Alcántara. Here their opponents were also mounted. His blade was extended as if Lucky were a unicorn and the sword was its horn.
The Spanish cavalry were stationary and the 16th smashed into them, sweeping the first milling groups aside, scattering those behind them. Jack felt his blade connect, saw a body tumble. Then he was passed, no one before him, riderless horses skittering by, kicking their heels as if free at last of all toil and restraint. Such fight as there was had broken up into separate encounters – a group here, two couples there, individuals flailing at each other with swords. Up here, the two hilltops almost merged into one, a slight dip dividing them. Some of the Spaniards had fled along the crests, towards the thickest cluster of tents, as if shelter could be found behind canvas. Immediately, Jack spurred Lucky after them, using the fleeing as an excuse to pursue, ignoring the command of the bugle urging the rally. Challenged later, he knew he could use the excuse of battle madness. If he had just killed someone in the charge, that was an act of war. But there was no glory in the guttings that were taking place around him now and there was only one other man whose death he sought this day.
He found him exactly where he’d thought he would be. Two Spanish officers, who were standing at the entrance of a tent so large it had to be the Commandant’s, ran as soon as the two Englishmen – Worsley had indeed followed – reined in. Not so the man inside. He sat at the end of a long table with a glass of wine before him.
‘You know, as soon as I heard that bugle,’ Red Hugh said, ‘I thought to myself: That’s young Absolute on his way.’ He nodded. ‘And was I not right?’
Jack drew a pistol out of his coat and turned to Worsley. ‘My carbine’s on Lucky and you’ll find another pistol in the roll. Shoot whomever would disturb us and hold the entrance.’
Worsley took the gun and looked at the Irishman. ‘Why don’t I just shoot him?’
‘Keep everyone out,’ Jack said, ‘and I will owe you a debt which will be well rewarded.’
‘I likes the sound of that,’ said Worsley. He stepped outside and, as he did, Jack jerked the stays of the tent flaps. They fell, and Jack turned at last to face the enemy who had once been his friend.
The silence held for a while – until Jack broke it with a sneeze. ‘Your healt
h!’ declared Red Hugh. ‘That sounds like an evil cold you have there. Or is it a reoccurrence of the grippe? If so,’ he smiled, ‘there’s mistletoe in my hat brim still, and I’m certain there’d be a spider about somewhere.’
‘My head’s fine, thank you. And we have no time for your cures.’
‘Now there’s a pity.’ The Irishman cocked his head to one side, listened. ‘Is that because of the furore your lads are causing? Or because you have come to kill me?’ Jack did not answer. ‘Ah, the latter. Why, lad?’
‘You know why.’
‘Would it be honour?’ He sighed. ‘Of course. A young man’s obsession. I killed my first man because of it and I’ve regretted it ever since. I would not fight for honour now.’
‘What would you fight for?’
Red Hugh looked to the canvas roof, shrugged. ‘For my life. My family and my Cause.’
‘And I fight for the same.’ Jack had not moved from the entrance and now he did, came forward from the shadows into the light thrown by the three lamps, laid down the oilskin he was bearing upon the table that ran nearly the length of one wall. He began to untie it as he spoke. ‘My life in the hazard. My cause, which is opposed to yours and is represented by this uniform I wear. And my family, whose name you have dishonoured by linking it to your treason.’
‘Ah, honour! What does the poet, Cato, call it? “A fine, imaginary notion.” Its pursuit? “Hunting a shadow.” ’ A sad smile came. ‘A shadow, Jack. Yet I suspect you fight for something with more substance, do you not? Admit it, man. Isn’t this really about the girl?’
Jack was silent a long moment. When he spoke, it was with the bitterness of certainty. ‘It used to be. I had only been infatuated before, never truly cared. When you betrayed me with her, when you used my love for your ends, when you broke my heart …’ He faltered slightly, then went on, ‘I thought then that there was reason enough to kill you.’ He shook his head. ‘But I had time to think on it, when you left me in that prison. It is about my honour. And there is nothing imaginary about it.’