All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) by Adrian Goldsworthy Page B
Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
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replied, and sought confirmation from Dolosa. The Spaniard nodded and then shrugged, unwilling to speculate on the whims of the local farmers.
Simmons chuckled. ‘Funny thing to call a place. They are thirty minutes from us.’
‘And the French?’
‘Are on the opposite side of the valley. You can see their picket in the daytime. Generally they behave, although they do tend to take pot shots at us now and again. Haven’t hit a thing, though, as the range is absurdly long for a common musket.’ The 95th carried rifles, and in the past Williams had noticed their disdain for more old-fashioned weapons. ‘Most days they call across that they will see us tonight and slit our throats, but as yet they haven’t stirred.’ Simmons grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I nipped across there just after dark and could not see any sign of anyone.’
Williams could not help smiling. The lad was not boasting, although obviously proud of his boldness. He was also impressed by the young officer’s precise knowledge of numbers and distances, and said as much when he returned to the tent.
‘Standing orders for the brigade,’ explained Mercer, who had returned from his rounds. ‘All courtesy of the general, God rot his black soul.’ Simmons and Lieutenant Coane were taking a turn sleeping inside the chapel, and he had sent the rest of his party to join them in resting.
The hostility of many officers in the Light Brigade to their commander was something Williams had already encountered. In fact, Mercer’s attitude seemed mild compared to some.
‘Are you sure that I should not present my compliments to Captain O’Hare?’ asked Williams, wishing to change the subject. Pringle had sent him to inform the British picket of their presence, but by the time they had missed their path in the darkness it was late and the captain had retired for the night. At least Billy had told him not to return until daylight.
‘No need, old boy,’ said Mercer. ‘The captain was feeling unwell and it is best not to disturb him.’
It was rather odd, but from the lieutenant’s expression Williams guessed that this was not an unusual occurrence. The subject was obviously a delicate one, and for a while they lapsed into silence.
Then a shot split the night air.
Jean-Baptiste Dalmas had learned how to be patient. It was a skill that had eluded him when he was a schoolmaster and the slowness of his pupils had frustrated and angered him. Most of them tried their best, and he could still picture the strain of concentration on many of their simple faces as they struggled with Latin or geometry alike.
That was ten years and many lifetimes ago. His exemption from conscription was removed when a local beauty began to favour him instead of the major’s son, and six months later he had fought at Marengo and become a sergeant. After Austerlitz he was commissioned, and by the time the Polish campaign was over and he had charged at Eylau and Friedland, he was a captain. Dalmas liked being a soldier and knew that he was a good one. The problems were so much simpler, and direct action brought clear results. Much more satisfying than trying to beat knowledge into young minds. Thankfully he had found many enemies to be as unimaginative as his former pupils.
Dalmas had spent the day watching the bridge and the British soldiers guarding it. There had been little to see, as he lay concealed behind a nest of boulders on the French side of the valley. He watched as sentries were posted, saw them relieved and visited by their officers doing the rounds, and then had watched with amusement when a lone Englishman had crept across the bridge and crawled about on the French bank. It was entertaining tracing the man’s steady progress. The fellow came close at one point, but Dalmas knew that someone who did not move was hard to see and so waited, half holding his breath, until the dark shape of the Englishman moved on. It was all about patience, but at
Simmons chuckled. ‘Funny thing to call a place. They are thirty minutes from us.’
‘And the French?’
‘Are on the opposite side of the valley. You can see their picket in the daytime. Generally they behave, although they do tend to take pot shots at us now and again. Haven’t hit a thing, though, as the range is absurdly long for a common musket.’ The 95th carried rifles, and in the past Williams had noticed their disdain for more old-fashioned weapons. ‘Most days they call across that they will see us tonight and slit our throats, but as yet they haven’t stirred.’ Simmons grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. ‘I nipped across there just after dark and could not see any sign of anyone.’
Williams could not help smiling. The lad was not boasting, although obviously proud of his boldness. He was also impressed by the young officer’s precise knowledge of numbers and distances, and said as much when he returned to the tent.
‘Standing orders for the brigade,’ explained Mercer, who had returned from his rounds. ‘All courtesy of the general, God rot his black soul.’ Simmons and Lieutenant Coane were taking a turn sleeping inside the chapel, and he had sent the rest of his party to join them in resting.
The hostility of many officers in the Light Brigade to their commander was something Williams had already encountered. In fact, Mercer’s attitude seemed mild compared to some.
‘Are you sure that I should not present my compliments to Captain O’Hare?’ asked Williams, wishing to change the subject. Pringle had sent him to inform the British picket of their presence, but by the time they had missed their path in the darkness it was late and the captain had retired for the night. At least Billy had told him not to return until daylight.
‘No need, old boy,’ said Mercer. ‘The captain was feeling unwell and it is best not to disturb him.’
It was rather odd, but from the lieutenant’s expression Williams guessed that this was not an unusual occurrence. The subject was obviously a delicate one, and for a while they lapsed into silence.
Then a shot split the night air.
Jean-Baptiste Dalmas had learned how to be patient. It was a skill that had eluded him when he was a schoolmaster and the slowness of his pupils had frustrated and angered him. Most of them tried their best, and he could still picture the strain of concentration on many of their simple faces as they struggled with Latin or geometry alike.
That was ten years and many lifetimes ago. His exemption from conscription was removed when a local beauty began to favour him instead of the major’s son, and six months later he had fought at Marengo and become a sergeant. After Austerlitz he was commissioned, and by the time the Polish campaign was over and he had charged at Eylau and Friedland, he was a captain. Dalmas liked being a soldier and knew that he was a good one. The problems were so much simpler, and direct action brought clear results. Much more satisfying than trying to beat knowledge into young minds. Thankfully he had found many enemies to be as unimaginative as his former pupils.
Dalmas had spent the day watching the bridge and the British soldiers guarding it. There had been little to see, as he lay concealed behind a nest of boulders on the French side of the valley. He watched as sentries were posted, saw them relieved and visited by their officers doing the rounds, and then had watched with amusement when a lone Englishman had crept across the bridge and crawled about on the French bank. It was entertaining tracing the man’s steady progress. The fellow came close at one point, but Dalmas knew that someone who did not move was hard to see and so waited, half holding his breath, until the dark shape of the Englishman moved on. It was all about patience, but at
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