still far away, and the line incomplete, when Napoleon, leading with his usual energy, savaged one Spanish army after another, cracking the line open. When news of this reached him, sent by Graham as he travelled tirelessly from one Spanish camp to another, meeting with generals and juntas, Sir John had decided to withdraw. He even began preparations, knowing that his flight without meeting the enemy would appear ignominious and probably ruin his career. In his darkest moments he wondered whether, as a man known for his Whig associations, and never reluctant to criticise those in power for corruption or folly, there were plenty of Tory ministers hoping for this outcome, desiring him as a scapegoat for their own unrealistic plans.
That fear had not changed his mind, nor had the attempts to plead, bully and even subvert his authority made by the government’s minister in Spain. Moore had stayed, and then advanced, because the soldier in him was so habituated to duty that he was determined to do what he could for his country and its ally. He would strike at Soult and win a victory. It would not win the war, and it might merely delay a French victory that seemed almost inevitable. Yet it should dislocate Napoleon’s plans, at least for a while, giving time for the Spanish armies in other parts of Spain to recover a little and improve their resources. The trick was to win this small victory, and still bring the British Army away in one piece. That would not be easy, and it was all down to the decisions he would make.
Graham looked at his friend and knew him well enough to discern the strain he was undergoing. As they rode down the hill he talked lightly of Scotland, of people and places they both knew. When they rejoined his staff there was work to be done, planning routes and orders of march, but he could see that Moore’s mood lightened just a little. The ADCs were all bright young men in every sense. Their commander was unusual in insisting on true ability and experience in his staff, and not simply friendship and connections. He had confidence in their diligence and capacities, as well as a strong affection for all of them. This trust was returned with a devotion verging on the idolatrous.
They worked as they rode, escorted by a small detachment of hussars, and passing more cavalry patrols as they went. The general paused to greet each officer. Nearer the camp numbers of messengers went back and forth, going about their business, and more than a few men from the staffs of his subordinate officers were also out and about. Sir John stopped for a while to talk to Captain Scovell, who oversaw the guides – a villainous collection of Swiss, Italians and other foreigners, many of them deserters from Napoleon’s army – who carried some dispatches, acted as translators, and showed the route for marches to the rest of the army. Riding on, they were steadily joined by most of the general officers with the army, and others of field rank, until there were some thirty or forty riders in the group. Most conspicuous were the two ladies, both well mounted on greys, and dressed in extremely fetching habits, whose green and blue stood out among the array of red coats.
General Paget introduced Mrs MacAndrews and her daughter to Sir John, who expressed himself honoured to make their acquaintance.
‘Your husband commands the 106th, does he not?’
‘Yes, we left them at drill.’ Esther MacAndrews guessed that the general must be of an age with her husband, but was not inclined to resent the different opportunities granted to some. Born into one of the wealthy families of ‘Rice Kings’, owners of large slave-worked estates and a grand house in Charleston, she had run away with two British officers escaping from captivity in the last months of the Revolutionary War. One was her lover, whose child she was carrying, but that man had fled and abandoned them when the local militia closed in. The other was MacAndrews, then a lieutenant,
That fear had not changed his mind, nor had the attempts to plead, bully and even subvert his authority made by the government’s minister in Spain. Moore had stayed, and then advanced, because the soldier in him was so habituated to duty that he was determined to do what he could for his country and its ally. He would strike at Soult and win a victory. It would not win the war, and it might merely delay a French victory that seemed almost inevitable. Yet it should dislocate Napoleon’s plans, at least for a while, giving time for the Spanish armies in other parts of Spain to recover a little and improve their resources. The trick was to win this small victory, and still bring the British Army away in one piece. That would not be easy, and it was all down to the decisions he would make.
Graham looked at his friend and knew him well enough to discern the strain he was undergoing. As they rode down the hill he talked lightly of Scotland, of people and places they both knew. When they rejoined his staff there was work to be done, planning routes and orders of march, but he could see that Moore’s mood lightened just a little. The ADCs were all bright young men in every sense. Their commander was unusual in insisting on true ability and experience in his staff, and not simply friendship and connections. He had confidence in their diligence and capacities, as well as a strong affection for all of them. This trust was returned with a devotion verging on the idolatrous.
They worked as they rode, escorted by a small detachment of hussars, and passing more cavalry patrols as they went. The general paused to greet each officer. Nearer the camp numbers of messengers went back and forth, going about their business, and more than a few men from the staffs of his subordinate officers were also out and about. Sir John stopped for a while to talk to Captain Scovell, who oversaw the guides – a villainous collection of Swiss, Italians and other foreigners, many of them deserters from Napoleon’s army – who carried some dispatches, acted as translators, and showed the route for marches to the rest of the army. Riding on, they were steadily joined by most of the general officers with the army, and others of field rank, until there were some thirty or forty riders in the group. Most conspicuous were the two ladies, both well mounted on greys, and dressed in extremely fetching habits, whose green and blue stood out among the array of red coats.
General Paget introduced Mrs MacAndrews and her daughter to Sir John, who expressed himself honoured to make their acquaintance.
‘Your husband commands the 106th, does he not?’
‘Yes, we left them at drill.’ Esther MacAndrews guessed that the general must be of an age with her husband, but was not inclined to resent the different opportunities granted to some. Born into one of the wealthy families of ‘Rice Kings’, owners of large slave-worked estates and a grand house in Charleston, she had run away with two British officers escaping from captivity in the last months of the Revolutionary War. One was her lover, whose child she was carrying, but that man had fled and abandoned them when the local militia closed in. The other was MacAndrews, then a lieutenant,
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